#i guarantee there is not a soul in this world who can figure out what the fuck it is

[jaguarys]

Writing something that is not toxic yuri or toxic yaoi but some sort of fucked up secret third thing

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

Pt.3 SILLLY LITTLE BAT.

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ There are only memories, fragments of a past that, like shadows, will haunt you until your last breath, whispers of what was and will never be. Gotham cries out for a guardian, a soul to face the darkness, to challenge fate in its shadowy alleys.

But tell me, who will rise to protect you, traveler of scars and broken dreams? Who will watch over your light when the world swallows your hopes?

In the eternal night, amidst the echo of fear and longing, there is only one path: to confront the monsters and become the hero this city needs, even if the price is the forgetting of oneself.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, Religion, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Street Fights, Gaslight, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation.

Chapter guide! Pt.1 Pt2. Pt.4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is— Here is the continuation of the other parts. There will be a few more parts but you should know that we will soon reach the end, but there are still things to clarify and so on. I don't know if you would like me to do another Batfam yandere series in the future or similar. Send me your ideas if you want :3

They are upset because I left

Where they never included me.

The car moved slowly under the gray sky of Gotham, as if the universe itself understood the weight of the pain you carried in your small figure. Commissioner Gordon, with his firm hands on the wheel, cast furtive glances at the rearview mirror, where he saw you curled up in the back seat. Wrapped in an old blanket, the same one you had hugged for days, your face was hidden among the folds, but the silent tears that fell could not be disguised. There were no words that Gordon could offer to heal the recent wound of losing your mother, but his empathy, though silent, was there, wrapping around you like the coat that couldn't quite warm you.

In your lap, a small Batman doll rested, pressed against your chest, as if that fabric toy could protect you from the world that had just destroyed your innocence. Your eyes, still swollen and red, looked out the window without seeing, watching the city that seemed so distant, so foreign.

"You will be loved and cherished," Gordon whispered, breaking the silence that had weighed like fog in the car. "Bruce Wayne... he will take care of you, I promise."

But you didn't respond immediately. The name Wayne felt strange, distant, as if he spoke of someone living in a story, not in your reality. You looked up, your eyes meeting Gordon’s for a second in the rearview mirror.

"And if they don't want me...?" you murmured, insecurity clouding your childish voice. "I don't know them, Commissioner... and they don't know me. What if they leave me in an orphanage? Mama always told me those places aren't nice."

Gordon swallowed hard, understanding the depth of your fear. "You were just a child, but you had already learned that love was not a guarantee." The world had taught you that cruel lesson too soon.

"The Waynes..." he began, searching for the right words, "are good people. You might not understand it at first, but I assure you they have suffered too. Bruce..." he paused, recalling the losses that man had faced. "He understands what it is to lose someone. He will do everything he can to make you feel safe, to help you find a home again."

But you kept looking at the doll in your hands, your fingers squeezing it tightly, as if it were the only stable thing in a world crumbling around you.

The silence grew heavy, uncomfortable, as if the words wanted to come out but didn’t know how. Again, Gordon spoke, his voice low, almost afraid to break the stillness.

"And/y/n... what was your mom like?" he asked softly, not taking his eyes off the road, as if by doing so, he could give you space to be honest, to not feel pressured.

You fell silent for a long moment, your small fingers nervously playing with the edges of the blanket. The world outside the car seemed a reflection of what you felt inside: cloudy, cold, distant.

Finally, you exhaled, as if gathering the courage to speak. Your voice came out shaky at first, filled with a mix of sadness and a hard-to-accept truth.

"My mom..." you murmured, not taking your eyes off the window. "She wasn't a good person, but... she wasn't a villain either."

Gordon nodded slowly, without interrupting you. He knew things were rarely black or white, that life had that cruel ability to mix the two.

"She... told me she grew up in an orphanage. She never had anything that was really hers." You paused, your eyes glassy as you recalled details that now seemed more painful than ever. "Well, except for me."

"Gordon felt a knot form in his throat." He knew that loss was a terrible burden to bear, but there was something more in your words, something suggesting that, amidst it all, there had also been love. An imperfect love, but real.

"She always dreamed of having a little house..." you continued, and for the first time, a faint smile appeared on your face, though it was tinged with melancholy. "A house with a garden, lots of Barbie dolls, and a little dog. She didn't need more. She just wanted something that was hers."

You stopped for a moment, as if the simple act of recalling those dreams your mother had hurt you. You knew she would never have them. That the world had been cruel to her, denying her even the small things she wished for so fervently.

"But... she never got it. We were always moving around, fleeing, searching for something better. And now... she doesn’t even have that."

The car seemed to shrink, the air denser. Gordon felt a wave of compassion for that woman who, though perhaps not perfect, had dreamed of something so simple, so human, and yet had not achieved it.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n," he murmured.

"Commissioner, what if... what if I can't forget her?" you asked, almost in a whisper. "What if I can't stop thinking about Mom?"

The silence in the car became heavy, almost tangible. Gordon wanted to tell you that you didn't have to forget, that it was natural to carry that pain. But the words didn't come, and instead, only a long sigh escaped his lips.

"It's not about forgetting, Y/n," he finally said, his voice low but firm. "It's about moving forward, even though it hurts. Your mother would want you to find happiness again, even though it may not seem possible now. And I’m sure Bruce will do everything in his power to help you."

The car turned onto the long, dark road leading to Wayne Manor. The trees formed a tunnel of shadows, as if the road were wrapped in the same mourning you carried within. The mansion, with its imposing grandeur, appeared in the distance, its walls as high as the secrets it held. "You were so small in the face of the immensity of this new life that awaited you."

"We're almost there," Gordon said softly, as he slowed down. "The wind outside whispered through the trees, like an echo of everything you had lost."

You didn’t know it at that moment, but that house would be full of stories, some broken, others in the process of healing. And although you felt like a stranger in a strange land now, Gordon hoped that, one day, that place would become your refuge.

The car stopped in front of the enormous gates. Gordon looked at you one last time before getting out. In his eyes, you could see a mix of sadness and hope, an empathy that went beyond words.

"You are not alone, Y/n," he said, his voice now firmer. "You will never be alone again."

You remained silent, gazing at the mansion as you clung to the blanket and the Batman doll. The weight of the world still rested on your small shoulders, but for the first time, there might have been a glimmer of relief in knowing that someone, even if he was a strange and distant man, was waiting for you inside."

And in that moment, although you still felt the burning pain of your loss, a ray of hope began to break through the shadows of your heart.

Y/n was sitting in the BatCafé, that corner of the city where the tables wobbled and conversations were woven into murmurs, as if the place knew how to keep secrets that even you wouldn’t dare to share aloud. The walls, a mossy green, were filled with stories that no one had asked for. She looked at her lukewarm latte as one looks at a future that hasn’t quite arrived, a liquid mockery evaporating before it could warm her hands. It had barely been a month since she left her family home, but she already felt that independence was more of a myth than a fulfilled dream. At first, the heroism of having thrown herself into the world had filled her with pride, but now reality lurked like a treacherous chill seeping through the cracks, and the fact that she was waiting for her potential roommate didn’t help matters.

“Well, at least the rent will be cheaper,” she told herself, or rather to the coffee, as if the dark liquid could reply with something sensible.

Sharing an apartment was, for Y/n, the only way out. Her salary barely covered survival, but only if she fed on fresh air and broken dreams. And there she was, waiting for someone named Pamela Isley, who, according to the ad, didn’t even seem to be from this planet. "I hope she’s not one of those people with invisible cats," she thought. Of course, the alternatives weren’t very promising: people who collected Batman figurines or guys who made friends with cockroaches in the kitchen. She had seen it all; after all, her apartment was in one of the most dangerous areas of Gotham, and she knew it all too well.

You were born in that area. One could say the neighborhood chose you before you had a chance to choose it. You didn’t remember exactly which apartment; in that hive of broken windows and half-painted bricks, all the floors seemed like a blurry copy of the previous one, each with the same square footage and an air of silent resignation. In the end, it didn’t matter, because in a way, everything was the same. Dust in the corners, worn tiles, cracks in the walls that seemed to form a map of some invisible and secret city, a place that only you could decipher if you stopped to observe long enough.

It was an unpretentious place, where people rarely smiled, but neither did they let themselves be trampled. There was something in the air, a kind of poorly disguised pride, as if every neighbor, every stray dog, knew that surviving there wasn’t a matter of luck but of will. Heroes didn’t exist in that corner of the world, but villains didn’t dare impose their law without facing some gaze that, without saying anything, said it all. It was rough terrain, where kindness camouflaged behind growls and complaints, and malice grew tired before it could fully settle.

And yet, you loved it. It was absurd, but you loved it with that devotion reserved for things you don’t choose, for roots that sink into your chest without asking for permission. The place was filled with memories you didn’t ask for, stories you never wanted to hear but that seeped into your skin. Tales of people who vanished in alleyways, of broken promises around the corner, of loves that drowned in factory smoke. And yet, those same tales were like echoes that held you, reminding you that you were born there, in that half-hell where life was always a fight but never a complete defeat.

The clock in the BatCafé struck six ten when the door opened. What happened next was hard to explain, like when you dream and you don’t know if it’s the pillow or the universe holding you. Pamela Isley walked in, and it was as if the wind, that autumn wind that brings memories, had gently pushed her in. Y/n looked up, and the first thing she noticed was her hair, a red that was out of this world, more fire than pigment, more nature than dye. The roots tangled as if they were living branches, and for a moment, Y/n wondered if the sun had made a mistake and was shining only on her.

Pamela walked as if she had a pact with the earth. Her steps were slow but firm, as if her feet waited for the ground to respond before settling. She wore a jacket that was impossible to describe without sounding crazy: green vines and small buds peeking out, as if at any moment the plants would grow over her. "Where does this woman come from?" Y/n thought, feeling something beyond mere curiosity. There was something she couldn’t deny, an attraction that felt unsettling, like those waves that, without warning, sweep you away when you think you can still touch the bottom.

Pamela approached the table with a calculated calm, a calm only nature or time can sculpt. And then she smiled. In that smile, Y/n felt something familiar yet strange, as if she were facing a younger version of her mother, but instead of being terrifying, it was comforting. What was happening?

“Y/n L/n?” Pamela said, her voice reminiscent of the whisper of dry leaves underfoot.

“Yes, that’s me,” Y/n answered, trying to make her voice sound normal, even though everything inside her felt out of place.

Pamela sat down across from her, crossing her legs with an almost feline elegance. The BatCafé seemed to conspire around them; the air smelled of wet earth and freshly brewed coffee, a strange mix, like the combination of what was about to be born and what had already died.

“I didn’t expect you to be…” Y/n began, not knowing exactly how to finish the sentence. She wasn’t even sure what she was expecting.

“Strange?” Pamela completed, with a playful smile that left Y/n with a sense of defeat and fascination in equal parts.

“Something like that,” Y/n replied, looking at Pamela’s hands. Her long, slender fingers were covered in small green spots, as if she had just planted a forest with her own hands. There was something almost magical about her, as if every part of her being was connected to the earth in a way that Y/n couldn’t quite understand. And there, amid that confusion, was the fine thread of attraction.

Pamela let her gaze fall on her own latte, turning it between her hands as if it were about to reveal some hidden secret in the foam.

“So, what do you do? I mean… aside from, you know… looking like you walked out of a Tim Burton movie,” Y/n said, attempting a bit of humor to ease the tension she felt in her stomach.

Pamela glanced at her and laughed softly, a laugh that felt like an unexpected breeze on a hot day.

“I’m… a caretaker. Of plants.” She paused, gauging Y/n’s reaction. “And other things.”

“Other things?” Y/n asked, intrigued but also amused by the way Pamela toyed with the mystery.

“Yes, like people who don’t know how to water a plant without drowning it,” she replied, arching an eyebrow mischievously.

The response made Y/n laugh, a laugh she hadn’t expected, as if Pamela had found a way to touch something deep within her, something that hadn’t bloomed in a long time. And without being able to help it, she felt drawn, not just by the way Pamela moved, spoke, or even by the air of mystery surrounding her, but because there was something more, something familiar, something that reminded her of her mother, but without the shadows of authority and judgment. It was like a wild, free version of what had once been security.

“So… are you going to save my cactus or criticize it?” Y/n said, trying to sound casual while feeling that her heart had started playing a game of chess with her emotions.

Pamela smiled again, and this time it was a different smile, one that seemed to carry a promise.

“It depends. Would you let me stay to try?” Pamela said, with a playful seriousness that left Y/n unsure whether the question was about the cactus or something much larger.

Y/n blinked, trying to process the phrase, but deep down she knew that any answer would sound awkward. Pamela’s question hung in the air between them like a leaf falling slowly, right at the perfect point where it was neither entirely a joke nor completely serious. And there she was, caught in that space, wondering whether she should laugh or just blush.

“Well… you can try,” she finally said, trying to hide the warmth creeping up her face. “But I can’t promise the cactus will survive. I’m something like… a serial plant killer... When I was younger, I had time to care for them as they deserved, with help from… from my father. But now work consumes me a lot, and the truth is I’ve neglected them too much… they must feel the same way I felt when… sorry, I talk too much about myself, don’t I?”

Pamela raised an eyebrow, with a smile that seemed to say more than either of them dared to voice at that moment.

“Oh, no, keep talking about yourself; I’m used to it. I have very… eccentric friends, to be honest.” She leaned a bit closer, as if about to share a secret. “Though I prefer not to work under threats, so don’t look at me like I’m going to be your next plant murder victim. But I doubt a little scared bat can kill even a fly.”

Y/n laughed nervously, surprised at how easy Pamela made everything. She, who had always been clumsy with conversations and glances, felt like the words flowed with Pamela in a way she didn’t quite understand but didn’t want to question either.

“...Little Bat?” Y/n asked, with a clumsy and blushing smile as her fingers nervously toyed with the edge of her cup.

Pamela let out a low giggle, that laugh that always seemed to carry the sound of dry leaves being trampled in autumn. With a gentle gesture, she pointed to her clothes.

“Is it that obvious?” she said with a half-smile, raising a playful eyebrow as she leaned a little forward.

She wore a dark fur coat, enormous, with a wide fall that, under the dim light of the BatCafé, seemed to have the precise shape of bat wings extending. The high, well-fitted black boots completed the image of a figure that seemed to have emerged from the very shadows. And for a moment, Y/n didn’t know whether to laugh or get lost in that air of mystery that Pamela seemed to wear like a second coat.

“Well…” Y/n diverted her gaze with a shy smile, “it’s not like you’re hiding it much.”

Pamela smiled with that touch of mischief that characterized her.

“Does it bother you? I’m sorry, it’s just… I’ve been fascinated by bats since I was little.” she asked, her voice low and slow, as if measuring every word, as if the world were a delicate plant that required to be touched with the tips of her fingers.

Y/n let out a small nervous laugh, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks again.

“No, not at all. I think it’s…” she hesitated for a second, searching for the right word, unsure how to avoid the obvious, “I think it suits you well.”

Pamela watched her for a moment, and then, with that look that always seemed to go beyond what words said, added:

“You’re turning red, you know?”

Y/n’s eyes widened a bit more, surprised by Pamela’s directness, but all she could do was laugh at herself.

“Well, it’s just that, I’m not really used to… this.”

“This?” Pamela repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Sharing coffee with someone or bats?”

“Both,” Y/n admitted, shrugging, which provoked another smile from Pamela. “I always wanted one as a pet… but I have a vegan little brother who’s very… spooky… so I’ve always been afraid he’d steal it from me or accuse me of having exotic pets.”

Pamela settled into the chair, not taking her eyes off Y/n.

“But you’ll get used to it,” she paused, letting her words float calmly.

Y/n felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of nerves and a spark of something she couldn’t quite define. Pamela’s dark coat and relaxed smile were a disconcerting yet strangely familiar contrast, as if they had always been there, waiting for her. And suddenly, all she could do was wonder how soon that would happen… getting used to it.

“Although I can’t promise my apartment isn’t… a battlefield,” Y/n said, trying to sound confident, but noticing the slight tremor in her voice.

Pamela looked at her intently for a moment, with that mix of flirtation and something deeper, something that seemed impossible to decipher completely. Then she relaxed in the chair, as if the game had just begun.

“A battlefield, huh?” she said, playing with the spoon of her coffee. “Well, I like challenges. And chaotic places have their own charm if you know where to look.” Pamela let the phrase slide smoothly, like someone throwing a stone into a lake and waiting for the ripples.

Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that every word Pamela spoke carried a double meaning, but far from making her feel uncomfortable, it sparked something akin to contained laughter, as if they were sharing a private joke that she was just beginning to access.

“Don’t you have plants at home?” Pamela suddenly asked, as if the question had sprung from the foam of her coffee.

“Well, there are a couple of cacti… and a fern that I think hates me,” Y/n replied. “But I always forget to water them. Or I overwater them. Seriously, it’s like plants come to me already doomed.”

Pamela smiled, one of those slow smiles that seem to grow little by little, like a sprout deciding when the perfect moment to emerge into the light is.

“It’s not just about water, Y/n,” she said, with that voice that seemed to carry the calm of the wind and the weight of centuries of nature. “Plants need attention. Patience. Sometimes they just want to know you’re there, even if you don’t say anything.” She paused, letting Y/n’s gaze get lost in her eyes. “Sometimes, like people.”

Y/n felt a little shiver. It wasn’t what Pamela was saying, but how she was saying it. There was something in her voice that disarmed her, as if every word had been calculated to penetrate a defense that Y/n hadn’t even realized she had up. And then, almost without thinking, she let slip a truth she rarely shared.

“I’m not very good with people.” The confession came out of her mouth before she could stop it. She said it without drama, almost as if she were talking about the weather. But something in Pamela changed, barely perceptible, like a leaf moving without the wind touching it.

“Really?” Pamela asked softly, but without an ounce of pity. Just curiosity.

Y/n looked down for a moment, fiddling with the edge of her cup, before daring to continue.

“I grew up in a huge house, but… empty. My father… well, he was busy with his things. Business, parties, the usual. Shrugging it off, wanting to downplay it, even though inside she knew it wasn’t something that could easily fade away. Alfred, the butler, raised me. And yes, he was amazing. But it was always just him and no one else. It’s not the same as having… friends.”

Pamela listened in silence, but not in that awkward way where people listen just to see how you respond afterward. No, there was something in her attention that enveloped Y/n, as if she were giving her space to bare herself without fear of being judged.

“You never had friends,” Pamela asserted more than asked.

Y/n shook her head.

“Until now,” Pamela said, with that same softness that seemed to have become her trademark, and something in Y/n’s chest stirred, as if she had just heard the most important thing in the world.

There was a moment of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a silence that somehow connected them. And then Pamela broke the spell, with a mischievous smile that lit everything up again.

“So… are you going to let me be your first friend, or would you rather keep killing plants?”

Y/n couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips, a sincere and liberating laugh, as if something inside her had broken an invisible chain. After all, it was clear that Pamela wasn’t just another person passing through her life. There was something different about her, something that made the air feel lighter, that made the future seem less uncertain.

“Well, if you can survive the cactus…” Y/n said, leaving the sentence unfinished, but knowing Pamela would understand.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Y/n felt that everything might be okay. That maybe, just maybe, Pamela Isley wasn’t just a roommate, but the first person in a long time with whom she could imagine a less lonely future. She was already caught in that web, and the worst, or perhaps the best part, was that she didn’t care at all.

Bruce Wayne was sitting in the mansion's garden on a gray afternoon that seemed to drag memories along like the wind drags fallen leaves. In his hands, a cup of black coffee, still steaming, its strong and bitter aroma mingling with the scent of damp earth after the rain. In front of him, on a small wrought-iron table, rested a piece of dark chocolate cake topped with melting strawberry ice cream, forming a pink puddle around it. But he found no pleasure in the view. It was more of a bitter symbol of a routine he once believed unbreakable.

In the garden, where the wilted flowers swayed gently, a little girl flitted about with contagious energy, as if the chill of the afternoon did not exist for her. Her laughter, so innocent and pure, filled the air, breaking the sepulchral silence that seemed to reign in that old home for a moment. She wore a pink dress with small white dots, an 80s style that would have been charming in another time but now seemed out of place with the scene. Her patent leather shoes shone as she ran back and forth, chasing her dolls.

In her small hands, she held action figures, one of the Batman her father portrayed and another of the Joker, his eternal rival. The girl, no older than six, organized her battles with adorable seriousness. In a high-pitched, mischievous voice, she brought the characters to life, staging an epic duel between hero and villain.

“You won’t defeat me this time, Batman!” she exclaimed, raising the Joker figure with a malevolent laugh.

“I will stop you! I always do...” she replied with her other hand, giving voice to Batman, but with a childlike touch that contrasted with the darkness of the character.

Bruce watched the scene with a mix of tenderness and pain. He knew she wasn’t really there, that this vision was nothing more than a distant echo of what never was. Y/n, his little Y/n, had vanished months ago. And he… he had never given her the love she deserved, always wrapped in his own shadows, in his endless struggle to protect a city that never rested.

The air felt thick, heavy with nostalgia and regret. The girl continued to play, laughing, talking to her dolls, oblivious to the weight of the years, to the loss. And Bruce, although he knew it was an illusion, couldn’t look away; he couldn’t stop imagining what it would have been like to give her what he never knew how to offer. What it would have been like to see her grow, to laugh more, to run through those gardens with the carefree spirit only childhood allows.

Suddenly, the sound of soft footsteps interrupted the daydream. Alfred appeared at the garden entrance, always elegant, always with that air of discretion and understanding that only he possessed. He approached slowly, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder as if he understood the pain that kept him trapped in that scene.

“Mr. Wayne” he said in a low voice, filled with compassion, “it’s time to come back.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, letting Alfred’s words seep into his consciousness. He knew what they meant. He knew that girl, in her 80s dress and her dolls, was nothing but an idealized memory, a distorted reflection of what never was. Because Y/n wasn’t like that. She didn’t like those old dresses; she had always preferred the fashion of the 2000s, with its vibrant colors and comfortable clothes. And she never enjoyed the chocolate cake now sitting in front of him. She liked carrot cake, simple and sweet, but he had never paid attention to those details when he still could.

How did he know those little details about his daughter? Bruce often wondered. It wasn’t because he had learned them by being close, because proximity had been a luxury he never allowed himself. No, those small fragments of her life he had discovered in the album that Alfred kept with an almost reverential discretion. That album was more than just an object; it was a silent refuge where Alfred had archived what the big house, always filled with shadows and echoes of footsteps that never came, had refused to hold.

The day the children learned of the album’s existence marked the beginning of a chaos he still remembered with a mix of exasperation and a contained smile. They had decided, like little conspirators, that treasure belonged to them. A kind of all-out battle had ensued in the mansion, something that over time acquired the quality of family legends.

