#just no grayness none

[guzhufuren]

the world doesn't look as vibrant and colourful as it did after february 1st (Love for Love's Sake finale premiere). hm

[coffeeshades]

—true blue ⭑ part i

summary: two strangers meet in a city of millions, only to discover they've been searching for each other all along.

pairing: pedro pascal x f!reader.

word count: 7.3k

warnings: age gap, angst, fluff, mentions of alcohol, loneliness, nostalgia. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know! (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)

a/n: hello lovelies, i’m back with another story! hope you guys enjoy it and happy reading <3

London had a way of swallowing you whole, especially on days like this—when the sky was nothing but a massive stretch of gray, heavy and low, threatening rain but never delivering it. The city seemed to disappear into the clouds, a wash of neutral tones that made everything feel colder, quieter.

Six months in, and you still weren’t used to it. The grayness, the dampness that clung to your skin, or the way the city seemed to keep you at arm’s length, never quite welcoming you in.

You pulled your scarf tighter around your neck as you walked into the café, your breath fogging the glass for a moment before pushing the door open.

The warmth hit you immediately, the smell of roasted coffee beans filling your senses. The place was small, cozy, and comfortably worn—wooden floors scuffed by years of foot traffic, walls lined with photos of the city taken from angles only locals would recognize.

It was a great place, one you had found early on in your stay. Most of the baristas knew you by now, especially Tom, who greeted you with a nod as soon as you walked in.

You tugged at the sleeves of your sweater, slightly too big but soft and comforting, and ran a hand through your frazzled hair, still somewhat damp from the earlier drizzle. You hadn’t bothered with an umbrella; London rain was more a constant mist than a downpour, not enough to get soaked but just enough to make you feel cold in your bones. Your dark pants clung to your legs, and your worn black boots scuffed the floor as you made your way to the counter.

It was late afternoon, your favorite time to stop by. Usually, you had to battle before work-rush. But you were free today. Most people had already grabbed their coffee and gone back to their lives, leaving the café quieter, almost meditative. You liked that. It was one of the few moments in your day where you didn’t have to think about the silence that otherwise hung over life.

New York had been noisy, full of distractions, but here, the quiet was inescapable. It followed you home, lingered in the corners of your rented flat, and made you feel more alone than you ever had back in the States.

“Hey, Tom,” you said, offering him a small smile as you dropped your purse onto the counter.

He smiled back, his hands already reaching for a cup. “The usual?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

You leaned against the counter, absently scrolling through the phone. Emails. Work messages. Nothing personal, nothing to distract you from the dull rhythm of solitude you’d grown so accustomed to. A novel you’d just finished reading peeked out of your bag.

As you waited for the order, the bell above the door chimed softly, and you felt someone step up beside you. You didn’t look up, not at first. The presence was warm, close enough to feel but not close enough to intrude. You were just another person standing in line, waiting for coffee.

Then you heard the voice.

“A large iced black coffee, please,” the man beside you said, his voice deep, casual, the kind of voice that made you listen even when you weren’t paying attention.

Another barista nodded, moving quickly to prepare the drink, and you tried not to feel the man’s presence. But it was hard not to. He wasn’t looking at you, but could sense him—the quiet weight of someone standing just close enough that it made you aware of yourself.

“Blue.”

The word pulled you out of your thoughts, and you glanced sideways, confused. “Sorry?”

He was smiling now, his expression easy, as if we were in on some joke. He nodded toward your bag, where the book was still partially visible.

“The cover of your book. It’s blue.”

You blinked, your brain trying to catch up with the conversation. “Oh…yeah, it is.” You managed a half-smile, still unsure of where this was going.

“You must think I’m weird now,” he added, his tone teasing, but there was something behind his eyes—something almost vulnerable, like he was testing the waters.

“No, not really,” I said, shrugging. “I just wasn’t expecting...that.”

“It’s just…uh, lately, I’ve been reading a lot of books with blue covers,” he explained, running a hand through his hair. It was slicked back, but not perfectly—there was a curl that had escaped, hanging slightly over his forehead, giving him a disheveled charm. His brown leather jacket looked well-worn, like something he’d had for years, and his white sneakers were clean but scuffed, like they’d seen their fair share of travel.

“When I saw yours, it made me think of that. Sorry to bother you.”

“No, you’re not bothering me,” you said quickly, feeling an odd need to put him at ease. “Not at all.”

You took him in more fully now, and something clicked. There was a familiarity about him, something that tugged at the edges of recognition, but it hadn’t fully registered yet. Dark jeans, black t-shirt, the jacket slung casually over his frame, and those clear glasses that made him look both intelligent and approachable. His smooth skin seemed ready to tip into weathered, his dark hair almost shot full of gray. Solidly middle aged. 

There was something unguarded about him. Something real.

Before you could figure out where you knew him from, Tom interrupted, handing you the coffee with a nod. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” You reached for your card to pay, then paused, glancing back at the man beside you.

“Do you want it?”

He looked at you, clearly surprised. “Want what?”

“The book.”

You gestured toward the blue-covered novel still poking out of the bag. “I finished it earlier today. You can add it to your collection of blue books.”

He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. “Oh, no, I can’t take that from you.”

“Of course you can.”

You pulled the book out fully, holding it out to him. “I’m done with it. And you seem interested.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, like he was trying to figure out if you were serious. Then, slowly, he reached out, his large hands brushing against yours as he took the book. His fingers lingered on the cover for a moment, running over the title as he read it out loud.

“It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over.”

You watched as he flipped the book over, his fingers tracing a small bullseye doodle inked on the back of his hand, just between his thumb and index finger. It was such a small detail, but it told you something about him. You suddenly wanted to know everything about him.

“It’s a good read,” you said, slipping the card into the reader. “It’s about mortality, grief, love… you know, the usual light fare.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Sounds like my kind of book. Gut-wrenching, then?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, “I think I have a thing for devastating literature.”

“That makes two of us.”

Tom handed him his iced coffee, and he nodded gratefully, still holding the book like it was something fragile. “Thanks again,” he said, glancing at the title one last time. “I’ll make sure it’s in good company.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” you said, gathering your things. You had to go home before the rain started pouring.

As you stepped toward the door, you felt the chill from outside starting to creep back in, and just before the door closed behind you, you heard him call out, his voice soft but sure.

“I know I will.”

The cold wind hit you as you stepped out into the gray street, but this time, it felt different. Less like a wall, more like a breeze pushing you forward. Something had changed, though you weren’t sure what yet.

The rain had picked up again, tapping against the windows of your flat like impatient fingers. The days were growing shorter now, the afternoons fading into evenings before you even had time to notice. Autumn had a way of settling into your bones—the way the cold crept in through the cracks, the muted light casting long shadows across the room, the golden hues of fallen leaves scattered on the pavement outside.

You had made the flat your own in small, quiet ways. A few plants scattered along the window ledge, books stacked unevenly on shelves that were too small to hold them all, some even on the floor, and a woolen throw draped over the worn arm of the couch. The place wasn’t large, but it was enough—just one bedroom, a kitchen that overlooked the small living room, and large windows that framed the world outside in a way that almost felt intimate. It smelled like home now—a mix of coffee and the faint scent of cinnamon from the candle burning on the table.

You were halfway through folding a pile of laundry when the phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. You wiped your hands on your pajama shorts before picking it up, smiling as Olivia’s name flashed across the screen. She called at least once a week, sometimes more if she had something “urgent” to discuss—which, in her world, could range from a new recipe she'd tried to the latest celebrity drama.

You answered on the second ring. "Hey, Liv."

“Finally!” Her voice came through the speaker, bright and full of life. “I’ve been texting you all day.”

You balanced the phone between your shoulder and ear, picking up a stray sock from the couch.

“Sorry, I was at work. Just got back a little while ago.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “You’re always at work. You know that’s not healthy, right?”

You could rattle off a hundred reasons why being a medical resident wasn’t healthy—none of it was. It had taken you months to find your footing at the hospital. You hadn’t really made any friends outside of work, just the occasional outing with Sabrina, a fourth-year who’d taken you under her wing like the hospital’s den mother.

You rolled your eyes, tossing the sock into the laundry basket. “I know, I know, but you know how it is.”

“Whatever,” she said, clearly moving on. “So, guess what?”

You smiled, already bracing myself for whatever tangent she was about to dive into. “What?”

“I found this article about why cats are secretly plotting against us, and I swear, it’s changed my whole perspective on Peanut.”

“Peanut? Your ten-year-old tabby who sleeps all day and barely looks at you?”

“Yes! That’s exactly why it makes sense. He’s too quiet. Too calm. He’s plotting, I know it.”

You laughed as you wandered into the kitchen to grab a Coke from the fridge. “Olivia, he’s a cat. I think you’re safe.”

“Don’t you dare dismiss me, okay? I have facts. I’ll send you the article.”

“Can’t wait,” you said dryly, leaning against the counter as you sipped your drink.

There was a brief pause on her end, and then her voice softened, shifting to something more serious. “But really, how have you been?”

You glanced out the window, watching the rain streak down the glass in slow, steady lines. “Same old. The hospital, laundry, eating dinner in front of the TV. You know the drill.”

“Nothing new?” she pressed.

“Not really.”

You hesitated, a brief smile tugging at your lips as you remembered the café. “Although… I think I met Pedro Pascal the other day.”

There was a beat of silence, followed by a shriek so loud you had to pull the phone away from your ear. “What?! Shut up, shut up! You what?”

“I mean…I wasn't sure it was him when it was happening, but now I'm kinda positive.”

“Girl, how positive?” Her voice was breathless, excited in the way only Olivia could manage.

You chuckled, walking over to the couch and sinking into the cushions, curling your legs under you.

“I don't know, pretty positive?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Did he give you his name?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Then how do you know it was him?” She sounded like she was about to combust with impatience.

