#its admirable yet so heart wrenching

[brocedestruther]

here’s my silly takes on this photo because honestly it has moved me… so much layers to dissect, so much meaning—i just can’t help but examine.

of course first, the logo and the rain streaks. is it tears or blood? is it both? it can be interpreted as the tears that were shed for the pain ferrari has caused him, cause the people but it can also be blood.

ill never stop bringing up how strikingly red ferrari is, how its colors constanly draw me to compare it to something like bloodshed and sacrifice. the building being that color just makes the streams of water look like dripping blood. does he even know where his own pain stops and where the rest begins? the many crushed dreams of the ferrari drivers of the past haunts him, screaming at him as a warning for what his future will inevitably be. so much blood has been shed to make ferrari this color, so much crushed dreams. and charles was no exception.

the streams eventually fall down onto him. onto his shoulders, another part of the legacy he carries. the weight of the past watching on him to save this crumbling team — and it drowns him. he’s halfway into the buildimg, but he’s still out. is he an outsider? is he leaving? is ferrari a home he desperately wants to get into, or one he desperately wants to leave? its like hes trying to get in (or maybe trying to leave) and is just frozen at the doorstep in indecision.

its sad to me, holding onto something that he’s dreamed of for decades and being left with nothing but crushed dreams and bloodied hands. and he still pushes on and tries to change the prophecy. the predestined — is his destiny to save the team, or is it to be cut whole and sacrificed just like all the others before him?

[blaire-apricity]

hellow can i make a request of a sylusxiseakaid reader who is a side character and her being unrequited love due to sylus has mc of l&d?

Unrequited Love

sʏʟᴜs x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᯓ❅ ┆ 𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ┆ : 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥?

ᯓ❅ ┆ 𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 ┆ : 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵 & 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵

─────────────── ˗ˏˋ ❅｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽ ˎˊ˗ ────────────────

One moment, you were having a regular day and as you were about to retire for the day, upon pushing through your door, you stepped into the foreign yet familiar world; your heart raced with excitement as you realized where you entered. What once existed only in your wildest dreams, the fantasy confined to your phone screen, had become your reality. You found yourself inside the very game you played for so long: ‘Love and Deepspace.’

Your old life, a cycle of dull routines and exhausting repetition, seemed distant now. Here you were, in a place you only ever daydreamed about. It felt like the universe had granted you a second chance—to rewrite your story in a world you once believed was unreachable.

But this new life came with its own challenges. Most painfully, it brought you face-to-face with someone you’d always admired from afar, separated only by the cold distance of a screen and the difference between reality and fantasy.

But now, it was different, you were closer than ever, yet nothing was as you imagined.

In the game, you had always been the protagonist in Sylus’ storyline. You thought that, now that you were here, it would be the same. But it wasn’t. Instead, you were reduced to a mere side character, watching from the shadows. The gut-wrenching disappointment hit hard.

Abandoning your old monotonous life was one thing. But realizing that the person you longed for might never see you—that hurt even more. Yet, you were determined to make the most of this second chance. Just because the person you love doesn’t love you back doesn’t mean your world has to end.

Right?

But convincing yourself of that was harder than you expected. Back when it was all fiction, when Sylus’ every move was scripted by developers, at least there was some comfort in the illusion that, in some way, he knew you existed. In that fictional world, he loved you.

Now, in this real version, he didn’t even know your name. He had no idea what you looked like, what you loved, or that you even existed. The sting of unrequited love was unbearable, but being invisible to him was what shattered your heart.

You clung to your knowledge of this world from your days playing the game, using it to guide you. You poured every ounce of effort, persistence, and determination into getting closer to his orbit. You left Linkon City behind and ventured into the N109 Zone, carving a path for yourself in his industry.

You were still far from his actual organization, but you understood the game’s rules better than most. You thought maybe—just maybe—you could introduce yourself, find a way to meet him, forge your own story with him.

For a while, that hope kept you going.

But then you saw him. With her. The real protagonist of this world.

That’s when it hit you. You weren’t her. This world didn’t revolve around you. With or without you, it continued, indifferent to your dreams.

Clenching your fists, you let go of that delusion. This love of yours, so deep and painful, would remain unrequited forever. And there was nothing you could do to change it.

·❆　　　❆　❅　　　　•　　　　.　　　　　❆❆• 　·　.　　　❅

𝐴𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟'𝑠 𝑁𝑜𝑡𝑒: 𝐼 𝑎𝑝𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑖𝑧𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡, 𝐴𝑛𝑜𝑛. 𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑘𝑎𝑖 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔, 𝐼 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛'𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐼'𝑚 𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼'𝑚 𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑑𝑢𝑐𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑑𝑎𝑦.

𝑊𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛, 𝑖𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 2 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑢𝑝𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑒 (𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠, 𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦). 𝐼 𝑔𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑢𝑠𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑎𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑡, 𝐼'𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐿𝐴𝐷𝑆 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝐼 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐼'𝑚 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝐿𝐴𝐷𝑆 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑡.

𝑀𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝐼 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑏𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛.

[growingstories]

Golf

Once upon a time, in the vibrant world of sports, there was a football player named Andrew Thompson. He possessed immense skill and was admired by fans for his dedication and talent. Unfortunately, fate had a different plan in store for Andrew. During a fateful game, he suffered a severe injury that left him unable to continue his football career.

Devastated by the news, Andrew pondered his uncertain future. He longed for the thrill and camaraderie of the sporting world once more. As he searched for a new direction, he discovered the game of golf. Intrigued by the peacefulness it offered and its potential for success, Andrew decided to give it a shot.

To his surprise, Andrew excelled at golf. With his determination and natural athletic abilities, he quickly rose the ranks through of amateur tournaments. As his skills gained recognition, he found himself competing against some of the sport's greatest players. After each victorious tournament, he indulged in lavish parties, reveling in his newfound success.

Amidst the celebrations, Andrew soon realized that his golf clubs were becoming cumbersome to carry around. He sought a caddy to assist him during his games, and that when's he met Samuel, an experienced caddy with a knack for understanding the game. Samuel diligently carried Andrew's clubs, ensuring he had everything he needed.

However, as time went on, Andrew began to grow lazy. Intoxicated by his achievements and the care Samuel provided, he allowed himself to indulge in luxurious food and leisurely golf cart rides instead of walking the courses. His appetite grew, and so did his waistline.

Unbeknownst to Andrew, tabloids soon caught wind of his weight gain. Headlines ridiculed his physical transformation, and the public became fascinated with his downfall. Andrew's frustration grew, leading him to seek solace in food even more. The agony of his failures was momentarily eased by binge-eating, which only perpetuated his cycle of weight gain.

Through it all, Samuel remained devoted to Andrew, preparing delectable meals to satisfy his insatiable hunger. Unbeknownst to Andrew, Samuel found pleasure in their arrangement, which extended beyond the confines of their golfing routine. Their relationship became complicated, entwined with both physical satisfaction and genuine care.

Days turned into months, and Andrew's weight continued to pile on. His belly grew so large that it began interfering with his swing, rendering his ability to play golf effectively nearly impossible. Frustration consumed him, and he made the heart-wrenching decision to retire from golf altogether.

Despite his attempts to step away from the eating, the weight gain showed signs no of slowing down. Andrew's love for food, coupled with his love for Samuel, fueled his desire to consume more. Samuel, dedicated and unwavering in his support, took care of Andrew's every need, even as their encounters grew more frequent and intense.

Andrew's life gradually revolved around his desires, and his once-athletic physique disappeared beneath layers of fat. The public's interest in him waned, and he became a recluse, secluded within the confines of his extravagant home. While many criticized his choices, Samuel remained steadfast in his care, ensuring Andrew's pleasure and satisfaction were his top priorities.

Days turned into years, and Andrew's weight continued to skyrocket. Yet, despite the physical limitations and societal pressures, their love remained intact. It was a bond that surpassed societal norms, a connection that transcended.

And appearances so, with every bite, every touch, and every encounter, Andrew and Samuel continued their tumultuous journey. In their twisted world, there would be no stopping, no judgment, and no escape from the grips of their desires.

[heartfullofleeches]

[dismemberment, creep reader being the creep they are]

Creep healer reader who will happily repair someone - for a price. All they ask is to keep the damaged parts, or whatever they consider beautiful on the person Eyes, scarred limbs, cracked teeth. Displays then around their house with jars of fluid mixed with their saliva so they never rot away. Always carries one with them and if you listen closely - you might whispering to them to it. Most tend to avoid them from their behavior, but others admire their bizarre obsession

-

Creep Reader, examining yan's arms: such pretty hands.....

Yan: y-you think so?

Creep Reader, panting: Can I have one?

Yan: ...would you care for my heart instead?

-

Eyes follow you as you drop their identical pair in a fresh jar, hugging the container to your chest as a patent would their child as you tighten its seal. You marvel at the new addition to your collection with a rare smile saved solely for the occasion. It's jarring, yet heart-wrenching how you're only able to look them in the eye when they're floating around in a glass prison. They wished for their eyes to still be the same as the ones in your hands to feel your love even in its most twisted form.

"Y/n? Why do you do this?.."

You turn to face them. Even staring straight at them - they feel like a ghost.

"Sorry, I know I shouldn't ask too many questions...."

"Had a friend...once"

You set the jar on a shelf.

"Got into an accident and I wasn't around to help. They were dead by the time I was allowed to see them, but I still managed to fix them. Their body was fine, but they...weren't there anymore. Zero brain activity. It's like they were a living doll. So much blood. They were so beautiful...."

Your fingers touch the glass as your small smile returns - inching towards melancholy.

"This way... I can see the beauty of others without having to worry about making any connections or losing them. Nothing lasts forever, but this way I'll always have something to remember those gone by....."

How blind have you become to not see the connections you've already made?... The lives you affected and hearts you've touched on deeper levels than physical. Was the cold stare of their vacant eyes honestly better than the warmth of their embrace now? If that truly was the case - they'd give you every part of them until each piece was molded into something worthy of your love.

[unabashegirl]

Enticing 36 || Harry Styles

Summary: Harry is a young billionaire and CEO of his own company. He mostly keeps to himself, he is stern and very meticulous when it comes to business. He also likes to keep his personal life very private for the sake of his newly born son Oliver Styles. It isn't until he meets Y/N Y/L/N that everything changes. She becomes his new nanny after his previous one quits due to personal reasons. She is young, caring, and sweet. Will they ignore their feelings? Will Harry's girlfriend accept their love and leave them? Will she be able to cope with his busy agenda? What about Oliver's mother? Where is she? Who is she?

author's note: chapter 50 just got uploaded on Patreon! I am so excited! Click below and join our community to continue reading ENTICING. 

masterlist

word count: 2.0K

As the first piece of furniture, a beige bed frame, arrived at Y/N's apartment, a sense of anticipation and excitement filled the air. Harry had insisted on being there to help, and Y/N was grateful for his presence. She watched with a subtle, appreciative smile as he quickly got to work, his sleeves rolled up, and his tie and blazer set aside.

Y/N couldn't help but admire the manliness of Harry as he sorted through the pieces and began assembling the bed frame. His skilled hands moved with precision, his muscles flexing subtly beneath his shirt. She found herself stealing glances at his physical appearance, his determination adding an extra layer of attractiveness.

Yet, amid her admiration, a tinge of annoyance gnawed at her. She couldn't help but think back to the passionate nights they had once shared in his luxurious apartment. Those memories were etched into her mind, a testament to the chemistry and intimacy they had once shared. She sighed softly, wondering how they had let something so special slip away.

“Thank you for doing this, Harry,” she said, her voice filled with appreciation as she handed him a bottle of water. “I don't know what I would've done without your help."

Harry paused for a moment to take a sip of water, his eyes meeting hers with a warm smile. "Of course. I'm here for you. I want to make sure everything is set up safely."

As they continued working on the bed frame together, Y/N couldn't help but remember the passionate nights they had spent in his apartment, their connection both physical and emotional. She had let him go once, but seeing him here, helping her build a life for their child, made her wonder if they had a second chance at happiness.

With each piece of furniture they assembled together, the bond between them grew stronger, and Y/N couldn't help but hope that this shared effort would lead to a future where they wouldn't have to let go again.

After successfully assembling the bed frame together, Y/N and Harry stood back to admire their handiwork. The beige bed frame now stood proudly in the corner of Y/N's bedroom, a symbol of their shared efforts and the new beginning they were building together.

Y/N couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment wash over her. It was more than just a piece of furniture; it was a tangible representation of their commitment to each other and to their future as co-parents.

As they shared a moment of quiet pride, Harry's gaze shifted to Y/N, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You know," he began, a playful grin tugging at his lips, "I think we've just invented a new form of couples' therapy—furniture assembly."

Y/N chuckled, her laughter infectious. "You might be onto something there. Who needs a therapist when you have an Allen wrench and a stubborn bed frame?"

Harry nodded, looking thoughtful. "We could start a business"

Y/N burst into laughter, and Harry joined in. It was a light-hearted moment, a stark contrast to the heavy conversations they'd had in the past.