Bruce, standing in the study, could still see the sparkle in Damian’s eyes, the intensity, the almost playful fury with which he had taken that assault as a personal mission. Damian, with his perpetual impatience, had been the fiercest of all. He vividly remembered how his youngest son had burst into the room wielding two katanas, with the cold precision of a millennia-old warrior, even though his hands were still too small to fully grasp the handles.

“It’s mine!” Damian shouted, with that mix of stubbornness and vulnerability that only the youngest possess, as if he could cut not only the air but the very uncomfortable silence that always floated between them.

“It belongs to all of us, Damian” Bruce had tried to intervene, with that authoritative voice that, curiously, never managed to control his own children as he did with the chaos of the city.

But Damian wasn’t listening. For him, the album was not just an object; it was a relic, a bridge to something he felt but couldn’t name. His sister Y/n, so distant in daily life, was closer in those pages than in any superficial conversation they had ever had. She was his sister, but not enough. He wanted those photos, those notes that Alfred had kept, he wanted to understand what it was about her that slipped away from him daily.

Bruce watched from the threshold, not really intervening. He let the chaos unfold, as if it were necessary. The children fought, but it wasn’t just for the album. They fought for something deeper, a kind of silent reclamation of what they had never been able to have: time, connection, perhaps even love. Alfred, from a corner, merely smiled with that quiet wisdom, knowing that those battles of childish katanas, of shouts and disputes over photos and notes, were actually the way they tried to find each other in a house full of absences.

Bruce sighed, remembering. Alfred had always known more than he did, always understood those invisible things that Bruce, no matter how much he wanted to, could never quite grasp. And so it was that he himself, at the end of it all, also ended up snooping in that album, with a silent curiosity he would never admit. There, in those carefully tended pages, he found his daughter. Or at least, he found the idea of her, the pieces of a life he hadn’t shared but that, somehow, had always been present in those photos, in those little notes that Alfred, more of a father than he was, had kept with such love.

“She won’t come back, Alfred... I lost her... maybe forever... ” Bruce murmured, his voice barely audible, as if admitting it aloud would make her absence more real—“and I… I was never there for her as I should have been.”

The old butler sighed, his tired eyes filled with infinite patience.

“It’s never too late to remember, sir. It’s never too late to honor her memory in the right way.”

Bruce opened his eyes, looking again at the scene, but this time more clearly. The girl had disappeared.

The wind blew gently through the Wayne mansion's garden, carrying away the murmur of the dry leaves. Bruce remained motionless, as if the weight of the years, of the mistakes, had turned him into another statue in that landscape. The aroma of coffee had dissipated, and the cake before him remained untouched. Y/n’s figure still floated in his mind, her laughter like a distant echo that wouldn’t fade but also wouldn’t console him.

Alfred, with the patience only a father at heart could have, stood by his side, his firm hand on Bruce’s shoulder, as if in that gesture he could transmit strength to face the pain that gnawed at him.

“Mr. Wayne” Alfred began, his voice soft but laden with meaning, “the kids have gone looking for Y/n again.”

Bruce closed his eyes, allowing those words to sink into his consciousness. He knew all the Robins and Batgirls had been following leads, searching for answers in the darkest corners of Gotham, but the emptiness he felt remained overwhelming. They had failed so many times… what did another attempt matter? The city, always hungry for its heroes, seemed more a trap than a cause.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Alfred” Bruce replied, his voice rough, worn down by years of struggle. “None of this will change what happened. Y/n… is gone.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Alfred interjected, this time with a firmer tone, “Y/n is still out there. And as long as there’s a single chance to find her, you cannot allow yourself to give up.”

Silence stretched between them. Bruce’s gaze remained fixed on some point in the garden, lost in thought. But Alfred, with his usual insight, knew he needed more than empty words to awaken him.

“There’s something else,” Alfred added, taking a breath, “a new figure appeared last night during a robbery in the East District. They call her Kerosene. The White Bat. She was seen taking out a group of assailants in seconds.”

Bruce didn’t react. Kerosene. The city had always generated figures willing to fill the void he had left every time he stepped away, every time Gotham lost the light of its vigilante. But this time, he didn’t feel the urgency to learn more. What did it matter? He repeated to himself. Gotham already had its heroes.

“I don’t care” he murmured, his voice empty, as cold as the air surrounding the garden—“Let others deal with Gotham. Kerosene, the Joker, or whoever… the city doesn’t need me anymore.”

Alfred tightened his grip on Bruce’s shoulder, almost like a father refusing to see his son give up. He stepped forward, and this time his voice was lower but more incisive.

“This isn’t about Gotham, sir,” he said with an intensity Bruce hadn’t expected—“It’s about Y/n.”

Bruce lifted his gaze, his eyes finally meeting Alfred’s, as if those words had ignited a spark within him.

“If you don’t want to protect this city, do it for her ” Alfred continued—“Because you will find her, sir. I’m sure of it. And when you do… how would you want her to find you? Destroyed? Defeated? No. You need to be ready, you need to be strong, for her. Wherever she is, Y/n is still waiting for her father.”

Bruce felt the pain in his chest intensify, a constant reminder of his failure, but Alfred was right. Y/n was somewhere out there. Alive or not, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that as long as he didn’t find her, he couldn’t give up.

“The kids have done everything they can to find her,” Alfred said, softening his tone—“They’re still at it. Every day they search for new leads, explore new corners of Gotham… but there’s only one man who can put everything in order. There’s only one father who can bring her back.”

The air tensed between them, and for the first time in a long time, Bruce felt a slight tremor inside. He remembered the moment he decided to become Batman, driven by the guilt and pain of losing his parents. Now, that same guilt, that same pain, called to him again, but this time, it wasn’t for Gotham. It was for Y/n. His daughter.

“Tell me, Alfred, who is this Kerosene?” Bruce murmured, finally reacting to the information Alfred had given him.

“Yes, sir. Her abilities are astonishing, according to reports. Agile, fast… but her true identity remains a mystery. Some say she’s just another vigilante trying to fill the void you left. But the important thing is that she is acting with lethal precision.”

Bruce stood slowly, leaving the cup of coffee on the table, already cold and forgotten. He looked at the empty garden, but this time, with a new determination blooming in his chest.

“If this Kerosene is connected… if there’s any link to Y/n, I will find out,” he said, his voice firmer, closer to the one Alfred had known for so many years—“And if not… then I’ll find her myself.”

Alfred nodded, a mix of relief and satisfaction reflected on his face. He had managed to awaken the man Gotham needed, but more than that, he had awakened the father Y/n deserved.

“ Very well, sir,he replied with a slight smile, always the unwavering servant—“The Batcave is ready for your return.”

Bruce turned toward the mansion, but not before glancing once more at the garden, where Y/n’s figure, so real in his mind, faded like morning mist.

Wherever you are, I will find you.

Richard “Dick” Grayson knocked forcefully on the old apartment door, the echo resonating in the narrow hallway of the building, where dust gathered in the corners like forgotten memories and the lights flickered as if trying to perform one last dance before going out. Beside him, Barbara Gordon, the commissioner's daughter, crossed her arms, staring at the door with an intensity that could have splintered the wood.

Jason Todd, restless to his left, kept his gaze fixed on the doorknob, his body tense, as if each passing second brought him one step closer to breaking through that wooden barrier. Above, on the roof, Red Robin, The Spoiler, and Batgirl waited, shadows in a world that seemed to ignore their pounding hearts, ready to act.

“I don’t know why we always have to deal with the worst specimens of humanity,” Barbara murmured, adjusting her coat as she shot a sidelong glance at Dick, who seemed to have a plan in mind.

“Because we’re lucky,” Jason replied, sarcasm lacing his words, a crooked smile on his lips that didn’t quite fit the situation. “And when I say ‘lucky,’ I mean we’re carrying someone else's karma because we… are screwed.”

Dick knocked on the door again, this time with more force. The echo reverberated through the hallways, a declaration of intent.

“We should break it down. You know it’s not going to open just from a gentle knock,” Jason said, stepping forward, his intention clear and palpable.

“Calm down, Jason. Not all problems are solved with violence,” Barbara retorted, though a part of her knew that idea faded every time they found themselves in a situation like this.

“Sure, as if we have another option. Do you want me to schedule a tea date instead of kicking down the door?” Jason frowned, the tension palpable.

Finally, a sound came from behind the door. Chains, the metallic echo of locks being unlatched with a maddening slowness, as if someone on the other side knew that every second of wait was boiling the blood of the three standing before the door. At last, the door opened just enough to reveal a face: the landlord. A short man with small eyes and a slimy smile that seemed to ooze like dirty oil through his yellowed teeth.

“What do you want?” he asked in a thick voice, looking at Dick with suspicion, but his gaze soon dropped to Barbara, lingering unpleasantly on her figure, and then to Jason, who had already tensed the muscles in his jaw.

“We’re looking for Y/n Wayne L/n,” Dick said, trying to maintain his composure, the heat of anger threatening to overflow. “We know she lives here. And we know you know where she is.”

The man let out a laugh under his breath, a rusty squeak that resonated like a heavy joke.

“Ah, the pretty girl… yeah, yeah. And who are you all, huh?” he asked, his slimy tone sending chills that seemed to crawl over Dick's skin.

“It’s none of your concern. We just want to know where she is,” Barbara said, her voice firm and resolute, although the tension in her body betrayed her impatience.

The landlord tilted his head, like a cat playing with its prey, and smiled with a disturbing mischief.

“Well, if you haven’t found her in five months, maybe you don’t want to know,” he said, letting the words drop like stones in a pond, creating ripples of discomfort.

“I warn you, this isn’t a game,” Jason interjected, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t make me remind you what can happen when a man plays with fire.”

The man shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned, although the glint in his eyes betrayed him.

Jason's hand rested near his belt, right where he kept his gun, and although he hadn’t drawn the weapon yet, the threat was clear.

The landlord noticed but instead of being scared, he wore a repugnant smile, like a predator that had just spotted a wounded prey. His gaze shifted back to Barbara, and then, without the slightest respect, murmured something that made Dick’s fists clench.

“Ah, Y/n... yeah, I remember her. She came around when she had just turned eighteen. Good material, if you catch my drift. She looked innocent, but... those are the most interesting ones, right?” The man's gaze darkened, scanning Barbara again, as if evaluating merchandise.

“Say that again,” Jason growled, drawing his gun in a motion so quick that the landlord barely had time to blink before feeling the cold barrel pressed against his forehead. “And I swear I’ll blow your brains out right here.”

The words hung in the air, sharp, loaded with contempt and a lust that twisted like a snake inside him.

The man let out a cynical chuckle, relishing the moment.

“The last time I saw pretty Y/n was a while back. I don’t know what she’s up to now, but I kept some pictures of her and her friend.” His tone was defiant, almost mocking.

Rage was bubbling in Jason. His fists were clenched, a deadly spark in his eyes.

“What did you say?” His voice trembled between anger and control, like a string about to snap.

The landlord, feeling invincible, continued. “I don’t know if they’re lesbians, but seeing them together was quite the spectacle. Both of them were hot, you know?”

Jason could no longer hold back. The anger erupted like a volcano.

“Shut up!” he shouted, and the sound echoed like a gunshot in the tense silence that had invaded the room.

Before the landlord could react, Jason pulled his gun, aiming with precision.

“I’m going to give you one chance. Tell me where Y/n is. Now.”

The man’s laughter faded, his eyes widening in shock. “Wait, wait, there’s no need to…”

“WHERE?!” Jason's voice thundered, firm and filled with rage, like a storm rumbling in the atmosphere.

The tension became palpable, the air thick with promises of violence.

“Alright, alright!” the landlord stammered, but Jason’s voice turned even colder.

“I’m not going to ask again.”

“She just left for work at night and that’s it…” he started to say, but Jason could no longer hear. The man had photos of Y/n. Compromising, crude, and that simple mention ignited hell in his chest.

In an instant, the sound of an explosion resonated in the hallway, and the man fell to the ground, his silly smile erased by the terror that had overtaken his face. Blood gushed forth in a dark torrent, staining the floor and nearby walls.

Barbara covered her mouth in shock, while Dick stood frozen, stunned.

“Jason!” she exclaimed, but the image of the landlord lying on the ground with his vacant stare was etched in her mind.

Jason holstered the weapon, his breath rapid and uncontrolled. He had crossed a line, and in that moment, he realized there was no turning back. Anger had found a way to break free, but at a terrible cost.

“I won’t let anyone hurt Y/n again,” he murmured, his eyes filled with determination. No one else would stand in his way to find her, no matter the price he had to pay.

The room was saturated with the echo of the gunshot, and the silence grew heavy, almost palpable. Barbara took a deep breath, the anger sparking in her eyes as she looked at Jason, who still seemed dazed by the act he had committed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she said, her voice contained but sharp as a blade. “That’s why we didn’t bring Damian along, because he would have gone off just the same, but in a much more reckless way.” Her gaze fixed on the corpse, lying in a pool of blood, a scene that could have come from the mind of a disturbed artist.

Jason, with his chest heaving and jaw clenched, simply shrugged.

“I couldn’t just stand by. He knew something, and I wasn’t about to let it slip away.” The fervor in his voice didn’t hide the confusion that was beginning to seep in, like the cold of the night creeping through the windows.

Barbara didn’t respond, but the silence that filled the room grew even denser when the others entered, alarmed by the gunshot. Tim, Stephanie, and Cass arrived, their expressions filled with concern that quickly transformed into indignation.

“What happened here?” Tim asked, his eyes widening at the scene. Blood slid across the floor like a dark river, and the landlord’s body faded beneath the flickering light.

“Are you crazy, Jason?!” Steph exclaimed, disbelief palpable in her voice.

Cass crouched down, her expression grave as she looked at the fallen man. She didn’t need to speak to convey her disapproval; every glance said more than a thousand words.

“It doesn’t matter how we got here,” Dick intervened, his authoritative tone trying to restore order. “We need answers. Let’s investigate.”

With a determined movement, Barbara approached the body, while Jason still breathed irregularly, as if the weight of his actions began to settle on him. Barbara looked around; the apartment was a dusty and sad place, filled with shadows that seemed to whisper secrets.

As the others searched, Tim found a series of photos pinned to the walls, each one showing Y/n and other women from the area, frozen laughter in time, trapped between moments that should have been happy. However, there was something unsettling about the way they were arranged, a disorder that seemed a declaration of possession.

“Look at this,” Tim said, pointing to the images. There was Y/n, always smiling, but next to her was a figure that couldn’t be ignored. The silhouette of Pamela Isley, better known as Poison Ivy, stood beside her, her red hair like a fire that seemed to consume the sadness of the place.

“Pamela…” Cass murmured, her voice almost a whisper. “She’s been in Arkham for three months.”

Barbara moved closer, examining the photos more closely. “This is more complicated than we thought. Ivy has been involved, and that changes everything.”

Jason, still trying to comprehend the chaos he had unleashed, ran a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll find Y/n. I don’t care what I have to do.”

Barbara looked at him, her expression one of challenge but also understanding. “We can’t do this recklessly. We have to be smart. Silent.”

The group nodded, realizing that the road ahead would be filled with dangers, but also promises of redemption. They were all willing to kill for Y/n, but they had to do it quietly, like shadows slipping through the streets at night.

“Listen, we’re going to find her,” Dick said, his voice resonating like a mantra. “No matter how many doors we have to break down, how many truths we have to drag into the light.”

And so, in the echo of the silence that followed the violence, the five united in a tacit pact, intertwining their destinies in the search for Y/n. Each lost in their thoughts, each remembering that shadows sometimes have the power to conceal not only secrets but also the light that clings to hope.

The shadows stretched as they moved away from the apartment, leaving behind the vestige of a dead man and the echo of trapped laughter. The search had begun, and Y/n’s fate hung in the balance, a thread of light in the darkness that promised to bloom amid the ruins of despair.

The city lights flickered in the distance, like lost stars in the asphalt.

The tears of Y/n fell onto the slippery ground, forming puddles that blended with the blood, a dark ruby staining every part of her thin body, as if sins were being tattooed onto her skin. The humidity of the place smelled of iron and fear, of broken promises and a destiny she had chosen but didn’t quite know how to accept.

“It doesn’t feel good, little one?” said the Doctor, his voice a bitter whisper echoing off the damp walls of the room. He, with his dirty blonde hair falling messily over his forehead, wore a white coat that looked more like a rag than a symbol of authority. A cynical smile spread across his lips, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than the fate he had designed for her. “Bathing in the blood of enemies, isn’t it an exquisite pleasure?”

Y/n, her gaze lost at a point on the floor, nodded slowly, as if each movement cost her an eternity. The blood, warm and sticky, slid between her fingers, a sensory experience that drowned her in contradictions. On one hand, there was a dark delight in the power that image conferred upon her, a power she had learned to wield. But on the other hand, there was an abyss of pain threatening to consume her.

“It’s…” she whispered, barely able to form words. Her voice trembled like a leaf in autumn, indecision etched in her features. Guilt suffocated her, and each tear that fell was a reminder of what she had lost, of what she had left behind.

“What is it?” asked the Doctor, leaning toward her, his eyes lit by a glow that was not exactly compassion, but rather a cruel satisfaction. His gaze seemed to pierce through the layers of her being, scrutinizing the dark corners of her soul. “Is it pleasure you feel, or is it fear?”

Y/n recoiled, feeling her skin burn under his gaze. The Doctor’s words tangled in her mind, forming a knot that seemed impossible to untie. Her voice, almost a cry for help, resonated in the air.

“I don’t know! I don’t know if it’s pleasure or pain.” The words shot out like arrows, but only managed to embed their tips in the empty air, finding no destination. She trembled, caught between repulsion and the desire to free herself from the invisible chains that kept her anchored in that place.

The Doctor let out a cold laugh, as if he were enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him. With a careless gesture, he threw another bucket of blood onto the floor, creating a small puddle that slid toward Y/n.

“That is the beauty of your situation, my dear. You have been chosen to cleanse Gotham of the scum, and along the way, you will discover that pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin.”

“Chosen?” replied Y/n, her voice shaking with the fierce mix of disbelief and rage. “Chosen for what? To be your puppet?”

The Doctor stepped closer, letting the distance between them fade. His presence was oppressive, like a shadow that swallowed light.

“You are not a puppet, Kerosene” he said, pronouncing her name as if caressing it. “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution. The tears that fall now are the ashes of the old you, and it’s time you embrace what awaits you.”

Y/n felt the air grow dense, as if the Doctor’s words were trying to envelop her, to convince her. But there was a truth in his voice, an echo of what she had longed for deep within her being. Hadn’t she been searching for purpose, a place to belong?

“No… I don’t want to be what you’ve made me.” she said, though her voice sounded more hesitant than determined. It was as if reality slipped around her, like the slippery ground she stood on.

“Of course you do, Y/n.” He smiled, and there was something unsettling in that smile, something that made her feel she was on the brink of a revelation. “Your pain is the echo of the city, and you, little one, can be its savior.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, and Y/n felt herself teetering on the edge of the abyss, the possibility of becoming Kerosene, the force of vengeance and power. She fought against the idea, but there was a part of her that was beginning to awaken, to open like a flower in the desert.

“So, what do I have to do?” she asked, finally facing the reality that surrounded her. The tears, instead of being a sign of weakness, now seemed a recognition of her new identity.

The Doctor looked at her with a mix of satisfaction and complicity, like a teacher who sees the spark of greatness in his student.

“First, you must accept that the past does not define your future. The blood that surrounds you is only the first step toward freedom. Become what you have always been. Your destiny is to burn, and in doing so, illuminate others.”

Y/n felt the weight of her decision slowly fading away. By accepting her destiny, she had found a new way to free herself, a purpose that shone like fire.

“Then I will do it.” she said, her voice now firm and resonant, as if she were finally embracing the darkness that had always dwelled within her. “I will be Kerosene.”

The Doctor smiled, and in that smile lay a world of possibilities. Together, they could shake the foundations of Gotham.

“That’s right, my dear Kerosene.” He stepped back, allowing his figure to fade into the shadows..“And remember, every decision you make will be a step toward glory or toward downfall. The line is thin, and you are destined to cross it.”

“What about them?” Y/n asked, pointing to the shadows surrounding her, referring to the Waynes who remained silent in their luxurious prison of silence. “Where is Batman?”

The Doctor paused, his gaze turning serious and contemplative.

“Since your appearance, the Waynes have become shadows of what they once were. Batman has vanished, as if fear has locked him in his own game. They don’t want you to know the truth, and I wonder if, deep down, he fears what you are capable of.”

“Fears?” repeated Y/n, incredulity splattering her voice like a rain of dead stars. “Why?”

“Because the truth is that there is no longer space for the good in this city.” The Doctor stepped closer, his tone low but filled with fervor. “Soon you will go after the Court of Owls. We will expose those monsters in the streets, as they deserve, and they will have no one to defend them. Not even their beloved bat.”

A chill ran down Y/n's spine. The idea of stepping out into the night, of facing the villains who had ravaged her city, filled her with a strange power. She remembered Pamela, laughing amidst the shadows, her voice like an echo urging her to fight.

“I will not be their puppet. I do not want to be a pawn in a bigger game.” The words erupted from her with the force of an approaching storm, and the vision of Pamela dancing among the flowers filled her with a sudden sweetness.

“You will not be a pawn, Kerosene.” The Doctor smiled, and in his eyes was an air of admiration. “You are the queen in this game. Your vengeance will not only bring down those villains, but it will also seek the man behind the mask of Batman. We need to end him.”

“End him?” The question hung in the air like a trembling whisper. Her heart stopped for an instant, remembering the nights spent with Batman, the unspoken words, the caresses of an absent father.

“Yes. Because he, like them, has become a legend that needs to fall.”

Y/n felt the darkness looming over her, a shadow whispering promises of power and pain. But there was something more, a spark igniting within her, a fire burning with the strength of a new dawn.

“Then I will do it.” said Y/n, her voice resonating with a clarity that surprised her. “I will expose the Court of Owls and make my father see.”

The Doctor watched Y/n with palpable satisfaction, as if he had finally ignited a spark deep within her being. With a gesture of his hand, he made the invisible shackles that kept her trapped fade away. In that moment, a strange freedom slipped over her skin, a freedom laden with dark responsibility.

“Come, Kerosene.” he said, his voice now a hypnotic chant rising among the shadows. “There is something you need to see.”

He led her through a labyrinth of damp hallways, each step resonating like an echo of past decisions. The walls seemed to whisper forgotten secrets, tales of those who had fallen into the abyss before her. As they advanced, the light of day faded, and the gloom became an accomplice to their thoughts.

Finally, they reached the balcony of the building, a place where time had stopped its march. The Doctor gently pushed Y/n toward the railing, forcing her to look out over the vast expanse of Gotham that stretched before them. The city was a canvas of flickering lights and deep shadows, a portrait of intertwined chaos and order.