“Because I talked to the man, Liv. He looked like him; I don't know. Maybe…maybe it wasn't him."

“You talked?!” she nearly screamed. “Oh my God, what did you talk about?”

“Not much,” you said, shrugging even though she couldn’t see you. “It was about my book—the one I was reading.”

“What was he like? Was he charming? Did he look at you with those eyes?”

You could practically see her waggling her eyebrows, and you laughed, shaking your head.

“Calm down. He was just… normal. Kind of charming. We didn’t talk for long, though.”

“Normal? Pedro Pascal is not normal. People would die to have a conversation with him, and you’re over here like, ‘Oh, we just talked about a book."

You smiled, running a hand through your hair, which had dried into a messy wave. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not! This is huge!” she insisted. “Did he ask for your number?”

“No, are you crazy? ” You snorted. “It wasn’t like that.”

“You’re killing me here.” She groaned. “How do you not make the most of a moment like that? You had a once-in-a-lifetime chance to shoot your shot, and you’re telling me you just let it go?”

“It wasn’t like that, Liv,” you said, still laughing. “It was just a casual conversation.”

She let out another exasperated sigh. “You’re hopeless. Completely hopeless.”

“Okay, well, I have to go,” you said, picking up the empty laundry basket and setting it aside. “I still have to make dinner, and it’s getting late.”

“You’re brushing me off because you don’t want to admit you missed your chance with Pedro Pascal.”

“I’m brushing you off because I’m starving,” you corrected.

“Fine, fine. But promise me this isn’t the end of the story. If you run into him again, you have to—”

“Not gonna happen."

"Don't be so pessimistic. If you run into him again, you tell me."

"Not gonna happen, but fine."

“That’s all I ask,” she said, her tone suddenly cheerful again. “Okay, go make dinner. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, Liv.”

“Bye!”

You hung up, dropping the phone onto the couch as you stared outside again. The rain had softened into a steady drizzle. The flat was quiet, the only sound being the occasional hiss of the radiator and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

You sighed, sinking deeper into the cushions. It was a small life you had built here, simple and quiet. But there was something comforting about it too. Even if you hadn’t figured everything out yet, there was a strange sense of peace in the routine of it all.

And yet, the thought of that brief encounter at the café lingered in the back of your mind, like a spark that hadn’t quite caught fire.

A week had passed since the encounter, but you couldn’t shake him from your mind. It was ridiculous, really. You hadn’t asked for his name, hadn’t lingered long enough to let the moment stretch into something more. But the man with the deep voice and warm laugh had somehow taken up residence in your thoughts.

It was as if the quiet, unremarkable routine you’d built for yourself here had been cracked open, just a little, by that brief, unexpected meeting.

Still, you tried not to think about it too much. But every time you walked past that café, your steps slowed, as if you expected to see him again, leaning against the counter with his easy smile.

By the time you actually went in again, a full week later, the cold October air was biting at your skin, and your mind was no more settled than it had been that day.

You ordered the usual—a flat white—and lingered by the counter as Tom prepared it, his familiar movements almost soothing in their predictability. You were lost in thought, half-aware of your surroundings, when Tom placed the cup on the counter.

But this time, there was something else.

A small package, wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with a blue ribbon.

“What’s this?” you asked, staring at it like it was some kind of puzzle.

Tom smiled, his thick accent wrapping around his words. “Someone left it for you.”

You blinked, completely baffled. “What is this, a secret admirer thing? Because I gotta say, Tom, I wasn’t prepared for that kind of drama today.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not from me, love. But someone wanted you to have it.”

Intrigued, you grabbed the coffee and the package, thanking him before heading to your usual spot by the window. The window fogged slightly from the heat of the café, offering you a misty view of the street beyond.

You sat down and placed the package in front of you, staring at it for a few seconds as your mind raced. What the hell is this? Your fingers traced the edges of the paper, carefully undoing the small ribbon before pulling the wrapping away.

A book. Of course, it was a book.

You smiled faintly as you read the title aloud: Drive Your Plow over the Bones of the Dead.

The cover was blue—deep and rich, just like the one you’d given away the week before. The faintest blush crept up your cheeks as you realized who it must have been from.

Your heart did a weird little somersault in your chest as you ran your fingers along the cover. Before you even opened it, a folded piece of paper fell out and landed softly on the table. You unfolded it, smoothing the creases, and read the note inside:

Hi, stranger. I realized five minutes after you gave me your book that I didn’t ask for your name. How rude of me. I’m sorry. I walked out of there as soon as I realized and walked a few blocks, but you were gone.

I finished the book, by the way. It was beautiful. I loved how real and layered the main character was. I also laughed so much; I didn’t think a novel this heartbreaking would be such a joy.

Anyway, I feel like I’m rambling now. Since you gave me one, I thought I might return the favor. I think this is a long shot since I don't know if you are a regular, but I hope you are. I hope this finds you.

Enjoy.

Love, Pedro.

You stared at the note for what felt like a full minute, your mind slowly processing the words. Oh my god. Pedro. So you weren't delusional after all. It had been him. All this time, you’d been trying to convince yourself that it was some random guy with a coincidental likeness, but no—it was him.

The smile that spread across your face was involuntary, and you felt your cheeks flush with the sudden realization that you had somehow fallen into a casual book exchange with him. Your fingers traced the edge of the note, and you leaned back in the chair, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

For the next several days, the book accompanied you everywhere—on the train, to work, in bed at night. You found yourself highlighting passages and underlining sentences that spoke to something deep inside you. The book was dark and witty, a strange blend of humor and melancholy that left you thinking long after you’d closed it each night.

You hadn’t seen Pedro again, though you hoped—each time you entered the café—that maybe he’d be there. Maybe you’d exchange a few more words; maybe this strange little connection would become something more.

But days passed, and there was no sign of him.

A week later, you finished the book. As you placed it on the nightstand, you knew what you had to do.

It was only fair to continue the game, wasn’t it?

And there was one book that immediately came to mind—Alone With You in the Ether. The cover was, of course, blue.

You spent that morning getting ready, your usual routine of sluggishness replaced by something else—anticipation, maybe. You pulled on your blue navy scrubs and your running shoes, taking a little extra care with your hair, though you weren’t quite sure why.

At the café, you ordered the usual and approached the counter with the book neatly wrapped in brown paper. When Tom handed you the coffee, you slipped the book into his hands, along with a note:

Hi, Pedro.

That’s okay, no need to apologize. To be fair, I didn’t ask for your name either, so that makes the two of us very rude people. I’m so happy you liked the book. As for the one you gave me—wow. I think it’s going to stick with me for a while.

Now, this one is really special to me. I read it earlier this year, and even though it’s kind of a drag to get through in the first few chapters, once you get the hang of it, it’s totally worth it. And yeah, it made me cry a little because it explores what it means to be unwell and how to face the fractures in yourself and still love as if you’re not broken. Really happy stuff, I know.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Love,

You hesitated for a second before writing your name at the bottom of the note. You had to, right?

You couldn’t keep this up forever without knowing who the other person was.

As you handed the book to Tom, excitement bubbled inside you, and you felt a strange sense of giddiness that you hadn’t experienced in ages. You were exchanging books with this enigma of a man—this charismatic, famous man who somehow understood the same quiet parts of the world that you did.

As you left the café that day, the autumn air crisp and cool around you, you realized just how much had changed in these past few weeks. you’d been living in your head for so long, buried in stories and thoughts that weren’t your own, but now—now there was something tangible.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt alive.

It had been days since you’d left Pedro the book, and though a small part of you hoped to hear back, you hadn’t expected it. Surely he had better things to do than trade novels with a stranger. Yet, here you were again, standing at the counter of the café, that familiar flutter of anticipation creeping up on you.

“Just a matcha today,” you said to Tom, trying to rein in your caffeine habit. He raised an eyebrow, surprised at the switch, but didn’t say anything as he rang you up. “It’s surgery day,” you added, shrugging.

When he handed you the drink, there it was—a familiar brown-wrapped package slipped discreetly into your other hand. Your pulse quickened. You did your best to keep cool, to act as though this was just another day, but your fingers betrayed you, trembling slightly as they closed around the package.

“What now?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but the excitement was barely concealed in your voice.

Tom chuckled, shaking his head. “Another one. Same guy.”

You didn’t even sit down. You stood right there at the counter, carefully peeling away the paper. Another blue book. The Book of All Loves. A smile tugged at your lips, warm and uncontainable.

Inside, a folded note fell out—this one thicker, the creases worn, the ink smudged in places. Your hands shook slightly as you unfolded it and began to read.

Hi again, stranger—

Well, I guess I can’t really call you that anymore, now that I know your name, huh?

He had written your name at the top—three times.

The letters were neat but hurried, repeated as though he were testing how it felt to write them. The ink stuttered in places, lingering on the curves of each letter, like he had taken his time. It is such a gorgeous sight. To see your name in his handwriting awakened something in you. 

There. It’s stuck in my head now. What a great name, by the way. I could probably write it out a hundred more times and still not get tired of seeing it. Is that weird? That’s probably weird. I’m rambling again.

So, the book—wow. It hit me in ways I didn’t expect. You weren’t kidding when you said it was about being unwell, but it was more than that. The characters were dancing on this fragile edge between chaos and peace, and I felt that. And that church scene...

You paused, feeling the tenderness of his words wrapping around you, pulling you in closer.

The way they held hands—it was more than just a gesture. There’s something about it that felt so raw, so intimate. In a place where you’re not supposed to be that close, it made it all the more... heartbreaking. Have you ever felt like that? Like you’re carrying all this weight but still holding onto this tiny sliver of hope that someone will see you for who you are? Without needing you to explain every scar?

His words resonated deeply, tugging at something tender within you, as if he had unknowingly plucked a string that had long been silent.

Do you get what I mean? Or am I just talking in circles again?