With the bed frame successfully assembled, they decided to move on to the next piece of furniture—the cloud-like couch destined for the living room. It was a bit of a challenge due to its size, but their shared effort made the task feel less daunting.

Once the cloud couch was assembled and perfectly positioned in the living room, they both couldn't resist trying it out. They sank into its plush cushions, nestled close together. The comfort of the couch, combined with the closeness of their proximity, created a charged atmosphere.

Their gazes locked, and time seemed to stand still. The unspoken tension between them crackled like electricity in the air. Harry's thumb brushed against Y/N's cheek as he leaned in, his lips hovering just above hers.

Their breaths mingled, their hearts pounded, and at that moment, it felt as if they were suspended in a space where past and present collided. The weight of their emotions and unspoken words hung between them, a palpable reminder of the love they had once shared.

But before they could share the kiss they both longed for, the moment was shattered by an unexpected interruption. Patrick stood in the doorway, his expression a mixture of surprise and disapproval.

He cleared his throat, breaking the charged atmosphere in the room. "Am I interrupting something here?"

Y/N and Harry jerked apart, their faces flushed with embarrassment. Patrick's presence had effectively doused the romantic spark that had been building between them.

Y/N quickly composed herself, trying to hide her unease. "Patrick, this is Harry. Harry, meet Patrick, my friend and roomate."

Harry extended a hand toward Patrick, his expression friendly but somewhat tense. "Nice to finally meet you, Patrick."

Patrick's handshake was polite, but his eyes conveyed a hint of suspicion as he glanced between Y/N and Harry. "Likewise," he replied curtly.

The room felt suddenly awkward, and Patrick's disapproving presence hung in the air like an unwelcome guest. The interruption had left an undeniable mark on the atmosphere, and Y/N couldn't help but wonder how Patrick's arrival would impact the fragile dynamics between her and Harry.

The awkward tension in the room lingered as Y/N tried to bridge the gap between her two worlds. Patrick's unannounced appearance had disrupted the delicate balance she was trying to maintain between her past and her future.

Y/N cleared her throat, attempting to diffuse the palpable unease. "So, Patrick, what are you doing here? I though you were too busy".

Patrick's gaze remained fixed on Harry, his eyes sharp with scrutiny. "I was just dropping by to see if you needed any help with the furniture. But it seems like you've got it covered."

Y/N couldn't miss the underlying tone of skepticism in Patrick's voice. It was clear that he wasn't thrilled about Harry's presence.

Harry, on the other hand, sensed the tension and tried to ease the situation. "Actually, Patrick, your timing is perfect. We could use an extra pair of hands for the next piece of furniture."

Patrick's expression darkened slightly, and Y/N could sense his annoyance. "I thought we were going to spend some quality time together today. You and me"

Harry's voice remained composed as he addressed Patrick. "I didn't mean to intrude on your plans. If you'd rather have some alone time with Y/N, I can leave."

Patrick continued to be rude and unwelcoming toward Harry. Patrick even went as far as to ignore Harry's presence entirely, which only added to the tension in the room.

Y/N, feeling embarrassed by Patrick's behavior, attempted to mediate the situation. "Patrick, please, can we just finish assembling the furniture without all this tension?”

But Patrick's resentment remained palpable, and he gave no indication of relenting. Y/N watched in dismay as the two men she cared about clashed in her own home.

Harry, who had been trying to maintain his composure, finally reached his breaking point. He turned to Patrick, his voice cold and his expression hardened. “I understand you have your reservations, but there's no need to be so unwelcoming. We're all adults here.”

Patrick's response was cutting. “Harry, you shouldn't even be here. You're no longer a part of Y/N's life.”

Harry's temper flared, and his anger boiled over. “You don't get to decide that. I'm here because Y/N invited me, and I'm not going anywhere just because you say so.”

Y/N felt a sinking feeling in her chest as the confrontation escalated. She had hoped that Patrick and Harry could find a way to coexist for her sake and the sake of their unborn child, but it seemed like things were only getting worse.

The room felt like a battleground as Harry confronted Patrick about his place in Y/N's life. Patrick, his resentment simmering, couldn't contain his frustration any longer.

"You're no parent," Patrick snapped at Harry, his tone biting and accusatory. "You've been absent all this time. You don't get to show up now and act like you have every right."

Harry's jaw tightened, his voice laced with anger. "I didn't choose to be absent. Y/N kept this from me, and I've only just found out. I have every right to be a part of our child's life."

Y/N, her patience wearing thin, interjected angrily. "Patrick, don't assume things. I never said Harry chose to be absent. It's not fair to twist my words."

Patrick, though, remained defiant. "I just find it convenient that he shows up now, out of nowhere."

Harry's frustration mounted, and he turned to Y/N, seeking clarification. "Is that what you've been telling people? That I was absent because I wanted to be, not because you kept this from me?"

Y/N's eyes flared with anger. "No, Harry, that's not true, and you know it. I've never said that. Patrick, you're out of line."

The room seemed to crackle with tension as the three of them stood at an impasse. Y/N had hoped that her two worlds could coexist, but it was becoming increasingly clear that finding common ground would be far from easy.

Patrick's outrage reached its peak as Y/N seemingly chose Harry's side in the heated argument. His voice trembled with anger as he addressed her.

"After everything I've done for you, Y/N, you're choosing his side?" Patrick's face reddened, his frustration evident.

Y/N, her patience waning, locked eyes with Patrick, her tone firm. "you need to remember your place. You're my best friend, not my boyfriend or husband. Harry has every right to be involved in our child's life, and I won't stand in the way of that."

The room was filled with an uncomfortable silence as the weight of Y/N's words hung in the air. Patrick, though seething with anger, seemed to recognize the boundaries Y/N was drawing. It was a stark reminder that their relationship had its limits, and Y/N was determined to assert her independence and her right to make decisions about her child's future.

Patrick's frustration reached its peak, and he pointed a trembling finger at Harry, his voice demanding. "Leave. Now."

Harry, however, responded with a cold, humorless laugh. "You're going to have to try harder than that."

As Patrick attempted to step closer, his intention clearly to intimidate Harry, Harry stood his ground, his expression unwavering. Patrick's attempt to assert dominance did little to flinch Harry.

Y/N, growing increasingly alarmed by the escalating tension, stepped between the two men. "Enough, both of you! This isn't helping anyone."

The tension in the room reached a breaking point as Harry taunted Patrick, challenging him to take a swing. "Go on. Hit me”

Y/N, desperately trying to defuse the situation, stepped in between them, her voice trembling with urgency. "Please, stop it, both of you!"

But it was too late. Patrick, fueled by anger and frustration, roughly pushed Y/N aside, her startled cry filling the room. With a fiery rage in his eyes, he landed a hard punch on Harry's jaw.

The room fell into stunned silence as Harry staggered back, his hand reaching for his throbbing jaw.

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[skinnyazn]

Like Tears in the Rain

Pairing: Commander Shepard x Liara T'Soni Chapters: 1/1 Notes: @parttimeprophet asked "Ohhhh how about tearful kisses with Liara T'Soni x Femshep 👀🫶🏻? Writing, pls!" for kiss challenge!, Now you get the most heart wrenching bullshit, I may or may not have made myself cry at the end, it's fine I'm fine, excuse any tense issues I never write in present tense so this was a struggle,

AO3 | MASTERLIST

Shepard is a born soldier, fighting with bared teeth and pure grit through every calamity in her life, so this ache that sits deep inside her bones is a familiar feeling. It’s made its home from the years of abuse on the battlefield, across different planets and star systems, but it wears on her the longer she marches through the torn streets of London. Wave after wave, casualty after casualty—the physical aspect is nearly as heavy as the mental. One mistake and it all ends: the Reapers win and humanity, as well as every other sentient species in the galaxy, annihilated. And that simply isn't an option. Not for Shepard. So she does the only thing she knows how to do: fight to survive. It’s an endless reserve of horrors as her crew fight through the crumbling city. Even the Cerberus cybernetics in her body can’t combat the tiredness she feels when they finally reach the Forward Operating Base. 

There’s no time for rest as Shepard inhales deeply, breathing the ash-laden air into her lungs, as she walks around the rubble to rally the band of soldiers. She looks at the faces of the men and women who served alongside her over the years, who trusted her—followed her through hell and back. They look older now. Kaidan has grey speckles throughout his temples and Garrus, a few more scars. Anderson just looks tired, and Shepard wishes things could have gone differently for the admiral. She makes it across a bridge to a makeshift medbay where Liara is already tending to the wounded, doing what she can to help the dying with her omni-tool. She still has the gore from the team’s early assault on her armor and Shepard wants to wipe it all away.

“How are the casualties?” she asks instead, walking toward the asari.

Liara doesn’t look up from her tool. ���We lost people. Some of the wounded here won’t make it,” and it comes out calmly.

Shepard studies her lover. She hasn’t aged a day since their first meeting in that Prothean dig-site, yet the years took their toll in other ways. The once innocent and shy asari was now hardened by loss—most of all by Shepard’s.

“How are you holding up, Liara?” Shepard asks softly, moving closer.

“This is it, isn’t it,” Liara finally looks up at her commander, but her glacial blue eyes are distant. 

“Yeah,” Shepard breathes, “this is it.” 

The asari looks away, at the wounded—at the carnage around them in the brief moment of calm. 

“I don’t know what to say. I just know I’ll have a clever line five minutes from now,” she chuckles, but it comes out flat. Shepard reaches for her hand.

She stares calmly into her commander’s eyes. “I do have one thing for you, Shepard. A gift. It’ll only take a moment, if you want it.”

“Of course I do.”

Liara smiles and it makes Shepard’s heart yearn. She moves toward her lover, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against the asari’s.

And suddenly there is a weightless serenity. All the heaviness and pain from the battlefield, gone. When Shepard opens her eyes, she’s in a peaceful oblivion, surrounded by stars. Liara’s delicate hands fit perfectly in Shepard’s.

And they don’t need to speak because they can feel each other’s emotions. All the nuances and subtleties that can’t be conveyed with words. The comfort. The calm. The abundance of love. A glowing light rises over an artificial horizon, but Shepard is too lost in Liara’s eyes to notice its color. And when they kiss, it reminds Shepard why she’s in the fight: to give all the lovers a chance like they got. Liara moves her hands over her stomach and Shepard feels a wave of emotions. To give life a chance.

I wish we had more time, she thinks, but when her eyes open, she’s back in London.

Liara looks at her solemnly. “Thank you, Shepard, for everything. I love you.”

Shepard’s hands linger on the asari’s waist, thumbs brushing over her stomach. She’s too scared to say it out lout so she settles for, “I’ll be fighting for us.”

“I know,” Liara smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes. “Now let’s do what needs to be done.”

Shepard nods, taking in her lover one last time before the final push—her particular shade of blue, the kindness in her eyes, the softness of her body. She presses her forehead against the asari once more before she turns and makes her way through the stretchers to gather her crew.

And the minutes feel like hours as Hammer Team make their final assault through No Man’s Land. The swarm of husks and mutilated creatures is overwhelming. Soldiers fall all around, but Shepard and her team push forward. London looks unrecognizable as they navigate toward the massive Conduit Beam in the middle of the city.

“Incoming Banshees!” Liara cries out, readying a warp attack. 

“These bastards don’t give up,” Shepard grunts, feeling the weight of her Viper as she takes another headshot. 

“Brute at your five, Shepard!” Garrus shouts this time. 

“Then handle it! Where the hell is Wrex and the rest of the Krogans?”

“We’re busy cleaning up the mess you left,” Wrex’s voice booms through the static of the comms.

“It’s just like old times,” Garrus quips, but Shepard tunes him out as the claws of a banshee narrowly miss impaling her. She stabs the thing with her omni-tool and the shriek it emits is deafening.

“Shepard, take down that Destroyer!” It’s Anderson’s voice that breaks through the comms now, and Shepard spares a second to glance up a the massive Reaper that just touched down.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

“There should be Thanix Missiles controls in one of the tanks. Aim and fire!” the admiral shouts.

“Tuchanka 2.0,” Shepard mutters under her breath as she continues firing at the swarm of ground enemies. The deep boom of the Destroyer shakes the whole ground as its red beam carves through the city.

“We don’t have time! I’ll cover you,” Garrus yells, nearing the commander.

Shepard dashes toward the shuttle, booting up the missiles. Everything slows as she waits for the Reaper’s cannon to open; her whole body vibrates from the adrenaline. A glow of red and she presses fire. It’s a direct hit—until they swerve away at the last second.

“What the hell was that?!” she shouts, as she takes shot at a marauder in stasis. Liara has regrouped next to her as well.

“Damnit. The conduit beam must be interfering with the missiles’ guidance,” Anderson gripes. 

“EDI? Do you read me?” Shepard barks through her comms.

“Yes, Commander,” and it’s odd hearing the AI sound so strained.

“Any suggestions?” Another shot to a husk.