“Look, little one.” the Doctor whispered, his voice wrapping around her like a veil of mystery. “This is your city, a monster that feeds on the secrets you hold in your chest. The blood that stains your skin is a symbol of the struggle that lies ahead.”

Y/n leaned over the edge of the balcony, feeling the cold wind caress her bare skin. The city glimmered like a sea of dying stars, each light a story, each shadow a whisper of betrayal. The vision enveloped her, and for a moment, she felt like a spectator of her own destiny.

Her bare skin, still stained with blood, prickled at the chill of Gotham, a freezing breeze sneaking through the cracks of crumbling buildings, as if the city itself reminded her that she was alive, that darkness embraced her with its mantle of forgetfulness and despair. Each small contact of the air made her more aware of her vulnerability, and at the same time, of the power that blossomed from within her. It was a reminder that, amidst chaos, she was the spark of a new flame.

The puddles of blood that had stained her skin, silent witnesses to her transformation, shone like a dark ruby under the dim light of the moon. In that moment, each drop was an echo of past decisions, a symbol of the life she had left behind. And yet, in her mind, the Doctor's words echoed: “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution.” The irony of her state wrapped her in a sweet and bitter confusion; deep down, her nakedness felt like a release.

The city stretched before her, a vast ocean of twinkling lights and lurking shadows. Gotham, in its complexity, seemed to breathe, a living being pulsing with stories of pain and longing. The streetlights flickered as if about to go out, and Y/n felt that each flicker was a whisper calling her, a reminder that she was destined to be part of something much larger than herself.

As she gazed at the horizon, her mind filled with images: the faces of those she had lost, those she had loved, and those she had to confront. Her heart wrestled between the desire for vengeance and the longing for redemption.

“What do you see?” asked the Doctor, his eyes shining with an unsettling intensity.

“I see…” Y/n began, but the words slipped away like sand through her fingers. The city was a labyrinth of emotions, a stage where pain and pleasure intertwined in a macabre dance. It was a reflection of her own internal struggle, her desire for vengeance and her yearning for redemption.

“I see a sea of shadows, a stage where illusions collapse like houses of cards.” she finally replied, her voice echoing. “Each light, a hope; each shadow, a whisper of unhappiness.”

“Perfect.” The Doctor smiled, his face illuminated by an almost fraternal satisfaction. “Gotham is a mirror, and you are the light that can break the darkness. You must be able to see beyond what shines.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, tearing through the veil of confusion that enveloped her. In that instant, Y/n understood that every tear shed had fed the city, that every drop of blood on her hands was an echo of what she had lost. And yet, vengeance offered her a new purpose, a path into the unknown.

“The city cries for change, for a fire to purify it” she whispered, her voice gaining strength in the night breeze. “And I… I am that fire.”

“That’s right, dear.” The Doctor nodded, a mix of pride and malice in his expression. “The fire that will purify Gotham and, in its wake, consume everything that stands in your way.”

Y/n felt the air fill with electricity, a palpable current connecting her to the city, to its pain and desire. Deep within her, something began to change. She was no longer just a puppet; she was no longer merely the shadow of her past. She was Kerosene, the spark that would ignite the flame of change.

“But, Doctor, what about those who love the darkness?” she asked, her voice now an echo of what she had learned. “What if they cling to their shadow?”

The Doctor stepped closer to her, his penetrating gaze filled with complicity.

“Darkness is a possessive lover, but there is always a price to pay. The truth is that they cannot hold onto it forever. And when the fire burns, only those ready to be reborn will be saved.”

Y/n felt a mixture of anguish and determination. The city before her became a symbol of her internal struggle, a stage where light and shadow intertwined in an eternal game. Every street, every building, every corner whispered her name in a song of warning and challenge.

“And when the fire consumes everything in its path, will there be anything left of me?” she asked, her voice trembling with the fragility of a leaf in the wind.

The Doctor smiled, a smile that seemed to mock the questions still dancing in her mind.

“Perhaps, dear Kerosene, you will find yourself in the act of burning. Or maybe, you will fade into the ash. That is the enigma of transformation: in the fire, death is merely the prelude to a new beginning.”

As she gazed at the city, Y/n felt her identity fragment and fuse, in an endless cycle of creation and destruction. The image of Gotham before her became a metaphor for the human soul, a reflection of the struggles everyone faced in the darkness. The city, with its chaos and its heartbreaking beauty, enveloped her like a hug.

With one last look at the flickering lights and lurking shadows, Y/n stepped back, a firm decision rising within her.

“There’s no turning back now” she murmured, her voice an echo of her new reality. “I will be the fire that illuminates this eternal night.”

The Doctor, with a gesture of approval, retreated into the shadows, leaving her alone in her revelation. As the city spread before her, a mantle of mystery and power, Y/n knew that the true journey was just beginning. The line between fire and ash was thin, and in her chest burned the certainty that by crossing it, nothing would ever be the same.

“So be it, Kerosene” she said to herself as the wind enveloped her in secret whispers. “Let the fire speak in your name and let the night receive your lament.”

And looking at Gotham, she understood that, in the end, her destiny was not merely to be a spectator, but an unstoppable force, a storm that would unleash chaos. And so, with her heart beating to the rhythm of the city, she prepared to embrace her truth, her fire.

☆

A/N — Here is the long-awaited third part of this series. Thank you for all the support and love you have given me. I decided to make this part longer (at the cost of not being able to include the last image :( ) so that you can enjoy it more.

I was reading your comments where you were asking if Y/n and the Doctor would have a romance (which horrifies me a bit :d, but it gave me an idea) or if he performed a lobotomy on her. Well, that will be answered in the next part or in a headcanon, whatever you ask me.

By the way, in the tag list, there are some users I couldn't add, sorry about that 😔. I really appreciate your understanding and patience. Your enthusiasm keeps me motivated to keep creating and sharing these stories. I hope you find this installment engaging and that it brings you the excitement and emotions you’ve come to expect from the series. Enjoy!

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

take a bath!

Tag list! ◇ — @amber-content @toast-on-dandelioms @feral-childs-word @sweetconnoisseurgardener @victoria1676 @toasted-cat18 @nosyrobin @beeaskewwrites @yandere-enthusiast @telltaletoad @dhanyasri @vanessa-boo @m3vl0vesu @jellypotato66 @midnightgrimoire @cherryxxxxyoongi @imnotdumbimstupif @plsfckmedxddy @h0neysiba @mybones537 @erikasurfer @sheepintherain @pix-stuff @yan-rai @uniquecutie-puffs @arlandvery @theblonde777 @alishii

@maicenitas @ti-girl1226 @vanilliona @chickenwings435 @thedramabrotherss @bat1212 @imnotdumbimstupif @somebodyrandom-613 @aelxr @jsprien213 @sheepintherain @lovebug-apple @zenychwan @starsdotalk @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron @misdollface @clementinesyummy @bunbunboysworld @lunaluz432 @kiarst @meowmeeps @adeptusxia0 @mettatons-number-1fan @fairygardenprincesss @nervousalpacalady @mottysith

Inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams ' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

[throwsahammer]

Okay, wait, this "Blood Atonement" thing is the belief that... If I understand it correctly, Christ's sacrifice did not fully eliminate the need for sacrifice to atone for sin, and certain sins required the blood sacrifice (Voluntary or otherwise) of the sinner to achieve salvation?

As an atheist with protestant roots this strikes me as shockingly heretical in its departure from ordinary Christian doctrine.

I'm not sure I entirely have a question other than "Am I understanding correctly" and I guess "What the heck?"

It's a bit more complicated than that, but you've got the basic idea.

There are two foundational concepts that you need to understand in order to fit blood atonement into Mormonism properly, and those are Perdition and Having Your Calling and Election Made Sure (I'm going to abbreviate the second one).

Perdition is the condition of being sentenced to outer darkness, which sounds pretty straightforward. It's basically just the standard protestant idea of hell. However, unlike protestantism's concept of Jesus's atonement being infinite in the sense that it's open for anyone to opt into, Mormonism believes that the atonement is infinite in that it guarantees salvation for everyone regardless of personal decision. The whole concept of a tiered heaven can, therefore, be based entirely on personal merit and the completion of specific ordinances, as it's ostensibly built around the idea of growing into the sort of person who would actually be comfortable living there, and not about whether or not Jesus paid the price of admission for that specific individual.

This creates a real-world problem, though: the threat of damnation is an indispensable tool in the arsenal of a religious leader who wants to coerce people into taking certain actions, and Joseph Smith is at this point in history desperately in need of a stick with which to threaten people into compliance. So he develops a new kind of threat based on the figure of Cain. The basic idea of perdition is that there are certain acts that alter their perpetrators on a metaphysical level to the point where they can't exist within god's presence even a little bit, and will not be able to live in any kingdom of glory post resurrection. (There's a whole tangent about mormon cosmology I'm not going into here, but the short version is that the kingdoms of glory operate via divine Reaganomics, and terrestrial and telestial glory are the result of god's celestial glory trickling down).

So, the two sins that damn one's soul and body to perdition are "the shedding of innocent blood" and "denying the holy ghost." The first one is mostly employed rhetorically as a point of comparison and serves to underscore how serious the second one is. What exactly constituted a sufficient degree of apostasy to qualify as perdition-worthy was left intentionally vague by Joseph in order to enable him to threaten people from a position of unquestionable authority. It's all pretty standard new religious movement stuff so far.

But now you run into a different problem: if murder is a potentially soul-threatening act, then you're going to need to waste time manufacturing a spiritual casus belli against anyone you need removed, and nobody who is trying to build a kingdom for themselves has time for that. Enter the second piece of the puzzle: HYCaEMS. Eventually known as the Second Anointing, HYaCEMS is the ultimate theological get-out-of-jail-free card, where the prophet guarantees you a spot in the celestial kingdom, and from that moment onward there's nothing you can do to disqualify yourself from it.

So now Joseph Smith has invented everything he needs to build his empire: a message of universal salvation to appeal to the masses that directly addresses the contemporary debates of protestantism, the ability to leverage the ultimate threat against any man who questions his leadership or any young girl who doesn't want to sleep with him, and the ability to offer the ultimate reward to his inner circle in exchange for their cooperation in carrying out his dirty work. He gets shot to death before he can do very much with any of this.

So now the stage is all set for Brigham Young to build upon the foundation his successor built. He expands Smith's nascent ideas into a fleshed-out universe. The curse of Cain is developed into mormon doctrinal racism, the law of consecration is developed into Deseret's United Order, and Joseph's early concepts of exaltation are developed into the ever-expanding hierarchy of gods.

In case you haven't figured out by now, Mormonism is built on a foundation of nitpicking specific semantic details and then extrapolating entire theological concepts from there. Blood atonement is primarily the result of Brigham Young doing exactly this with how blood is talked about in the scriptures alongside the use of the phrase "flesh and bone" instead of "flesh and blood" in specific contexts. Joseph Smith (and other contemporary religious figures, most notably those who would go on to form the Jehovah's Witnesses) had spoken quite a bit about blood and the symbolic and spiritual importance thereof, but Mormonism's unique contribution to the conversation was the idea that blood was mortality. Adam and Eve did not have blood until the fall, and Jesus didn't have blood after his resurrection. Blood contained both the curse of physical death and was also a metaphorical vessel for the soul, containing the sins of man, and therefore also carrying the curse of spiritual death. The most important moment of Jesus's life, according to Mormonism, was when he prayed in Gethsemane, as that's when he physically took the universe's sins onto himself and literally bled from every pore out onto the earth, as that's when he conquered spiritual death.

Still with me? Good. Now is where I need to talk about how mormon cosmology is built around the idea that planets, stars, the sun, and other heavenly bodies are living beings. Not in a metaphorical way but in a more literal sense. Stars and planets (including the sun) are essentially divine beings, home to beings that correspond to their degree of glory. This is important because Earth was also affected by the fall and became mortal and required all of the same saving ordinances as a human would. The flood of Noah was the earth's baptism (which means that according to this worldview, the entire earth was fully submerged under water), and the eventual fiery apocalypse of the world's end will be its confirmation, or baptism by fire. The earth's equivalent of the mormon Sacrament, then, was when it literally drank the blood (in Gethsemane) and ate the flesh (in the tomb) of Jesus. This act cleansed the earth itself of sin.

Ok, so now we finally get to talk about blood atonement in context. According to this whole paradigm, anyone who commits an act of perdition will have their very blood cursed and cut off from the presence of god. When they are resurrected to face final judgment, their sins will remain locked inside their now immortal bodies and prevent them from dwelling in any kingdom of glory (this point is not much elaborated on, and it's unclear whether bodies of sons of perdition have blood or are just metaphysically bound to it somehow).

When Cain slew Abel, Abel's innocent blood soaked the earth, and that blood cried out for justice, but Cain was cursed with perdition, so his blood could never be shed, and it wasn't until Jesus soaked the earth with his blood that Abel's blood's need for justice was fulfilled. The earth, having absorbed divine blood capable of paying the price of justice for innocent blood, can therefore act as an intermediary for this sort of thing.

But doesn't that undermine the whole "infinite atonement" thing? Well, yes, but not anymore than the necessity of any other ordinance within Mormonism does within the same framework. Jesus was baptized, and anyone who wants to access the specific covenants locked behind baptism needs to be baptized. Jesus, while not a murderer, took those sins upon himself and shed his blood, so any murderer who wants to access the redemption must also do so. Shedding your blood upon the ground becomes a sort of conditional ordinance that's only necessary if you've committed the otherwise unforgivable sin of murder.

Now you'll notice that we're only talking about murder here and not apostasy. That's because, crucially, those are the same thing as far as Mormonism is concerned, as you're spiritually killing someone (yourself and potentially your family as well). Brigham Young prescribed "death on the spot" for mormons who engaged in the apostate act of miscegenation, for example.

Now, I want to stress that it's extremely unclear how many people, if any, were actually blood atoned for apostasy, how many people, if any, were executed in ways that did not shed their blood because they were deemed "apostate," and how widespread or accepted any of this doctrine was beyond church leadership. I also want to make it clear that there is no credible evidence that suggests that either the doctrine or practice of blood atonement is taught or practiced by any branches of Mormonism beyond certain fundamentalist sects such as the FLDS under the leadership of Warren Jeffs, or isolated incidents such as the Lafferty Brother murders.

The mainstream LDS church has quietly de-emphasized or de-canonized almost all of these teachings, including many of the foundational elements. You can occasionally find church officials expressing some or even all of these beliefs in unofficial settings, but the most recent examples are the likes of Cleon Skousen, Hugh Nibley, Bruce McConkie, and Joseph Fielding Smith, all of which are decades ago at this point, and virtually all of which are inaccessible via official church records.

So there you go. I feel obligated to note that much of the connective tissue of this post comes from personal experience and decades of reading various official and semi-official writings on the topic and that I don't have a list of sources handy. Go read Under the Banner of Heaven (or watch the Hulu series) if you want a broader, better-sourced look at the history of violence within Mormonism (though note that Krakauer does dabble in conjecture, especially in the Hulu adaptation).

[throwaway-yandere]

His Version Of You [Yan!Kaveh & Yan!Veritas Ratio/Reader]

a/n: tis another solid “twas a crack idea but I made it too serious” fic. kavetham rivalry is overrated af, KaTio is the way to go /j. when you finish it, can you answer the poll at the bottom on who you would pick between these two? bless you.

unreliable synopsis: When one grieves, sometimes it is best not to be reminded of who you're grieving for. Especially not by fighting over a recreation of their heart and soul. [based on @2broschlininahotub & @meimeimeirin's request]

content warnings/tags: [light yandere vs yandere]/[implied poly!yandere/reader] fic, geniuses who can't take a W, au shenanigans, the girlies love to bicker it’s their love native language

"What were you thinking, you idiot?! Thank my reflexes that I caught the statue beforehand or else I would have to explain what a monumental mistake that is. Just use your common sense for once, will you?!"

"Please— I don't want to hear that from YOU of all people! This is MY stone. Stop acting like you actually care. You took us away from my world! You're the one who's too obsessed with researching it! It's like a damn test subject and not a companion to you!"

"That's because it is, you fucking oaf!"

"YOU'RE THE ONE GIVING ME FALSE HOPE THAT IT'S A LIVING BEING!!!"

Veritas stood with his arms crossed, eyebrows scrunched and his frown the deepest Kaveh had ever seen. The architect, absolutely baffled at his experiment partner's harsh evaluation, felt his eyes dampening. His bumping of the sculpture was pure accident, but Veritas' sharp tongue cut deep into Kaveh's pride. Even the most understanding of men would find his tone abrasive.

Getting riled up…Over a damn statue.

"Just because it's alive, doesn't mean it's a companion. And just because it is a test subject, doesn't mean you can just near-topple it as you damn please."

The arguments subsided. They exchanged long looks as they tried to figure out how the "little dispute" had come dangerously close to abusive. With his anger gradually fading, Kaveh was the one to take the first initiative. Kaveh steeled himself. The architect's shoulders dropped, and his expression softened. Jaded.

"Veritas... I'm sorry. As much as this statue… means… to me, I shouldn't have yelled at you. I-I was just upset, you're aware that I've been working all afternoon polishing the statue and I took that anger out on you. I'm sorry." Kaveh said.

"Right." Veritas closed his eyes. "Apology accepted. I understand that you're visibly distressed, but I will not tolerate low-quality work."

As Kaveh was about to get defensive, Veritas placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Which is to say, take a rest, Kaveh. Work when you can guarantee peak performance." Veritas sighed. "Rest. Pompom has already prepared your bed for you."

Kaveh cast his gaze down on the floor, wearing a feeble smile. Though their list of grievances from the past days was enough to fill two pages, Veritas is steeped in cunning. He knew exactly how to plaster Kaveh's impulse.

"Right… I'm just tired."

"Precisely. The faster the progress, the greater the chance of errors." Veritas smiled back, although looking less sincere as Kaveh's. "Take a rest, Kaveh."

With a murmur, Kaveh got up and dusted off his pants from the metamorphic rock that had been sandpapered. People aren't made to stay cooped up inside all the time. He took one last look at the project before heading out for the night, noting that while the foundation was in place, work still needed to be done before they could decide on the final look. If he could just make the hands softer-looking…

"Kaveh…" Veritas chimed, warning with his arms crossed.

"Right, right!" Kaveh laughed nervously, still slightly vexed by the reproach. "Maybe I'm getting too brave at night, I don't know why I'm boldly thinking of trying my hand at smoothening the statue again."

"I'd consider you more weak-hearted than stouthearted," Veritas dusted Kaveh's shoulders off. "And do try to keep yourself clean."

"I'm too tired to run a shower…"

Veritas sighed loudly.

The both of them had decided to leave the studio with a degree of finality. Hunched over, the kidnapped architect left to take his well-deserved slumber while the doctor decided that a warm bath would benefit him more. The night "concludes", or so Kaveh thought.

Looking back, these two are the most unlikely friends to exist, are they not? A professor slash doctor of the Intelligentsia Guild and the architect "Light of the Kshahwerar" collaborating over a glorified arts and crafts project. To truly understand this bizarreness, it is wise to look back to its beginning.

In his quest to rid the galaxy of a disease he dubbed "ignorance", Dr. Veritas Ratio sallied forth to practice his preachings. Even joined the Astral Express at some point, but it was only in this instance did he found companionship with an extremely empathetic individual. 

And their first meeting was not a decent starting point.

Veritas set out on his umpteenth assignment handed out by the Express. He was sent to explore the dangerous land formations of Sumeru with the trailblazer. Every extended curve revealed pyramids and sand, and Veritas kept Stelle close by using her straps as a leash. Nevertheless, when they accidentally entered an unstable domain, his disgruntled complaints ceased. Deciding it would be best for only one to investigate further, Veritas volunteered.

There was just one discernible light path inside the mostly collapsing structure. Yet, every step he took was curiously inaudible, and when he reached the Apex, he met the sight of blonde hair. 

Enter: Kaveh.

"You get what I mean right? It feels like my problems just keep piling up and up, like an impossible mountain. There's never anyone who would listen to me complain, but you…" The words that fell from the stranger's lips were sweeter than honey as he waxed poetic. "You're always here to listen. And it makes me feel so much less alone. Thank you…"

The blonde man had his cheek against a large rectangular rock, caressing it appreciatingly. His eyelids were lowered and his cheeks were puffy. Whether he cried beforehand or was merely exhausted cannot be assessed from Veritas' distance from him.

February 5, ████.

Kaveh had recently lost his lover that day. They died due to an unforeseen heart attack, which pains him more since his darling had always been healthy. Since his "delam" has passed away, he has been inconsolable. He refused to part with any possessions they left. No matter how many of their fellow archeologists begged for (Y/n)'s notes, he barked with gritted teeth that his mind would not change.

… How ironic that he used to call his lover "my heart" when the very same organ was the cause of death.

Neither wine nor friends can get a reaction out of him. The best he could do to continue living was to focus on his work and his young mentees. (Y/n) always wanted to be a teacher but couldn't because of their daytime job, so Kaveh fulfilled their dreams instead.

That includes continuing their research on the strange rock they had found in the desert.

Kaveh remained hotly bent on preserving everything they loved. Despite its unconventional and jagged appearance, the rock struck him as the most beautiful thing he had seen in a long while. Its lack of clear patterns didn't matter; it stood tall, capturing his fascination. It had ended his slump and had become an integral part of him. This hyperfixation had not gone unnoticed by Lesser Lord Kusanali, but when she visited him, she… strangely endorsed of his newfound lunacy. She knew something he did not.

Something about the rock… felt so similar to his deceased "delam".

The doctor, lacking any context for the sight before him, raised an eyebrow. His duty may be to educate others, but this was beyond help. A pell-mell of incoherent ramblings filled the room with the hither and thither of blonde hair to match. But this was the first person he encountered in Teyvat. And he was determined to get any info out of him.

"Excuse me."

The blonde man blinked repeatedly, eyes going wide at the sight of Veritas approaching.

"I'm Dr. Veri—"

"T-This isn't what it looks like!!!" The blonde freaked out. "This is– It's just! This rock, it has sentimental value and–"

"…" Veritas drawled. "Riiiight. I'm… Dr. Veritas Ratio. I'm not of this world— I believe my companions and I are what you refer to as Descenders. We wish to collect petrology info for databank purposes. May you offer assistance?"

Kaveh did not know what to say. But by instincts, he knew something was not entirely right with this man. 

He'd be right. Veritas wasn't there specifically for rocks. He's just, crudely put, nosy.

"And I am supposed to blindly believe any stranger who wears such a strange getup?" Kaveh stood up and protectively hid the rock behind him. "Sorry, I kindly refuse. And I am not equipped to help either."

Veritas smirked and cracked some knuckles with his left thumb.

There was a damn good reason why Stelle was left behind. On the entrance of the gate laid an inscription that roughly translates to the words "adepti" and "tribute". His intellect in this linguistics may be rusty, but it is not incorrect.