The next part of the note was a jumble of thoughts, ideas pouring out in bursts. He wrote about the book's characters, how they reminded him of his own isolation, even when surrounded by people. He confessed that sometimes he felt as though he wore a mask—something to hide behind—but books like this allowed him to drop it, if only for a little while.

I think I’m really good at pretending sometimes, you know? We all are, right? But in books, I don’t have to pretend. It’s like I get to be myself for a little bit, without all the noise. Does that make sense? I’m probably being too heavy, sorry. The truth is, I feel comfortable writing to you. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the books, this exchange—like it’s okay to be vulnerable. Or maybe I’m just being dramatic.

There was a little smiley face drawn beside that sentence, and you found yourself laughing softly, the sound light in the quiet café.

Anyway, thanks again for sharing this with me. It’s a gem. I thought I’d give you something in return—something that fits. Have you read The Book of All Loves? It’s about love beyond romance. I think you’ll like it.

Until next time.

Love, Pedro.

You stood there for a long time after finishing the note, his words echoing in your mind, stirring feelings you hadn’t allowed yourself to acknowledge. The way he wrote—so raw, so real—made it feel as though you weren’t just two strangers exchanging books. It felt deeper, like an unspoken understanding had passed between you, hidden in the lines of each letter, in the ink that had smudged under the weight of his thoughts.

Your heart swelled with a mixture of emotions. Just hearing from him has made you so driven, so romantic, so excited. The brief connection you had made through these letters felt real, almost tangible, as though roots had begun to take hold beneath the surface of your everyday life.

You read the note again, slower this time, savoring every word, every thought he had poured onto the page. His question lingered.

Have you ever felt like that?

Of course you had. You had spent most of your life searching for that connection, that elusive feeling of being truly seen without needing to explain every wound, every hidden corner of yourself. And now, through these letters, it felt as though Pedro saw something in you that others hadn’t.

The thought was ridiculous, you knew that. But still, there was comfort in it, in the way he opened up to you with such ease. There was something undeniably romantic about it—this quiet exchange of words and books, of thoughts and feelings that had probably never been shared aloud.

You carefully folded the note, tucking it back into the book, and cradled your matcha in your hands. A small smile played at the corners of your lips, warmth blossoming in your chest. You weren’t sure what this was—this strange, beautiful exchange—but whatever it was, it made you feel seen. It made you feel connected.

You didn’t mind being lost in the unknown.

Weeks passed, and your days fell into an easy rhythm—a rhythm that beat around the exchange of books and letters with Pedro. Each novel was chosen with care, both of you quietly mindful of keeping them short, under 300 pages, so they could be devoured quickly.

But the real reason wasn’t the books themselves now—it was what came with them.

The letters.

They weren’t just pages full of thoughts about the stories. They were windows. Each one revealed more of who he was, and in return, you found yourself offering up pieces of yourself. You couldn’t help it—the way he wrote, the way he asked questions that no one else dared to, as if he genuinely wanted to know you. And so, you let him in.

After finishing The Book of All Loves, your response was a little more vulnerable than you’d expected. You’d thanked him for the recommendation, told him it had cracked something open inside of you. “It’s strange,” you’d written, “how a book about love that exists in such quiet, unassuming forms can make you feel like you’ve been missing it your whole life. I’ve never thought much about love outside of romance—what it means to love a moment, a gesture, the way the wind feels when it hits your skin in the early morning. All I've ever known of love is how to live without it. I just can’t seem to find it. This book made me think about all the things I’ve taken for granted. The small loves. The unnoticed ones.”

Pedro’s letter back had been equally intimate. “It feels good to read this from you,” he wrote. "To know that maybe we’ve both been looking for something neither of us can really name. I guess there are certain things we stumble upon that make us feel less alone in our strangeness.

When I read your letter, I thought about a lot of things I haven’t said out loud. I thought about how it’s always felt easier to live without love, or at least to live like I didn’t need it, as if needing it would somehow make me weaker. I think of all the times I’ve skimmed over beauty just because I didn’t want to stop and notice what was missing. Reading your words made me realize that maybe I’ve always been chasing something, too, not realizing that these quiet, unassuming moments—like the way the rain sounds against the window at night or the exact shade of blue that the sky becomes before sunrise—maybe they’re as close as I’ve been to something real.

The words spilled out slowly, and you read them twice, tracing each line with your fingertip, as if trying to hold onto every word for a little longer.

When you said the book cracked something open in you, I understood. We don’t let ourselves soften often, but it sounds like, maybe, there’s been a little space for that now. Like maybe you’ve felt things so quietly, you didn’t even know they were there. You’re right, though; love is everywhere. It’s the way a good song can feel like home. It’s knowing how you take your coffee. And it’s weird to realize how much of it we let slip by, out of fear or habit or because we think love should look a certain way.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, but I guess I want you to know that you’re not alone in this. You’ve got someone here who gets it, at least a little bit. Someone who, honestly, feels like he’s been missing something without ever quite knowing what that something was. Maybe it’s just easier to say things like this when it’s written down. Maybe it’s easier to feel a little more when there’s distance.

But then I think of you, and I don’t want to feel that distance anymore.

Take care, alright? I’ll be here, waiting for whatever thought strikes you next. And thank you, for opening up like that. For letting me know I’m not the only one.

All the best,

Pedro

These letters had become your heartbeat, something that brought life back into you. At work, during breaks, you’d find yourself pulling out the latest book, fingers brushing the edges of the envelope tucked inside, knowing his notes and highlights were waiting for you.

Your rounds at the hospital became lighter, as if you carried a secret with you—one small, fragile thing that had started in the most unexpected of ways. How could you focus on anything when he writes you letters like this? When he spills his heart for you, a stranger?

Six days after his last letter, you sat at your kitchen counter one quiet evening, surrounded by the soft glow of a single warm light above. Outside, the evening had taken on that deep, inky blue you could get lost in, a shade that felt like a private world of its own. In front of you, a cinnamon roll sat on a small porcelain plate—the sort of indulgence you love to treat yourself to every now and then. The glaze stuck to your fingers as you leaned over a blank page, pen poised, waiting to shape your thoughts for Pedro.

Taking a deep breath, you began:

Pedro,

I’m sending you Never Let Me Go—a book that, in all its stillness and grace, moved me to tears. It’s a familiar feeling; there are so many things that make me cry. It’s not always the big, cinematic moments either, but the quiet, fleeting ones, the kind that Jane Austen might say ‘touch upon the tenderness of our sensibilities.’ Like when the last pages of a book make everything about the world seem profound, or when I see the first bloom of spring among the winter trees. I saw the movie years ago and cried so hard I could barely speak afterward. And, perhaps, I think there’s something remarkably necessary about being moved to tears—it’s like life’s way of keeping our hearts soft, open to the little aches and wonders.

So I’m sharing it with you, hoping it’ll do the same.

You paused, smiling to yourself, imagining him finding that description and wondering if he’d tease you for it. As the words settled onto the page, you felt a kind of sweet comfort, and maybe even a thrill, in knowing this note would soon be in his hands, bridging your two worlds once again.

It was four days later when Pedro's response finally arrived, tucked inside a copy of Night Sky with Exit Wounds. The book’s deep, stormy cover filled your eyes. But your day had already been a whirlwind. You’d spent the night studying for a complex surgery, barely catching three hours of sleep before sunrise. By morning, you were dashing through your routine, gulping down a few rushed sips of coffee, grabbing your coat, and flying out the door.

When you stopped by the café to find Pedro’s book and letter, your heart skipped at the sight of it waiting for you. But with your schedule pulling you in ten different directions, you could only clutch the book close, flash a half-awake smile at the barista, and promise yourself that you’d savor it later, once the day slowed.

Finally, around eight that evening, you arrived home, exhausted yet satisfied—the surgery had been a success, and you’d somehow managed to juggle the day’s relentless demands. Dropping your bag, you kicked off your shoes and sank onto the couch, barely making it past the door before you reached for the book.

His letter was tucked between the pages, Pedro’s handwriting skimming the edge of each line as though his words had been poured onto the page in a hurry, with just enough restraint to make each word count. The sight of it made you pause, drawing a deep, steadying breath as you began to read, his voice almost palpable in the air:

I know this one comes faster than you've probably expected, but the desire to write to you is all-consuming. It takes up space in every corner of my mind, like someone has rearranged the furniture in my head, and I keep bumping into things I didn’t realize were there. You should know it’s not normal for me. I’m usually good at keeping things compartmentalized, managing my thoughts, especially when I know I shouldn’t be entertaining them at all. But here I am, practically pathetic, writing you like some infatuated idiot who can’t keep his head on straight. I suppose that’s what I am.

There’s so much I want to ask you, even if it seems silly. It’s weird, I know, but I want to know everything: your favorite color, the exact shade of it, and why it sticks with you. I want to know how you take your coffee, if you’d let me make it for you, and if you’d like it bitter or sweet. Do you sleep on the right or left side of the bed? I’m trying to imagine you in those small, quiet moments—those times that people rarely share with others, the ones that make you feel like you’re finally seeing someone’s real life. Perhaps I want that with you. Hell, I’d probably just take watching you stir sugar into your coffee and feel like it’s some grand revelation.

I know I’m rambling. Some poet's probably rolling in their grave at this poor excuse of an epistolary attempt. But I feel like I could say anything to you here, let it all pour out, and you wouldn’t turn away. I guess I’m testing that, aren’t I?

This book I'm giving you is sharp but soft. It’s like Vuong’s words walk this fine line between resilience and surrender, which maybe is why they get to me. There's a line I love: “In the body, where everything has a price, I was a beggar”—I keep coming back to it. It gets under my skin, thinking of how much of my life I’ve spent doing just that: begging for something that felt like love but never fully was.