“I may be able to use the Normandy to enhance the missiles’ targeting capabilities.”

“Do it.”

“I’ll need you to open a link to the operating systems.”

Shepard punches at the control system while Garrus and Liara continue firing at the enemies that keep coming. 

“Missile guidance enhanced! But the Destroyer is still out of range. It needs to be as close as possible, Commander.”

Shepard unloads into another banshee. “How the hell do we get it closer—”

“Shepard!” Anderson interrupts through her earpiece. “Harbinger is releasing everything he’s got. Hammer Team is making its way toward you. Just hold on.”

“Another wave?!” Liara sounds exasperated as her flare of biotics rips through a husk. Shepard can tell it's taking a toll on the biotic.

“We HOLD!”

And wave after wave comes. Banshees, cannibals, marauders—it’s an endless stream of near death calls. The ash from the burning surroundings stick to Shepard's sweat drenched skin and tighten her throat.

“Look,” Garrus rasps between shots, “the Destroyer is closing in.”

Shepard glances at the horizon and the massive machine is nearly on top of them now. 

“Commander, it is within range!” EDI shouts over the comms.

“Firing!”

Another two Thanix missiles fire as the beam of the Destroyer weaves its way toward Shepard. This time they stick.

“A direct hit!”

“Hit them with everything you’ve got!” Shepard barks into the comms. An array of bullets and missiles in the city rain down on the Destroyer, exploding the being and littering the surroundings with corpse. A cloud of dust hits the crew.

“Destroyer terminated.” The AI sounds marginally calmer now.

“Nice work, EDI,” Shepard coughs, and she hears footsteps marching behind her.

“Shepard, over here!” It’s Anderson, and the commander feels a wave of relief that he finally caught up to them. She makes her way toward the older man. “We’re not out of the woods yet. Hackett just reported that several Sovereign-class reapers—including Harbinger—have broken off and are headed here.”

“Harbinger…”

“It’s a long shot but it’ll give Hackett enough time to get to the Citadel. But we still need someone on the ground to get to the beam and open the doors for him.”

“We still don’t know what we’ll find onboard the Citadel…” Garrus says bleakly.

“Then that’s our job: find out what we’re up against.” Shepard looks at the turian—at all of the remaining soldiers. “We’ve made it this far. There’s no turning back now. This is what we’ve been fighting for. Victory or death.” They nod.

“Alright,” Anderson said, “saddle up.”

Inside the shuttle there’s an odd sense of peace, in spite of the occasional rocking from explosions around them. There’re no windows and Shepard exhales at the bliss of being able to sit, to rest—if only for a moment. She looks over at her crew. Liara stares fixedly ahead, exhausted, and she reaches for her hand. The asari smiles faintly, squeezing back. Garrus has a shoulder wound and blood splattered all over him. Shepard hopes most if it isn’t his. He gives her a nod, telling her he’s ready to follow her to the end. Anderson sits in front of the commander, looking more than his age. She bitterly wishes he had a chance for a tranquil retirement among the stars.

“I’m proud of you, Shepard,” Anderson speaks, and it takes her by surprise. “We’re in the home stretch now.”

“No one I’d rather do this with.”

“We’re with you ’til the end,” Garrus chimes in, and his dual-tone voice sounds so tired. Liara just squeezes her hand harder.

But the smile is quickly wiped from Shepard’s face as the shuttle crashes to a halt.

“Well it was nice while it lasted,” she says, before opening the shuttle doors. “Ready?”

Outside is carnage, and the road to the Conduit is crumbled from the impact of the beam. They’re so close, but now it’s by foot now.

“It’s Harbinger!” Liara shouts over the chaos, as Shepard spots the colossal being landing. It's at least five times bigger than the Destroyer they just took down. 

“We make a run for it! NOW!” she yells, taking off as the Reaper’s beam cuts through shuttles and soldiers alike. Shepard can only focus on the conduit beam as she navigates the debris, dodging exploding tanks and falling rubble. She watches Harbinger’s laser vaporizes the ground next to her, flipping over a vehicle. It lands right in the path of her team.

“Liara!” Shepard shouts, going back for the Asari and dragging her to cover. Garrus slams his body against the flipped tank as well.

“Normandy, do you copy?! I need an evac right now!” She looks down at Liara, who’s starting to bleed on her.

“We’re taking on heavy losses up here, Commander,” Joker yells through the comms, but moments later the Normandy pulls in. Shepard feels a surge of pride knowing only Joker could pull off a maneuver like that.

“C’mon,” Shepard groans, lifting Liara over her shoulder and running back to Normandy. Other soldiers filter off the ship for ground reinforcement. The earth shakes each time Harbinger’s beam cuts through it.

“Here, take her,” Shepard grunts, handing Liara over to Garrus. 

“Shepard!” Liara moans, reaching out as blood trails down her side.

“You gotta get out of here!”

Garrus tries to pull her onto the ship but the asari pushes back.

“I’m alright, Shepard.”

“Don’t argue with me, Liara!”

“You’re not leaving me behind!” she cries. And all Shepard can see is the shy, helpless scientist she first met on Therum.

“No matter what happens,” Shepard steps toward the asari, “you mean everything to me, Liara.” 

Tears stream down the asari’s face now as her commander kisses her with the hopelessness of a dead woman walking. Garrus looks away.

“It’ll always be you,” and she wipes away the tears and blood splattered across her azure cheeks.

“Shepard I…”

But behind them, the high-pitch whirling of Harbinger’s charging cannon shrills.

“GO!” Shepard yells, looking at Liara for a final time before sprinting away from the ship. 

“I love you!” she hears her lover sob as the loading door closes and the Normandy pulls away, but her focus is on the beam now. She weaves through Harbinger’s lasers until things go white. ____

Time is distorted. She remembers the beam. She remembers the corpses. Somewhere in there, Anderson.

“You did good, kid. You did good.”

And she remembers smiling, feeling proud. But it didn’t last. She took the dog tags and put them over her neck. And she remembers the stillness of watching the chaos in space from inside the Conduit—the muted explosions and fleets of ships outside made her feel like she was underwater. She wonders if Hackett made it.

Then there’s The Child—the one she kept seeing on Earth and in her dreams—and it’s telling her she has to make a choice. She studies the thing, this illusion of a boy, and hopes that Liara made it. She wonder’s what she’ll name their daughter; she wishes she could watch her grow.

And when Shepard walks up to the catalyst, she’s not afraid this time. It’s not like the suffocating, cold, loneliness of space over Alchera. Now, she’s over her home. Earth. With everyone she’s ever loved down there. She holds the other set of dog tags in her hands.

“We did it, Anderson. We did it.” And she fires into the catalyst.

[xdirtyxlittlexgirl]

Hi! Could I request a Henry cavill story? Where reader meets him while he’s in town shooting for his new movie but she doesn’t recognize him at all and doesn’t know he is kind of in a relationship but that it is rocky. But yet somehow they end up together!!

Just Find Me (Part 1)

Pairing: Henry Cavill X Reader

Summary: You have a chance encounter with Henry Cavill during your travels in Italy

Warning: Very fluffy, emotional, love, angsty

You are a writer travelling through the small towns of Italy to find inspiration for your book. You've been visiting different places, trying to capture the essence of each town and its people. Finding heart wrenching love stories from these small hamlets, just like your grandparents' is your sole mission right now. Today, you find yourself in a small restaurant surrounded by vineyards in the picturesque town of Montalcino.

As you peruse to the wine cellar, you can't help but feel a little overwhelmed by the extensive selection. You're known to be fussy about your wine choices, always looking for the perfect blend. Lost in your thoughts, you're jolted back to reality by a deep, smooth voice behind you.

"Can I help you with something?" You turn around and find yourself face to face with a tall, robust, and handsome man. He's leaning against the door frame, looking at you with a charming smile. He cannot be a waiter, you think. But it's Italy. Anything is possible. You're taken aback by his beauty, but you can't quite place where you've seen him before, because he does look so familiar.

"I'm just looking for the perfect wine," you reply, trying to regain your composure. He chuckles and you just stare at him, admiring the oaky scent and curly hair. "Well, that's a tall order. Let me help you out." You watch as he strides confidently towards you, his eyes scanning the shelves of bottles, as you lose yourself in his scent. He picks one out and holds it up to the light. "This one is a number," he says. "It's a blend of Sangiovese and Cabernet Sauvignon. It's bold, full-bodied, with hints of dark cherry and blackberry. It's perfect for a day like today." You take the bottle from him, studying it. "Thank you, it sounds perfect." you say blushing as you adored the man and also the knowledge he had of wines.

He nods, his blue eyes twinkling. "My pleasure. I'm Henry, by the way." You shake his outstretched hand. "I'm (y/n). Nice to meet you." That's when the sudden realisation dawned upon you. It is infact Henry Cavill. The guy who plays Superman and the Witcher. Wow. You try to act cool, not wanting to make a big deal out of it but you can feel your knees giving up. Just when you were about to make a total fool of yourself and ask him for a picture, his voice cut through your rumbled thoughts. "If I'm not bothering you too much, would you like to join me?" He asked and you blushed. "It would be a shame to drink a fine bottle like that alone." He adds cheekily as you chuckle and nods. He leads you outside as you quickly head to your table to collect your things, and then go up to him, where he takes you to his table pulling a chair out for you, as he then takes a seat himself in front of you. You place your things there which also includes a vintage looking diary and a pen, and you could see the curiosity in his eyes.

"So, what brings you to Montepulciano?" He asks as he pours some wine for yourself before pouring some for him. "I'm a writer," you tell him swirling your glass of wine, smiling at him as a thank you for pouring the drink. "I'm here to find inspiration for my book." you add as he looks at you intently. "Ah, a writer," he says, swirling his own glass of wine. "That's fascinating. What kind of book are you working on?" he adds taking a sip of that delicious wine. "It's an anthology based on love stories from across Italy," you reply. He nods thoughtfully. "Sounds interesting. I'm sure there are plenty of stories to be told here," he smiles as you blush a little. "Well thank you, I hope so too. What beings you here?"you ask stressing on the 'you' part because it's not normal to find a celebrity like himself, wandering around the streets like that. "Just taking a little vacation," he replies with a small smile, which looked half convincing, but you didn't know him enough to ask more about it. "It's nice to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city, you know?" You nod, understanding the sentiment. You both chat about your respective work, your love for writing, and your passion for exploring new places. You can't help but feel drawn to him, his easy charm and infectious laugh.

As you both sip on the wine, you realize that it is indeed perfect. The boldness of the Cabernet Sauvignon perfectly balances the fruity notes of the Sangiovese. You're impressed with his wine knowledge and you end up asking him. "This wine is actually perfect, and I thought 'I' knew all the fancy wines." you add chuckling and take a sip again, almost moaning at the taste. "Thank you, I just thought it'd be perfect for you." he adds smiling at you. "Are you a sommelier or something?"you asked surprised to see his extensive wine knowledge. He laughs in response and then softly adds, "No, just a wine enthusiast. I've learned a thing or two over the years. All thanks to the extensive traveling." "Ah my grandfather had a vineyard. So, that's why I'm a bit of a wine snob," you share. He chuckles but then looks impressed. "That's amazing. Maybe we can explore some more vineyards together," he suggests. You smile, liking the idea of spending more time with him. You both start taking a walk along the vineyard.

As you both sipped on the delicious wine, the conversation flowed easily between you and Henry. You found yourself sharing stories of your travels through the small towns of Italy and the interesting people you met along the way. He shared his own experiences shooting movies in Rome and Florence, and how he chose to visit the small towns to take a break from the hustle and bustle of the city.

"I've always been drawn to the great outdoors," Henry said as he gestured towards the stunning vineyards around you. "There's something about the fresh air and the natural beauty that just makes me feel alive." You nodded in agreement, taking in the breathtaking views around you. The sun was starting to set, casting a golden hue over the rolling hills and the vineyards. It was the kind of moment that made you feel like time was standing still, and you were content to just enjoy the present.

"I couldn't agree more," you said with a smile. "I've been looking for inspiration for my book, and I've found that the small towns of Italy have given me so much to work with. The people, the culture, the stories... it's all so rich and fascinating..." Henry nodded, taking another sip of his wine as you both leaned on the balcony, enjoying the view. "Speaking of stories, have you come across any interesting ones in your travels?"

You thought for a moment, then remembered the old couple you had met during your time in Florence. "Actually, there was one couple that really stood out to me. They had been married for over 50 years now and had the most beautiful love story. It was definitely something out of a fairytale." Henry leaned in, clearly intrigued. "Tell me more." And so you told him about the couple - how they had met in the same vineyard where you were sitting now, and how they had fallen in love at first sight. They moved to Florence, got married, and had a huge family. You described the way they still held hands and whispered sweet nothings to each other after all these years, and how they had overcome every obstacle life had thrown their way.