He had an inkling that the rock this peculiar blonde was obsessing over was imbued with a sliver of ambuscade soul who took arms against the worst opponents imaginable.

A "yaksha", if you were a Liyue local.

Veritas was by no means unmindful of Kaveh's obsession. He held his tongue, assessing that to set a quarrel with an unpredictable variable would prolong his journey. There was no profit to be had in angering an unreadable man. 

"Well then, if I can't take that rock within reason…"

Dr. Ratio opened his book.

…

…

…

"… Long story short, that's why this chick is all wrapped up like a present."

Through brute force, both Stelle and Veritas managed to drop both Kaveh and the rock inside the Express, to the surprise of many. They were initially sent to only survey Teyvat (which meant Veritas positively lied to Kaveh earlier). No one expected an angry Sumeru man to "visit." 

"I-I am not a chick! I am a man! I'm Kaveh— an architect!!!" The self-proclaimed man wriggled around the trailblazer's yellow ropes, looking pale as he stared at the unfamiliar faces and scenery before him. "H-Hey!!! Unhand me at once!!!"

"Oh, you're not a girl? You're pretty, though."

"I should've known you would bring something peculiar on board, Dr. Ratio, I just didn't expect it to be a weird human-sized rock..." Said the red-haired lady. "But anyways, you, Sir Kaveh, have quite a remarkable sense of fashion."

"I haven't seen any guy wear earrings that big before…" The grey-haired girl said with grabby hands.

"Please don't try to yank it off him," the brown-haired man sighed and pulled her back with his cane.

Kaveh was a little taken aback by the diversity of tongues in front of him. It was clear based on their accents that they didn't quite come from the same world, yet they communicate as near-family. 

"Do all Teyvat people have rocks for friends or is it just you?" A strawberry-haired young lady asked as she approached the rock, which set Kaveh in an even more panicked frenzy when she attempted to poke it.

"N-NO!!! DON'T!!!" 

March flinched at his sudden scream and nearly fell had Stelle not caught her.

"Yeah, March, be respectful, you never know if that's the love of his life or something like that," said Stelle.

Kaveh's eyes widened. "You… How did you just understand me better than my friends…?"

The room went quiet. Dan Heng glanced at Veritas, who pretended not to notice him. Mentioning romance near him had always been a dangerous move. Veritas' face crumpled slightly. 

There were scars in his own heart he had yet to patch up, and he needed no reminder that he was procrastinating.

Dan Heng cleared his throat.

"It's bad news to have Stelle be the only one who "gets you" if you consider yourself of sane mind." Dan Heng spoke. "But then again, you remind me of Argenti…"

"Where did you find this man, Doctor?" Welt digressed, concerned as he towered above the tied Kaveh. The older man doesn't have objections to his (kidnapped) presence. He can tell by the look on both Kaveh and Veritas' faces that neither was a man with no substance, and the latter saw to exploit the former.

Veritas only shrugged and jabbed his thumb in Stelle's general direction. "Assistant…"

"On it." Stelle saluted solemnly. "We found him in a pyramid. The doctor thought he would be a worthy individual to study if we wish to understand the culture behind one of the seven nations. Since Mister Yang told us to befriend important people–"

"Since when was kidnapping synonymous with befriending?"

"–this is Ratio's candidate."

"That is correct, and he's not just any other person. I have seen him in the Guild's Persons of Interest. He is Kaveh, the light of the Kshahrewar," Veritas claimed. "A certified scholar of the Akademiya and the face for the Darshan he was an alumnus of."

The Express quietly signaled shock over Ratio's interest in the man. 

Kaveh slunk back, defeated. When there's little progress, a man naturally turns restive. Kaveh no longer had much to fear in his life. The worst had already come to pass, and the world became mere static noise. He had no hope of escaping soon, not when he saw his homeworld's true "sky". Or at least, back then, he thought it was one. The world he knew was a mere tapestry of ████…

…

"Not that there aren't enough rooms in the Express, but why bring him and the rock here?" Himeko paused to take a sip of her piping hot coffee. "Isn't it a bit, I don't know, overkill?"

"It's because that pyramid is no place to cultivate a living species, and there's no better–... lab assistant... than this man before us." Dr. Ratio looked at the man on the floor. 

Dan Heng tried not to comment on how sad his tone was when Veritas referred to Kaveh as a "lab assistant". He knew what had happened to Ratio, but it was not the right time or place. 

"What do you mean by living?" Himeko asked.

"That rock has adeptal power within it that we can awaken. That is, if he'd help us make his little rock come to life."

With his words, he moved the unweariable Kaveh to act complacent.

Kaveh felt as though the floor caved beneath him. An unholy mixture of disbelief, awe, and joy swirled within his already jetlagged mind. The fact of the matter was, despite being incredibly unstable, he was lucid enough to know that a miracle was possible. 

"What…?"

"It's been a month since that whole debacle," Veritas muttered to himself as he flicked the wrist that held his book away from the bathtub's bubbly waters. "I suppose I was harsh to the poor man. But is that treatment not at all deserved?"

Over time, Veritas grew to like Kaveh, especially after knowing he was tutoring young aspiring architects free of charge. Still, Kaveh's strangely compliant behavior does not deviate from his first impression. His empty eyes were enough sign that Kaveh lived through emotionally draining struggles and came out with few real friends. He lost his raison d'etre, that's why he willingly threw his life in Teyvat away.

… In Kaveh's words, he only wished for a "vacation". If his prize was to go elsewhither with a satisfying result, then he's not opposed to (getting kidnapped) a new "collaboration".

The doctor can't say no to it either.

Deep down, prodigy genius Veritas couldn't deny the harsh truth: witnessing that pitiful man finding solace in an inanimate object was a stark reminder that he harbored the same "illness".

Hence, Veritas offered consistent "insults" to the brightest of Kshashrewar, and each time, Kaveh took the opportunity to improve. Veritas considered it a necessary evil. But even after surpassing those challenges, Kaveh was helpless to overcome the deep emptiness that persisted in his soul.

Kaveh never really spoke about who his previous lover was. All everyone knew was that he lovingly called them "delam"– his heart. They didn't want to bring him more pain by even asking a simple question like delam's real name.

A huge mistake later on.

"... Tch," Veritas grunted, his eyebrows furrowing sadly. The thought of his last love affairs had soured his mood.

Veritas stood from his bath, drying himself and wrapping a towel on his lower half.

… He likely won't sleep tonight.

Forgetting his agreement to continue the project tomorrow morning, he unlocked the door to the studio room Himeko lent them. He left trails of his wet footsteps. His wavy hair also remained damp, but he could not care much for it. Veritas will dress himself up later. Just a towel will suffice for now.

"Sculpting…"

Veritas laughed to himself as he took some tools off the table.

"Wasn't this your pastime and not mine—" he closed his eyes, muttering the next words with a teasingly melancholic tilt. "Assistant (L/n)?"

His grip on the chisel tightened, painting his knuckles white.

Professor (Y/n) (L/n).

The person responsible for the Council of Mundanites' existence. Their name rarely escapes his lips, treating their memory like a curse. Just exhaling the thought of them out of his system makes him nauseous. As if the air inside him gets knocked out. His eyes would flutter shut, no different from a dying man who held weakly holds on. Veritas hated this anguish. The doctor hated this vicious seemingly never-ending cycle called "grief".

"(Y/n)…" Ratio muttered. "Your face is still etched in my mind. What more do I need to eradicate these… unnecessary burdens?"

He could practically hear them laugh beside him.

Haha, please. You think about me so much that you consider me burdensome? Oh, you dork! If you loved me so much, you should've written a love letter.

"You absolute ignoramus," Veritas laughed softly. "You cannot discredit my efforts, though, can you?"

"My dearest…" He breathed out in pain once more. "My most wonderful partner. The best teaching assistant I ever had. You…"

… Never loved him back.

Dr. Veritas Ratio was no idiot. He despised any form of delusion. Throughout his life, he had been a tyrannical figure who pursued truth and not stagnant idolatry for every "patient". But when an immovable force meets an unstoppable object, would you consider him a tamed emperor?

Professor (L/n) was the first person he met who brazenly called themselves a "mundanite". A true mediocre. And they were beautiful at their very core.

Not free of sin, but free of hubris.

Molded as a genius since birth, the very foundations of (L/n)'s philosophies dismantled Ratio. (L/n) admired geniuses like Herta, but never romanticized the notion of natural-born wits. They always strived to eradicate their own "ignorance". But even when they are more knowledgeable than they let on, (L/n) never boasts. This behavior provides no benefit in an academically competitive field. Nothing confused the irrefutable prodigy like their longtime academic partner.

Geniuses— Masters— when I achieve great things, I don't want to have silly titles before my name. It's so… rigid, don't you think so, Veritas?

I wouldn't know.

Ha! Of course, you wouldn't. You've lived your entire life as one. But level with me for a second. Wouldn't life be less boring if…

He raised the chisel.

… we never stopped considering ourselves as mere beginners? Isn't there more joy to being a mundane with untapped potential than a stiff jack of all trades? C'mon, Veritas. Doesn't the idea that there's always more to explore make this vast world seem less dull?

Veritas bit his lip. Tears were threatening to spill.

February 5, ████.

It was Dr. Veritas Ratio's fault that they died that day. He thought (L/n) was capable of handling an extremely dangerous laboratory mishap. They were not. Despite his assistant's years of experience, every man is an unsuspecting fledgling in the face of death. It does not discriminate between the mediocre and the brightest.

That's absurd, (L/n). What is the point of learning if not for its mastery?

"Assistant… Let me offer this final tribute so that you can finally s-stop… haunting… me."

But they will never stop. Their last long exchange repeated in his head throughout the night. No matter how many times he hammered, the clanging sound did not drown out the voices in his head. The words mocked him, over and over, and over.

I'm sorry Veritas…

Why are you apologizing?

… I'm afraid I just don't see you that way. I'm just an ordinary person, and I doubt I could ever genuinely return the love of someone as brilliant as you. I'm afraid your affection might be akin to caring for a pet, and I can't find it in myself to figure out how to respond in kind.

… That's not true. You cannot simply decline my confession with a lukewarm excuse—

I'm afraid I'm just an ordinary college professor with no PhDs. I will have to reject your love. I'm so sorry.

But why?!

"(Y/n)… The one person I can never grasp…" Veritas muttered as he looked at the finished piece. "Here you are... Created by my own hands..."

Beautiful. Not a single doubt that it was carved in their likeness. The (Y/n) he knew was a professor who loved their teaching job, but wished they were more of an adventurer. Secretly, (Y/n) wanted to be an archeologist, and perhaps that's one of the reasons why Veritas let the mysterious rock formation inside the Express. Maybe if they continued living, they would've liked this gesture.

Ha… As if.

Veritas—

W-What aspect must I improve on? To dismiss me so impatiently— do I lack the charm? I can always learn to suit your tastes. Don't tell such a bold lie. I highly doubt that it is due to my academic performance. There's another man you've wasted your affections on, is there?!

Veritas, please…

Enough! Enough with these lies and tell me! J-Just… Just tell me, (Y/n)!

He's tired. Veritas just wanted to hold them again. He just wanted to "fix" their hair- tucking his golden hairpin to subconsciously teach their associates and students that Professor (L/n) was his. He missed the way he would hide (L/n)'s lab coat just so he could make them wear his as he left for the day. He missed secretly leaving small love confessions on their class grade spreadsheets, add/drop forms, and even their private online journals so he would read messages about how they must've caught a computer virus. He missed teasing them when they hadn't got a clue that he was unserious. He missed hearing (L/n) whine. He missed the way it made him warm.

He missed the warmth.

"Stop..."

He missed you.

"Stop this..."

And he continues to miss his (Y/n) so much.

"Please..."

It's unbearable.

There is no one else.

Yes, there is! I refuse to believe it! It's your recent lab partner, isn't it!? The man everyone has fallen for— you have taken a liking to him more than me, the person who has been with you all this time!!! You… You ungrateful!—

Veritas is so, so tired and more chipped than the rock he had worked on… Unlike the statue, he cannot tangibly pick up the pieces (L/n) that broke him in. There's only a hollow void of what could've been.

Why... Why did they have to reject him? If they hadn't rejected him, he wouldn't have coldly assigned (Y/n) to deal with the containment breach alone. He would've thought it through. He would've realized he was plagued with ignorance. He would've changed so many things that February 5th.

But that's all there was to it. Just "would have"s, not "have done"s.

Ngh–?! Why… did you... slap me…?

Veritas, maybe you should stop and look down and listen to us common-minded folks for once in your life! The simple fact is that you're just so out of reach. How can you love me, when you don't even understand me, Genius Ratio? How can you confess when you don't know what it's like to work for the knowledge you have? How can you love a "mundanite" like me?

… (Y/n)… T-That's simply untrue, and you are aware of that...

It's morning, an appropriate time to head back to his guest room.

When he was certain that he was alone, Veritas finally allowed himself to cry.

"There's no mistake that we both are- were idiots. We both failed to see that I'm a mundanite, just like you."

In contrast to his former roommate, Kaveh is an early riser. Not exactly a morning person, but a man of discipline nonetheless. Perhaps the concluded argument last night made his rise more motivating. He had no qualms with getting out of bed, heading straight to take a shower before drinking coffee with Himeko.

The morning was wordless but calm.

Whatever happened after he reentered the studio, however, was the exact opposite.

"Delam…?" Kaveh knelt with both knees down on the floor, shocked.

"Is that you…? Delam… Delam!!!"

You tilted your head.

Delam. That was the first word you've heard upon your birth or "rebirth", depending on whose narrative was at play. You first rose from your slumber much like an earth's crust would give way to a volcano. Warmth seeped from your chest and then throughout your body, filling you with life and newfound nerves. But no one was around. You had been observing the fading trail of wet footsteps, yet lacked the courage to leave the room.

Veritas was right. The rock does have life. And you have been awakened.

You looked human. You move human.

But you do not sound human.

"Delam! I-I can't believe this!"

For words fail.

「… Who are you?」

After all, since when can statues speak?

With unsteady legs, he attempted to approach your nearly nude figure. The sheet they used to keep out dust was the only cover you had. He pulled you in when he got close enough, and you wanted to squeak when he rested his nose on your shoulder. His breath tickled hot. However, his warm tears helped you to accept the melancholic reality.

"Delam! D-Delam, my sweetheart, my (Y-(Y/n)… A-Ah… Ah…"

Kaveh pulled back only to kiss your forehead. He was warm. You are not. Despite the fabrics he wore, you can feel his heat against your "skin". His heart was beating. Such an organ does not exist inside of you.

"(Y/n), my (Y/n)…" He gasped out between peppered kisses on your neck. "Mine… My heart has returned to me. Can you hear it too? It's beating again… It beats… I never thought I'd hear my heart again since you've been gone…"

His words made little sense to you, but you knew he liked your form. Kaveh's fingers traced around you, loving each inch, whether it was curved flesh or bone-like sharpness— he didn't care for he knew it was his (Y/n) (L/n).

He's so colorful. Reds, yellows, oranges, and even hints of blues and greens. It made you silently conscious about how you were a boring dull gray.

Warm, like the sun.

「… Baobei?」

"My (Y/n)… D-Delam…" Kaveh pressed his forehead against yours, your lips nearly touching.

You wiped his tears away.

Was that your name? (Y/n)…?

"Kaveh, what the hell are you doing?!"

The blonde man momentarily stopped cradling you out of shock.

This new man was all purples, blue, gold, and small taints of cyan and red. The expression he wore made you believe he might be covetous beyond mankind. There's a level of gluttonous greed in his anger that makes even the earth like yourself phased.

「… Who is he…?」

Both of them feel familiar to you, but you do not know why.

"Veritas!" Kaveh's eyes widened. "A miracle just happened— delam— they're—!"

"Put (Y/n) down this instant!!!"

Kaveh blinked.

"What… What did you say?"

"I said put them down, damn it! Who the hell are you, touching them so carelessly like they're yours?!"

Kaveh's eyebrows furrowed.

"How do you know that name?!" Kaveh yelled. "How did you know who (Y/n) is!?"

The doctor was equally confused.

Why would the ignorance-prone Kaveh know the name of his deceased love too?

Veritas has not talked about his old assistant to any breathing being for a long time. Talking felt like admitting that they were gone for good. But in this case, it produces a contrary result.

"Why the fuck wouldn't I?!"

"I don't know— maybe because you're not from Teyvat?!"

"What are you on, you imbecile?! Can you stop defiling them with your filthy hands?!" Veritas scowled and summoned his book. "Hands. Off."

The warning only made Kaveh even more possessive. He gently pushed you behind his back, glaring at him.

"No."

"Kaveh, you pestilence ridden—!!!"

"No, not until you tell me why the hell you know the name of my fiance!"

Veritas' heart sank.

… Fiance?

No… No, no way.

What's happening? How would that make sense?!

(Y/n) is his. Why should you belong to Kaveh?

"Are… are you insane?!" Veritas screamed. "I should've—"

"What?! Threw me off the Express?! I dare you!!!" Kaveh glared. "You knew you couldn't win against me alone, that's why your best bet was to knock me out— and you know it."

"Ngh."

Neither of them realized the greater reason as to why they knew the "same" person. The doctor may have jumped through various universes, but he had not done enough to notice a key factor.

There they were, claiming to love the image behind their animated statue— when they didn't know what it was they cried for.

"Just answer the question: who is (Y/n) to you?" Kaveh grumbled.

Somehow, he was far more frightening when his voice was calm and low. 

The usually diplomatic architect materialized his weapon out of thin air.

"Go on. Tell me."

The doctor stiffened. There was no way Veritas was losing this argument. 

It's unethical. Wholly unethical to appeal to pathos in this manner. To weave tales for his benefit.

But the end justifies the means.

Veritas flashed you a guilt-ridden expression…

Before he said the biggest lie known only to himself.

"Professor (Y/n) (L/n) is MY dead lover, and I molded the statue based on their appearance last night!" Veritas yanked a fistful of Kaveh's shirt and brought him closer. "So why are you claiming them as YOURS?!"

…

…

The sound of a cane hitting the floor stopped all hell from possibly breaking loose.

Welt Yang had one foot inside the room and one out the door. He wore a knowing and empathetic look. The others were behind him, looking particularly shaken up.

This screaming match was the worst the two ever had.

"Kaveh, Dr. Ratio, enough." He calmly spoke up. "I think I understand the confusion."

"Allow me to explain…"

"I'm surprised you have no comments on their flower-bespangled clothes, yet…" 

"The aesthetic is... tasteful. I like the headdress." 

"Of course, you like the crown of laurel…" 

"However–"

"Oh Lord Kusanali, here we go…"

Upon Welt's intervention, every piece started to fit together. The explanation was a frustratingly simple but difficult truth. (Y/n) (L/n) was not just one entity in the vast universe— there are inevitable variations.

The two eventually calmed down as they heard both sides. Veritas' (Y/n), who Kaveh later refers to as an "expy" as a placeholder name, was a professor— while Kaveh's "delam" was an archeologist. Almost the same, but not a complete copy-paste.

You, however, they are unsure of. No one knows yet if you do carry (Y/n)'s soul or if you're a mere replica. Veritas is working on the hypothesis that you were an adeptal tool who aided in freeing the vigilant yaksha from a malevolent Sumeru God.

But those bits of info doesn't matter in the end. Why?

Because they both love "you" deeply.

And these intelligent men can "learn" how to share.

"Are you not tired? Perhaps it is time I take over. Only a fool would work when completely drained." Dr. Ratio then added. "Does it not fall in my skilled hands to weave such clothing for them now? Even better than mere fabric, I'm willing to handle clay and mold it around their bo—"

"Considering how many fools can also calculate and perhaps wear an asbestos mask as a quirky character trait, it is surprising that the fool in front of me thinks he can show proficiency over a tedious task." Kaveh raised an eyebrow, seething at the thought of Veritas' unfair perverted touch lingering on your body, again.

"I think you are experiencing what is known as the Dunning-Kruger effect, as Mister Yang calls it." He added.

Veritas scoffed.

They may be revered both as geniuses in their fields, but they're reduced to kindergarten-like rivals when it comes to you. Their first order of business after another truce was to provide your clothes. Fortunately, Stelle's fashion sense was more unisex than anticipated so you borrowed hers in the meantime.

While you sat on the sofa with the bubbly March 7th, the two started planning your wardrobe. Kaveh returned later on the same evening with the most… floral clothes much to Veritas' dismay.

He missed seeing his version of (Y/n) who wore classic academic styles, not— whatever this was.

"It is mere confidence; no other variable is at play. The fool in question is the artisan responsible for the expeditious sculpting of the aforementioned statue within a singular nocturnal interval. A fact that eludes your appreciation, my less-than-appreciative and unskilled interlocutor."

Kaveh momentarily had the face of a man unpracticed in speech. People often forget that he majored in STEM, not HUMSS. Though he had some essay-based minors in his first & second years, he lacked preparation for Veritas' otherworldly vocabulary. Kaveh would whet his greatsword if Veritas said something bluntly deprecating.

Still, he can't deny that it was through Veritas' handiwork that made your hands as soft as Kaveh wanted them to be. And that secretly pisses him off.

You tilted your head.

Somehow, your creators are arguing again. 

"Are you threatening to rob me of the joys I have toiled nights for just to sate your shortlived desires, Veritas?" Kaveh rebuked him sternly. "I didn't know you were kind of a brat."

"I am only offering a hand. But it's clear that you are projecting onto me."

「You two–. 」

You tried to cut in, but can't utter a word…

"I'm not projecting! I know that once you prove you can make clothes, you'll kick me out of the Express, that's just the kind of man you are! Manipulative, arrogant—"

"And you're insecure. There is no more loathsome creature than a man who does not acknowledge his own hubris and repeats his mistakes."

「Master Veritas, Master Kaveh—. 」

You loathed to watch them fight for another round of meaningless squabbles. Why weren't you blessed with speech?

"Is that so? Do you seriously subscribe to that belief?"

"Why, of course."

"You should listen to better men than yourself, then."

"Oh c'mon, knock it off!!!" March cut in, giving them both a light smack with Veritas' book. "Can't you get along better? Your little darling looks upset!!!"

The two halted. She was right, you weren't comfortable. Veritas cleared his throat awkwardly while Kaveh looked down, both apologetic.

"See, Kaveh? Your persistence caused this."

"How is it MY fault?"

"I'm merely stating that the lack of options is bound to make them uneasy." Veritas deadpanned and handed you an IPC magazine he had been trying to get you to browse. "Why don't you pick to your liking? Don't worry about expenses. I have it covered."

"What?! Do you want them to wear those un-stylish clothes? Please, you just want to have them wear your brand!"

"Don't project your carnal possessiveness as my own." Veritas scoffed. But Kaveh was right. He missed seeing his (Y/n) wear his lab coat.

"Oh really?! Fine then! Let's ask (Y/n) what they really think!"