I guess that’s what makes me wonder. Is that what love is? Some beautiful, endless begging, hoping to be seen fully and held even with all the mess? I think about my past relationships, all the ways I tried to be someone I thought they’d love or, at least, understand. I don’t know if you can relate, but I always ended up feeling like I was only showing the parts I thought they’d like, and I could never quite manage to bring myself whole into it. Not that they were all bad, but…they left me feeling a bit like I was holding my breath, waiting for something I didn’t even have a name for.

I don’t feel that way with you. And it scares the hell out of me.

Have you ever loved like that? Loved in a way that left you feeling half-complete but more alone than ever? Do you think we can really know each other, or is it all just pieces we collect and hope fit together someday? Sorry, that’s bleak—I told you, I’m pathetic.

Still, writing this, I feel more real than I’ve felt in years. You’re already changing something in me, and maybe I’m a fool, but I think that’s worth every messy, flawed attempt I make to get closer to you.

Love,

Pedro

The last lines hung in the air, sinking deep like an echo through a still room.

Holy shit.

His admission felt like the thrill of stepping onto the edge of something limitless, knowing that he, too, was caught in the same current, swept into this quiet, growing bond that defied every attempt to be named. There was nowhere else you wanted to be.

For years now, you've saved all of your romanticism for your inner life, but now it seems to spill over into reality, coloring the world around you with a new intensity. It seems to spill over into your response to him.

Pedro,

I’m sitting here, pen in hand, trying to put to words what has only lived in my thoughts and quiet places inside me. It feels strange, like I’m peeling something hidden, revealing not just what I am but what I’ve long been afraid to be. But I think you’ve sensed that, haven’t you? Somehow, in these letters, it feels possible. You’ve done this to me, you know. And if you’re pathetic, then, God help me, so am I.

When I read your letter, I felt this pulse of recognition—your words so familiar, as though I’d known them before they were written. That line from Vuong—I lingered over it, too, so many times, until it felt like my own skin.

Isn’t it strange, the things that stay with us, hidden until someone else touches them? I’ve always had this…this longing to be seen in the fullness of myself, even the parts that feel a little too much or not quite enough. And yet, I’ve been equally terrified of it, of offering myself in a way that leaves me standing, raw, in front of someone who might not want what they see.

But with you, the idea doesn’t scare me as much. Even saying that feels like a confession.

You asked if I’d ever loved like that—loved in a way that left me both half-alive and lonelier than ever. I have. Not often, but enough to know the ache of it, that hollow feeling of wanting so badly to be known, only to realize I’d kept parts of myself hidden, guarded, fearing they wouldn’t understand or that I’d be asked to change. I’ve spent so many years rationing my softness, saving my sentimentalism for my own private thoughts, as though loving deeply was something to be ashamed of. But here I am, writing to you, letting it spill.

What about love, then? What do I think of it? I think of love as a kind of surrender, a rare, strange act of bravery and recklessness all at once. I think it’s choosing to step closer to someone when you know you might break your heart in the process. And maybe, sometimes, it’s a little like begging—but only if the person you’re begging to see you is also showing you something of themselves, a part they’re just as afraid to share.

Which is to say: you make me want to be that reckless. You make me want to know things I would have otherwise only dreamed of. I want to know your favorite hour of the day, the one that makes you feel alive even when you’re alone. I want to know what you’ve never dared to say aloud. If I could watch you, just once, as you sit in the quiet of the morning.

Maybe that’s the kind of love I want—one where the questions never end, where the silence says as much as the words, and where I don’t have to hide anything away.

Love,

a/n: alright! so what do you guys think about this one? i wanna know your thoughts!!! like, reblog or comment if you enjoyed it, i will gladly appreciate it <3

a second part will be posted soon!

[darklinaforever]

I actually feel like people just want 2024 Ellen to be like 1922, or 1979 Lucy.

A sacrificial lamb. Who simply sacrifices herself for her love and the good of all, who is able to defeat evil through her purity.

Except 2024 Ellen is none of those things.

And seeing so many people deny that, constantly calling her a sacrificial lamb and that she only sacrifices herself for her love Thomas drives him to despair.

If you want to see that, go watch the 1922 and 1979 versions, because that's not what happens in the 2024 version.

People think that's the right version to interpret because that's what the two older movies did and they're not able to analyze the 2024 movie in depth, seeing it only through the prism of superficiality.

Not to mention the general obsession in recent years to constantly want to make pure and victimize the female characters serving as heroines, not being able to bear the idea that they have grayness and imperfections, which manifests itself in particular by desires for powers (or a magical power that they already possess but which is not pure in its essence or use) and sexual desires, even more so when these things are directly associated with their romantic interest who turns out to be a villain in the story (like with Haladriel / Saurondriel).

[coff33andb00ks]

Recipe for the Perfect Christmas 2/12

One part small town girl coming home from the big city. One part handsome stranger. Five parts lifelong friends (don't forget to include their partners). One part stubborn father. A dash of Christmas spirit. Part: Two of Twelve {prev} Pairing: Oscar Piastri x ofc (with appearances from Mark Webber. Lando Norris, Carlos Sainz, Esteban Ocon, Pato O'Ward, and George Russell) wc: 3,984 warnings: none soundtrack: spotify ⋆❆⋆ apple music nav: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve

"Rise and shine!"

The cheerful tone was accompanied by a rapid knocking on her open bedroom door. Whining, Natalie rolled over and peeked at the window as she jerked the covers up over her head. There wasn't a hint of daylight, not even the pre-dawn grayness. Her voice was a rumbling groan. "What time is it?"

"Four. I've got coffee going. Up!"

She sat up with a dramatic whimper. Squinting towards the doorway, she could see the silhouette of her father, backlit by the hallway light. "Huh?"

"Shop opens at seven."

"Ugh."

Mark chuckled. "You never were one for early mornings."

"I love mornings," she mumbled, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes. "It's the middle of the night."

"You'll be fine, sweetie. Cmon, rise and shine."

"I'll rise." She pushed the covers back and slid out of bed with a yawn.

"Not gonna shine for me?"

"I'll shine when the sun does." Nodding when he said he was going to fix a little breakfast, she got her glasses from the nightstand and put them on before switching on the lamp. Out of habit, she turned to make the bed, sighing when her phone fell to the floor with a thump. She'd slept through a barrage of texts and read through them, mood souring. Plugging it in to charge, she shuffled to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face, sucking in a breath when she reached to remove her ring and found her finger bare.

No theatrics. No hysterics. Just the gentle clink of platinum and diamond against a marble countertop.

Bracing herself, she rushed through her skincare and got dressed, shoving her phone into her back pocket before going downstairs. She paused outside the kitchen and forced a smile on her face as she entered, greeted by the aromas of coffee, bacon, and eggs. Her father's limp was more noticeable as he carried their plates to the table and she felt a pang of guilt. She should be waiting on him. She made a mental note to set her alarm in the morning so she could fix him breakfast tomorrow and joined him at the table, setting his coffee next to his plate.

"Gonna be a cold one," he commented, and she watched the reflection of the weather app switch to the news in his reading glasses. "Better dress warm for the walk."

Natalie nodded and silence reined as they ate. Halfway through her second cup of coffee she felt almost human, and realization dawned when they headed out and he shoved a knit cap into her hand. "You're making me walk?"

Mark shrugged on his coat. The ancient black coat with the patch on one elbow that he'd been wearing every winter for as long as she could remember. "It's good for you."

"In the dark. In the cold. This is child abuse," she muttered, jerking the cap down over her ears. She shivered when he opened the door and cleared her throat when he moved to step outside. "Cane."

With a long-suffering sigh, he grabbed the cane. "Hate this thing."

"It's good for you."

There was little talk as they walked to the bakery. He gave her a few quick updates on the people who lived in the houses they passed. He knew everyone in town. If they didn't stop in the bakery regularly, they attended the church he'd been a member of practically his whole life, or they were regulars at the café or the diner, or he had known their families for decades. She'd been used to it once. Oh that's Natalie, Mark Webber's daughter. Now it seemed odd, to know everyone. But living away from this little town had changed her perception of neighbors. She had lived in the penthouse for two years before meeting the neighbor across the hall, and that was only because he'd been leaving one night when she and Pierre had been returning.

Pierre…

She shook those thoughts away and followed her father into the bakery.

When she was little, about five or six, there was a notch in the back door of the bakery. She would always remember staring up at it, waiting for the day she would be able to touch it without dragging a crate over to stand on.

Today it was eye level.

The scent of fresh bread was etched into the foundation of the building after so many decades and she felt a wash of memories as she closed and locked the back door. To her left was the small office, and in her mind's eye she could see her father sitting at the desk, adding figures and making supply orders. The bright kitchen lights came on and her breath caught when her eyes landed on her mother's apron hanging on a hook by the desk. Bright, Christmas red, the pocket still bearing finger streaks of flour.

"Dad? Can I take this home and wash it?"

His stoic face creasing slightly. His brow furrowing. His eyes shining with unshed tears. She immediately regretted the words. "It's where she put it. It's where it stays until I leave here for good."

She had never suggested another change.

"Sorry, Mama," she whispered as she hung her coat on the back of her father's office chair. Back in the kitchen, she pulled on a clean apron and was immediately a teenager again, darting back and forth to start a batch of donut dough, mix the streusel for the coffeecake, put the sheets of croissants into the oven, fix a pot of coffee, put the drawer in the register.

"Go ahead and start some bread. Susie wants six loaves."

Natalie blanked. "Bread."

Her father chuckled, already grabbing the yeast and sugar. "And you used to say you were gonna be a baker. I've got the recipe on the fridge. Do a double batch."

"On it."  She would never have his memory for recipes. If asked, he could rattle off to the gram each ingredient in everything he baked and could tell the exact recipe his grandmother had used for her panettone, despite having changed it over the years. Natalie had to have a copy of a recipe nearby. And though she'd tried years ago, she had never possessed the talent for adapting a recipe, for creating new favorites from old standbys.