Henry listened intently, his eyes locked on yours as you spoke. "Wow," he said when you finished. "That's the kind of love story that movies are made of." You nodded and chuckled. "That's the kind of love I seek... Speaking of movies, I have to tell you. I am a huge fan of the Night Hunter, and The Man from Uncle. I love thriller movies. I also loved watching the Witcher." You tell him with a shy smile not wanting to sound like a fangirl as he smiled. "Thank you, I love thrillers myself. I always look for stories while selecting a film, more than my character." he explained and you heard him intently, as you could feel the passion he had for his job with every word he spoke. At one point, Henry leaned in closer to you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and you almost lost your breath. "You know, (y/n), you're really something special. It's not often that I meet someone who's as passionate and driven as you are."

You felt your cheeks flush at the compliment, but before you could respond, Henry spoke again. "Listen, I don't want this night to end just yet. Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner?" You looked at him, feeling a flutter in your stomach. The thought of spending more time with him was thrilling, but at the same time, you were hesitant. You didn't want to get your hopes up or read too much into the invitation. But then Henry smiled at you, and you felt your heart skip a beat. "I promise, it'll be a night to remember, plus it's just a matter of a few hours." he says with a chuckle pointing at the sky which is adorned in the shades of dusk, hinting the arrival of the nightfall. You chukle and shake your head a little. With those words, you knew you couldn't say no. So you smiled back at him and nodded, feeling a sense of excitement and anticipation building inside you. This was just the beginning of a beautiful adventure, and you were ready to see where it would take you, but you didn't want to be hopeful. You knew better than to get lost in a moment and hurt yourself for years to come, but for the first time in ages, you enjoyed this bittersweetness. It felt weirdly right.

As you both exit the vineyard, you start to take a walk around the beautiful town. As you both round a corner, he leads you into a small courtyard with a fountain in the center. Henry takes your hand and leads you to a bench near the fountain. "It's breathtaking..." you say gazing at the beautiful surroundings as you sit next to him. You both sit in a comfortable silence, the sound of the water trickling in the background. You look at him and feel your heart skip a beat. You can't believe you were here, in Italy, with Henry Cavill. It feels like a dream. You just sat there watching people stroll by. The sun is setting, and the sky is painted in shades of orange and pink. You can feel his gaze on you, but you try to ignore it.

Suddenly, he breaks the silence and asks you, "So, are you single or dating?" You take a deep breath, unsure by the sudden question, but tell him the truth, "I'm single, and I have been my whole life. I don't believe in wasting my time and emotions on anyone who isn't the perfect fit for me." He looks fascinated by your response, and you can't help but wonder what he's thinking. You decide to ask him about himself, hoping that he's single, but also knowing that it's highly unlikely. He hesitates for a moment before finally opening up to you, "I've been dating someone for over a year now. It started as a PR stunt, but my managers thought it could work out. She's not my type at all, but now it's been too long, and I've kind of accepted my fate. You know I'm comfortable in that relationship, but I guess, I'm not happy. That's actually the reason I needed this vacation so badly. I needed to put things into perspective and figure out what I want. I do not want to hurt anyone in the process"

Your heart sinks as he tells you this, but you know better than to let yourself get hurt. It was never meant to be. This wasn't a fairytale and you had controlled your emotions just enough to not fall for it. You offer him a consoling smile. "I believe that everything happens for a reason and that what's meant for you will find you when the time is right. Maybe this vacation is the perfect opportunity for you to figure things out and find what you truly want."you tell him gently placing your hand on his for a second. He nods his head, "You know, you're right. Maybe it is time for me to put myself first and figure out what I truly want. Thank you for listening to me and giving me some perspective." You smile and tell him, "Of course, that's what friends are for, right?"He nods and looks at you with a raised eyebrow, and then sighs, "Yeah, friends." You look at him just for a second before looking away. This between the two of you felt perfect. It was as if you had known him for years. He felt the same too. He was heard by someone truly in a long time, but this wasn't practical, this couldn't ever be real. As much as you both wanted it, it was too unreal to go for it.

You both sit in silence for a moment, and you can feel the tension between you two. You know that it's best to leave things as they are, but a small part of you still wishes for something more. As the sun finally sets, he stands up and offers you his hand, "Shall we head to the restaurant? I'm starving." You smile small taking his hand, and he helps you up from the bench. As you both walk to the restaurant, you can't help but wonder what the future holds for the two of you. But for now, you're just grateful for this moment and the unexpected bond you've formed with this complete stranger.

As you step into the restaurant, you are awestruck by its grandeur. The dim lighting and elegant decor create a cozy and romantic atmosphere, and you can't help but feel a flutter in your chest. You follow Henry to your table, admiring the beautiful surroundings as you go.

Henry pulls the chair for you, and then sits across from you. Once seated, he glances at you with a charming smile and looks at you. "Do you like the place? I found it yesterday while taking my lone wolf walk in the middle of the night." he asks chuckling as you look around in awe and nod. "It's amazing Henry. Thank you so much for bringing me here.". "Pleasure is all mine my lady." he says as you chuckle. You were definitely a fan of this man's manners.

"Wine?" he looks at you with a raised eyebrow and you nod. He loved how he had you all blushing with the slightest of gestures. It was just challenging him to explore you further. He swiftly calls for the waiter, leaning towards him, as he stood attentively at the side of the table, ready to take the order. "Scusi, posso avere la bottiglia di Barolo Riserva, per favore?" (Excuse me, can I have a bottle of Barolo Riserva, please?) "Naturalmente, signore," the waiter replied with a nod. (Of course, sir.)

Henry continued, "Ma, prima, potrebbe farmi assaggiare un po' per assicurarmi che la signorina sia soddisfatta?" (But first, could you let me taste it a little bit to make sure the lady will be satisfied?) The waiter smiled knowingly, nodded and brought the bottle, pouring a small amount of wine into Henry's glass. He was not bad in Italian but he wasn't fluent, and he didn't know you knew it well. You bit back your chuckle as you played along and saw Henry take the lead. He swirled the wine around and took a deep sniff of the aroma before finally taking a sip. He closed his eyes, savouring the taste, before giving the waiter a satisfied nod.

"Sì, è perfetto. Questo impressionerà sicuramente la signora qui." (Yes, it's perfect. This will surely impress the lady here.) The waiter nodded and smiled, "La sua signora deve essere molto fortunata." (Your lady must be very lucky.) Henry grinned at the waiter, looked at you, and then winked at him, "Sì, lo è, ma sono più fortunato a stare con lei." (Yes she is, but I'm luckier to be with her. He definitely didn't know you knew how to speak in Italian, and as amusing as it was, you were blushing uncomfortably at his words.

The waiter jotted down the order and left to fetch the fresh bottle of wine, leaving you both alone. You bit back your laugh as Henry looked at you intently. He was so adorable with his Italian. He leaned back in his chair, and took a deep breath, "Ah, this place is magnificent, isn't it?"

You looked around, taking in the elegant decor and the beautiful view of the city, "It truly is."He took another sip of his wine, "So, what do you love doing the most outdoors?" He asks you, as you smile wistfully, "I love star gazing. My grandpa had a little observatory close to his vineyard, and we would spend hours looking up at the sky. Or just sit in the field and fall asleep under the sky." you said your eyes twinkling at the memories of your childhood. He listened intently, "That sounds amazing. I love it too, but unfortunately, I don't get to do it very often." You chuckled, "Well, always make time for things you love. You don't want to be eighty, old, and rotting in your bed with regrets. Although, I'm sure you must have some hobbies and interests, that you made time for?."

Henry looked at you amazed. He had never met someone like you. Someone who had such a different perspective on life, and he was in awe with that. You were free, passionate, and did everything on your terms, and he almost envied that. "I do indeed. I grew up on the British channel island of Jersey, with four brothers. It was always a bit of a madhouse, but we had so much fun growing up. We would go fishing, cook, especially bake, and I make sure I bake and cook when I can. I even carry my fishing gear along, so whenever I have time, I just go for it." he adds smiling.

You leaned forward, intrigued, "Really? I love baking too. What's your favourite thing to bake?" He chuckled, "Oh, that's a tough one. I think I'd have to go with an apple pie. There's just something about the smell of cinnamon and apples baking in the oven that's so comforting. Plus it's actually a family recipe passed down through generations, so it just makes it so much more special". You smile while sipping on your wine, "That sounds delicious. Maybe you'll have to bake me one someday." His eyes sparkled mischievously, "Oh, I could definitely do that. But only if you promise to bake me something too." You laughed and nodded, "Deal."

Your conversation was interrupted as the waiter came again to take your food orders and you looked at Henry. "What do you want to have?" you asked him as he looked a little confused while looking at the menu. "Okay, I'll let you choose this one. Surprise me." he said and you chuckled seeing how adorable he looked skimming through the menu. You nod and looks at the waiter. "Buonasera. Vorrei un'insalata mista con formaggio di capra e il risotto ai funghi porcini per me, per favore. (Good evening. I would like a salad with goat cheese and the porcini mushroom risotto for me, please.) He smiles and notes it down. "Perfetto. E per il signore?"(Perfect. And for the gentleman?) he asks smiling. There's an obvious shock on Henry's face but you chose to ignore it.

"La stessa insalata come me e un Osso Buco per lui per favore" (The same salad as me, and a Osso Buco for him please). "Certamente, mia signora. Qualcosa altro? (Certainly, my lady. Anything else?) The waiter asks politely.

"No, niente altro, grazie." (No, nothing else, thank you.) you reply smiling and then turn to face Henry. He looked at you in surprise, "Wow, (y/n), your Italian is amazing. How did you learn it so well?" You chuckled and chugged your wine, as he leaned in to refill your glass, "My grandma was Italian, actually. She was from Palmanova, and met my grandad while he was studying here. That's why when they married, my grandad opened a vineyard for her back home, so she could feel at 'home'."

Henry listened intently, "That's such a sweet love story. That's the kind of love I want for myself." That put you in thought. How he was so like you but so different at the same time. You both were perfect for each other in theory, but was it the same for the reality? You chucked away the question, trying to focus on what you have right now, and not ruin anything by overthinking it. Soon your plates arrived and he was pretty happy with your selection of dishes.

"Why did you become an actor?" you ask him, dissecting your salad. He hesitates for a moment before answering. "I always loved the idea of acting, but what really pushed me was the bullying I faced in school. People used to call me 'Fat Cavill', and it really affected me. But it also gave me motivation to work on myself and become the best version of me. You know, I wanted to show them what I could do..." Your heart aches for him, and you unconsciously reach for his hand. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, Hen. But I'm glad it led you to where you are today." He smiles at you, squeezing your hand. "Thank you. It means a lot. I haven't really ever talked about it with anyone in depth. This feels good." You smile feeling happy that he felt comfortable enough to share that with you.

As you finish your dinner and wine, Henry looks a little stressed, like he wants to ask something, plus he had been distracted with his phone from the last half hour. He looks hesitant, but as you both are winding up, he finds some courage and blurts out. "There's somewhere I want to take you, something special. I mean if you have time, I promise it'll be worthwhile." he says, his eyes sparkling. You nod eagerly, unable to resist the allure of his charm and to the thought of spending more time with him. Lowkey you were manifesting more time with him. "Lead the way," you say, smiling as his smile grows with yours. He was feeling a weird need to be with you, like everything in him wanted to buy as much time with you as he could, and nonetheless, you felt it too.

Once you both exit the restaurant, he gently keeps a hand on your back and guides you through the small streets of Montalcino. He finally brings you to a solitary space and then gently leans in to speak close to your ear. "You need to close your eyes signora." You look at him a little surprised but then he gives you a soft smile and you couldn't help but blush. As you close your eyes, you feel Henry's hand gently guide you towards a quiet spot. You feel your heart racing with anticipation as you wonder what he has in store for you. Finally, you feel him help you sit down, on what feels like a plushy surface, and you stay still, eyes closed, feeling his warmth beside you. You trust him completely, and you know that whatever he has planned will be special. It's weird and uncanny how you could trust him so easily, but it felt right in your bones.

____

Part 2

A/N: Please leave your feedback. What are your thoughts about turning this into a series? You want to see more parts of this? Requests open.

[crazyw3irdo]

Hey, I just took your Romeo & Juliet Quiz (I got Friar Lawrence, not important) could you post the other answers from the quiz? I wanna know what they are but I don’t wanna take the quiz a bunch.

Thanks for making it! It gave me the willies in a good sorta way, you also made me think about what I liked about Romeo + Juliet (the flowery language) which was a nice reminder.