March sighed. "Guys, I think you're forgetting that you're fighting over clothes—"

But they didn't hear her. Nothing else mattered to those two except you. And you alone.

Their partner.

Their heart.

Their reason for living.

Hence, they yelled in unison.

"Who do you prefer, assistant? Him or me?!"

"Who do you prefer, delam? Him or me?!"

Taglist: @vennnnn-diagram, @meimeimeirin, @korianne, @prophecy-harmony, @shellofthewell, @sagekun,

[cepheustarot]

Your future love relationship: with whom and what will be

Attention! This reading is for entertainment purposes only. This tarot reading does not give a 100% guarantee that all the described situations will occur or being ultimate truth. You build your own life and destiny and only you know yourself best.

Paid readings

Pick a pile. Choose one or more pictures. Trust your intuition.

Pile 1: This person will look strong, fit, most likely he often does sports and therefore he looks muscular. But in addition, he also has a strong inner core, he endures all stressful situations, solves all problems, he is not of those who give in to emotions, it is important for him to first deal with problems, things. He can also be called a determined man and all his achievements he achieves through hard work, through the efforts he has put in, he does a lot to realize himself, his desires. Self-fulfillment in life is just as important to him! This person is not only able to work well, but also to rest well, he really knows how to unload their head from complex thoughts and enjoy the moment without burdening himself with problems. It can also be called the soul of the company, as it emanates the aura of a friendly person, with whom it is easy to enter into a dialogue and can be discussed anything, it is easy for him to maintain a dialogue with anyone. In addition, he is energetic, active, he can have quick speech and active facial facial expressions, he can walk fast or do something quickly. He has leadership skills, he is able to lead people, he is able to work in a team, he is ready to take responsibility for his actions. 

Your relationship with this person will be very strong and stable, you will trust each other, maintain, together cope with difficulties, you will feel that you have become family to each other, you will have a strong connection between you, You will achieve much together. in addition to that you will have an understanding, your relationship will not be deprived of passion, playfulness, between you will be a lot of romance and flirting. 

Pile 2: I’d like to point out that maybe your partner will be younger than you! Or he can act like a child at times, be naive at certain points, but these details are not critical and should not prevent your relationship from developing. The person himself is quite lucky, successful, all his beginnings and new cases are accompanied by success. I would also call him unpredictable, his actions and thoughts are difficult to predict, as he has the traits of an adventurer and, figuratively speaking, today he will want to go to the other end of the world, and tomorrow will conquer the mountains. I mean, he’s pretty easy-going and he’s very easy to accept that kind of offer. By virtue of his character, he constantly gets into various stories, from which, of course, he gets out, because fate is on his side. Also this man is not deprived of romance, he quite openly shows his feelings and his love, a lot of flirts, give a lot of gifts, a lot of making nice gestures. The person himself is also emotional, he can quickly change mood. He is quite young and inexperienced, so he does not have enough experience of life, but nevertheless he is open to everything new in his life, in this respect he is quite bold. 

Your relationship with this person at the beginning will be filled with romance, you will be constantly together, as you are deeply in love with each other and without the presence of anyone near you will quickly miss each other. You can even idealize each other during this period! However, over time your sense of obsession will fade away and only love, warmth and affection between you will remain, you will be able to exist together, complementing each other, and separately, continuing to do your business. 

Pile 3: The person himself can be closed, it is difficult for him to open up to people, he is not inclined to show a lot of emotions and tell about his feelings, just it takes a lot of time to trust another. He has a realistic view of things, he tends to objectively assess the situation, relies on logic and facts, rather than on feelings and intuition, in the dispute it is important to prove his point of view rather than show empathy and look at the situation from the side. He can criticize people, but he is also self-critical, has high demands on himself and people, he is perfectionist, tends not to believe in himself and his powers, so he tries a lot to achieve results. Perhaps he’s still a troubled man, prone to thinking too much. He is also one of those who is willing to help people, extend a helping hand, support, he is happy to share his experience and advice, he is generous, honest with people, he appreciates people close to him. 

Your relationship will develop rapidly with this man, you may have common goals and plans and you will achieve them, you two will succeed! But I see here you may not see much of each other, you may meet from a distance and you may often miss each other. But at the same time you will be sincere in your feelings, you will love each other. 

Thank you for reading! I will be glad of any feedback 🖤

[peace-for-levi]

{when you need me...}

who would i be if i didn't project my mental health onto 2D characters/reader and not write about it? i see so many fics of reader being worried for nanami while he's out in shibuya and… we all know what happens there.

content warning: detailed descriptions of anxiety, reader refers to themselves as 'wife' (reader thinks they are a bad wife) and the use of 'she'. it's otherwise in the 2nd person perspective. negative self-talk/beliefs. use of pet names. nanami being the bestest husband. i miiiiight have made him OOC and overindulged on how soft i made him BUT ITS OK YOU GOTTA BE A DELULU IN THIS ECONOMY.

+18 discord server

No, you were not going to call him. Absolutely not! Or text him either, for that matter.

The anxiety had been bubbling away all day inside your head like billowing storm clouds. You were grateful work kept you occupied, but once you arrived home, you trudged to your bedroom. You didn't even change out of your work attire.

You knew the source of all this, too.

Nanami came home injured while you were out dealing with another curse of your own. Thankfully, he had dealt with the bleeding himself and got checked out by Shoko. But to see him come so depleted of energy – dark shadows hanging under his eyes like bats, shoulders heavy – left you extremely unsettled. You were already an anxious mess, and now there are talks of a special-grade 'patchwork' curse. Not to mention the two unregistered cursed spirits that Gojo encountered.

What was going on in the world?

Now, he had been called out to the school again. After being badly injured, no less!

What if he was asked to fight the patch-work curse again? Was that curse able to perform Domain Expansions? Your husband never reached that height of jujutsu…

Would he… make it home okay?

You worked a "normal" job, not being employed at as a teacher at the highschool. As a grade one sorcerer, though, you were sometimes called in on particularly difficult and awkward missions. Your figured your problems with anxiety in the past would slowly fizzle away if you quit working at that highschool; after all, they couldn't make you exorcise and hunt down curses as often if you didn't work there. In your naivety, you assumed that'd be the end to your worries. But they only persisted and got worse the longer your husband of four years continued to work there as a teacher.

You couldn't resent him for it, and you knew he found greater fulfillment in being a teacher than adhereing to the laborious life of a salaryman.

But, maybe… your selfish thoughts got the better of you when you wished he could work a more "normal" job like you… If he worked a job where his safety was guaranteed…

How could you say such a thing? What kind of wife says that?!

Your hand collides against your forehead, releasing a (poorly contained) groan. Your teeth continued to chatter.

Now, I'm a bad wife on top of everything else…

Gruesome images flood your mind's eye. It's obsessive, relentless. After all, you have to prepare for the worst to come, right…? That's what you always do.

If you were by his side, would that make you feel any more relieved? Just by seeing him? But like a jolt, any solution you try come up with is met with more disturbing imagery. It was so vivid, it is as if you were there.

All that gore and worry conjured up in your cursed, anxious little head. The redness – so much red – of your imagery. It seeps and spreads along the ground at a terrifying rate, the image of someone – Kento – bleeding out. No one is there to help him.

You are.

You aren't gifted like Shoko, though.

There is no amount of horror – be it from forms of media or the wicked imagination – that can prepare a person for seeing the life ebb from another; the hopelessness, the tearing at the soul that is the departing of the other. As your loved one leaves this earth.

You're anxious, you're spiralling… You just wanted him to be okay. You wanted him to confirm with you he was okay. But you disturb him enough already with your texts and calls during missions.

Of course, in reality, if you hailed for Kento, he'd drop everything to be with you. He always has.

You didn't realize your thumb was hovering above the 'send' button. Through bleary eyes, you can see a hastily constructed text. Loaded with typos and errors. You're hardly able to read it though. Thumbs fidgting, you toss the phone.

You knew, logically, that he would want to help. He always has helped. But god, maybe you wanted to be big girl for once and try deal with it without him? Maybe be a good wife who doesn't send him a barage of texts when she's anxious?

Anxiety is the leak in your boat. You have to find a way to patch that hole or you'll drown.

But how can you when your worries revolve around your husband's safety?

You try cling to the logic that he has never refused you, made you feel stupid or invalidated you. Ever. But why would you cling to logic when the voice of your anxiety echoes through megaphone at you.

Of course, you're a distraction. Of course, you're a nuisance.

You hadn't even done a single chore to help around the house today. Some wife you were…

Kento would tell you that these thoughts you have are ridiculous. But you couldn't help it. You felt like you were holding him back from everything he deserved – you were so blessed to have a husband like him. You counted your lucky stars to be with him, but you ultimately felt like you didn't deserve him.

But Kento wasn't here now. So all you had was your mind to bully you.

The thoughts come as an electrical storm in your brain that, quite honestly, are painful. It's different from a headache and it feels the same as intense sorrow. It's uneven breaths as you claw at your chest, and it feels like you're suffocating; all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. It's sobbing to the point of staining your shirt. The intense images come at you with cursed intent. Like being hooked up to a cattle fence - not enough voltage to kill but sufficient to keep things uncomfortable, paralysed with fear and unmoving. And you couldn't, for the life of you, talk yourself out of the spiral.

It wasn't as if you didn't want Kento to be there. You were just denying yourself of his presence. You thought you were being brave, you thought—

Ping!

You lower your hands from your eyes. You gaze at the phone, blinking owlishy, before picking it up.

You let out a groan. In anxiously twiddling your thumbs by your screen, you had sent the (questionable-looking) text.

You don't even have time to berate yourself, for your ringtone begins to chime.

"[F/n], honey. I don't quite understand your text," he greets. He goes back to doing what he was doing – it sounded like he was tidying something away. "Principal Yaga has us staying behind at the school to–"

He stops.

He immediately stops upon hearing you whimper over the phone.

"Sweetheart?"

You mumble, "I-I– Um, N-Nanami, I–"

What if he loses his patience today? Will this be the straw that breaks the camel's back?

You can hear him shuffling over the phone. "Talk to me, what is it? Are you hurt?"

You don't want him to leave work on your account. Damn, your thumbs! If only it stayed as an unsent draft.

You panicked. "I-I'm fine! I think I just–"

You hear him sigh. "You're a terrible liar… You're not fine." A pause. "I'm coming home."

"No, Kento, please–!"

The call ends there. Your fingers seize up and your phone falls to the bed. Your wrists bash off your head, hitting yourself. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

Ping!

Be safe. I'll be there in fifteen.

Your heart sinks, especially knowing that he'd probably break several road safety laws to get back to you as soon as possible.

Another notification arrives swiftly after that.

I love you. You'll be fine.

The fifteen minutes drag by so slowly. You're still rooted at the side of your bed. Not having changed, started laundry, started making dinner. You shake your head. It's frightful how automatically you chastise yourself for anything and everything. Once you hear the click of the door, you shudder and cower, waiting for him to come into your shared bedroom to berate you.

Your eyes are clamped shut still, even when you feel his calloused thumb rub at your knee.

"Oh, sweetheart…" he says, and when he speaks it's so soft. Soft like he'd holding fine china.

He's careful to not press your boundaries too much, not wanting to hold you tighter. But he doesn't sense any resistance right now. You let him hold you.

He holds you like you are the most precious and loveliest thing in his world.

(You are.)

As if you weren't crying enough already, his touch makes you crumble more.

"What has you so anxious, [F/n]?" he asks, rubbing your arms up and down. He pulls away briefly to ask, "May I sit?"

You nod and he sets himself down. You overwhelmed by his love. You always have been. He always spoils you with his soft, passionate touch and his gentle words. You sniffle and it takes every ounce of self control to not explode into a heaving, babbling mess (more than what you currently were.) You continue to sob into his arms.

"Shhh, shhh. You're alright, you're going to be just fine, sweetheart. But in order to be okay, you're going to have to stop holding your breath like that."

You hadn't even realized. You always had been an open book to him.

Breathe, breathe, breathe…

Your thoughts were so out of control, you were in a terrible cycle of either hyperventilating, or holding your breath. You shake your head, trying to break free. He doesn't let go entirely, but he loosens his grip. His hands hold yours, breathing deeply, as if trying to do it for you. You continue to resist, fighting his hold more as you take agonizing breaths.

"Let me hold you. Let me make things better. Let me stay."

You sob harder, knowing that once again he'll be picking up the pieces. Your pieces.

"What has you so worked up?" he asks, in between practiced, deep breaths.

Before you even have a chance to say anything, he whispers softly against your temple, "I love you. So, please, let me in."

And you let everything out.

He holds you close again once each and every worry comes out. He rocks you slowly back and forth, he plants the odd kiss to your dewy temple. He listens to you intently, taking in everything you say and more. He has heard these worries countless times before, and he listens to them as if these are being revealed to him for the first time. He gently 'shhhh's against your brow when you start to hiccup and unravel more.

As your husband, he wants to be able to promise you his safert; he wants to promise he'll come home in one piece.

But he can't do that. Because he doesn't know how any of this will play out.

So he hugs you, impossibly tighter.

"What can I do to help? Tell me what I can do to make it all okay…"

You want to be a good wife; you don't share the selfish thoughts you have, of wanting him to work at a normal job again. Even when he hated it, even when it left him feeling so drained.

So you say nothing and you let your little lie spread its wings.

You calm down in his arms, holding you until your limbs feel heavy. He continues to soothe you as best as possible. His voice was so achingly gentle, rubbing circles into your hips. It has your heart shattering into pieces.

Mindlessly, you mumble under your breath. "I just want you to be okay…" you admit.

He averts his gaze helplessly, because knows he can't promise you that. He relaxes and lays down on the bed, taking you with him. You undo the top button of his shirt.

He smiles sadly. It's the one thing he can't promise.

And though he'll never let you know, he feels like he fails in this duties as a husband.

But sometimes, he knows he's at least doing something right when he helps calm you down from such a state that you end up dozing off in his arms. He holds you til his arms limp and heavy.

In this blood-stained, fleeting life, he'll walk with you to the ends of this earth.

Even if he must depart early.

taglist: @levi-my-beloved @licuadora-nasir @nelapanela94 @whattheheckmidoriya @poisonpeche @unadulteratedtreecrusade @notgoodforlife @sckerman @theferricfox @happybird16 @jayteacups and idk who else

[the9mm]

Here Tumblr, you can see it first. I'm making social media posts because that's just part of what you do as an indie author/artist/anything these days and I'm prepping stuff for my upcoming crowdfunding campaign of my debut novella The Warm Machine. It's live now as part of Booktopia - a massive indie publishing even hosted by BackerKit.

Anyway, I'm making all these graphics and callouts and everything and I'm not going to post to Tumblr daily because that's just not how things work here.

Let me tell you about the book real quick: It follows the story of two robots with two vastly different jobs who run away together in search of a fabled robot utopia. I admit it's really not anything new, but it's totally my love-letter to the sci-fi community as a whole. I packed everything I love about sci-fi into these 3 bots' bodies.

Sterling is our main character and the POV of the book. He's a foreman style construction robot, also known as a laborbot. He's responsible for carrying out the daily operations of his container crew robots. Strong, durable, and curious, Sterling asks many questions even if he is not always guaranteed an answer. Loyal to a fault and quick to trust, he’ll follow Zev to the ends of the Earth.

Next up is Zev, Sterling's love interest. He's an overpowered military prototype bot with a curious set of "classified" schematics. Tricky, cool, and calculating, Zev always says what he means but never shows exactly what he’s thinking. With a soul too big for his robotic body, he sees in Sterling what Sterling is unable to see in himself.

Last but not least is Inix, a personal style android model. Meant for home use and other human comforts, she sports a customized cosmetic skin of crushed black opal. Cheery and bubbly, Inix has a way with words – along with a peculiar way of getting information. Inix delivers a dimensionality to the other two androids that only an emotionally-complex bot can – or at least one that’s programmed to fake it well.

If this is your thing, you can reserve a copy NOW. It will be available in ebook formats (PDF to start, probably also epub, I just have to figure out how to do these things along the way), paperback, and hardcover. There's also goodies you can get for participating with me and my partner's project, as well as with Booktopia as a whole. Ebooks cost as little as $5 and you'd be greatly helping out an indie author if you throw your five bux in!

I hope you'll join me on this adventure! I'm ridiculously excited to get this out into the world so you can love my silly robots as much as I do.

GET ROBOTS HERE!

[maudie-duan]

A/N: This will be a six-part series told from the POV of Harry and Marlowe—Yes, this story is based on two High School lovers, but all the characters are of age. I always think it’s a fine line writing this kind of story, but I think they can also bring nostalgia for a time when the world as you know it was contained inside the walls of a building, where everything you felt was greater than the sum of our parts. Take it or leave it. I think we can all learn something from our younger selves. It’s a reminder that we always have more to learn, even when we think we have it all figured out.

Requests-> Here

Word Count: 8.6k

Warnings: 18+, Language, Some Spicy Stuff, Teen Angst, Emotions, Body Shaming. (If I miss anything, let me know.)

I held a torch for a girl that I was too cowardly to keep. Hopelessly failing at every opportunity, knowingly letting her down, becoming too concerned about what everyone would think of me, and that was the problem—me.

There were only five months left of school, and somehow, the teachers were still handing out detentions, trying to teach life lessons that no senior cared about or would take with them; at least for me, it was just another teacher wasting my time. That’s what it was, I thought, until I walked into my biology class after school to serve my time.

When you think of pivotal moments in your life, how did they start? It’s unusually some sort of happenstance, right? A domino effect—a changing, an undoing, a beginning to an end, or an end to a beginning. However you slice it, whether big or small, the moment always finds a way to reveal itself to you in time. It becomes this inevitable change. Change is always guaranteed because there will always be something in our lives that we can’t control—This was one of those moments—the moment I walked into that classroom, and there was Marlowe.

Trust me, I don’t want to be dramatic, but if there was any moment in my life where it just felt like the gods were on my side, it was this day, at this moment, and I knew it the second we locked eyes. I knew without a doubt that this would be my chance, the only opportunity I had left to shoot my shot because I’m telling you, at that moment, that torch for her never burned brighter. 

I knew I couldn’t walk away from my high school career, knowing I had experienced everything I wanted, but somewhere in my mind, I knew I had never taken my chance with her, and I didn’t think I could live with that.

“Okay—” Mr. Bryant says, the biology teacher, who was already bulldozing right into his lecture, jumping in like Marlowe or I cared, considering we were the only ones serving time for something as petty as having our cellphones out in class, but now, I’m thinking it’s the best decision I’ve made in a while. When Marlowe peeks at me from the corner of her eye, my heart skips a beat, knowing she’s aware of my presence in the room, and that alone makes it worth it.

“So starting now—you two fortunate souls will get to spend some quality time with me while I grade the many half-assed biology reports you students insist on turning in—” He blabs, and I’m barely paying attention.

Marlowe runs a hand through her long, dark hair, and I watch it cascade in shiny layers as she shifts it all to one side, giving me the perfect view of her profile. She straightens then, rolling her eyes at his words while he continues, “Just because this is your last few months as seniors doesn’t mean the rules and your work go out the window. This is still school, and in my class, you will abide by my rules—”.

“I just think at some point you need to make some kind of exception…” Marlowe interrupts.

“And why is that, Miss. Asher? What makes you the exception?

Marlowe shrugs and leans back, “I don’t think I’m an exception…” She tells him, enunciating that last word just enough that Bryant is crossing his arms, waiting for the bullshit because no matter what we say, he doesn’t care; for all we know, he’s getting off on this, and we are merely his entertainment for the day.

“The only reason I had my phone out was because I was trying to secure my ride for after school…that was literally it—and if you would have just read the text, you would have seen that—”

“A rule is a rule, Miss Asher—and when you get into the real world, you’ll understand—”

“Well, in the “real world”—” she says, bringing her hands up to make air quotations, “There are exceptions to the rules…and now I don’t even know how I’m getting home—” 

Marlowe is crossing her arms now, matching his stance, and I’m honestly surprised to see this side of her; then again, I’ve never really gotten an opportunity because we haven’t had a class together since eighth grade—when my fascination with her began, but that’s another story for another day. 

“I’m sorry you’re feeling inconvenienced, Miss Asher; now you know how I feel when I have to stop my lesson to take your phone away…”

She scoffs. “Oh my god, dude, it was the last three minutes of class…please just get the cell phone. You have my permission—let’s compare notes…”

“Miss Asher, unless you want to serve another day—which I can tell you don’t—let’s cut the pity party and just get to work…surely you have things to work on—and as for you, Mr. Styles, I would shift your focus elsewhere. It seems Miss Asher has enough going on here without your eyes beating down her neck…”

Marlowe’s head whips in my direction like she had forgotten I was here, and when her eyes roam over my face. It’s like she’s searching, like I’m a distant memory she’s locked away, and I hold my breath, waiting for her eyes to meet mine, then they do, and Marlowe doesn’t look away as fast as I thought she would. Instead, her gaze lingers for a second too long, and I don’t move a muscle. It takes Mr Bryant clearing his throat to snap me out of the trance Marlowe had me in, my whole body burning. 

I watch the realization dawn on her face as she turns away, her brows knitting together in confusion, and then she’s running a hand through her hair again, blocking her face from view, a veil of hair creating a wall, and she doesn’t look at me again. Those two hours consumed me, longing for her attention, a girl I knew I could never have.

It was by far the most excruciating two hours I’ve spent in a long time. I’ve never been more aware of myself and another person at the same time. 

There have been so many girls, and I don’t say that to brag, just to say that I could have my pick, but Marlowe is the one I’ve wanted—She was unattainable—and whether she knew it or not, I couldn’t say, she was the girl that most guys were tripping over themselves for, but she was taken, so it made my pinning even more tragic.

Here I was, a tragic, hopeless mess, trying to scheme up a plan to get her alone, but lucky enough for me, I had two major factors on my side:

One was that she was possibly stranded; for some reason, she didn’t have her car, which meant she was relying on someone else. Two, when it was time to leave this classroom, we were likely the last few people in the building, and it was a long walk from here to the parking lot, so I would have to start plotting my plan of attack.

I would have to hope that the gods were on my side, and if they were, it would have to stay that way. She would need a ride, and I would be that guy.

So when Mr. Bryant handed me my phone and dismissed me, I was out the door, making my slow descent to the parking lot. Morphing into the noisy creep I was becoming. I took my time, and what would have been a fast pace became the tortoise and the hair: slow and steady wins the race. I found myself eavesdropping on her conversation as I formed and reformed my plan, taking in little bits of information at a time.

Marlowe was on the phone the second she stepped through the classroom door. I kept pace with her, staggering a reasonable distance behind, watching her frantic gestures, hoping that each frustrated wave of her hand meant that I was one step closer to getting my chance. She was clearly getting upset with the person on the other end, and if I had to guess, it was probably her boyfriend. I only caught fragments of her conversation, a few “Are you serious?” a very clear, “No, you never told me that,” and the hopeful line of “Just forget it.”