She was exhausted by the time he told her to go start the coffee in the front. The sun was just rising but the sky was overcast and she switched on the lights, a fresh wave of memories washing over her. She swallowed hard, focusing on dumping the coffee grounds into the basket, trying to not think about sitting under the counter coloring while her mom worked. Or the times she and the girls had taken up a table after school, gorging on leftover donuts and croissants while doing homework.

She glanced over her shoulder and missed the light and warmth. The red ribbon tying the brown paper packaging, the sprigs of cedar and holly that seemed to magically appear the Monday after Thanksgiving. Through the front windows she could see Susie's café was already decorated for the season, the twinkling lights a soft beacon in the cloudy morning.

Where was the red ribbon? The cedar and holly? The strings of lights strung around the old photos and antique baking doodads?

The aroma of fresh coffee warred with the breads and cookies and pastries and she blinked back tears, deciding that if she wanted some Christmas in the bakery she'd have to do it herself. Even if it didn't feel like Christmas. She'd even go to church.

Maybe.

"Morning, Mr. Webber, sorry I'm late!"

Natalie blinked again, staring at the tall young man that was coming through the front door. "Oliver?"

He stopped, eyes widening even as his face split into a grin. "Natalie?"

When the hell had he grown up? She would swear the last time she'd seen him he'd been a little boy begging her dad to hire him. Now he was a man, and god he was tall, long legs quickly eating the distance between them.

"Heard you were back," he said, giving her a quick hug. "How've you been?"

"Okay," she said with a quick shrug. "You?"

"Oh I'm great," he answered, already going through to the back.

The bell over the door dinged and she was busy for a while, greeting people she'd grown up knowing and counting out croissants and cookies and donuts. Susie came in, Michael in tow, to pick up her bread.

"Did you enjoy the bonfire?" Susie asked, nodding when Michael requested a donut. "Two donuts, and could I get two dozen croissants?"

"It was nice." Natalie began counting out the croissants after handing a donut to Michael. "It's been how many years since I've been home for a bonfire?"

"I saw you cuddled up by one of the fires with someone." Susie smiled. "What do you think?"

"That you need to check the definition of cuddled," Natalie snorted, boxing the croissants. "Was the foal born?"

"Yes and she's beautiful." Susie's face lit. "She looks just like Bonny. Estie's still with her because she's a bit nervous. But she'll be okay, she's just a new mama."

"I'll have to come out and see her in a few days."

"We should do a girls' night," Susie decided as she paid. "Before Maddie pops."

"Absolutely." It had been over a year since they'd had a girls' night. "I didn't get to talk to everyone last night."

Susie nodded. "I'll get with everyone today." She slid her hands over Michael's ears. "You think you'll be ready to talk about Pierre?"

Natalie sighed. She wasn't, really, and didn't know if she'd ever be ready. But Susie and the girls were her best friends. "I need to. Free therapy, right?"

"Then I'll provide the wine." Susie smiled when Michael began to squirm. "Lunch?"

"I'll be there. Diner at one?" Natalie glanced over her shoulder when the kitchen door squeaked open.

"Perfect. See you then, love you, bye Mr. Webber," Susie sang, steering her son out.

"Dad. Do you know where the old decorations are? The stuff Mom put out," Natalie explained in the brief respite before the next customer came in.

Mark slid a sheet of fresh croissants into the display case then sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "The Christmas stuff? Probably back at the house. Why?"

"We should do a little decorating…"

"I don't know. It's a lot of work." From the kitchen came the sound of a timer buzzing. "We'll talk about it later."

He moved with more speed than he should, his limp even more prominent, and she frowned, forcing a smile on her face when Carlos breezed in for a slice of coffeecake. It signaled the beginnings of a rush and she was grateful when Ollie came to give her a hand, soon joined by Franco, the other employee. When he turned on the radio to Christmas music and mentioned that his girlfriend was going to help him decorate his apartment, she smiled.

"Will you two help me decorate here?" she asked between customers, starting another pot of coffee. "Nothing major. Just some lights and a wreath… Mom used to have a little tree she put in the corner. It's probably in the attic at home."

"There's a box in the store room," Franco told her. "I saw it last week."

"Oh. We can pull it out tomorrow." Natalie pulled an empty tray from the case. "I'll go get a refill on the cookies."

And ask her father why he'd lied.

Rolling her shoulders, she pushed through the door, the accusatory question dying on her lips when she saw her father wasn't alone.

Oscar was leaning against the sink, munching on a cookie and chatting with Mark like they were lifelong friends. Natalie stopped just inside the kitchen, grunting when the door swung back and bumped her in the ass.

"Oh… Hey," she greeted. The question would have to wait until later.

"Hey, sweetie." Mark picked up his mug and went to refill it. "Oscar just dropped by for some town gossip."

Oscar flashed a quick grin. "I asked who the best plumber around was."

"Same difference." Mark sat on a stool, rubbing his bad knee. "Things okay up front?"

"Yeah, it's qu-" she cut off before finishing the word 'quiet' and smiled. "Not busy. Ollie and Franco are handling everything. Is it okay if I head out about twelve thirty for lunch?"

"You got a hot date?" Her father grinned.

"Hardly," she snorted, absentmindedly rubbing her bare ring finger. And though she knew her father was teasing, she felt the need to explain herself. "I'm meeting Susie for lunch. I just need to run to the house first."

"I can give you a ride," Oscar offered, surprising her. He looked slightly uncomfortable when both she and Mark looked at him. "It was starting to rain when I got here."

"I…" She nodded. "Yeah, okay. Thank you."

"No problem."

"Get yourself a cup of coffee and a donut or something," Mark told him. "The boys will be here all day today. I know you're tired, sweetie, so take the rest of the day."

"Dad—"

"You're not used to early mornings and full days," he argued. "You've got to ease into it. Franco's here 'til closing, Ollie's here 'til four. I'll be fine."

"You're not here 'til closing, are you?" she asked carefully.

"Of course not." Mark huffed and slid off the stool.

"Thank god."

"I take an hour lunch."

Opening her mouth to remind him that he needed rest, that he needed to at least try to not destroy his knee more than it already was, she instead sighed, aware of Oscar conspicuously studying a package of yeast. "Okay," she finally said. "Oscar, how do you take your coffee?"

"Cream and sugar," he said, jumping to attention. "Thanks again, Mark."

Oscar followed Natalie to the front, nodding in greeting to Franco and Ollie. Catching the door so it wouldn't swing into him, he watched Natalie move to fill a to-go cup with coffee. "If it's Mark style coffee, maybe a little extra cream and sugar. Please."

She flashed him a smile that made him think of crackling wood and roasted marshmallows.

Moving from behind the counter, he slipped his hands into his pockets and watched her. She resembled her father, though he wondered if her hair and eyes came from her mother. Watching her pour cream into the coffee, he found his gaze traveling the slope of her neck and quickly turned his attention to the display case. "I'll take that last donut, and… Half a dozen sugar cookies."

"Anything else?" she asked, handing over his coffee.

"That's it." He glanced over the options once more, remembering Max and the kids were coming later in the day. "Actually, better make it a dozen cookies."

"Sweet tooth?"

"Yeah, but Lucas and Grace are coming, so I've got to have something. Can't have them thinking I'm a bad uncle." He reached for his wallet.

"Oh, I didn't know you were Max's brother."

"I'm not. Honorary uncle."

"Are they excited about moving here?" She taped the cookie box shut and slid it into a bag while Franco tallied the total on the register. "He said last night he's back and forth a lot."

"They're very excited. Eve's been wanting the small town life for years."

"What's Max's line of work?" Natalie asked casually, fixing herself a cup of coffee to go.

"What isn't his line of work," Oscar snorted with a shrug. "He's done a little bit of everything."

"Is it true he's buying a local business?"

Oscar looked at her, trying to decipher her tone. It was polite, with a hint of curiosity. Realizing his hand was hovering over the tip jar, he dropped his change into it, plucking a couple bills from his wallet to add in. He wanted to tell her. But it wasn't his place. Wasn't his business. "He's interested. He found the town by accident back in the summer."

She nodded, a knowing smile forming. "He took the exit for Route 15 instead of exit 15."

"Exactly. The GPS led him astray, he got turned around, ended up here. Fell in love as soon as he saw it." Oscar couldn't help but smile, remembering Max's excitement over finding the quintessential small town that he'd thought only existed in books and movies. "They kept coming back on weekends, then Eve found the house, and, well… What Eve wants, Eve gets."

"And now you're staying here," she said.

"Just until the house is done. I'm cheaper than a contractor," he said with a shrug. "I need an expert's opinion on the master bathroom, that's why I came to see Mark."

"Who is the best plumber around?" she asked, turning to tell Ollie and Franco that she was heading out.

"Kevin, apparently." He watched Franco swipe a cookie then turned to Natalie. "I'll meet you at my truck around back?"

"You already stomped through the kitchen once, what's once more?"

"I didn't stomp," he defended, stepping behind the counter and reaching to push the kitchen door open. "I never stomp."

"You've got work boots on, you definitely stomped."

"I walk softly," he insisted, following her into the kitchen.

"And carry a big stick?" she teased, flashing him a grin. "Dad, I'm leaving. I'll fix dinner tonight, okay?"

"There's beef," Mark said, not looking up from rolling out pie crust. "I could go for some beef stew. And maybe the peasant bread?"

"Sure." Natalie walked over to her father and leaned against him briefly. "Take an hour for lunch. And try to stay off your leg for a while this afternoon, please?"

"Yes, Mother," Mark grunted.

Oscar couldn't help but smile at the interaction.

"You got plans for dinner?" Mark asked him while Natalie went to get her coat.

"Ah, not really." Max wasn't planning on staying overnight. "Probably get something from the diner."

"We'll set a place for you, if you like beef stew and bread."

"Does your daughter bake as well as you?"