Thanks! ◡̈

of course! answers below so i’m not clogging up everyone’s dash lol

romeo: you were doomed from the start. you would have lived a life of friendship and fun, perhaps a bit of flirting if that's something that interests you. you could have published poetry. but your emotions controlled you. you were punished by the universe for a fleeting bit of passion to serve as a lesson for the cynical. hopefully you left an impression. your passion is explosive. your loyalty a boon. if only the world were fair.

juliet: you were doomed from the start. you were robbed of a chance to become anything. controlled by everyone in your life, even the ones that genuinely cared, and the one good thing you had led to your destruction because the hands of fate deemed it so. your trust in others is admirable. your optimism is enviable. your hope burns. if only you were living a different life.

mercutio: you were too loyal. not even for your own cause. you had no stake in this affair, and yet when your friend was threatened you leapt to his defense. you were doomed, but was it even for anything? does anyone mourn? no matter how much you proclaim you don't care, your caring is too great. you bare your heart to the world and it ended up getting scratched. if only the world were kind.

benvolio: it may be different from the others, but you were still doomed from the start. the horror of being the most reasonable one in the group is that means everyone else makes mistakes. everyone else must face the consequences. everyone else gets hurt while you stand there unharmed. no matter the warnings you give, they still are punished. you can't help someone who the universe decided must be destroyed. i admire that you still try. if only the game hadn't been rigged from the start.

tybalt: your passion doomed you. you thought you knew what was right. you thought you deserved it. you thought if you fought for it you could get it. communication is hard, so you tried something else, you wanted to defend, to attack, to prove something to someone. but you couldn't. you never could. you tried to meddle with fate and ended up at its mercy. if only the world listened.

friar laurence: you thought you could help. and you did, you really did. you were there for the happiness. but that also meant you were there when there was nothing left. a guiding hand is only so helpful. you plan and plan and plan and mistakes still happen. and when you don't consider those mistakes, everything can go wrong. fate will find the smallest flaw and wrench everything from you. if only you realized that sooner.

nurse: you cared for them. you loved them. you were always there. but there was nothing you could have done. it's not your story. you perpetually stand in the sidelines, watching people suffer for something you have no involvement in and yet you care. you care for them. but no matter how much you love them that doesn't change that they'll end up in a tomb someday. if only it weren't so soon.

[femboymilkovich]

Hiiii, Sarah! It’s been a while since I’ve found myself in the inbox of my mutuals with a thoughtful question about our boys. However, we’re preparing for the hurricane down this way and I’m looking for something to keep me occupied — like talking to all of my beautiful lovely friends!!

So what I want to discuss today is the love language of our boys. What love language(s) do you think they each excel at and which one(s) do they struggle with the most? Do you think their love language(s) have changed since the beginning? Do you think they still excel or struggle with a certain one(s)?

I would also like to pick your brain on your thoughts of how they protect one another — how they protect one another physically, how they protect one another’s peace, how they protect each other mentally, etc! 🩵

— Much love, Chey

Chey! This was such a happy surprise! First, please be safe! But I am happy to indulge <333

Love languages are sooooooo incredibly important to me I'm so glad you asked!

I think mickey best feels loved by words of affirmation, mostly from Ian, I don't really think anyone else's opinion ever truly mattered more to him than Ian's. I think when he finally let the walls fall and let Ian in, he realized how nice it is to be reminded that he is important and worthy of love and admiration. I also think physical touch, both giving and receiving, not just sexually. Casual intimacy, a soft hand down his back to ground him, a firm squeeze on his knee, being able to communicate without words is his safety. I think he searches for the love he should have always had, and was robbed of. Having a violent childhood, he probably felt like he was never going to be given the love he craved, too afraid to be soft and punished for it. Which is why all of the little things, the flirty glances, teasing and joking around with Ian feels so heart wrenching. I think over the years it has definitely changed, I think he was doing a lot of acts of service for ian, especially when he is or was manic. The vitamins, checking him on risky behavior that would hurt him, making sure he takes his meds. Waaaah. I think Mickey has gone through periods of struggling with many aspects of communicating properly with Ian, sometimes intentionally as an act of defiance, but often I think it just boils down to what he was exposed to, never having had a proper example, and he will unintentionally cause hurt. I like to think now, he's much better about it and even if he does do something petty, he will, albeit begrudgingly, he will make it right.

I think Ian's main love language is acts of service, we love service top Ian. I think he feels so fulfilled by helping others, he is so used to being needed, as a son, a brother, a friend and a spouse. He finds purpose in it. We all know he provides that well in the bedroom buuuuuuuuutttttttttt I want to focus on the non-sexual aspects too because those are soooooo important. I think Ian thrives on helping Mickey specifically, helping him unwind at the end of the day, making him dinner, a massage? Hell yeah! I think quality time is another big one for him, as much time as he is willing to put into someone or something, he wants that to be reciprocated back to him, even if its just being present with him, parallel play anyone? 👀

As I mentioned earlier, Mickey often finds himself checking Ian, making sure he takes his meds, makes sure he's taken care of with his mental health which is not an easy thing to do, It is very complex and confusing and stressful, and yet Mickey takes it all. Even if he were the only one, Ian will always have Mickey there to take care of him. Ian is incredibly receptive and is able to pull mickey back down and ground him when he thinks he's about to do something that is not worth his time, or energy.

"Mick, pause" is huge to me, he knows how much hurt Mickey has over his dad, and knows that Terry doesn't deserve the consideration, but it was never for his benefit. He knew in that moment Mickey needed him to help him consider his actions, and made sure to reassure him later that he was proud of him and that he made the right choice and he will always be better than his father for that. His ability to grow, mature and amount to something.

We both know they love a good fight, and they are ready and willing to throw blows with anyone if the other is getting fucked with. Let them have a little violence as a treat!

This was so much fun to do, thank you for asking me! I hope I answered in a way that makes sense!

[twistedsamuraiadvice]

Dear Fulbright, I hope this letter finds you well. As I sit here, pondering over the complexities of life, an intriguing question comes to mind, one that provokes deep contemplation and elicits a range of conflicting emotions. It is a hypothetical scenario that invites us to consider our priorities and the values we hold dear.

Imagine, if you will, a world where justice prevails, where righteousness is unwavering, and peace reigns supreme. In this realm, however, there exists a heartbreaking twist - the sacrifice of a beloved person, Simon Blackquill in order to achieve this seemingly unattainable utopia. The question arises: would we be willing to pay such a steep price to bring about what so many yearn for?

Balancing this proposition is another alternate reality, where every criminal is allowed to roam free, their nefarious actions unchecked and unpunished. Yet, in this chaotic state, you are revered like a deity, treated with awe and unwavering admiration. Without doubt, this would stroke our ego and provide an immense sense of power, but at what cost to our own morality and the wellbeing of society?

Reflecting on these two options, I find myself pulled in different directions. The allure of stamping out injustice and creating a fair world where righteousness thrives is undeniable. However, the idea of cherishing and preserving human life, Simon Blackquill with whom we have shared countless memories and cherished moments, is undeniably heart-wrenching.

Conversely, in a world where criminals roam free but revere us as a godlike figure, we must question the consequences. Would such unrestrained freedom result in societal collapse, a dystopian nightmare where morality loses its way? Moreover, can the adulation of others truly replace the need for a just and balanced world?

As I struggle to decide between these complex alternatives, I recognize that life rarely offers such clear-cut choices. The pursuit of justice should be at the heart of our actions, driven not by personal gain or self-importance, but by a genuine desire to create a better world. However, the price we pay, particularly when it involves the loss of a cherished being, cannot be easily dismissed or taken lightly.

In the end, my dear Detective, the question lingers, unanswered but not forgotten. It serves as a constant reminder of the intricate dilemmas life presents us, urging us to question our values, our sense of duty, and ultimately, the legacy we leave behind. Perhaps, instead of choosing one extreme or the other, we should strive to find a balance, where justice prevails while cherishing every individual life, never forgetting the worth of one soul, even in pursuit of a greater good.

May this letter spark a thoughtful contemplation within you, as it did for me. I eagerly await your perspective, knowing that our shared discussions always deepen my understanding of life's intricacies.

With warm regards,

Umi Teardrop

Dear Teardrop,

First, I'm sorry it's taken some time to respond, I know it's a long wait, but I really wanted to sit with this.

As....naive as it sounds, there was a time where I really thought Justice would always prevail, bad things happened, but good would win out in the end. Like how it always did in stories, everything would look dark, but then something would change, there'd be some hero at the end of it.

W...when my father left, I told myself it was better that way, because my grandparents were good people, who loved me, and someday... someday my parents would realize they loved me too, and if they didn't....there'd be justice, somehow. I was never sure how, just that they'd be sorry. Really I just wanted to stop feeling like there was something wrong with me, because that was the only other option, and it hurt.

I think that's part of the reason I wanted to reform Blackquill....sure, he had been sentenced, but if he changed his ways, then it wouldn't be just anymore to kill him. And he was good, deep down, so shouldn't we try?

Then someone else came, and I found out how much evil there really was in the world.

No one even noticed I was gone.

....And sure, it came out in the end. They found me, eventually.

But...was that really winning? People died, Blackquill went to prison, Miss Cykes had her whole life uprooted, and for what?

What was it all for?

.....

I do believe in justice. There is good in the world. But it's not what I thought. We have to fight for it, there isn't some....force out there, making it happen.

It's in the hands of people. Normal, every day people. Not heros. Just people.

I'm sorry, I think I got off topic. I need to sit down.

In...justice, we trust.

-Bobby Fulbright

[mxanigel]

If I can be a little greedy in return, for your OT3 👀

4. An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose.

10. A hello/good-bye kiss that is given without thinking - where neither person thinks twice about it.

38. Whispering “I love you” before a chaste, delicate kiss.

I'm sorry I took months to get to this ask from this game, but I had so much fun dwelling on these scenes. Thank you for being greedy! 😁💜 The three snippets are all set post-canon, though they aren't presented in chronological order.

-----

4. An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose.

“Shion, pass me the pliers.”

“Pliers? Not a wrench?”

“I need one of those, too, but pliers first.”

Shion raises a skeptical eyebrow before reaching across the workbench for the requested tool. She has to shove aside discarded wood and haphazardly-stacked sandpaper to grab it. Hange could’ve handled this themself, but the bit of tongue sticking out one side of their mouth shows they’re far too focused to consider the option.

Hange turns as she slides the pliers toward them. “Thanks—”

Their lips unexpectedly meet. So do their noses. Shion straightens with a laugh. “Sorry about that.”

“Did you just apologize for accidentally kissing me?” Their tone is somehow both amused and irritated.

“I guess?”

“Well, I can think of one way to fix that.” Hange grabs her shirt and pulls her in for a highly intentional and much longer kiss.

The corner of Shion’s mouth twitches. “Huh. Now I know how to snap you out of your work.”

Hange’s eyes sparkle. “Oh, no, please never ever use that against me.”

-----

10. A hello/good-bye kiss that is given without thinking - where neither person thinks twice about it.

Weary resignation creeps into Shion’s chest as she stares at the space on the shelf where their sugar should reside. She somehow forgot that their adorably precocious two-year-old daughter decided yesterday that it would be fun to knock over the container and then play with it like sand. Tasty, sticky sand.

“Shion? What’s wrong?” Hange asks, resting their chin on her shoulder.

“It’s technically possible to bake this pumpkin muffin recipe without sugar, but I doubt they’ll taste good.”

“Oh! I’ll go get some.”

“Wait, is the market still open at this hour?”

“Eh? I was going to ask Moblit and Nifa if they had any to spare. How much do you need?”

“125 grams would be ideal, but I can get away with a hundred.” She wrinkles her nose. “Apologize to them for the late interruption for me? I should’ve handled this while I was out today.”

“You had plenty going on. Don’t worry about it.” Hange nuzzles her neck, picks up a small empty jar, and then dashes to the front door.

Levi wheels into the kitchen from the living room. “Problem?” he asks.

“We’re out of sugar.”

“Ah, right.”

He volunteered for bathing duty after Petra’s antics. He probably wouldn’t have forgotten that we were out of sugar— Shion silently berates herself for the negative thought. She has been busy.

He deftly maneuvers into the hallway to speak to Hange. “Watch your step out there. It’s still raining.”

“I know, if you couldn’t tell.” They proudly twirl in their long coat and then lean down to kiss him. “I’ll be back soon.”

“You’d better be. We’re hungry.”

Hange laughs before stepping into the rain-soaked evening.

-----

38. Whispering “I love you” before a chaste, delicate kiss.

Levi drags his forearm across his brow and then inspects the next plant in the row; elderberry, by the pattern of its leaves. “Lecture me already.”

“I can’t simply admire your hard work?”

“You usually don’t. Not after a day like yesterday.”

She tries not to think about the pain he showed, the agony he must have felt to reveal that he was in so much pain. Yet the memory prompts her to risk his ire by slipping her arms around his shoulders from behind. “I won’t apologize for worrying about you.”

He exhales heavily. “I’m not going to get better.”

Tiny claws rip into her heart. “You don’t need to. Your mobility will never affect how Hange or I feel about you.”

“Then don’t treat me like I can’t take care of myself.”

“I’m not—” She silences herself. Her intentions don’t matter here. If her actions made him believe she was seeing his injuries instead of him as a person, then she needs to change those actions. “I’m sorry I yelled at you to stay in bed yesterday.”