But then my plan goes south when she ducks into the girl’s restroom right before the parking lot, and I knew right then that I was at my fork in the road: I could either look like more of a creep and wait for her outside, but that would give me away, or I could get in my car and wait it out. She would have to come through those doors, and I could wait in my car and take my chance if I saw her waiting.

Except that wasn’t the case, of course, because as soon as she stepped outside, she started walking toward—I couldn’t say—My only guess would be home, even though I had no clue where that was or how far of a walk that would be. I knew what I had to do. Now, I would look like a total creep when I drove up next to her; my only saving grace was that it was growing dark outside and getting really cold, too cold to be walking in the thin sweater she had on.

So, in my mind, I did what I had to do, and when I drove up next to her, she didn’t even notice, “Hey, do you need a ride?” I asked while rolling my window down. 

I don’t think it registered at first; she barely glanced my way but soon did a double take when she realized it was me asking, “It’s kind of cold out,” I add, putting my car in park.

She stops, hesitant at first, her body shifting away like maybe she should keep walking, her brows furrowed in confusion like why are you talking to me, and for a split second, I, too, am second-guessing myself because maybe this is weird since we’ve not shared a single word since Jr. High.

“Are you asking me if I need a ride?” she questioned, puzzled, shaking her head curiously. Then, as the wind picked up, she wrapped her sweater around her body. For some reason, I got out of the car, leaving it running; this seemed more personable in my brain. In my head, I thought a dude with an arm hanging out of the window looked more suspicious, but maybe I was wrong. 

Marlowe stiffens at the gesture, taking a reluctant step back just enough that I stop in my tracks, leaving a comfortable distance between us. It feels like I’m coaxing a cat; everything about her posture feels protective, which makes me sad. I could take a million guesses as to why, and I think I know—I thought whatever happened between us that day in middle school would have passed, but I can see that it hasn’t because she’s giving me that same look, waiting for the blow of rejection she never deserved, not then, and not now. 

“I heard you tell Mr. Bryant you didn’t have a ride…I don’t know. I just figured I would ask…” I tell her.

She gives me a silent nod, eyes surveying my face, then looks around like she’s looking for anyone else—anyone else that could help her, anyone but me, at least that’s what it feels like, and I sense the slow, steep of rejection, mounting up my spine. It would be fair, but I don’t want it, not from her, not when it seems like she’s a million miles away from the person she was before; so many changes she’s endured, and maybe I’ve changed just enough to bridge the galaxy that has been stretching out between us for years.

And again, I’m not saying there hasn’t been opportunity after opportunity—whether it was us sharing a passing glance in the hallway or me shooting her a brave smile at a party we both happened to be at, there have been many chances—but it never changed anything. I was never the random person she would make conversation with, even in a small circle of mutual friends; it was always her eyes darting around to everyone else but me—and I guess that’s its own rejection within itself.

“Umm—” she says, “Are you sure?” 

“Positive—” I quip, a little too excited, and this catches her off-guard.

And when she murmurs, “Okay…” still skeptical, I shove my hands in my pocket, trying to relax my face and wait for her move.

When she takes the first step, I casually stroll to the passenger side of the car and open the door for her—yes, I know this may come off as strange, but I did it anyway, and when she gave me another questioning look, bending to get in the car. I gave her my best smile and caught the corner of her mouth turn up, and she bit down on her bottom lip as she settled in. I shut the door and walked around to my side of the car, holding my breath, willing myself not to make a single facial expression because I couldn’t believe I had her in my fucking car. 

I had to grip the wheel to keep my hands from shaking; I had Marlowe in the car, and I had no clue what to do. I thought getting her in the car would be the most challenging part—That was my only plan; there wasn’t anything else, and now I felt like an idiot. 

Before she can even give me a sense of direction, her phone rings, and I slow down, barely out of the parking lot, “Hey, what’s up?” she asks flatly.

“Don’t worry about it. I found a ride—” Marlowe places a hand over the speaker and asks if I can pull over for a second, mouthing the word “Sorry” as she continues her conversation.

“Listen, Trent—” she says, and my stomach drops; it was, in fact, her boyfriend, and in that second, I was praying that she wouldn’t say a word about me. Maybe it wouldn’t be that big of a deal; this car ride could easily be explained, but it wasn’t something I had factored in, and I didn’t have a plan or even an idea of what my end game would be.

Was all of this to say I had a single moment alone, one time with Marlowe Asher? Take her home and live in that daydream, in that small window of time we had, because now I want more of her time; a daydream isn’t enough anymore, and I have no idea how to make that happen.

“Trent—you already said that you were busy tonight. I don’t care, and I wasn’t trying to make it an argument—it just felt random—”

I’m looking out the window, attempting to give her space, and then I reach for the heater to turn it up because it’s so cold in here; the chill adding to the current tremors building in my chest, and I’m trying not to draw any more attention to myself. 

“I hate when you do that, Tren—no, that—I wasn’t accusing you of anything…all I said was the plans seemed random—especially since you didn’t say anything about them anytime I saw you today…”

She huffs out a loud breath, shaking her head, and I glimpse her turn toward the window, watching her reflection in the glass as she rubs her glossed lips together, frustration seizing her ridged posture. 

“Look, Trent—I don’t want to argue…you do you, and I’ll just figure out my own plans tonight—it’s Friday—I’ll just hit up Skylar—”

The second she said Skylar’s name, I thought back to earlier that day, to the blow-off art class I shared with Skylar and Trent. How they had been assigned to be partners a few weeks ago, and although I knew they were friends, there was a palpable shift recently. Maybe a random onlooker wouldn’t be able to spot it, but I did, and it made my blood boil because I knew Trent was dating Marlowe, and Skylar was supposedly her best friend. 

Lately, I’ve questioned their friendship, especially when I saw them at parties. The way they interacted—the snide remarks Skylar made toward Marlowe, disguising them as clever jokes when it was evident by Marlowe’s reaction that it wasn’t.

When she tells Trent she loves him and ends the call, a vision of Trent pulling Skylar’s chair toward him in class plays out in my head—the playful gesture warranting a flirty giggle from Skylar. I watched as he leaned down and whispered something in her ear, watching as she bit her lower lip and mouthed the word “Yes,” then he nudged her, standing slightly to adjust his jeans. 

I knew that look all too well; I had seen it a hundred times before. I knew this guy like the back of my hand, at least I used to, but that look—the look I had seen him give so many girls in the past, he was into her; just last weekend, I had seen him and Marlowe at a concert. I had gone alone; they hadn’t seen me, so I stayed toward the back, not wanting to make any awkward interactions because that’s what it’s been with him since we stopped hanging out our sophomore year.

Today, you wouldn’t have even known that we had been best buddies since we were kids, playing soccer together like it was life, and back then, it was. It was everything, and you wouldn’t have seen better mates if you tried—We did everything together. It wasn’t that things ended badly; it was more like we grew apart. He chose art and new friends, and I stuck with soccer. I knew everything was chill between us when he caught wind of me becoming soccer captain and congratulated me one day in the hall. 

I remember that was the first time I realized he and Marlowe were a thing; he had caught sight of Marlowe from afar, cutting our conversation short. He said a quick “goodbye” and jogged after her, wrapping his tall stature around, all smiles. I choked on my breath, coughing in air, shock taking over me that Trent Smith, one of the most popular guys in school, was kissing Marlowe Asher in front of everyone, the “chubby girl” he made fun of so many times—well they said she was chubby, but what was chubby then was not chubby now, she just had more curves than the average middle schooler; he even went as far as to say the only thing great about her was her face card.

And it’s funny because it took him until sophomore year to even acknowledge her existence past that remark—it took her changing everything about herself for anyone to see her worth. I’m one of them because even now, I know she’s worthy of so much more, except she’ll never know I’ve always wanted her.

What they saw as flaws, I saw as potential, and even if she was carrying a “little extra weight,” who fucking cares, I shouldn’t have cared, but I did care; I cared about what everyone thought because I was shallow and I wanted friends, and maybe that hasn’t changed, because I can still find ways to justify it. 

“So where, too?” I say, cutting through the silence; it’s like the conversation took her out of the moment as she stares out the window. She glances over at me then, a vacant look in her eyes, somewhere lost in her thoughts, and she sends me a nervous smile— at least that’s better than the alternative. 

Marlowe gave me her address, and I realize we don’t live far from each other. It would be about a 15-minute drive, and as soon as I hit the gas, the countdown began to form another plan, one where we hang out—anything; just anything to get this one night, this one chance because I don’t think I’ll be lucky enough to get another nor do I deserve it.

The drive is silent at first. There’s nothing but the sound of my engine and the humming of the heater, which is working overtime because it is so hot, and I want so badly to reach and turn it off, but I’m too afraid to move. She’s texting on her phone, her fingers firing away, “Do you mind if I turn on some music?” I speak up.

“Not at all…” she says quickly, almost dropping her phone, and I see she is still on edge. 

I reach for the dial and turn it up. “Do you like Fleet Foxes?” I ask, taking the opportunity to turn down the heat.

She looks over, a smile ghosting her lips, “Yeah—actually…like a lot. It’s crazy because I just went to their concert recently…”

“Oh, no way—I was there too—” I lie like this is new information, like I couldn’t keep my eyes off her the whole concert, glancing over every time the song changed to see her reaction, wishing it was me wrapping my body around her when the band slowed down, and the music went soft. 

Marlowe perks up at this bit of news, “No fucking way, dude—”

“Yeah, no lie…they’re so good!” I gush because it was an excellent concert, and as her eyes wander my face, a slow smile spreads, a single dimple dipping into her left cheek.

She relaxes back into her seat, her eyes still on me when I stop at a red light, “I can’t believe you were there. I didn’t see you…you should have said hi…” She says, this time her smile reaches her eyes, but something about it is shy, something starry-eyed about her gaze, and I recognize this look because this is exactly how she used to look at me in Jr. High. 

Before I found out she had a massive crush on me, and I ruined everything. I remember thinking she had the most beautiful smile and big brown eyes that matched. 

Marlowe’s smile now was like glimpsing the past, as strange as it sounds. I started longing for that girl—For a time before everything changed—before we all had to change, and life was less complicated. When it took less to please everyone, a time when people expected less, and there was more to give.

“I don’t think I saw you there…” I say, telling her another lie, “But I definitely would have said hi…maybe next time—”

My last line has a bashful grin peeking out from the corner of her mouth, and she looks down at her hand then, rubbing her palms flat over her jeans. “Yeah, for sure…”  she says and turns toward the window, trying to hide her smile. Little does she know, I can see it in the reflection every time we pass under a streetlight. 

‘Jesus, Etc.’ by Wilco plays next, and her head whips to the dial, then to me, and I’m already smiling. 

“They’re coming next month—” she announces, grinning from ear to ear.

I laugh, “I know—I’ve already gotten my ticket…” I tell her

She’s completely taken with this news because when she says, “No way!” Joy rushes through her features, her big brown eyes widen, and I feel giddy to keep this excitement going for her. It’s like the music has opened a door, and we both step through it without any uncertainties.

“Oh my gosh—I’m so jealous. Have you heard Wilco’s new album? It’s so good.” 

I shake my head. “No,” I voice, focusing on the road and bite my lower lip, trying not to smile. “I can’t say I have. Is it good? I know I need to listen to it soon, catch up before the concert…”

“Yes, you do—I actually have it…” she declares as she leans forward and reaches into her purse; Marlowe digs around for a couple of seconds, then materializes the CD like she’s pulling a rabbit from a hat.

“No way, Marlowe…you have it?” I ask, surprised and now extremely excited because so far, she’s turning out to be way cooler than I thought, but I figured this much if Trent likes her. 

“Yes—actually, it was between this and Bon Ivers album…”

“Really? Which Bon Iver album? The first or the second?” I ask.

“The first because my friend Skylar scratch my CD to fucking hell….” She answers, shaking her head, annoyed, I can tell. I would be, too, and I realize this is my opportunity, and when I drop my following line, I make sure to sound as casual as possible.

“I have the first one at home…maybe we can trade for a bit?” And I shoot her a quick glance to see if she’s interested. 

She looks down at her CD like she’s contemplating this new negotiation. “Hmm…and when would we trade back?” She questions.

“Anytime you’d want…you just say the word, and it will be right back in your hands…”

Marlowe looks up from the CD, a smile spreading on her face, “Okay—but please just make sure you don’t scratch it—like seriously…I’m kind of a weirdo about my CDs. They’re just like—my lifeline, you know?” Then she laughs.

“God…I sound like such a fucking stoner…sorry, like I’m down to trade for a little bit,” That nervous smile is back, a searching look on her face like maybe she just said too much. 

“You seem fine to me…not a weirdo…promise,” I tell her, surveying her before my eyes are back on the road—and now I have to take my chance because this is the last light before I either turn left and take her home or turn right, and we go to my place.

“Would you mind if we stopped by mine to grab that CD?” I ask, keeping my voice even and calm, like my heart isn’t pounding in my chest, like the ringing in my ears isn’t echoing out the same rhythm of my heartbeat, nearly drowning out the sound of Marlowe’s voice when she says, “Sure—?” more like a question, and her reluctance is back but understandable. 

“Would that be weird?” she tests.

“I don’t think so…” I reply, hoping she answers before the light turns green. “I’m chill with it if you are,” I add, my face burning, and I wonder if she can see. 

She examines me, then, “Sure��” she replies, and swallows, probably just as nervous as me because her smile is gone, and when I move my eyes back to the road, I can see her run her palms down the tops of her jeans again. The light turns green, and the sound of the blinker reverberates through the car as the silence settles in.

Marlowe didn’t say a word the rest of the ride, and when I peeked over at her from the corner of my eye, she just looked out the window, fidgeting with a silver ring on her finger. I could only imagine the thoughts running through her head because mine were a swirling mess, sifting through feelings I’d locked away for years. I had never imagined this as a concrete thing, and I wondered how long I could stretch this moment in time, taking in her tiny details.

The walk from my car was literal crickets, their chirping pinging around us, seeming louder than usual. Now that it was dark, the night sky was clear and chalked full of stars. I kept straining my ears, trying to pick up any sound coming from Marlowe, but she was quiet and perfectly composed. When I offered to carry her backpack, she handed it over, eyes never leaving the bag, and then she let go, running a hand through her hair, surveying her surroundings.

“I never realized you lived this close,” she said, clearing her throat as I turned the key in the door, my hands visibly shaking. I know she sees it because when my eyes dart to hers, she staring at my hands, and I hold my breath, pushing the door open, gesturing for her to go in.

“Yeah, me neither…” I pipe up. My answer is delayed when I breathe her in just as a gust of wind picks up and the scent of vanilla invades my nose, and she through the doorway, and I’m closing us in, and now I’m freaking out because what next? I think as I move around, flicking on lights.

I’ve only ever brought girls over to hook up, except they’ve never come through the front door—the expectations were always clear; she would know exactly why she was coming over. I would meet her at the back door; it was a calculated plan, no question about it, and she was in and out, that’s it; the fewer feelings involved, the better. 

“My room is this way,” I say, jerking my head toward the stairs, but she doesn’t look at me then; she’s peering around, taking in the room, scanning pictures along the wall as her eyes float to the stairs, then to me, nodding her head, and her eyes stray back to a picture of Trent and me when we were kids. I had honestly forgotten it was there; my mom tended to hang on to old memories, and I watched as Marlowe’s gaze lingered, and then she glimpsed up and took a step toward me.

I took the stairs slower than normal, not wanting to wind her before we reached my room. At the top of the stairs, I flipped the light switch so she wasn’t clouded in darkness, walking to my room at the end of the hall, “You good?” I asked over my shoulder because she was so quiet, making me even more nervous.

“Yeah…all good…” she mumbles, barely loud enough to hear, “Where is your family?” She questions, and her voice picks up then.

“My parents are visiting my sister in England…some kind of award thing—like meet the parents or something…” I answer, casually hoping this doesn’t make her uncomfortable, and open the door to my bedroom and walk in, listening to her footsteps as she follows behind me, and I set her backpack by the door. 

I go straight to my desk, open my CD case, and when I turn around, Marlowe is paused by the door, hand wrapped around the knob, and we lock eyes. “Do you want this open or closed?” she asks.

“Up to you. I don’t mind either way,” I tell her, gathering the binder of CDs. I’m trying to keep myself calm, pretending I’m occupied, when really, the second I hear the door click shut, panic plummets through me, and I strategically place the open case on the floor, crouching down until my butt hits the floor and I start kicking off my shoes.

I look up as she quietly drops her purse by the door, watching me as I nudge my last shoe off. She follows suit, eyes still on me, strides over, and gracefully lowers herself to the ground. 

“This is my lifeline—” I joke, scooting the binder toward her. She smiles then, another bashful smile as before, the one that sends a flutter to my stomach; my nerves are getting the best of me because there’s a certain level of vulnerability when you allow someone to search through your music, but I figured this was the only way to break the ice. 

“Wow—” she starts, “I’ve never pictured you liking this much music…” 

I study Marlowe as she traces a finger around a Radiohead disc and slides it from the pouch, “Can we listen to this while I look through the rest?” she asks. 

I smile, then reach for the CD, and she flashes me a toothy grin because we both know this album is good. “In Rainbows is one of my favorite albums by them…” I say, standing to put the CD in my player.

“I would say it’s like neck and neck with OK Computer for me—”

“But we can’t forget Pablo Honey—” I say, cutting in.

“Oh, fuck—” she blurts, pressing her palm to her forehead, “Yes—I don’t know how I could forget that one…Creep is like a classic by now, right? Same with Fake Plastic Trees…but that’s on The Bends, which is also good…shit they’re just fucking amazing?”

“They really are…I watch so many covers on YouTube…” I add, sitting back down. 

“I love watching covers…” she says fondly as if recalling a pleasant memory. I laugh because I thought I was the only one into covers, and then she has me smiling, taking in the dreamy look on her face.

“What…?” She asks shyly, and I shake my head, grinning down at the hole in my jeans, pulling at the threads.

“Nothing…” I breathe, too shy to look back up, and she reaches over and playfully nudges my knee.

“Tell me…” she laughs this time. 

I fall against the side of my bed and peek up, “I guess I never knew you liked music this much…” I tell her, still smiling, my cheeks starting to ache. 

“I mean…I’m sure there’s a lot we don’t know about each other,” she answers, her voice low, and she shoots me a sly grin, eyes flicking to me from the case for a brief second, and then they’re back as she flips the page smiling to herself.

She looks so beautiful, sitting there, rubbing her full lips together to hide the constant smile that hasn’t left her face since I laid my binder on the ground. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be this close—just the two of us—so many details to take in, like the tiny freckle across the bridge of her nose or the way the light picks up on the soft, high lights in her hair; The carved stone elephant necklace she has worn forever, but I forgot about. 

She peeks at me then, her eyes moving to my mouth, and I’m holding my breath again because I know she caught me looking at her, but I don’t look away, even though my cheeks are burning, and as her eyes explore my face again, I exhale slowly, swallowing hard.

 She smirked then, her gaze gradually lowering down my chest, stealing my focus when she drew in her bottom lip, softly biting down, and it had my head racing with every thought that I should be steering clear of; she’s dangerous. Is she flirting with me, or is it all in my head? 

 All I know is if she keeps looking at me that way, I may have to readjust my jeans, and that would be too obvious because all I can think about is kissing those luscious-looking lips. 

Her phone buzzes next to her on the ground, and she rips her gaze away just as her eyes hit the top of my jeans. Marlowe pulls in a loud breath through her nose, exhaling slowly, her chest decompressing as she reaches for the phone, the light casting a soft glow on her face. Then her shoulders slump, and I can only guess who it is.

“You can answer that if you’d like…” I offer.

“Nah—It’s just Trent…he’s being fucking weird today. He’s like checking in a lot, and he doesn’t normally do that…or I guess he doesn’t really have a reason to check in. He’s with his mom, so—why would I care,” She confides, her tone unbothered, like maybe the whole situation bores her, or maybe she wants it to seem that way because when he sends a text, she immediately picks up her phone and responds. 

Then, out of nowhere, she says, “Do you smoke?” and tosses her phone to the ground. I think she means weed, but I’m not sure, and when I raise a brow, she’s quick to follow up.

“like weed…do you smoke weed?” 

I laugh, “I don’t normally smoke weed, but soccer just ended. I’m not sure if the school still tests anymore since it was my last season.”

“Oh, that’s right…you guys had a good season. That’s a hell of a way to go out…” She says.

“I know…it made my family really proud—” 

“and yourself…” she adds fast, smirking at me, then looks over at the soccer trophies lining my wall.

“Yeah…I guess,” I answer, feeling a bit embarrassed because I hate this kind of attention, “I would smoke, but I don’t have any.” 

“I have a joint that I rolled this morning before school if you want to smoke,” she tells me, and she grins again, watching my face. I knew that I looked surprised because I could feel my eyebrows stretching upward, then I tried to relax my face.

“You’ve been carrying it around school?” I ask, curious as to how she’s able to get away with that when there are random drug searches all the time, drug dogs in and out of the school, every other day.

She shrugs, “I thought I was hanging out with Trent tonight…so I had it…I wasn’t sure if I was going back home…” she says, coming off a little timid—Maybe she thinks I’m judging her, but I’m more surprised to know that she stays the night at his house or at least that’s what I’m assuming, and this opens another door I haven’t thought about in a while—the two of them having sex. This piques my curiosity even more, and maybe I’m a weirdo for wondering, but what is their sex even like?

“Is that weird for you? She says, and I have to force myself from my thoughts, confused as to what she’s even asking.

“Is what weird…?”

“Trent?” she answers.

“Don’t know—” I lie, “Haven’t really thought about it.” 

“You guys used to be like best friends, right?” 

“Something like that…” I say, “But he’s kind of changed…”

There’s a beat of silence, and she drags her knees to her chest, circling her arms around them, “Well—if it means anything…I’ve never heard him talk shit about you,” she tells me, peering down at her feet.

“Honestly…there’s no bad blood or anything. Trent just chose a different path…that’s all.” I confess.

“Yeah…” is all she says, still gazing down at her feet, and I wonder what she’s thinking, what he’s told her about me, if what she said was true.

We both sat there for a minute, letting the murmur of the music feed the silence. Then Marlowe said, “He’s kind of changed since we started dating…” Her eyes flashed to mine abruptly, making my heart race, her expression unreadable.

“I guess we’ve all changed,” she finishes. 

I nod in agreement, watching a glimmer of sadness streak her face, but she is good at staying neutral, and I wonder where she’s learned this, “So, should we smoke?” I ask

“Fuck yeah—” she says, shooting me a smile, and she stands to her feet swiftly, her excitement taking way as she walks over to her purse. 

She pulls out a perfume bottle, untwists the lid, and out comes a rolled joint, “It might taste a little vanilla-ish…the bottle has been empty for months, but it’s the only way I’ve been able to disguise the scent.”