"She does, but don't tell her I said so."

"I heard that!" Natalie came out of the office, apron gone and pulling on her coat. "Don't listen to him. I don't bake anywhere near as well as he does."

"Have I ever lied?" Mark asked, turning to face her, rolling pin still in hand.

Natalie snorted.

"When it was important?"

"You're impossible. Hour lunch. Off your leg. Delegate to Franco and Ollie."

Mark saluted with the rolling pin. "Aye, captain. Make sure he comes to dinner."

"I can't make him do anything," she argued, zipping up her coat. "If he wants to eat at the diner, it's his choice."

"It's a damned lousy choice."

"Whether it's lousy or not is irrelevant, it's—"

"God above, you should have become a lawyer. People would take a plea deal just to shut you up."

Oscar pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. His head moved back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match, almost cracking up at the playful bickering. It reminded him of his parents. It reminded him of Max and Eve. When Natalie huffed with annoyance, he grinned. "Are you two always like this?"

"Yes," Natalie said.

"Only because she's stubborn," Mark added.

"I get it from you."

"I'm not denying it."

Natalie's eyes narrowed as she pulled a cap on her head. "You sound almost proud."

"I am."

Natalie turned to Oscar. "Yes, we're always like this. Unless he wants something and is sweet to me."

"That's the pot calling the kettle."

Fully grinning now, Oscar shook his head. "In that case, I'd love to come to dinner."

"You must really be desperate for entertainment. Bye, Dad."

"Bye, sweetie. See you later, Oscar."

"Yeah, see you later, Mark."

"Love you."

"I love you too, sir," he deadpanned.

Mark barked out a laugh and Oscar followed Natalie's giggles to the door. She stopped and leaned around him.

"Love you, Dad!"

Oscar stepped outside, shoulders hunching a little at the chilly rain falling. He quickened his steps and opened the passenger door for Natalie, who gave him a soft thank-you as she climbed in.

"Dad likes you," she said after he'd gotten in and started the engine.

"I like him, too."

"You know where the house is?"

"Yep." He lightly drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, wondering why he didn't want to tell her he regularly visited her father. Clearing his throat, he reached to turn on the radio, groaning when the chorus of a Christmas song came through the speakers. Almost immediately Natalie began humming along and he nearly groaned again.

"Wow, what did Tony Bennett do to you?" she asked.

"Nothing. It's just… Winter wonderland? Really?" He gestured to the pouring rain.

"But… In the meadow we can build a snowman," she crooned.

"I'll be one of the kiddies knocking him down."

"You're evil," she gasped dramatically.

"For not liking winter?"

"First you don't like Christmas songs, now you don't like winter?" She shook her head sadly. "You don't like snow?"

"It's a giant mess."

"Snowball fights."

"You mean frostbitten cheeks and aching lungs?"

"I'm beginning to think you might be the Grinch."

Oscar snorted, parking his truck in front of Mark's house. The song ended and to his disgust another snow loving anthem began.

"This is the part where we start singing and there's a backing orchestra and choreography," she told him with a grin.

"Oh man," he sighed, turning to glance through the rear window. "Forgot to load the orchestra."

"I forgot to practice the dance," she lamented.

"We can just say we canceled it due to the weather?"

"But this is obviously a movie, so the rain would end and we'd be dancing in sunshine."

"We would?" he asked, watching the windshield wipers going back and forth.

"Or maybe in snow. It's a Christmas movie, after all."

"I think dancing in the snow would be worse than dancing in the rain," he said after a moment.

."I wouldn't know. I've never danced in either."

"You've never danced in the rain?" He looked at her.

She shook her head.

Why did he want to dance in the rain with her? He didn't know her well enough to want to dance with her. Especially in the rain. It was too romantic a gesture, and the last thing he wanted was to give her any ideas. He wouldn't be staying once the house was finished, and he got the feeling that she wasn't planning on staying in town, either.

And yet…

Oscar opened his mouth, lips moving to start forming the question.

But she moved, fishing her phone out, and he reached to turn off the radio when he saw she was getting a call. She looked less than pleased but accepted the call.

"Hey," she said into the phone.

He couldn't hear what was being said to her. But he could feel the lightheartedness leaving her in a sudden rush. Despite the truck's heater blasting, the cab suddenly felt chilly.

She rubbed a hand over her face. "You can just – I'm at Dad's."

Oscar tried not to look, but he saw her lips press into a line.

"Just fucking box it up and send it to me," she said. "Or throw it away. Sell it. Give it to the maid. I don't care."

The maid?

"I can't right now. Goodbye." She ended the call and leaned forward, groaning low and long. "Ugh!"

Oscar blinked as she sat upright. "Um… Everything okay?"

"Just peachy. Thanks for the ride."

"Any—"

But she was already opening the door and jumping out.

"Anytime," he muttered as the door shut and she jogged along the drive to the side door.

[eli0209]

Thereafter

Mako is deep asleep. Raleigh reflects.

Bringing back my first ever Pacific Rim fanfic because I just realized it took place on January 13th.

So, the clock had been stopped permanently…

Now what?

Now what?

Raleigh sighed heavily. He had spent the last 12 hours waiting for something to change, for something to happen. Waiting for someone to come and tell him what was next…

But none of that happened.

What would he do? What would she do? What would they both do now that the Jaeger Program was over and they were no longer needed?

The "she" he was worried about was peacefully sleeping on a small bed less than two meters away from the chair he was on; her blue dyed strands of hair falling freely on her face.

They were in Mako's bedroom. Not feeling in the mood to celebrate, and exhausted both physically and mentally, they had managed to avoid the cheering crowds and discretely headed there almost immediately after reaching the Shatterdome. He didn't think there was that much to celebrate and he knew she felt the same.

Once in the room, Raleigh had helped her remove the pilot suit from her body to change into more comfortable clothes, careful not to hurt her already bruised frame. After everything they'd gone through, Mako had been just too tired to even grief and had simply lain down on the bed, falling asleep shortly after. He had tried to get some sleep as well, but sitting had proven to be an impossible position for him to do so, so after an hour or so of struggling he had given up. There was too much in his head anyway; too much to assimilate.

He had taken a hot shower in an attempt to clear up his mind and changed into some cargo pants and an undershirt he had fetched from his room. He didn't want to leave Mako's side. He didn't want her to wake up alone to her new reality.

He looked at her sleeping form and his mind went back to the rainy day he met her in. To the way she looked. To how her dark hair and fair skin contrasted with the grayness around them, just like it did with his life itself. He had been really close to losing her. Unconsciously, his mind relived the fear and anguish he felt when he realized Mako's oxygen levels were dropping; a shill ran down his spine at the thought and his eyes moved to the scars on his left arm subconsciously. There was only one time in which he had felt that way; it had been in the prior moments to Yancy's death… that fear of losing someone.

This time he hadn't been willing to let that happen. He had to protect her. After Marshal Pentecost's sacrifice, Raleigh had made the silent vow of watching over Mako no matter what, and that was what he had kept in mind while activating Gipsy's reactor manually. He couldn't die; he had to go back to her.

It wasn't the Drift compatibility they had or it wasn't simply that. There was something in her that had captivated him since the very first time he saw her, and as he got to know her that simple "something" turned into more.

Raleigh was certain she knew what he felt for her; he had never really bother hiding it. What was the point if in order to get a proper neuronal connection between pilots they couldn't hold onto any memory or thought. He knew she felt something for him too; he just wasn't sure how long it would take for her to come to terms with it. He didn't care. He would wait.

Raleigh took Mako's small red shoe from one of the shelves before him, and examined it carefully, tracing the patent leather surface with his fingers, musing. He wondered if Mako had finally gotten rid of her ghosts from the past. Had he finally gotten rid of his? He put the shoe back when he felt Mako stir.

She sighed deeply in her sleep, and Raleigh watched as she slowly opened her eyes, and little by little, regained consciousness of the things and people surrounding her. She sat up. A pained expression crossed her features as the realization of what had happened hit her. Then, her eyes met him. Something in the way she was looking at him made him feel uneasy.

They stared at each other for what it felt like ages.

Some words he had heard once came to his mind "When you share a neuronal connection with someone for so long, you feel like there is nothing left to talk about."

It didn't have to be that way…

"What are you thinking?" she asked him a little drowsily; her black eyes curious and expectant.

He had never believed that crap anyway.

"My timing seems to be finally right," he replied.

She narrowed her eyes.

He smiled.

She smiled.

He didn't care what was next anymore.

[kirkwallguy]

i don't think VG is tame and i don't think biowre is trying to avoid moral grayness/immorality. the lords of fortune problem seems to be handled like still a dalish blaming on top of blatant racism/orientalism all around the game.

these are the people who grounded the lore on villainizing pagan figures and make a colonizer group look less bad because, well, the colonized people were already down and bad lol. morrigan is good because she's a thi- i mean an expert on elven stuff, merrill is naive because she cares about it ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯ a lot of parallels in the lore just makes a statement that you either have to be on a settler liberal mindset or extremely ignorant (or both) to write your story this way lol. if writers were different the story would be different is what I'm saying

bioware doesn't flinch away when it comes to little groups rhat draws parallels to irl indigenous groups (dalish are inspired by romani and jewish people)

none of this contradicts the complaints about the worldbuilding being very sanitised imo? the fact that the game still has a lot of racism doesn't mean it didn't attempt to flatten its political nuance, it just means that the writers completely failed to see the root of the problem when trying to avoid the criticisms they were met with after dai

[princesssarisa]

Character ask: Willy Wonka (any version)

These answers apply to every adaptation – that I know, anyway – of the story of Charlie/Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, as well as the original book and its sequel Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator. I haven't seen Wonka yet.