After a moment passes, he pats her elbow. “If it were you or Hange, I would’ve done the same.”

She appreciates him saying that. If the doctor’s right about how her pregnancy is progressing, she’ll be stuck in bed before long, too. Maybe that’s why she let her emotions get the better of her; she wants to care for him while she still can. “I love you,” she whispers.

Levi turns his head. “I love you, too.” And then he gently kisses her.

Moisture pricks her eyes as she pulls him closer, hoping with every fiber of her being that the gesture conveys how much she adores him.

[saintsofwarding]

BURIAL

Chapter 3

Someone yanked the sack off her head. Elena blinked, eyes adjusting to the gloom. The church, she realized, with a shiver. The same church she sat in every Sabbath-day, to hear the priests read from Miranda's holy writ and extol the miracles of the Black God. Close, and warm, and glimmering with gilt and embroidery and polished wood, it was usually a sanctuary, a place she thought of when she visualized peace.

Now, Miranda stood before her, blocking her view of the altar. The priests moved around her, lighting candles, filling the small church with the shivering glow of their light. It shimmered off Miranda's feather mantle, darkly beautiful, glistening black. It touched each piece of her golden mask, and her eyes beneath, bright as a predator's.

The chain hung loosely around Elena's body. Was Lord Heisenberg gone? It was his power that had made the thing move, had given it life. Now it was dead again, leaving Elena unbound.

She still didn't move. She waited, each breath overloud in the hush. She was alive. Miranda hadn't ordered Lord Heisenberg to smash her skull in. Why?

Why?

"Was that your father?" Miranda asked.

Elena found her voice. "W-what?"

"Was that your father, in the square?"

"No- I...no, he wasn't."

"And yet." Miranda tilted her head, slightly. "You tried to save him."

"Tried?" She glanced toward the windows, but the curtains were drawn. She faced Miranda again. "He was...innocent, please..."

"Innocent," Miranda echoed. "Sweet girl. Do you know how it is we survive here, in the valley of the Black God, beset on all sides by the monsters of the divine? Faith. In each other. In what we can give. So we can search for the truth."

"And...um. What is the truth?"

"That we all must play a part. And if we cannot..." Miranda's hand opened with a sound like knives drawn. "Then we've betrayed the Black God, haven't we? Betrayed its holy work of keeping us alive? That farmer was faithless. And though it pains me, I must do what needs to be done. As must you."

Elena blinked. Her furious pulse had begun to slow, the black spots at the edges of her vision fading. "I..." She had to stop, then start again. "I don't understand."

Miranda smiled. "I know."

Heat pushed at Elena's eyes. All of that, and he was dead anyway, another suitcase delivered to his family, another wound, another hole in a daughter's heart. But as her thoughts formed, and the rage crystallized behind them, that pressure slid into her head. An icy dagger. The tang of blood and mold.

She stiffened. Miranda hadn't moved.

The ice turned to warmth, melting, soothing. It washed at her thoughts and smoothed them over, sand on a shoreline, lapping the rage away. Soon, Elena wasn't so sure she'd ever been angry at all.

"Let me help you understand," Miranda said. "Leave us."

Not Elena. Her priests retreated from the church, leaving Elena alone with Mother Miranda. The candles flickered, filling the dusty air, touching the blackened beams of the holy place. Miranda at last moved aside, revealing the altar, her icon enclosed in gilt and wreathed in flowers and ribbons and strings of dried fruit, flanked by portraits of her Four Lords. Miranda ran her talons along the frame of her icon.

"Your name is Elena Lupu, isn't it?" she began. "I don't see your father with you."

"No, he's...he's unwell."

"A tragedy. And a far worse one if he were to succumb to his illness. Sickness of the spirit is so often more devastating than that of the body. Especially after loss of...a loved one." Her eyes glimmered in the candlelight. "Don't you agree, Elena?"

"He's not going to die. I take care of him."

"A dutiful daughter. I admire that." She faced Elena again, then approached, her step silent on the ancient floorboards. "I admire your courage, loving your family the way you do. How far does that courage go?"

"What do you mean?" Elena's throat wrenched tight as Miranda stopped before her, the incense smoke twining thick and serpentine from the altar not masking her bitter scent. It crept into Elena's head, deep into her lungs; she imagined, on reflex, the insidious veining of something deep belowground, hidden from the sunlight, black and choking-

"I don't want to have to kill you," Miranda told her, sorrow in her voice. "Or your father." She reached out to stroke Elena's head, the points of her talons cold against her skull. "But I have little choice, if you don't perform the Black God's will."

"I...I can," Elena stammered. She felt her father's hands in hers, heard his gruff old voice. His wracking sobs from behind closed doors, after her mother had never come home. Her pulse spiked again, pushing against the drowsy calm in her mind. "I will. Whatever you want. Just...don't hurt him, please."

"Good." She lifted her hand. "Then I have a place for you. Lady Beneviento requires a maid of all work."

Elena went cold.

Lady Beneviento. A mist-wreathed valley. The rumble of vast falls, never ceasing, such that the sound of them might drive you mad. A graveyard that stretched over the mountain flanks, black earth oozing with the diseased blood of those who'd been cut down by plague, by famine that followed, buried ten to a grave so when it rained the bodies had floated up from the dirt, white and swollen with rot.

None Elena knew crept past the plague pits, past the labyrinthine paths and through the misty woods and over the ravine. Not even Andrei would dare, brazen as he was. Things happened to you, past the ravine. Things happened to you, and you never came back.

And Lady Beneviento herself?

A shadow on the edge of her vision. A specter in black. Barely human, clutching at the doll like it was the puppeteer and not her. Lord Heisenberg, who sang to metal and took the dead, a grinning reaper dressed in ash and rags; Lady Dimitrescu, whose palanquin always smelled of blood and roses; Lord Moreau, twisted, tumorous thing, wracked with wolf-sickness, whom Elena had heard wailing from the direction of the reservoir some black nights, the sound both awful and piteous. She knew them, worshipped them, relied on them like she and everyone relied on Mother Miranda, but- Lady Beneviento? No one knew her. No one could. No one came back.

Her mouth was dry.

"Surely..." she began.

"...Someone else is more suited to go?" Miranda finished for her. The icy talons flexed inside Elena's mind; she sensed, with all that she was, it would be no effort at all for those talons to clench down, to tear away all that she was in one swift wrench.

She licked her lips.

"My dear child's last servant never returned, and she requires a new one," Miranda went on, gently. "For her safety, and her comfort. You care for your father. You can care for my daughter."

She paused.

"More than that," she added. "Lady Beneviento is...uncooperative. Ungrateful. I suspect she thinks far more than she allows me and the Black God to know. And that will not do."

Her hand slid to Elena's chin, a single cold clawpoint against the underside of her jaw, pressing in. Elena felt it, the delicacy of it, how it would be no effort at all for Mother Miranda to slide it deep, deep in.

"Watch her," she murmured. "What she does. Where she goes. How she does it. And tell me everything."

She slid her claw in, just the point, just enough for Elena to feel it. The cold, then the heat of blood welling; her breath caught. Miranda's eyes brightened. She was smiling, Elena saw, her perfect lips sliding back from perfect teeth. She was so beautiful, beneath the mask, and Elena knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she had never been so afraid of another living thing in all her life.

"And if you don't..." Miranda whispered.

Her voice trailed away. Elena heard the faint muffled echo of music, in the direction of the square. He was dead, she realized. The man she'd tried to save. He was dead, and they were dancing. Was his blood in the snow? Had Lord Heisenberg taken his broken corpse? She tried to recall his face, but it was her father's she saw there instead, cowering in Miranda's shadow.

And then it was hers.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Yes," she said. "Mother Miranda. I serve you and the Black God, now and always."

"Sweet girl." Her talons slid from Elena's chin, and she stroked her cheek, now, soothing and slow, like her own mother had once done for her as a child. "We all do."

***

She stumbled home, numb and nerveless. Lord Heisenberg hadn't returned to his factory; he followed her, ambling after her as she weaved through the ribbon-festooned streets, the sound of the festivities echoing over the buildings. She couldn't join them. You must leave before dark, Elena, Miranda had ordered her. Otherwise you might stumble and fall on your way, and we mustn't have that.

She put out a hand to steady herself against a house. The smell of cigar smoke rolled over her, and she glanced back. Lord Heisenberg stood a few yards back, his gore-spattered hammer dripping fragments of flesh, his ragged coat black with blood.

"Are you...are you taking me all the way to Lady Beneviento?" Elena managed, voice hoarse.

His grin flashed. "Nah, sweetheart, that place is creepy as fuck. Making sure you don't run before you get going, more like. I'd have to run you down, and I'm more the strolling type."

He made a theatrical gesture with his cigar, smoke trailing through the air. "Nothing personal. You're a lively one. I like that. Hell of a waste of good meat, seeing you get torn apart by hungry lycans."

Elena shuddered. She scrubbed her hand over her mouth and stumbled on, not stopping, not even with his footsteps behind her, not until she reached her yard and her house. Chickens flapped away from her, like before, when everything was still all right. She managed to push inside and slammed the door, throwing the bolt before she realized what she was doing. Would Lord Heisenberg be insulted by her locking him out? Not that it would stop him; he could tear the whole damn house apart with a click of his fingers.

But he didn't force his way in, didn't start breaking things. She heard him pacing around the house, heard him muttering, then humming, some song she didn't recognize. He passed by the kitchen window and was gone again, making his rounds.

Does she really think I'd try to escape? And would she? No, she told herself. No. Maybe someone bolder, someone braver-

Someone with nothing to lose.

Her hands clenched. She didn't hear the shuffle of her father's slippers on the floor, didn't notice him until he said her name.

"Elena? Back so early?"

She whirled. He stood in his bedroom doorway, white hair sticking all ways up, one of his battered old books tucked under his arm. He gestured toward the oven. "Stew's done. You come back to keep me company, girl? Might as well have some stew so long as..."

He stopped. His eyes narrowed, taking her in. Again, heat welled in Elena's eyes. She crushed her palm to her mouth.

"What's wrong, 'Lena?" her father asked.

"Oh, Pa," she whispered.

She crumpled to the table. Her father stayed standing. Don't tell him. Don't frighten him. Not after Mother. You mustn't. "I...I was chosen," she said. "I'm...I'm going to work for Lady Beneviento. As her maid of all work. It's...it's such an honor..."

Her father stared at her. There seemed to be no life in his eyes.

Elena made herself stand. "I have to go," she said. The sound of Lord Heisenberg's humming moved past the window again. Her father didn't even look. "I need- clothes-"

She went to her cot and yanked out her mother's suitcase. Blouses, skirts, her everyday shoes. What else would she need? Would she be provided with a uniform? With tooth powder and night cream? Best to take that. Seemed a little mundane, a little too human, for the house of the Black God's own chosen. She took a couple books, too, her favorites all dog-eared and foxed. Strange, to be thinking of books and tooth powder when by all rights she wouldn't see the morning.

Her skirts rustled at the floorboards. She needed to change. She'd gotten the red silk dress dirty after all, when she'd fallen in the slush.

It couldn't be helped. She stepped behind her dressing screen and changed, tearing at the knots, the frogging, nearly tearing the silk, her hands shook so bad.

Elena re-emerged in skirt and cardigan and kerchief, her hair falling from its braids. Deftly, numbly, she fixed it in the single age-spotted oval of mirror glass above the mantel. She licked her thumb and rubbed at the rusty smear of blood Miranda had left on her face. Elena lifted her chin; the mirror showed the puncture wound, livid and slightly swollen.

It reflected her father, who had sunk into a chair. He gripped its arms in his twisted hands, staring off into a corner.

"Pa," Elena said.

"Don't leave me," he asked her.

Don't you get it? If I stay you die. We both die. This is the way it works, you stupid old man, Elena wanted to scream. Mother died, too, but at least she served a purpose, unlike you- But he was so tired, and if she spoke she'd start to sob.

She couldn't. She couldn't leave him with that. She crossed the room and knelt before him, taking his hands like she had before.

"I'll be back," she told him. It felt like a promise, more so even than the one she'd made to Mother Miranda. She gripped tighter. "I will. It won't be like- like last time. I will come back."

"You don't know that."

"No," Elena admitted. "But I'll try. With all I am. I'll...I'll send a letter to Andrei, ask him to take care of you-"

"That little punk?"

"He's a good lad. He'll do all right."

"Please, Elena, be careful."

She didn't know how much she had control over that sort of thing, but she nodded. "I will. You too, old man."

Impact slammed the front door. "What the fuck is taking you so goddamn long?"

Elena didn't answer. She grabbed her father up in a hug, as long as she dared, holding onto him. Then she let him go.

"Love you, Pa," she told him. On reflex, she took her jawbone charm from round her neck and pushed it into his hand, where it winked, glass beads shining like crows' eyes. "For luck."

"You're the one who needs it."