“And does it work?”

“For sure…last week, a drug dog walked right past me in class, and I swear I almost shit myself,” she laughs out. 

I pull the throw blanket from my bed, laughing, “Fuck…I bet—” I express  “Mind if we smoke outside?” 

“Not at all, “ she answers, following me to my window. It’s honestly the best place to smoke. It has the best view of the neighborhood lake, lined by a walking trail. No one can ever see me, and it’s become the perfect spot to people-watch. I climb out first so that I can help if needed. 

Marlowe’s cardigan snags on the ledge of the window, and she breathes out the word “fuck,” as she steps out onto the landing, turning to gather the material in her hand, “Damn…I just got this—”

“I’m sorry—you can have one of my jump—I mean sweaters if you’d like…” I offered, unsure of how to fix the situation, but it seemed right.

She smiles, “Were you going to say jumper?” her voice teasing. 

“Maybe…what’s it to you?” I joke.

She shrugs her shoulders, her smile wide, “That’s so British—”

I poke my finger into her dimple, then, “Watch it, or I’ll change my mind…” I tell her, my voice lowering. 

“You mean I’d be lucky enough to own a sweater from “The Harry Styles”—” she taunts, placing a hand over her heart. “I’m sure every girl at school has them cataloged…” 

“Whatever—” I laugh, trying to bush off her comment, and though there might be a little truth to her statement, I would rather see her wearing one.

She sits before me, bringing her knees to her chest, and I wrap the blanket around her and sit down next to her, “Aren’t you going to be cold?” she asks.

“Here—do you want my cardigan?” She offers.

“No—No…I’m good. Soccer just ended. It definitely toughens you up during the winter season.”

She eyes me suspiciously as she wraps the blanket around her. “Do you want me to start it…or do you?” she asks.

“You go for it,” I answer.

She brings the joint to her mouth, fidgeting with the lighter until it clicks and ignites, the paper crackling the second the flame comes into contact with it. I watch Marlowe inhale slowly, the tip of the joint blazing orange, until she stops, dragging in a breath through her mouth, and then her pretty lips seal shut as she holds in the smoke and passes me the joint.

As soon as I bring it to my lips, her head drifts back, and she wraps the blanket around her body as she gradually exhales a large cloud of smoke, her eyes closing as the smoke billows in the wind, and I watch as the last puff leaves her body—and she’s so fucking sexy. 

Then her tongue darts out to lick her lips, leaving a soft sheen of shine in the moonlight, and she smooths them together before she takes the joint from me again, eyes meeting mine, and she smirks over at me, her gaze shifting to my mouth as I exhale the smoke burning my lungs.

By the last hit of the joint, I was already high. I couldn’t remember the last time I had smoked or if I’d ever felt this high, but suddenly, I was so cold, and when I heard Marlowe’s voice cutting through the haze of my thoughts, my eyes flitted over to her face, taking in her smile and then I was smiling, laughing, when I heard her laughter.

“You’re high…” She says, reaching over to nudge my shoulder.

“You’re high…” I copy because her eyes are so fucking glossy, and I wonder how she would ever get away with being high at school because they’re a dead giveaway.

She laughs. “You’re cold, aren’t you?” she says, jerking her chin toward me as her eyes dart down my body. I hadn’t realized my arms were wrapped around my torso; god, it was so cold.

“Come—I’ll share the blanket with you…” she suggests, without hesitation, so I scoot closer, and she lifts her arm, opening up space next to her.

The warmth is instantaneous, and the only way I can seal on the heat on my side is to slide my arm around her waist, huddling closer to her body, and somehow, the blanket isn’t as big as I thought.

“Sorry—is that—Shit, I’m sorry…is that weird—” I ask, adjusting my arm.

“Oh—no—umm…no—you’re fine—”

“It’s just that—” I say, fidgeting some more.

“Yeah…your arm—here—is that better?” She asks, pulling my arm around her, and she enfolds my hand around the small of her ribs, resting her hand against mine when I flatten it against her body. 

“I never realized how small this blanket was…” I joke, trying to ease any tension, but maybe there isn’t any, and I’m just too fucking high to tell.

Marlowe's eyes me then, a sheepish smile stretching across her face, “Harry…It’s fine.” she whispers, and her face is so close now, closer than it’s ever been, so close that all we would have to do was move our heads a few inches and our lips could touch.

“Okay…” I tell her, matching her tone, “But you’ll tell me if it wasn’t?”

Her thumb brushes over my hand, which is snug against her body now, and I focus on the rise and fall of her breath, feeling too high to keep my eyes open, “Do you feel good,” she asks.

“Perfect,” I smile as a comfortable silence drifts between us. Eventually, Marlowe rests her head on my shoulder, and I let my head fall against hers, smelling that familiar scent of vanilla. Then, like an idiot, I bury my nose into her hair, breathing her in. She laughs, snapping me out of my daze.

“Sorry…” I apologize, “Your hair smells so good…” 

“Does it?” 

“So good…” I confirm, and I wrap my arm around her tighter, then grips my wrist and nestles into my body more.

“I can’t believe you practically have a lake in your backyard…” she blurts.

I laugh because it is actually really random, “ I know…it’s man-made…”

She chuckles, shaking her head, “I wound assume so—”

“I mean…like this is a retirement community…”

Marlowe looks up at me, then, “I know… my grandma lives across your lake…”

I smile down at Marlowe, the moon catching the shine in her eyes, and I graze the pad of my thumb down the fabric of her sweater. She smiles then, her white teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

“You’re really pretty…” I breathe, letting the words tumble out without any thought. She glimpses up at me, her smile faltering for a second, and then she huffs a laugh.

“You’re really pretty,” she repeats jokingly.

“I mean it…” I tell her.

“Harry…” 

“What?” I ask.

“You’re just high…” 

“I’m high…but it doesn’t change the way I feel…”

“Yeah?” she asks faintly.

“Yes—I promise…”

She drops her head, nudging into my shoulder again, and I don’t say another word. Eventually, I notice her thumb moving back and forth on my arm, and I give her waist a light squeeze, “Marlowe…” 

“Yeah?” She asks, continuing to caress my arm.

And I lift my head, “What are you thinking right now?” I ask, dying to know every thought running through her head, and she nuzzles her head against me, then lifts her face to meet mine.

“I’m thinking about you…” She says, her words are soft, floating out into the air, and it’s everything I’ve wanted to hear.

“What are you thinking about?” She asks, a slow smile spreading across her face.

“You…” I divulge

“What about me?” she pries, a mischievous grin playing at her features.

“I don’t know…” I say, feeling self-conscious, like every tactic I would typically use to get the girl won’t work on her, and I know deep down that I just need to be honest.

“Like what would it be like to kiss you…” I spill, letting the words hang between us. Then her smile drops, and I think I’ve ruined it, and she sits up, eyes searching my face. When they land on my mouth, I feel it in my bones, like maybe she feels it too, and when she says, “I’ve been dying to kiss you for a long time,” I know that’s my green light and I drop the blanket, taking her face in my hand. When her eyes flit shut, I press my lips to her mouth. She lets out a long exhale, pushing warm air through her nose, and I breathe it in, savoring every second. 

And when her mouth begins to move against mine, it’s slow and steady at first, but then a small whimper fills my mouth, and I’m hurrying the kiss as I slowly lean her back, bringing the blanket with me, creating our own little cocoon. I’m lying on my side, trying not to crush her, when I slide my arm under her neck, and she wraps her arms around me then, drawing me closer. 

The kiss is better than I imagined, her lips perfectly soft, like every passing daydream I’ve ever had of her, and when I deepen the kiss, slowing us down, she tugs at my shirt, trying to pull me on top of her as my free hand moves under her sweater tracing the contour of her body, traveling down her waist, until my hand reaches her hip, trying to squeeze her flesh through her jeans.

The grip on my shirt tightens, this time pulling with need, and her hand slides under my shirt, gliding along the top of my jeans. She grabs a handful of the muscle along my side and gently pulls me toward her again. I mumble a throaty “Mmmmm” into her mouth, and I feel the vibration of my voice hum across her lips, adding to the sensation, and it feels so good. She must like it too because he hand is moving up my body now, her warm palm moving across my chest, and it feels like everything—Everything I could have ever wanted, and we could stay like this, but now I want more.

“Harry…” she sighs the whisper of my name so soft and sweet, jumbling my thoughts even further. 

Then I must be losing my mind because the next thing I know, I’m climbing on top of her, gently nudging a leg between her thighs, creating space for me to press my body to hers, then Marlowe’s legs are opening, inviting me in, and she’s lifting her hips ever so slightly, grinding against my leg, and I softly press into, her hand moving down my body until she grabs a handful of my ass and pulls me closer, lining us up, and I groan the second she rubs against the bulge in my jeans. 

I broke the kiss then because here I was at another crossroads. I want to do whatever Marlowe wanted, but if it’s more, I don’t want to do it here. I want her to have every opportunity to call whatever this is off. I don’t want to be another regret, the disappointment I’ve been to her in the past.

There are a million emotions coursing through me, and when I ask, “Do you want to go inside?” she grips my ass tighter, pulling me into her again, smirking up at me.

“I thought you would never ask….” She says, relaxing underneath me, and I kiss her one more time as she releases me, a soft laugh leaving her mouth. Call me young and dumb, but I genuinely don’t think I’ll ever feel this way for anyone else because when I look into those big brown eyes, it’s like I’ve looked into them a million times before, a reminiscent memory of a past we might have shared because her name alone, echos through me like she’s been there all along, and whatever this may be; has to mean something. 

A/N: First Series of the New Year! Hope you like it. The tag list is open if you're interested! So thankful for all the love and support you guys give!!

My Tiny Materlist-> Here

[mindovermuses]

I find myself at odds with certain aspects of last night's episode of Critical Role (C3:E105). It's probably just my autistic brain getting stuck on things we've been told/have seen in the past standing in pretty much direct opposition to how they're being viewed/handled now, but I think I need to just put it out on the page to figure out exactly what it is that bothers me. Right now it's just vague, half-thoughts eating at the back of my mind.

I'll let my mind wander and ramble after the cut, but the essence of it is that I have a hard time believing that the leaders of the Raven Queen's temple would be so openly defend Laudna the way that they did.

Long, rambling train of thought brain dump ahead...

I have no problem with the character, it's been awesome seeing Marisha delve into this macabre identity. And it's obviously just a game and made sense in the moment to have someone with authority on death speak in defense of her in the meeting, but I question that temple specifically.

Each deity is given only three tenets- three sacred commandments to put upon their followers above all else that are supposed to be considered mandatory as part of their faith.

The Matron of Ravens Commandments are:

1) Death is the natural end of life. Grieve the fallen, but do not pity them. Exult in the time that they were granted. 2) The path of Fate is sacrosanct. Those who pridefully cast off destiny must be punished. 3) Undeath is an atrocity. Death is too good a punishment for those who pervert the rightful transition of the soul. - from the Tal'Dorei Campaign Setting Reborn

The entire reason why Laudna is still "alive" is because of Delilah's necromancy. If that magic were to be cut off, she would die as it isn't the power of her soul and life force keeping her there.

Delilah's dark magic was granted as a boon in exchange for a pact with Vecna- one of the Matron's sworn enemies. For the power to return her love to her. Delilah is a large part of why Vecna was able to uncover the Matron's rituals to ascend to godhood in order to eternally defy death. He, and Delilah along with him, are an affront to the natural balance of life and death that the world hinges on.

Delilah's spirit still lives upon Exandria and hasn't found it's way to the Matron's halls... because of Laudna choosing to trap her in what we know isn't guaranteed to hold her forever. Any follower could capture Laudna and carve it out to restore her at any time, releasing the threat of everything the Matron despises upon the world. And, at that point, Delilah would no longer need Laudna.

She allowed Vax to return as a revenant only long enough to see that Orcus and Vecna were destroyed and only because he was her champion, working directly on her behalf before willingly leaving everything he loved behind to take up his new role.

Laudna is neither her champion nor even a casual follower, let alone a devoted one, AND she holds within her the spirit of a necromancer who has already proven she is willing to tear the fabric of reality apart to get what she desires.

I could see the Matron turning a blind eye in this moment, given the dire circumstances, but begrudgingly so. When all is said and done, I could see the Matron summoning Laudna into the blood pool and presenting her with a choice:

-Let Delilah's spirit go and cross over into death eternally, willingly, and hope that her friends can succeed at a high DC True Resurrection spell, returning her to the untrained sorceress she was before Delilah took her fate into her own hands...

-or-

-Accept that the Matron's champion will have no choice but to force the soul anchor holding Delilah from her, leaving her to be met with Delilah's fate of death with no hope of resurrection.

Because Delilah's spirit cannot be allowed to return to Exandria and neither Laudna nor Delilah will be leaving that space between worlds where they are currently. She must choose, and choose now...

...and that's when Matt ends the episode, leaving a heart-breaking cliffhanger that no one else in the party is even aware is happening. Laudna's spirit on a plane unreachable by any outside magics.

Just like the Matron could not promise longer lives for the Everlight's children moments after finally being accepted by her as family and, as she could not make exceptions for the love Vax and Keyleth shared when it was his time, she cannot make an exception for Laudna- not with this.

No matter how unfair it was that her life was taken so young for such evil purposes, she's hardly the first and certainly won't be the last to suffer such a fate. No matter that she (hopefully) saved the world- because didn't Vax do the same with no special treatment given to him when the job was done?

The one minuscule loophole that she is able to offer is the hope that someone might think to try and then succeed at a difficult True Resurrection spell, having to pull her soul through the muck and sludge of Delilah's evil- giving her another chance to start over and live the life thread that was stolen from her. Her very own Kingsley type resurrection, minus any memories. Laudna, as everyone knows her, will die with Delilah, but Matilda will get a second chance.

So, what will it be.

Willingly separate Matilda's golden thread from where Laudna and Delilah's threads begin-blackened by a necromantic disease spreading to, and infecting, nearby threads. Is she willing to let go of everything she's gained and experienced after Delilah brought her back as it is impossible to separate the threads binding them? or...

Willingly decide that she's ready to pass eternally through the veil as well, her memories as Laudna in tact if any of her friends or loved ones might find themselves in the same eternal resting place when their times come?

But that's just me. I'll obviously enjoy whatever Matt and the cast give us, this is their story and Matt's world. I just needed to get this all out of my head to process it.

[gallusrostromegalus]

Something that you might have discussed that I just missed for AEIWAM - if Hell is basically Soul Rehab for souls that aren't Contributing Properly, then why does having high spiritual energy mean that you're more likely to go to Hell? Are they basically bleeding off excess energy from those souls, or?

Yes and no?

1. Hell is rehab for Souls that would damage the cycle of reincarnation*specifically*. People only go to hell for two* reasons: they do a lot of harm to others (aka Bad Karma), or when reincarnating them would throw the balance between worlds off (High power)

Basically, there needs to be... Approximately the same amount of spiritual energy in the living world, spirit world and Hell. So when an exceptionally powerful spirit like say, a Captain, dies and moves onto the next plane, there sort of needs to be 'room' for the incoming powerful soul. There usually isn't, and also the Life Machine that generates reality needs to eat, so Hell solves both problems by having really powerful souls come to hell and vent power for a while until they are only about as strong as a regular soul, and then send them back to the living world.

2. So, yes, the more powerful a soul, the more likely they are to go to Hell, no matter how they behave in the living or spirit world.

For people on the level of Gotei-13 captains, it's pretty much guaranteed, unless they manage to do something bizarre like drain all of their spiritual energy into a magical barrier or leave it stored in the Family Cursed Artifact (looking at you, Tsunyashiro clan). Lieutenants stand an estimated 50/50 chance (unless they learn Bankai in which case, again, guaranteed), and all seated officers are at some increased risk.

3. How they behave while alive still makes a difference though.

See, Hell in AEIWAM isn't *necessarily" The Bad Place. Souls cause harm to other souls for TONS of reasons that aren't evil: mental illness, getting caught in terrible circumstances, genuinely trying to make the world a better place and severely fucking up, and sometimes it's just bad luck. Hell isn't there to punish, it's there to figure out what went wrong that this soul hurt so many people, and try to fix it.

Sometimes that's things like "magically removing the ego and putting a different sized one in", sometimes it's "cognitive behavioral therapy" sometimes it's "you're not a bad person but you did fuck up so you gotta do a really boring and gross task that helps restore the ambient vibes of the universe for 400 years to balance out the damage" sometimes it's "actually, we can trust you to do good deeds, here's a visa to the living world to dole out minor miracles to anyone who needs it".

In AEIWAM, the only difference between a devil and an angel is that the angel does field work and the devil does back office.

So sure, all the captains are going to Hell at some point. But if they did their best while alive, they more or less get to skip rehab and have Free Time until they're weak enough to leave. It fun, actually! Captains and the like get assigned a Demonic Personal Assistant and told to go have fun, don't break anything, and are turned lose to go adventuring, get married, take up farming and/or stamp collecting or whatever they desire.

*note from above: there is a third "legitimate" way to enter Hell: Superlative Karma.

It's RARE, but once in a while a soul so vastly improves life for everyone else they end up with such extremely good karma that they run the risk of unbalancing the planes just by sheer vibes clash. Superlatives are plucked out of the cycle of reincarnation by Hell to help the spend some of that karma having a very literal HELL OF A GOOD TIME.

4. And so, all the planes of the wheel lived in harmony, UNTIL THE BOURGEOISIE ATTACKED.

Problem is, about... 1500ish years ago, a bunch of the noble houses got together, tricked The Monk Who Speaks The Name into letting them into the house of the guy that maintains The Life Machine, they very literally butchered The Divine Tech Support, and used parts of his body to jam up the wheel of life, because they thought they could be God better than God.

Dumbasses.

One of the things they jammed was the Exit from Hell, so now only a few people can leave at a time and the backup is threatening to unbalance the entire wheel now, so Hell is also being VERY VERY CAREFUL to not let any of the Captains die until they've gotten enough souls out that there is effectively 'room' for the Captain.

So yes. Higher spiritual power means a soul is guaranteed to go to Hell, at least for a while-but it also means they won't be going there for a long, LONG time.

[jyeshindra]

The Folly of a Water Sign

Hey folks. The Cancer Full Moon just passed and I'm feeling heavy and watery and emotional. What better way to process than to reflect on our aquatic feelers of the zodiac?

As a sidereal Pisces/Scorpio combo, I have a pretty good understanding of water energy and exactly how our energy gets so fucked up. Water is...formless. It's shifting, or being poured into, or being diluted, or being mixed with others. It is both infinite and deep. Both independent and exposed. We are everywhere, in everything, and connected to everyone. Scorpio is probably the best at hiding their softness and Pisces the least. I presume all three are a bit too raw for the world. Too aware of what dwells in their hearts. So what is our folly? I believe our karma has a lot to do with boundaries, emotional intelligence, and conflict resolution. We must learn about our own emotions and how we use those emotions to respond to situations or affect our path. What we deserve, like all humans, is to be happy, to experience joy, and to free ourselves from situations that do not serve us. It is the path to learning such things that we of water find our challenge and our lesson. For water, it's often a matter of emotional investment. Where is that emotional energy going? What you put your heart into will either serve you or hurt you tenfold. If discernment is not implemented, if there is no self-awareness, then you will remain stuck in harmful cycles. Scorpio can be so attached to an outcome, to success, and to achievement. Pisces can be indulgent and too forgiving. Too caught up in whims to lay two steady feet on the ground. Cancer is so attached to what they feel they won't make room for anything else. We're sentimental and emotional--liable to get stuck on feelings and people and moments and substances and habits. Our other achilles heel, victimhood is alive in the shadow of each water sign. We all at one point or another shout into the void and demand some sort of validation for our pain and misery. It must be something else. It must be them or that thing that happened four years ago or this person who never showed up for me. And what to say of Forgiveness? Pisces excels at this, to the detriment of their own soul. Contemplating forgiveness merely leads me down an equally challenging path and I fear for both myself and the water signs who don't learn this. What is forgiveness? Is it for me or for you? Do I need to know why I forgive you? Does forgiveness mean betraying myself? Is forgiveness even guaranteed? I don't know the answer to any of these questions. I'm trying to figure it out myself. And so, I release this letter into the ether. To my fellow water sign brethren and all those who are lost on their way home, I invite you to pray and reflect with me. There are years of questions, and years of answers. I await the answers.

-jyeshindra

[cptn-m]

One Piece chapter 1137 review

Back on three chapters in a row, and the main plot is keeping on picking up steam. This is bliss! The chapter may only have two segments but both are rich with new lore and statements with deeper implications.

We start in the castle, and I have to first compliment the ruined aesthetic. Like previous Elbaph chapters, Oda uses almost exclusively very low and very high camera angles to create a towering sense of scale. It feels very Dark Souls, especially the panel looking down on the crossing walkways.

And what are we learning here? Tons of cool stuff. Horns are evidence of Ancient Giant blood? It was a safe guess but I love having confirmation. Wonder how far that extends to non-giant races. There are no witnesses to what happened between Loki and Harald except the wounded Jarul? Fascinating. Let's give some more good guy points to Loki because it could not be more guaranteed that we don't have the full story. Anything from brain damage-induced memory loss to the cross-guard obscuring Jarul's view of the true culprit (or motive) could be used to explain this away. Ancient Giants are connected to an "era of war?" Hmmmm… anyone remember how the symbol on Oars' loincloth was also carved on the walls of the Marie Geoise straw hat room? Wonder which side the Ancient Giants fought for then. The World Government's obsession with either recruiting or genetically engineering giants for the Marines could be an attempt to restore old power, or it could be a plan to capture the power once used against them. And there are more giant tribes in the world? I figured all the talk of warring giants was just Elbaph infighting. Sure, we knew of giants like Saul who had birthplaces in other seas, but I'd figured they were one-offs, not members of other full societies.

We also get some interesting giant social dynamics. Blood purity is serious business here, explaining the issues with Hadjrudin's claim to the throne, but also giving more power and context to his dream of being king of the giants. We sure as hell didn't need a backstory for Rodo's presence on his crew, but the one we get ties well into that goal.

It's definitely a little odd that the castle was sealed with all the bodies inside. I wonder how giant society feels about funeral rites, or if there's some kind of cultural thing about leaving warriors where they fall if they do so in battle. Do these giants believe in a Valhalla? And then there's Harald's appearance. The head scars are cool, but if we're talking horn removal I would have loved to see a Hellboy homage. Takahashi managed an art exchange with Mignola, why not Oda? Regardless, that portrait does not look like a man of peace, and Oda even added an ominous sound effect to be sure we get the message. If Harald was not what we're told he was, did that factor into his assassination?