Favorite thing about them: He's a fun character all around. I love his creative genius, with all the fantastical candies and treats he creates and all the fantastical rooms in his factory. I love his blend of weirdness, cleverness, mischief, and passion for his work. His hints of moral grayness and insanity make him interesting, but his underlying warmth and kindness, especially to Charlie, prevent him from seeming like a villain. (At least I don't think so: more on that below.) He's like an eccentric wizard from a fantasy story, but with a more modern, candy-themed twist.

Least favorite thing about them:

Original book: The whole story of how the Oompa Loompas came to work for him has unfortunate implications. Even after Dahl revised the text and changed the Oompa Loompas from black African Pygmies to light-skinned dwarfs from Loompaland, the concept is still very iffy. A businessman "importing" a tribe of people from a foreign country to work in his factory, where he never lets them leave the premises, pays them in food instead of in money, and tests his experimental foods and drinks on them, which sometimes cause them bodily harm... it wouldn't fly in a book written today.

1971 film: To a sensitive child viewer (as I was), his angry outburst at Charlie and Grandpa Joe for stealing the Fizzy Lifting Drinks is scary and mean, even if it is just a test.

2005 film: I don't like the subplot about his controlling dentist father. A character like Wonka doesn't need daddy issues to explain him.

Three things I have in common with them:

*I love chocolate.

*I'm at least a little eccentric.

*I often wear purple.

Three things I don't have in common with them:

*I'm not a chocolatier, an inventor, or a factory-owner.

*I'm female.

*I've never met an Oompa Loompa.

Favorite line:

Original book:

(Explaining why he won't let Augustus be cooked into fudge): Because the taste would be terrible. Just imagine it! Augustus-flavored chocolate-coated Gloop! No one would buy it."

"Whipped cream isn't whipped cream at all unless it's been whipped with whips! Just as a poached egg isn't a poached egg unless it's been stolen from the woods in the dead of night!"

And the full text of his "There's no earthly way of knowing" poem and the funny, creepy poems he recites in the Space Hotel to scare the White House in the sequel.

1971 film:

"We have so much time and so little to see!... Wait a minute! Strike that. Reverse it." (and the later variation with "...so little to do")

"A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men."

"But Charlie, don't forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he always wanted... He lived happily ever after."

And of course his various quotes from Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, and other literature.

brOTP: The Oompa Loompas, and Charlie by the end.

OTP: None, he's happily single.

nOTP: Charlie or any of the other kids.

Random headcanon:

*In all versions, he's on the autism spectrum – it just manifests in different ways for each different Wonka.

*In the 1971 film, he's Jewish, just like Gene Wilder was in real life (and like Timothée Chalamet, for that matter). Maybe this is true in other versions too. I chiefly like to imagine this as a "take that" to Roald Dahl's antisemitism.

Unpopular opinion: The popular "Wonka is a villain" take is overdone. Yes, he has some moral ambiguity to him, but he's not evil. People often seem to forget that the fates of Augustus, Violet, Veruca, and Mike aren't "punishments" that he deals out. They're accidents that each child causes himself or herself by ignoring his warnings. Now, I don't mind it when adaptations imply that he deliberately sets up those accidents to occur if the kids disobey him, or at least show him as unconcerned with stopping or rescuing them. But I don't think either of those things are true to his portrayal in the book, per se.

Song I associate with them:

"Pure Imagination."

Favorite picture of them:

This classic illustration of him by Joseph Schindelman:

This illustration by Quentin Blake:

This book cover illustration, from the edition I grew up with:

This much-memed image of Gene Wilder in the 1971 film:

Johnny Depp in the 2005 film:

Douglas Hodge in the 2013 stage musical (the only Wonka I know of in an adaptation to have his signature black goatee from the book):

Timothée Chalamet in Wonka, 2023:

[kaminohana]

just finished the Nausicaä manga and. omg that was the best manga ive ever read. it was WAY better than the movie

while the movie did a good job summarizing *some* of the central themes, the manga expounds upon way more nuanced approaches about the moral grayness of just about every human being

and not just man vs wild but how man WORKS with the wild for the sake of them both

like. the giant warrior is given a voice as the judge, jury, and executioner of mankind and Nausicaä, in its final moments, still declares it an innocent child

THIS is what we were robbed of.

we see Kushana in utter depths of despair, the moment she is surrounded by the deaths of people she cares deeply about, and how she learns to show compassion after

yes, a lot of the beloved characters do die, but none of their deaths are in vain. they all serve a purpose, and it is for their sake that the living make the choices they do

not to mention the EXTENSIVE worldbuilding done on the various kingdoms of their world as well as the types of people adapted to the polluted world and what kind of cultures develop

and all of them are regarded with compassion, even in the treacherous depths of war

a beautifully crafted manga, honestly a recommendation for any person

[curse-d-owl]

Super long post but Fire Emblem should never attempt to write a morally gray story with conflicting paths cause as they've proven with Fates and Three Houses neither Intelligent Systems nor it's fans now what moral grayness actually is.

They believe moral grayness means equating the anger of the victims to the aggression of the villains.

They believe moral grayness means refusing to treat villainous characters like villains all cause they're playable protagonists in one of the other routes, have an appealing design, some likable traits ( that are invalidated by their disgusting behaviour ) a sad backstory and aren't as bad as other villains that are cartoonishly evil that lack their kind traits.

They believe moral grayness means commiting the most heinous of crimes with the noble of intentions and that it makes them exempt of any accountability.

It doesnt. Moral grayness means doing bad things for reasons that are neither evil nor trivial.

Take Mustafa from Awakening for example. Capturing and killing the Ylisseans is an evil act but he only does it out of the safety for his family. His reasons are not rooted in evil. It does not justify his actions but it is understandable why anyone in his position would do such a thing. The claim that his family will be killed if be fails Gangrel is rooted in reality unlike the claims of some lords about why they commit the crimes they do.

And then on top of that the fanbase will go at eachothers throats cause they're heavily biased for their favorite route and biased against all the routes that oppose it which creates nothing but endless drama and also believe that the games their faves are a part of is actually morally gray cause the writers told them so.

Especially Three Houses. It's been 5 years and people still argue with each other with no progress whatsoever.

Engage was a breathe of fresh air cause it had none of the egregious flaws that i just mentioned.

I don't care how goofy, lighthearted, straightforward and basic Engage is I'll take a 100000 of them before I want a single failed attempt at a morally gray story by a company that doesn't possess the skill to actually write one.

[dadriusbiggestfan]

hi. i think i sent in a request for dadrius proceting hunter and I guess I want a small drabble. sorry for not being clear. you don't have to do it if you don't want to though.

Thank you for the ask! You actually did specify in your original request, but I hadn’t started writing it, so now is a good a time as ever!

Hunter had been at the night market with his father, and had just slipped away for a minute while his Dad talked with some shady guy about cloth that he wanted.

He’s not sure why his Dad is coming to the night market, but he is, so he should just put up with it.

As he walks off, he feels a hand suddenly grasp his shoulder, and he nearly recoils from shock.

“Huh?” Whoever it was was now trying to drag him into some type of alley- what was going on?!

The man who had grabbed him turned around revealing himself as none other than Adrain Graye Vernworth.

Before the man could even get a word out, a mount of abomination whacked the man on the head, and he was out cold.

“Darius- Dad- whats going on?” The boy said, as Darius smiled soothingly and just grabbed Hunters hand.

“Come on- they don’t even sell the cloth here, let’s get you home.”

[ask-codeearasure]

The Outer Realms -- Chapter 12

<-[Previous Chapter]

[Next Chapter] ->

Wish to refill Ink's Paint supply? Go to our Ask Box!

—-----

Chapter Twelve:

Hellos and Goodbyes

—----

“For every dark night, there's a brighter day.”

― Tupac Shakur

—-

Occultatum couldn't help himself when it came to what he was seeing before him. Little Cyberberry was curled up next to Dream in bed, tucked in and snuggled up together in the cutest cuddle bundle he had ever seen. At some point while the guardian of positivity slept, the toddler found his way into the room and made himself comfortable, and his inclusion was no bad thing.

Before then, Dream’s sleep had been restless, his face hardening into a frown while his temperature ran hotter than it had before. While Occultatum had his worries of Dream’s equivalent of a fever being contagious, a quick test from his blood sample proved otherwise.

As soon as Cyberberry settled next to Dream, the guardian held him close, and from there his fidgeting died down.

Occult had taken about twelve pictures and sent them to Muffet, both gushing over the images. Millie the floating robot bunny head was charging up not too far, holding onto Cy’s visor for him because he didn't want them to bother Dream while they slept.

Cy even had one of Dream’s knuckles in his mouth for comfort. A toddler was always going to be a toddler, no matter the hyper intelligence.

Occult checked the IV bag, it was about half empty. Luckily, he had been working overtime to ensure that he had enough for Dream. A stockpile.

He walked over and checked Dream’s temperature, finding that he's normal. Occult sighed with relief. Perhaps they may just be able to wait out the venom instead. Maybe Dream’s immune system could just… slowly but surely work itself out.

But it would be better to be safe than sorry.

He texted Izanagi, asking him what was taking so long, but got no response.

To distract himself he decided to check on Toriel in Asylumtale. Apparently, Katagma got thrown back into Asylumtale by his group because something serious happened to him, and they contacted Toriel, telling her that Katagma was beyond unstable at the moment.

Hopefully, he sticks with the medication this time.

Hopefully.

Occult silently walked out of Dream’s room and let the two sleep while he called Toriel.

—--------

Dream heard the quiet clip of the dimming lights before he cracked open a socket, readjusting to being in the room again after… he assumed another breakdown? It was slowly coming back to him, and when that clicked, he cringed at himself. 

The guardian blinked away the blur, reaching up to rub the exhaustion off his face, but felt a hindrance. Dream propped himself up on his right elbow and looked down, seeing the child that helped calm him down from earlier, still in a deep slumber. He looked so comfortable there, too.

How low did he fall to the point he had to rely on a child for help?