"No." She stood and went to her rifle, still hanging on its peg. It slipped into her hands, its familiar weight stilling their shake. When she slung it over her shoulder, its accustomed place, she knew there was nothing else she could do. "This is all the luck I need."

***

Eyes followed her as she left town, as she crossed the square, as she looked straight and didn't cry and kept her head up. The morning had darkened, the winter sunlight hidden once more beneath a dense layer of clouds, low and opaque. By the time she trudged up the muddy, rutted track toward the Giant's Chalice, the first flakes of snow had already begun to fall.

Lord Heisenberg didn't say a word to her as he followed her up the track, through the gates and beyond, into the stone circle and the ruins, the massive stone chalice collecting its beard of icicles. He didn't slow, didn't stop, until she came to the great gates emblazoned with House Beneviento's sun and moon crest.

His footsteps had ceased. Elena stopped before the gate, her hand outstretched. She pushed at the gate. It rattled, hinges squealing. Locked.

She looked back. Heisenberg stood by the chalice, smoke curling from beneath the brim of his hat. He'd braced the head of that massive hammer against the ground and leaned on it like a cane.

"Do you have a key?" Elena said. Her voice sounded thin and small in the falling snow, like a little girl's.

"Key," he chuckled darkly, and flicked a hand. There was a metallic chunk from the gate, and it creaked open, releasing a thread of frigid wind.

"Oh. Right." Elena shivered, then braced her palm to the gate. "Guess I should have seen that coming."

She paused.

"Are you...taking me all the way up, my lord?" she asked.

His snarl of laughter was harsh as a hunting lycan's. "I'm not your fucking babysitter."

"If I die, Mother Miranda won't be happy."

"Yeah? And she'll find another girl. Another stupid kid with aspersions of martyrdom to toss into the meat-grinder. You think I care if you end the night at the bottom of the ravine, crows digging around in your orbital socket? Nah. There's always another you. Infinite fuckin' resource, around these parts."

"I'm not a martyr," Elena said quietly. "And I don't plan on falling down the ravine."

"Oh?" He pointed toward one of the statues of goat-headed holy men that overlooked the Chalice. "Ask the saints, martyrs all. Ask how many of them are still fuckin' breathing."

"I trust Mother Miranda," Elena said. "I trust what she asks of me."

He laughed again, dry as an old bone. "Kool-aid," he said, "swigged."

Elena had no idea what this meant. She stood there in silence, only one question left. She knew she had no business asking it, that she'd already taken up far too much of a great lord's valuable time, but- hell, she was going to die anyway, wasn't she.

"What's she like?" she asked.

Heisenberg paused. He lowered his hand. "Huh?"

"Lady Beneviento. She's your sister, isn't she? What should I expect?" She bowed her head. "...My lord."

He snorted, but seemed to study her through his dark glasses. For a moment, Elena thought he might actually tell her.

"Completely batshit," he said instead, cheerfully. He scratched at his tangled gray hair, under his hat. "Truth be told, sweetheart, we don't exactly have heart-to-hearts."

He extricated his hand and made a shooing motion. "Now, go on, be a good girl for Mommy, trot up the mountain to die."

Elena didn't move. She licked her lips.

"Are you-" she began.

Before she could say the next words- scared, too- he'd splayed his hand. "Enough of this shit. Bye-bye, buttercup."

Elena yelped as her rifle snapped forward as if someone had reached through the gate and yanked it, hard; its strap caught at her shoulder, pulling her stumbling and half-falling through the gates. She slammed palm-first into a tree on the far side and whirled, just in time to watch the gate crash shut.

The lock went chunk.

She lunged for the gates, but they were locked tight. Elena grabbed at the handle, rattled it, swore at it, but all she heard was the wind picking up, was the calls of crows circling high, high overhead.

"Bastard," she hissed.

All her energy seemed to have left her. She wanted to slide to her knees, to sprawl in the deep, undisturbed snow and sob until she was empty. Now that she was alone, she could. No Pa, no Miranda, no onlookers, no Lord Heisenberg.

But the longer she stayed, the more daylight she lost. And she couldn't be out here at night. She let herself rest for a moment, forehead pressed to the icy wood, then turned and settled her rifle and stared up the mountain path.

It was so overgrown it looked nearly impenetrable, a tangled wilderness of briars and twisted plants, pine trees and malign branches and mist, shadowed by rock walls, the flanks of the mountains themselves. Elena squinted into the mass, letting her hunter's eyes search for gaps and pathways. She found it soon enough- a narrow, winding track, a way through the wilderness.

One hand gripping her suitcase, the other her rifle strap, she ducked into it and began her way up.

It wasn't long before she caught sight of the first graves.

They swam from the mist- headstones, cracked and water-stained, lichen and time obscuring whatever names had once been set to them. Wind soughed through the trees, singing past carved angels, past extinguished lanterns on long, pendulous chains, past the dried flowers and lemons and stacks of lei set on the graves, the last gifts of the living to the dead.

Elena picked her way through the graveyard, on and on and on, her hands growing numb even inside their gloves. Soon, she was so deep in the graveyard she could barely tell what direction she'd come from. She didn't think she could find her way back even if she tried.

Snow showered from a cliff; she whipped round, but nothing was there, nothing but the descending mist, the endless trees.

Just keep moving. Her mother had told her so many stories of ghosts, how they made nests inside your brain and whispered terrible things, terrible secrets. You're under Mother Miranda's protection. Ghosts wouldn't dare.

But Lord Heisenberg had said- hadn't he?- that Miranda didn't care, that if she died there would be another girl, and wasn't she a replacement, anyway?

No. You can't think that way. You think that and you might as well lie down and freeze to death. Remember why you're here. Who you're here for.

She left the graveyard, crossing a long, long bridge, rope and planks clinging on with rusty nails, a frozen river thundering far below. An eerie, fluting cry echoed from above, leathery wings stirring the mist, but Elena kept her eyes on the path ahead of her. A pair of wrought-iron gates loomed beyond, scrolled and exquisite. A single lamp hung by the wayside, flickering as Elena approached.

The gate burned against her hands, through her gloves. It was unlocked, and groaned wide at a push. She passed through and into a garden. It spread around her, fading into fog- trellises and glasshouses, fences sprouting from tussocks of frozen grass, plants withered and dead in the bitter mountain cold. All except one. Everywhere, alongside the road and in the ditches, at the feet of the statues of cherubs and weeping nymphs that dotted the garden pale as corpses, grew shoots of yellow flowers, bright and abundant.

Pollen drifted round them. It winked in the darkness, and Elena couldn't help but stoop to catch a mote of it on her fingertip and stare in wonder as it glowed on her skin, a tiny ember.

"Beautiful," Elena whispered.

Had Lady Beneviento grown them? There was no place for flowers in their patch of earth out back of their house, in the village. Too much food to grow, and this mountain soil was thin enough as it was. Looking around, Elena saw there were few vegetables in this garden at all, just flowers and ornamental vines and trees. Maybe they were elsewhere. Maybe Lady Beneviento didn't need to grow her own food. Plenty of gardens in the village, after all, and hands to harvest them.

Beyond the garden,

Another grave.

It rose from the heart of a small clearing, ringed with other, lesser headstones like handmaidens flocked about their lady. This one was vast, taller than Elena, a great rock tombstone overlooking a cracked slab carved with floral patterns, with words. Elena couldn't read them through the gloom, even though the stone, the clearing, the trees leaning in as if to listen, was filled with the faint honey glow of candles. Fresh-lit, few had gone out, though the wind was picking up, so strong above the trees it thrashed and raked at them, herald of the coming blizzard.

It touched Elena's hands, gilding loose strands of her hair as she crept closer, stopping at the edge of the gravesite.

The candlelight glimmered off countless eyes, making them look half-alive in the gloom.

Dolls. Dozens of them. All of them the same, or nearly, black-haired and white-faced and dressed in dark gowns, children going to tea. They stared ahead, standing or sitting or slumped amidst wreaths of dried flowers. Other things, too- little wooden animals, beads and sweets, even a book, though it was water-stained illegible. More golden flowers added their glow to the clearing, and in their proliferation Elena tasted what must have been their scent, a bittersweet edge on the back of her tongue.

A doll's eye winked up at Elena from the snow and she plucked it up, rolling the cracked glass marble between her fingers.

She set it swiftly down at the foot of the slab. "Sorry," she whispered to it, like she'd done to the dead rabbit.

Who was buried here? Someone important, no doubt. An ancestor? It had to be. Lady Beneviento had no daughters, no relatives. Except the Lords, of course. And Mother Miranda.

Miranda.

She couldn't stay out here. If she didn't get to House Beneviento fast enough, Mother Miranda might think she'd run off. Elena stepped back from the grave, and with a last look at the massive grave, the silent dolls, she hurried past, into the red gatehouse, into the elevator, and up the long climb toward the summit of the mountain. At last, the elevator spat her out, and she crept from the cave, emerging from its mouth.

She'd arrived.

The house came into view slowly. First, a great dark shape, a looming, crouching void in the world, clinging to the cliffside. The ground vibrated underfoot, the wind lush with frigid moisture; the waterfall, Elena realized. It erupted from some higher point on the mountainside, a massive, ferocious, impossible upheaval of water, huge enough to drown the whole village. As Elena neared the house, the great structure began to take on form through the mist, piece by piece. Turrets and patchy roof tiles, a finial like a stiletto dagger, empty-eyed windows. Cracks in the masonry, plaster sloughing away like diseased skin to reveal the stonework beneath. A great wrap-around the porch, balconies so close to the cliffside they seemed seconds away from sliding off the edge.

Yet more gardens grew from the snow at the house's feet, tangled and blackened save for the yellow flowers growing in abundance all the way to the edge of the porch.

Elena mounted the first step, paused, listened, then the next. The windows reflected her pale face, her wide eyes. She glanced down the porch. Nothing but an old chair, a set of wind-chimes, the sound silvery in the next gust of wind. The doors waited at the top of the steps, double, polished wood and verdigrised brass.

Elena let out her breath and took a few precious seconds to smooth down her hair.

They opened under her touch.

Heat spilled over her. Elena flinched, but nothing jumped out at her. Nothing happened at all. She blinked, took a quick breath, then stepped over the threshold, closing the doors behind her before too much snow got in and ruined the fine antique carpets of the entryway.

She found herself in a hall, wood-paneled walls reflecting the grated fire with a rich, syrupy glow. Her gaze traveled through the heights. Paintings hung on every wall, oils, mostly, still lifes of fruit, bucolic or seaside scenes. Everywhere were bookshelves, and side tables, and ornaments of porcelain or copper or lacquer, chairs upholstered in green leather, rugs slung over the floors and fire crackling merrily and the buttery glow of electric light beaming down from the tasteful chandelier overhead.

Is this really House Beneviento? The stories, the warnings, the ghost tales and night terrors all seemed distant. Elena waited for a snarl, for long, pale fingers to close around her throat, for ghosts to rise from the shadows and pull her into their cold embrace, but nothing happened.

A clock ticked on the mantel. Somewhere, deeper in the house, floorboards creaked. A footfall? Or just an old house with the cold in its bones?

Elena took another step, her brows raised, her lips parted. A rocking chair waited by a gramophone player- she gasped at this; few people in the village had one, and she ached to look at the records, to see if there was any music she recognized- and alongside it, on a small table, rested a basket of knitting-wool.

Elena examined it. A pair of knitting needles was thrust through a ball of wool, and alongside the basket, a long, sharp pair of silver scissors rested on a doily.

Elena ran her hand over the doily. Its linen was so fine it felt smooth as water, the scalloped edge finished in golden silk. Exquisite. Not even her mother could have made something as masterful at this.

Silk rustled.

With a start, Elena looked up. The doll waited for her in the rocking chair, which creaked back and forth as if suddenly disturbed.

She hadn't been there before. Long and lanky, limbs jointed with rusty eye bolts, dressed in layers of antique lace like a miniature bride, her spidery hands were folded in her lap, her little black shoes crossed primly at the ankle. Her face, childlike, yes, but- off, rived down the middle with a curving crack that had been put back together...inexpertly, was crowned in a circlet of dusty silk flowers. She stared into nothingness, blank and wall-eyed.

Elena glanced around, but no one was there.

"How did...?" she began.

Her voice lapsed into silence. She must have missed it. She did, she told herself. No one else was here. Lady Beneviento must be out. And she was alone in the house.

"Just you and me, I guess," she told the doll.

The firelight flickered off its misaligned porcelain face. Maybe she had once been pretty, but time and wear had...well. Enhanced her. Why not fix the thing? With the skills the house's mistress surely had, judging by the workmanship on the doily, she could make her good as new.

It wasn't her concern. Elena brushed past the little bride and looked up at the stairs, which ascended to a mezzanine. A darker rectangle on the wall, a prominent absence, told her there must have once been a portrait hung there.

Out for repairs? Maybe it was an unflattering likeness.