We cut to the Realm of the Dead, and to open on aesthetics again, Gunko's style is growing on me, seeing her in motion this week. What seemed to be a fabric-based power is actually… arrows? Like, the concept of arrows. Sometimes they form out of or extend her clothes and sometimes they just seem to appear. Sometimes they're physical things that can spear attackers. Sometimes they create vectors for her other attacks of accelerate on. It's abstract with vague rules, but it's so visually striking I hope she gets a meaty fight to show off in. I remember Medusa from Soul Eater and how good her battles looked, and maybe Oda does as well.

And on the topic of the arrows acting as vectors, Loki is very, very curiously aware of the directions they're setting up for a blindfolded man. Could be even basic observation haki reading Gunko's intended movements, but they talk about it like he has a pretty keen and immediate awareness.

And we end on a reveal that's been teased for weeks and coming for years. Figarland Shamrock. Waaaaaaay back in mid-2018 when we first saw "Shanks" meeting the Five Elders, I actually did think it was the real Shanks. He'd put forward appearances as kind of a peacekeeper of the New World, taking actions to maintain the balance of power when he prevented the Marines and Blackbeard from taking their victory too far at Marineford. Having that role go further, with some kind of rapport with the Elders seemed within the realm of possibility. It wasn't until Film Red dropped its line about "Figarland blood" that I became a believer in a brother/twin for that scene, but once that last piece fell into place it was impossible to read it any other way. It's so perfectly framed to keep the right arm and the place where the scars should be out of sight, but it does so without being so blatant that the deception is obvious. A great long con deception, and I'm really looking forward to seeing what Shamrock's relationship with Luffy and Shanks is going to be as the story goes forward.

This is all building up in some very exciting ways, but it feels like Luffy's team is going to have to step on the gas if they want to arrive in Loki's scene before it ends. There's no way Loki dies here, but maybe it'll be the Oda classic bad guys forgetting to confirm the kill when he's only mostly dead, then Luffy meets Shamrock as he returns to the castle (assuming he has to do that to teleport again). Well, whatever happens, it's great to know we'll be finding out in just a week's time. Good to be back.

[arraytale001]

CHAPTER 4

FILE 03

(English version)

If this is a dream, then I would be so relieved by that. Trapped in a never-ending cycle of confusion and anxiety that makes me feel utterly powerless is the last thing I want, especially being in a situation I never even imagined for a moment.

“Did I hurt your pride, Sans?”

They’re trying to provoke my anger.

“Heh, let’s cut the small talk and just show me your face.”

I don’t want to show how unlucky I am right now. The human in my grip won’t help me at all—how unfortunate my life is at this moment. When I need your help the most, you’re just completely useless, only becoming an obstacle.

Behind a world that is beginning to crumble, fragments of destruction floating in the air, I can feel the ruin seeping into my bones. It’s a situation where I can only pray not to get lost in the black fog that surrounds me. If this figure is the god who controls the world, holding my seemingly trivial fate in their hands, able to destroy me with a snap of their fingers…

Then all I want right now is to die and escape from reality.

“Don’t rush it. Save the surprise for later. For now, let’s just talk like this.”

“My rules are my rules, your rules are your rules. If you want to play by your rules, I won’t negotiate or follow your desires.”

At times like this, the battle for control is always inevitable. Not because I want to stay in control over anyone, but I need to be aware that being cornered will only make me more overwhelmed.

“Then we’ll both be stuck here forever. Is that what you want, Sans?”

I chuckled mockingly, standing firm. “I’m really good at being lazy. Give it a shot, and you’ll end up as bones, just like me.”

A faint rumble echoed from a distance. Whether I had managed to convince them or not, I had no idea. But the subtle tremor told me that I had, at least, pricked their pride.

Seeing that brief opportunity, I sent the human to my room with my teleportation power. It was the only help I could think of to keep them safe. Since I had also promised Tori—well, whether they’d be safe there or not, I couldn’t guarantee. I prayed they’d stay out of harm’s way and not make things harder for me in this absurd situation. Please, don’t give me more work than I need—I just want to breathe easy right now.

“You know there’s no point in sending that kid to your room or even your secret laboratory. I can clearly see where they’ll go, and I can destroy them anytime I want.”

I’d already figured as much. From the start, I’ve never been able to save that kid—or even myself—from this weirdo. But at least I’ve tried, even if it’s all in vain. My promise to Tori has to be kept, no matter what. At the very least, this is my way of honoring the words she trusted.

“It’s better to try something than to do nothing at all. Besides, if you really had the power to do that, you would’ve done it already, and I wouldn’t have to mourn their fate. So, what are you waiting for?”

“Oh, acting cold now? Do you really not care about that human, Sans?”

What business do they have questioning my morals? They just want to drag out this pointless conversation and waste valuable time. Is that their game now? To see how long I’ll get strung along and end up like a loser?

Well, I’ll put an end to this nonsense.

“I don’t care whether you kill the human or not. I know they won’t die that easily—because if it were that easy, you wouldn’t be standing here throwing out your pathetic threats.”

“Are you challenging me?”

I grinned widely. I hoped this weirdo got it—threats don’t work anymore if you have to ask how much I care about this human.

“Go ahead. I’ll be right here watching how you do it,” I replied bluntly.

An eerie silence blanketed the area. They didn’t respond immediately to my sharp retort. The place felt painfully quiet and empty. A biting, bone-chilling wind wrapped around me. But my mind and soul remained calm, like a gentle, flowing stream—I had to keep my composure and stay alert for whatever came next. That’s the only way I’ll avoid being pushed into an even worse position.

“Okey, genius! You’re really good at debating, huh? I won’t fight with you.”

I could only smile, hearing the sound of my victory. Good. They didn’t make this fight last any longer than it needed to.

“Let’s see what you look like—!”

I didn’t even get to finish my sentence.

Suddenly, a tremendous explosion shattered the world, leaving me completely shaken. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to react.

A blinding flash struck and pierced my eyes. The deafening hum made my mind feel like it was being scraped by the chisel of an iron bar. My teeth ground together as the sharp pain intensified, crushing my bones.

I struggled to open my eyes and looked around. The room began to shift into a white space, swallowing trees, cliffs, and… Papyrus. I couldn’t find him anywhere. I couldn’t move, as if my feet were nailed down—but I had to find him. Papyrus… I have to—

“Worry about yourself, Sans. You won’t be able to find him again… oh, unless I let you.”

Their voice was colder now, no longer playful or relaxed. This time, they were speaking the truth.

I wouldn’t be able to find Papyrus.

Without their mercy.

Oh, god. Damn me!

“Okay! Now, Sans, look at me.”

I gathered all my focus on my thoughts and feet, trying to locate where the voice was coming from.

Impossible... wow. This is… this, I really didn’t expect at all.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

What I saw was not the figure I was expecting. It was too absurd; I didn’t even know where to begin. This was completely unacceptable, illogical, and it only made my mind spiral further.

My eyes widened as I stared at the figure standing right in front of me, grinning widely with eyes that pierced into mine. What I saw in front of me was...

“Rays.”

His grin grew even more unsettling, making me incredibly uncomfortable.

“You can call me Rays, Ray, or—” He glanced at me with such an intimidating expression. “Sans, you can even call me by your own name, Sans.”

[coochiequeens]

It is always OK to question the motives of people who choose surrogacy over adopting or fostering.

By Maryha Gill 8 Feb 2025

Whether it’s infertility, to save a career or pure altruism, is there ever a reason that can justify surrogacy?

An online row last week underlines something we all know but which many prefer to ignore. There is something not right about surrogacy. The furore started with an Instagram post by Lily Collins: a picture of her new daughter, Tove, in a little basket, under which the Emily in Paris actor expressed “endless gratitude for our incredible surrogate”. Reaction split along predictable lines – those in favour of surrogacy, and those against.

What was striking was that it also split along another fissure: Collins’s possible motives. It was OK, some felt, to use a surrogate if you have infertility problems. But not in order to keep your figure, help your career, or because pregnancy is taxing and you are rich enough to outsource it.

People were also divided on the motives of the surrogate. All well and good if she was driven by a desire to help Collins and her husband. But not if the true reason was the need for money.

Collins’s husband, Charlie McDowell, hit back at “unkind messages”, writing: “It’s OK to not know why someone might need a surrogate to have a child. It’s OK to not know the motivations of a surrogate regardless of what you assume.”

But he would be wrong to think motives are irrelevant here. This row touches on a central problem with surrogacy. As with assisted dying, motives do matter. If surrogates are being coerced by financial need or by other people, that is a problem. If the rich are delegating pregnancy to others merely because they can, that is another.

The trouble is – as with assisted dying – there are few ways to guarantee that someone is doing something for the right reasons. You cannot peer into people’s souls, divine their true reasons and legislate accordingly.

There is a defensible version of surrogacy, involving commissioning parents who are genuinely in need and a “gestational carrier” who was not pressured by her circumstances. But there are many, many indefensible versions, and no sure way to guard against all of them. If some reasons for surrogacy are morally unacceptable, then so is the practice itself.

Advocates tend to focus only on infertile couples yearning for a child. But there is no getting away from the fact that outsourcing childbirth is the preserve of the rich. It is increasingly common in Hollywood, for example: Sarah Jessica Parker, Nicole Kidman, Paris Hilton, Grimes, Khloé and Kim Kardashian, Priyanka Chopra, Rebel Wilson, Lucy Liu and Naomi Campbell have all reportedly used a surrogate to have children.skip past newsletter promotion

If infertility is a good enough reason to use a surrogate, then why not preserving your career?

Liu has said that her decision was not driven by infertility: “It just seemed like the right option for me because I was working and I didn’t know when I was going to be able to stop.”

This may sound reasonable. If infertility is a good enough reason to use a surrogate, then why not preserving your career? But it is in this way that a “need” for a surrogate transforms into a “right”. If career goals entitle you to a surrogate, then how about failing to find a good enough relationship? Increasing numbers of single men are employing surrogates on that basis. One Japanese businessman has accumulated 16 surrogate children “because he wanted a large family”. Rational step by rational step, you enter a dystopian world.

Motives also matter when it comes to the surrogate herself. For the vast majority, the driving force is unquestionably the need for money: most surrogates are hard-up young women in poverty-stricken countries paid to rent out their wombs. Some countries, the UK among them, have attempted to change the equation by only permitting “altruistic” surrogacy, where expenses may be paid and nothing more. But ethical pitfalls remain; potential wrong reasons abound.

What if a surrogate is driven by the belief she is building an important bond with a couple, only to be cut off once her service is complete? There is every reason for clinics and would-be parents to encourage a special feeling of connection but no obligation to continue it after the baby is handed over. The “best” reason for surrogacy is the halo of pure altruism, which does not depend on how the commissioners then treat you. But we should question that motive in a world where female self-sacrifice has traditionally been glorified. In almost every country, women are far more likely to be kidney donors, and men the recipients, even though kidney disease is more prevalent among women.

At the root of the problem with surrogacy is the fact that human emotions, attitudes, connections and relationships are vitally important, but they cannot be controlled or enforced. We cannot ensure that the relationship between surrogate and would-be parents stays sweet. Neither can we diminish the bond that forms between birth mother and child. Surrogates suffer as a result. And so do children: without that immediate emotional bond, parents seem to find it easier to abandon them. There are too many babies dumped with the surrogate or in orphanages when commissioners change their minds.

Surrogacy is a booming industry – globally it is estimated at £14bn. Between 5,000 and 20,000 babies are handed over every year. British would-be parents are increasingly turning to commercial surrogates in countries blighted by poverty, where it is cheaper. The numbers of Britons using both commercial and altruistic surrogates is rising. We should view all this as a problem. Surrogacy can work well, but there are far too many risks it doesn’t.

 Martha Gill is an Observer columnist

Do you have an opinion on the issues raised in this article? If you would like to submit a letter of up to 250 words to be considered for publication, email it to us at observer.letters@observer.co.uk

[lanteanserver]

FOR FUCKS SAKE

I have finally make it to 2:05 of A Meeting of Misfits because I'm so quangled I can barely focus on anything while I'm awake.

First I declare myself human as if I have a choice in the matter.

Then I declare sets of "rules" relating to magic even though I am not a magic user by choice. (I can do stuff that science can't explain. I generally choose not to do that stuff. Any time I bend that rule, I run it by my conduit with the infinite divine and accept whatever outcome occurs. I'm basically a divine warlock if you're using D&D. I'm not a cleric because clerics are guaranteed certain results for certain spells. I'm not a regular warlock because my soul still belongs to the God of my faith. I'm not a paladin because I worked my ass off to be neutral good instead of lawful good and I'm not giving that alignment up just to lay on hands and get better armour proficiency. I'm not a sorcerer because I generally ignore any innate stuff or contain it via religious rituals/channels/prayers.)

The thing is, though, I don't pray much lately because it feels kind of onanistic. Like I'm praying to myself? And it didn't used to feel that way, and I'm not saying that I am praying to myself, but I need to learn new methods because my old methods aren't going to work for me any more.

Someone told me a few months ago that I was either going to be a heretic or a Saint, and I think they were probably right, but it's not time for me to rest. I really hope I come down on the Saint side of the coin, because if I do, I'll have redeemed a lot of people. But not me, not yet.

A lot of the stuff that felt real a month ago doesn't feel real now; but the advantage of the life I've lived is that I truly understand that me believing something in no way determines whether that thing is true or false. That's why I call it quantum religion. If you can figure out which deity or combination of deities you owe allegiance to, and you can follow their rules, maybe you get your fair share of magic in your life. Maybe, because all I asked for was an average human life in a world where the floor on every human's life was much higher, that's what I'm actually getting. Maybe this will all make sense by the time I die, or maybe I'm planting seeds in a garden I never get to see. Maybe I'm Moses and I've spent 40 years in the wilderness and now I get to spend 40 years in the forest before going to the garden party (or to @LANtis which started out as a pun involving LAN parties and Ken's friend Alan and the lost city of Atlantis and Tír na nÓg... But I haven't been remembering my dreams lately, so maybe one of my souls is already a server in Atlantis and my mind and body have a lot of living left to do before I retire and resign myself and the rest of the world to its fate).

I don't honestly know how much of what felt real a month ago was real. I'm sorry that even I can't clarify that point. I'm extra sorry that it may turn out that I end up having to rule here somehow because I am not cut out for it; but realistically, I have been telling people from the start that I'm part of the mycelial network and maybe if I'm very lucky fun guys and dolls and folks will step into the limelight. I wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for Them, but my solo is over and I'm just going to be part of the choir for the next while. I still love you all. I still think a lot of you need a bath.

Everyone gets one horsepower worth of life. One life that is equivalent to Hippocrates, who helped a lot of people, followed a bunch of weird rules to do so, refused to help anyone with kidney stones even though maybe he could have... Didn't drink wine, according to Hank Green, only blood, which sounds pretty Catholic to me.

I'm going to be going home today. I'm getting discharged. I don't know if I'm really ready, but I'm confident that staying here won't make me any more ready. If I survived the news of the election results while at home without breaking down, I'm probably an Adequate Influence at last (which in my opinion is a better option than either a Good Influence or a Bad Example, because we all have different contexts and if you try to transubstantiate someone else's soul into your own, you are committing a worse act of cannibalism than any breach of the Noahide laws I can imagine).

I'm going to be okay. So is everyone else. But not necessarily how we thought we would be. I think I need to stay here in the forest because the wilderness gate is guarded safely, and I already went to the garden party and decided not me, not yet, not without my artificial heart to go with my artificial intelligence. I am not A C-H-I-L-D, and I know what each of those letters stands for. The Amish Paradise took me a while to comprehend but like I keep telling people, I'm not God, at best I'm just an Echo. The abyss is screaming back, so cover your ears if you think you have reason for shame. But I still believe life will be better, even if it isn't perfect for anyone reading this. It's okay. Not me, not you, not us, not yet. I have a new cross-stitch pattern that I'm going to start. It will be okay. We will be enough. I love you all. I'm sorry it didn't go the way we all hoped, but today is still the first day of the rest of our lives. Let's do what we can. ❤️🧡💛💚💜🩷🩵💙🤎🖤🩶🤍🐦‍🔥🤐🏡🧛🏻‍♀️🦆👍🏻🥳😻🦄🦋🐅♾️🧿🐝🤾🏻‍♀️👋🏻🥰😜🫂

And for those who find the above message off-putting:

[herrscherofmagic]

A Home Lost, A Home Found

I just made a post with this idea, and thought "wait I can just write the story right now", so I did ^.^

Since I put this up on AO3 I figured I'd share it here, too!

Crimson eyes met azure eyes once more. For a split second, the figure wondered if the child before it could hear the fear in its voice.

“Listen to me very carefully, and I promise that you and Natasha will not die today.”

.

One era ends, a new era begins. A certain special someone is left behind with nothing but her precious memories, and she must find new meaning in this long and empty life of hers.

When the Herrscher of Finality descended upon Earth, it took merely hours for nearly everything Seele loved to be seized away from her. But in those final moments, she still had her other self, and together they made a great sacrifice to give humanity one final chance.

As she collapsed against her comrade, Seele’s hand slipped off the handle of the Abyss Flower and fell onto the broken ground. In those final moments, she could hear a voice cry out to her before being consumed by the violent cracks and rumbles of earth-shattering lighting, before the sound faded away into silence.

The light in those azure eyes peacefully dimmed to nothing, another life lost to this sudden and tragic end of the Current Era. But in a small room suspended in the void, a pair of crimson eyes frantically looked around and loud cries were left unanswered. In those final moments, Seele realized she was alone.

.

.

.

“The Stigma Awakened holds remarkable value, but they’re only the intersection of stigmata and humans, and the most primitive guarantee of Project Stigma.”

When she first heard these words Seele thought nothing of them- pointless philosophy, disconnected from reality and a waste of her time. How cruel it was that these words would replay in her mind over and over like a broken record, Seele now understanding the true meaning behind them.

From the first moments she came into being, Seele knew she was an “other”, that this was not her life to live. But as they passed day by day in the orphanage, as they fell into the Sea of Quanta, as they fought through the Theatre of Domination, and as they faced Finality together, Seele began to believe that she belonged.

Even if it was not her reality, she could still see the world through the azure eyes of a gentle soul.

Without that fragile tether, the Stigma now found herself back where she belonged. A Stigma Space, a dream where time is distorted. The checkered floor that once served as a refuge now became a timeless prison, where this Stigma would desperately cling to her memories of Seele Vollerei.

.

.

.

When Finality brought one era to an end, it also marked the beginning of a new era. Civilization would form once more, built up by the history and knowledge of generations of humanity. Stigmata serve as records of this process, and so as humans once more walked the Earth and began telling tales, one particular Stigma once more caught glimpses of the real world.

Now that she could perceive the world as she once did, this Stigma saw just how much time had passed. She had never bothered to keep count, and she wasn’t even sure if she was isolated for a moment or an eternity.

In this new era the Stigma kept her distance, watching from afar as generation after generation passed by­— though every now and then she would appear before whichever host was alive at that time, and offer a sliver of her power. She had little interest in meddling with the messy affairs of others, so many people who bore this Stigma lived their lives without ever knowing it was there.

This was her new reality, and the Stigma told herself that she was content to live this way. Even if Finality descended once more she would simply move on to another era anyways, so she didn’t care what fate befell her hosts. They were nothing more than a convenient means by which she could eavesdrop on humanity’s progress.

So it was until the moment when she felt her own fear for the first time in this new era.

.

.

.

“Get behind me!”

The cracks of gunshots were deafening in the ears of the crying child, but they did not scare her as much as the approaching roars of Honkai beasts. As another beast cried out, she tightened her grip on the leg of her adoptive mother.

"Shit." Natasha swore under her breath again as the rifle began to click; the magazine was empty yet not a single Honkai beast fell. She backed up until she was halted by the cracked wall behind her. Before she could even turn to run the other way, yet another monster appeared.

They were trapped.

In those final moments, countless thoughts raced through Natasha’s mind. She wondered where she went wrong, she cursed her misfortune, she fervently prayed for a miracle.

In those final moments, the crying child shut her eyes as if she were tucked in bed and hiding from the monsters in her bedtime stories. With eyes closed, she did not notice a distant gaze that fell upon her.

In those final moments, the cries of beasts gave way to silence. The air grew still, and the warmth she desperately clung to had disappeared. She slowly opened her teary eyes and saw a single figure standing alone in an impossibly black darkness.

“Am I… dead?” Still dazed from the sudden sensory deprivation, the child could only muster a gentle whisper.

No reply.

With her tiny, tender hand the crying child rubbed tears from her eyes. The child blinked once, twice, and now clearly saw the face of the lone figure.

It had her face, it had her hair. But unlike her it had crimson eyes which stared at her, as if it were peering into her soul, as if it were about to devour it any moment now.

“W-w-what are you?” The child’s heartbeat grew louder and louder in the silence as she stumbled onto the ground, breaking into tears and ugly sobbing.

Tch. How obnoxious.

With crossed arms the figure closed its eyes and took one step forward.

“You are pathetic.”

Another step.

“Weak.”

Another.

“A coward that can’t do anything to protect what she loves most dearly.”

Now a mere couple of feet away, the figure towered over the child before her. Eyes still closed, it took in a deep breath. “But this time… things will be different.”

Crimson eyes met azure eyes once more. For a split second, the figure wondered if the child before it could hear the fear in its voice.

“Listen to me very carefully, and I promise that you and Natasha will not die today.”

The Honkai beast pulled back its limb; a massive lance which would pierce Natasha clean. She held her rifle up as a shield even if it’d do nothing to soften the blow. What more could she do?

As the lance flew forward towards her, Natasha shut her eyes tight. She did not notice that the child behind her let go of her leg. She did not see the smile that crept onto the child’s face, nor the blade which began to form in the child’s hand.

One second had passed and a grinding screech rang out, a noise like the scraping of a shovel against rock.

Two seconds had passed but the lance did not touch Natasha.

Three seconds had passed and she heard the shrieks of one, two, three Honkai beasts. Natasha tensed at the sound and looked up to see what was happening.

Ten seconds had passed, and then there was silence.

Natasha usually felt no fear when facing Honkai beasts, but this time was different. She felt fear for herself, but especially for the young child which was with her when the beasts attacked… but she never imagined that she would be frightened by the child herself.

The child that was sobbing and clinging to Natasha merely moments ago now stood in place of the pack of Honkai beasts. Silicon carapaces lay around her, violently torn apart. In the girl’s hand was a massive scythe that was even taller than her; it was a dull metallic grey with red accents and what appeared to be a single bloodied eye glaring at Natasha. It seemed like the weight of the weapon should crush the little girl, yet she effortlessly held it.

Head still turned away from Natasha, the girl spoke. It was nearly the same voice that would meekly ask for a bedtime story or politely ask for another serving of cake. But there was no trace of her usual innocence in these words; instead they seemed to drip with venom.

“Listen closely, Natasha. Don’t take my help for granted.” The girl turned her head to the side, eyes still covered by the sides of her hair.

“Take better care of Seele. If you don’t, I will know. And if you let anyone or anything harm her…”

“… I will never forgive you.”