There was no sign of instructions, so Elena explored the house- slowly, in case she wasn't alone after all. There wasn't much to explore, though it was, of course, bigger than her father's house by far. Bigger than anyone's house she knew, honestly, she could have seen a family of twelve comfortably living in this emptiness. She made her efficient assessment of the place. Kitchen, dining-room, a reading-nook with a pair of porcelain teacups on a polished table. Books stacked, stove hot, a sprig of yellow flowers in a bud vase. A flower-papered hallway led to an atrium, and a brass grille fenced off the entrance to another elevator. The grille was locked. Elena was quietly glad. Enough of gates and locks and keys for today.

She circled back to the main hall and up the stairs; most of the doors were locked, too, but one came open under her hand, a small, narrow bedroom. The linens were fresh on the bed, and a candle flickered on the bedside table, illuminating the single cupboard and washbasin in a corner.

That was clear enough. Servant's quarters. She quickly slung her suitcase on the bed and leaned her rifle in a corner, where she'd see it if she woke up in the middle of the night. The water was steaming hot and Elena gratefully plunged her numb hands in; soon, feeling began to ebb back into her body. She washed, all over, and flanneled herself dry, not caring at the threadbare fabric of the towels. She almost groaned in relief when she pulled the pins from her braids and brushed loose the stiff brown tangles of her hair. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she'd bound them up, and over the day they'd begun to ache, pulling at her scalp as if to peel it off.

She went to the wardrobe and pulled it open, humming a dancing-song. Inside-

She went still.

Clothes. Neatly folded, well-made of good linen and wool. Her heart leaped. Are these for me? But when she pulled them out, Elena saw they were much the wrong size for her, made for a girl shorter than her by a good few inches, and significantly more curvaceous. Elena- tall, straight-figured, and bustless- had no business trying to get into a skirt with a waist that small. She searched the seams and found a tag, embroidered in neat letters with a name.

Violeta.

Violeta. The girl who was missing. The last girl from the village who had come here, and who had never gone back.

Elena folded the clothes again and replaced them in the wardrobe. She closed its door with a neat snap. Curtains of hair falling round her face, her skin glowing pink from being scrubbed, she changed into a fresh blouse and skirt and stood, clean, dry, and warm. She glanced toward the window. It overlooked the waterfall, the plunge down, down, down. Such a long way. She couldn't see the village lights from here. It was as if it didn't exist at all.

And when she died up here, vanished like Violeta, her name would be whispered, then silenced, and never said again. And she'd be forgotten, too.

Would her father get the suitcase back this time?

Elena sat slowly on the bed. She went to her side, facing the wall, and curled up, knees to her chest, hands pressed to her stomach. The grief opened inside her like a wound. When she began to cry she let herself, and didn't stop, not even as the darkness fell in the small, cold, unfamiliar room, not even when the candle by her bedside burned itself out.

[carsonian]

so i just finished reading chapter 4 of 'only natural to harden up' and i am a gooey puddle of emotions. i want to write you a love letter. i want to gently kiss the fingers that type out the most heart wrenching yet soul-warming stories i have read.

i will collect myself to write a coherent comment eventually but for now have this slightly pathetic ask as a token of my affection 🫴🏻❣️

whiny.....K..............Love..........you're such a sweetheart. Not going to front, that final chapter took a toll on me, less because of its nature and more so because of (a) how much it mattered to me that I get it right because it was for someone whose writing I really admire and (b) because Work swallowed me whole and only burped me out after I did unspeakable things to its uvula.

I got really lucky with this W.I.P. because I had people cheering me on, and you were one of those superstars. Thank you a billion gajillion zamillion for being so generous with your time and praise and cheerleading. It was such a gift to behold, every time. I'm so happy you enjoyed the last chapter. You're an honest delight and I hold this ask, and all your comments, very dear to me.

[eomma-jpeg]

12, 18 and 29 for the Fanfic Wrapped questions please! :D

hi b !

12. How many WIP’s do you have in your docs for next year?

Way too many

So i just counted and its AT LEAST 20 different documents and about 5 different stories. 

Some of the stories include my college au, things for @noaafishfieldguide After Eden fic, the undine/mermaid millynai au, bakery au with @veilder, and a post trimax domestication au (with babies bc i have yet to experiment with that and its funnnn)

But im hoping to gain some steam on my college au and post more regularly when the new year comes !!!

18. The character that gave you the most trouble writing this year?

Probably knives 

Rn actually its Legato

I intend to write him as a creep (bc he is) but i keep hesitating bc i know some people enjoy Legato as a character

I do too ! but I need to use him for nefarious purposes in the college au fic lolol

UGH I ALSO HAVE TROUBLE WITH LIVIO AND RAZLO AND SO IVE KIND OF HELD MYSELF BACK ON WRITING THOSE TWO

One day tho… next year hehe

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

Oh dear. I have to go on a hunt.

So one of my FAVORITE lines from in the meadow is in chapter 8

“And for the first time, Milly felt like Knives saw her.”

Its so simple but in context it says a lot about the development of Milly and Knives’ relationship.

Okay… another passage from in the meadow that i really liked. This one is the ending of chapter 17

Three days after Thompson left, Knives plucked the first ripe tomato. 

He felt pride, especially in himself. His sister had shown him what she wanted, and Knives had accomplished just that; helping the humans and providing useful resources to them had been her greatest desire, and Knives felt he had fulfilled her wish. He would need to return to the geoplant chamber and speak with her, tell her about their successes in and around the garden.

But even with that pride and the excitement in being able to show his sister what she had helped to produce, there was still an emptiness. 

The tomato he picked was only one of a few ripe fruit on the bushes, but this was the first he had spotted. Grabbing the red thing, he wrenched it off the plant with a tug. He turned it in his hand, running a thumb along the natural seams that spread from where the stem originated. The texture was slippery against his fingertips, a glossy finish coating the entire surface. It was just as Thompson had described: a fully red tomato, firm to the touch and easily pulled from the plant.

It was perfect. Not a single blemish from growth or from worms.

Knives' grip tightened on the fruit. He wanted to crush it, break it open, destroy it beneath his powerful grasp, a victim of his fierce anger.

But if he did that it would mean she wouldn't get to see it. She wouldn't get to view the first fruit of their harvest.

Holding the small fruit in his hands, Knives abandoned his work in the garden, moving alone to the casita she inhabited. His heart panged at its emptiness, the loneliness he had felt since she left striking with a vengeance. He walked to the counter, gently placing the tomato down on the smooth surface. 

And there it would remain until Milly returned.

This is the first time knives refers to milly as ‘milly’ and I love the dichotomy of a beautiful fruit against his unending frustration and rage. 

I have many others,,, like a few lines from sealed in steam or from spent tears, but in the meadow is my baby and i will continue to admire it.

ao3 wrapped

[secretchicken]

“If We Were Villains” By M. L. Rio

Blurb: Enter the players. Seven young Shakespearean actors at Dellecher Classical Conservatory, a place of keen ambition and fierce competition. But in their fourth and final year, one of them is found dead. In this secluded world of firelight and leather-bound books, they find themselves facing their very own tragedy, and their greatest acting challenge yet: convincing the police, each other, and themselves that they are innocent.

“Which of us could say we were more sinned against than sinning? We were so easily manipulated - confusion made a masterpiece of us.”

★★★★★

I picked up “If We Were Villains” because the cover is stunning (I got the Titan Books edition) and because – please forgive me, M. L. Rio – it reminded me of “The Secret History” by Donna Tartt, which I actually haven’t read yet. Yes, yes, I know we must never judge a book by its cover, but in this case I’m glad I did.

This is a story about love, friendship and obsession. This is a story about words and passion and the power of unspoken truths. This is a story about Shakespeare. 

I can’t say much about the plot without spoiling the ending, only that it’s finely crafted, that every detail matters, and that although I guessed what would happen in the end, it’s only because I was looking very hard for clues – and they were all there, from the very beginning. This is something I’ve always admired in other people’s writing: subtle foreshadowing. The plot is so intricately woven that, if you read between the lines, you can guess the climax from the first few chapters. This doesn’t make the journey any less enjoyable. On the contrary! The minute I understood what was happening, I wanted even more desperately to read it in Rio’s words.

That takes me to the next point: the prose. Let me say, very subjectively, that the prose in this book is good. Rio plays with language in ways that are at times lucid and understated, but she also knows how to indulge in not-quite-purple, perhaps-slightly-periwinkle prose. I enjoyed it immensely, and if there is one thing you should know about me as a reader, it’s that I value good prose, sometimes even over plot.

The last thing I want to talk about is the characters. I think the author did a great job of making each and every one of them a living, breathing person, instead of an archetype of the role they would end up playing. I imagine that’s why the ending is so gripping, so heart-wrenching and real.

I give “If We Were Villains” by M. L. Rio 5/5 stars.

[primalobscurite]

Partially inspired by the image --

He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, squared his feet, and then raised the mattock to hip height before letting it drop with a weighty grunt of effort. The pattern rock half-hidden beneath rich dark earth and scattered leaf litter that resisted all efforts to be kept out of the trench finally broke, cracking under the assault that he had put it under by way of the tool and strength of his shoulders for the last half-hour. Wrenching it out to the sound of further splintering, he was just about to reach into the pocket of his breeches to find a cloth with which to wipe away the sweat that had begun stinging his eyes when he looked closer.

Rivulets of silvery dark ichor bubbled up from the foci of the damage, splitting into tributaries of thinner lines of fluid, branching like the mouth of a fertile delta, the plates of rock flushing darkened brown with an iridescent hue under the moisture. Frowning and setting the mattock to one side, he paused to look over his shoulder at his companions. The anthropologist, Elizabeth, was occupied at the base of the hill. Distinct in her dark red shawl standing out against the beige and white of her attire. He scanned amidst the local workers before catching sight of Howard, in the process of trying to tame a particularly stubborn horse that was being prepared to haul the next load of rocks to the nearest pile for discarding and back-filling.

Fighting for a moment between the sensible part of him that said to enlist another set of eyes for examination and rationalisation of what was happening and the siren's impulsive song of curiousity, his desire for something - a discovery - that was his and his alone made the decision for him. Moving so then he was level with the plating, he retrieved his trowel from the leather holder handmade for his belt before brushing away some of the dirt with his hands. Hands and knees, he began outlining the plates by working away the dirt that was caked between them, eyeing the now oozing ichor to make sure he didn't come into direct contact with it. Finally, he leaned back to admire what he had exposed. Hands dark with dirt, screaming with pain from the heavy work, he persisted.

It looked almost like scales. Misshapen scales, with no sense of regularity to them. Rough-edged, dulled. Perhaps the result of a journeyman artisan's work, something made on the way to becoming a master of his craft. Still, what he had exposed was large, and he could not see the edges of it. With a shrug, in his excavations, he then found the plate nearest to the mattock's entry to have lifted slightly. His heart hammered with excitement in his chest but something else threaded its way into his nerves. A whispering warning. Bu he ignored it. Clearing away the dirt and caked grime from the edge of the plate, he then hooked his trowel behind the edge of the plate, gritted his teeth, and drew back with all of the strength that he could muster.

The plate came away from his effort with a horrific ripping sound. Holding it and turning it over, he then dropped the plate as he saw the slickened silvery sheen on the back. Looking to where it had come from, he saw the blackened pulsing flesh and silver veins but barely had enough time to register precisely what that meant when the ground under him shuddered, and a cracking, splintering sound soon rose in pitch to a crescendo that was deafening. Stuffing the scale into a pocket - greed holding his heart even as fear clenched it - even as he scrambled backwards, the ground just in front of him, and that not yet excavated further back, seemed to pulse and push up.

Hauling himself out of the trench, he almost tripped over backwards as he tried to keep his eyes fixed on what was... emerging, erupting, burrowing to the surface ... even as he sought to gain distance in the process. At the sound of his startling and then the sight of the ground moving? The dig site went from a few being distracted by what was going on to chaos. But more than the chaos, there was a horrified freezing fear.

Then, the last of the rock keeping it down was broken through pained, furious and insistent movements and the creature reared up... insectoid in appearance but gargantuan in size compared to anything they had ever seen and what had been known to the records to date. Three pairs of dark eyes opened for the first time in millenia and after a moment of pause during which it held its head up to some ten foot off of the ground, off of the trench's depth, with thrice that length still breaking free from the sediment that had hardened over it in slumber, its jaws parted to the sound of crumbling dirt and a stiffened carapace... two mandibles, top and bottom, splitting apart to reveal an array of shard-like hooked dark teeth, black as obsidian, dripping silvery slime that splattered to the ground.

The first sound that it had made well outside of any living memory, into the air of a time that was entirely foreign to it, was a high piercing screech that scourged the ear-drums. Those who had not by then ran out of range were brough to the ground hard, pain lancing down their spines as though the 'cord itself within was on fire. The noise had a brassy underlying note, of such a depth that it rattle ribs and rumbled organs.

VIK MUNIZ / “HANDS” / 1997 from PICTURES OF DIRT [gelatin silver print | 22 7/8 x 19"]