Dream gently freed his knuckles from Cyberberry’s mouth and wiped the spit away on the edge of the bedsheets, then laid flat on his back, staring up at the glass ceiling that showed the galaxies above. He owed Izanagi and Occultatum apologies too, that’s another thing on his list of things to do. 

Slowly, he freed his other arm from under Cy and sat up, straightening up his IV. He was a little dizzy, but other than that felt better than he did last he was awake, before his panic attack. Dream looked down at his hands, specifically his joints, and attempted to rub off some of the collected grayness. Mentally, he started to call it rot, but that might not be what it actually is. He got none of it off, but at least his body didn’t ache like it had been for a while now.

Suddenly the door to the room swung open and closed, it was quiet enough to not wake Cy but loud enough for Dream to catch it. The person wore what could only be described as black and blue hood and a straightjacket stitched together. The strange skeleton stared at Dream and Cy before looking back at the door they were leaning against. They put a finger to their mouth in a ‘shhh’ gesture, before finally removing themself from the door. They gave Dream an odd look with their strange mismatched eyes, one blue and violet, the other gold and red. They had a few bandages on their face, obviously they were injured a bit.

Dream remained silent as signaled to, but sat up all the way, his attention taken, his golden eyes meeting the mismatched ones of the other. He gave them a confused wave. 

They had walked in just as Dream started picking up on signals of positivity around the area, checking off a mental list of who was there and who was not. What he couldn’t quite understand was the other skeleton’s aura. It had positivity in it, for sure, as well as negativity, but it was warped by so many other factors, none of which Dream could clearly identify. The best way he could define it was a visual of a shattered mirror. Most of every shard was present, but the bindings that put it together in the first place were absent, and there were pieces so crumbled up they couldn’t be fitted together once again.

The door opened and Occult walked in, “There you are!”

The person in question backed up a bit, a bit alarmed and mixed feelings further mixing. Occult looked over a Dream, “I am so sorry, I hope he didn’t wake you.”

“K-Kata didn’t wake him!” said Kata, waving his gloved hands quickly. 

“Sure you didn’t.”

“No, no, they really didn’t— I was awake before they walked in,” Dream hurriedly interjected.

Occultatum sighed, “Alright, but still, Katagma, you shouldn’t be barging into the bedrooms like that, you almost scared Alphys to death! I brought you here so you don’t go causing trouble in the asylum again and so you’d have some books to read! You don’t have to be running around like that!”

Katagma gave a nervous smile before disappearing almost completely, leaving his smile behind for a moment which disappeared in slow succession.

Occult pinched his brow, “He’s in the fiction section as always. I really am sorry for that, he’s a bit… well… that. Oh! By the way, Toriel and Alphys think you should be fine to wander the library alone if you want to read. Also, if you get lost, I’ll know exactly where you are so don’t worry, I’ll find you.”

Dream nodded absentmindedly, his mind still on the stranger, who he could detect somewhere down below due to their unique aura. That must be where the fiction section is.

But the strongest aura of positivity was right next to him. Cyberberry was radiating nothing but happiness and comfort, and if Dream got up to start reading, doing anything at all, he was apprehensive on if that would wake the toddler or not.

“Will Cyber be okay if I go?”

Occult smiled and nodded, “Yeah, he’s out like a light. He’ll probably wake up in about an hour or so. I owe him pancakes for breakfast and he’s gonna hold me to it because he found that Swap AU that has your friends – speaking of which!” he got out his cellphone and scrolled his messages with Muffet before showing Dream the pictures she had sent him.

“Muffet – my Muffet – sent me a bunch of pictures from that place, she really likes it there… well… the people anyways. She was upset to see they didn’t find a way to the surface yet, but she had fun messing with a couple of them.” Occult snickered.

There were pictures of Indigo and Alphys training, a really flustered looking Edge and Carrot, and several other pictures showing all of Dream’s friends.

Dream reached out for Occult’s phone, who let him scroll through dozens and dozens of pictures and recordings of his friends, his dulling eyelights brightening with what must be a sense of hope, something he lost a grip on in the recent weeks. 

No sign of Ink still, but it was something.

He sighed and handed the phone back to Occultatum.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that earlier. I’m glad that… Klezmer? Didn’t get to them yet.”

“Oh don’t worry! When it’s an AU he finds interesting, he keeps them around longer than normal. And even then, he knows better than to mess with Muffet. Last time she got her hands on him, the guy was out for a month.” Occult grinned mischievously. “Oh… and be careful when she finally comes over, that woman… well… Let’s just say when she has favorites, she has favorites. I have my favorites too. But he’ll probably avoid that timeline for about… a month to a year thanks to her. I told her to mark her territory.”

—-

Meanwhile, Muffet put up several celestial spiderwebs around the Underswap timeline, snickering to herself while Morabito watched in complete horror, knowing what she’d do to Klezmer if she got her hands on him.

—--

“What a woman…” Occult hummed.

Based on the great affection Dream picked up from Occult’s aura, he figured this version of Muffet was a good person, and that was enough for him.

“Has there been any word on Ink?”

He slowly slid off the bed, still careful not to wake up Cyberberry, and grabbed the pole holding up his IV, leading it behind him.

“He’s been missing ever since we saw Klezmer the first time.”

Occultatum sighed, “Yeah, there's been a sign of him and apparently another version of Klezmer. Sketch was causing trouble and trying to kill off the glitch, but Ink wouldn’t let him. The glitch did a number on the bastard too. He had to make a retreat back to the Asylum.” Occultatum shook his head, “Idiot… Don’t worry though, they should be fine, he was mostly fighting the glitch. Your Sketch was helping him, but made a retreat for some reason. My Sketch did say that the glitch survived the attack. In my opinion, the glitch won considering the damage.”

Dream could fall over in relief if it were appropriate. Instead, he allowed his shoulders to relax, and had to lean against the wall to recollect his thoughts.

“Error. The um… the glitch’s name is Error.”

He did know to a certain extent that Ink had managed to create a friendly relationship with Error. Over time, less and less universes were being destroyed before Klezmer happened because of their friendship. Sometimes Error had the mind to show Dream some kindness as well, so long as he wasn’t in his way, and that was nice. It was an improvement over what the destroyer had committed his life to beforehand. Though, Dream was ashamed to admit to himself he forgot about Error up until now.

But they both were safe. He hoped it stayed that way.

Occultatum nodded after being told the name, with that he smiled, “Well, I'll let you go ahead and wander the library, I’m sure you’ll find a book to your liking and more. If you want any specific topics or knowledge just come find me, I’m usually at the ground floor.”

He then left the room to head to the aforementioned level of the library. Dream followed him at a slower pace, memorizing the hallways leading down to the Library, and when he got there, he realized simple memorization wouldn’t do much for him beyond that point. 

Libraries were not an alien concept to Dream, just like so much of everything else in the multiverse. The issue at hand was he never had the time to explore said concepts for himself, and he was well aware he was behind on reading comprehension. To him, there was no better place to practice than the library, even though he also didn’t know how each type of book was sorted.

Everything looked to be in working order, though, and soon, he found himself lost in a labyrinth of hardcovers and that pleasant old book smell everyone associated with libraries, but he didn’t find anything that stood out to him. He saw several languages in use: English, Spanish, Danish, Chinese, Vietnamese, Cantonese, WingDings, Swahili, Portuguese, etc., and so many more he couldn’t name because of the overwhelming quantity of options he had.

Because he traveled the multiverse, Dream picked up on a little bit of several languages, but it was a different story when it came to the literary forms of them. In terms of English and Spanish, the two languages he used the most, he was as good as stumped in that area as well.

Maybe he could ask for a second opinion on what to start with.

Dream reached out to the other auras in closer proximity, the only options present being Occultatum and Kata, if he picked up on their name correctly. He maintained a grasp on his IV and teleported to their location.

—-

Katagma was reading one of his favorite books when Dream teleported to him. He was upside down on one of the book shelves as he was reading the book which was upside down as well. How he was reading it was a skill in and of itself. He was grinning ear to ear. He looked down and saw that Dream was at ground level before waving at him. Realizing that Dream likely couldn’t see him, he teleported down to Dream and held the book behind himself.

“What brings you here?” Katagma asked.

“Hello!” Kata's quick appearance out of nothing amazed Dream, catching him off guard, but a little surprise here and there was no problem at all. “I’m having some trouble looking for what to read, and I was wondering if you had any suggestions?”

“A book recommendation…?” Katagma’s eyelights lit up and went wide as if the question itself was something he fell in love with. He teleported the book he was initially reading away before it was replaced with another, and shoved it into Dream’s chest, “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland! It’s a bloody good book! Brilliant! You’ll love it!”

“Thank you so much!” Dream smiled at Katagma’s enthusiasm and immediately pulled up a beanbag to sit down with the book in hand. He quickly flipped through the pages to check the amount of words per page, then went back to start at the beginning. He could work with this! 

—-

“You do realize how dangerous such an idea is, right?” asked Queen Toriel, she stared at the skeleton before her. She couldn’t believe what he was asking.

Carrot nodded silently as he took a long drag of his cigarette. The entire plan was crazy, but could work in their favor considering it was Dream they were talking about.

Force a command that Indigo and Undyne stay in their AU while Carrot leaves alone with Morabito to the AU Dream is now residing in.

She couldn’t believe he, the Royal Judge and Executioner of the Underground, was going to do something this insane, and without proper certainty as well. They’d be without their last line of defense against the humans, let alone any multiversal threat. But this was the best thing that he could do in order to protect those he cares about. Plus, they had Edge, the Royal Judge and Executioner of his own AU before it was destroyed. The guy was already too shaken up from watching his own AU be destroyed, throwing him in the way of a possible threat right now wasn’t moral in any way. She didn’t feel right doing such a thing to the guy, and neither could Carrot see himself suggesting such a thing.

This was the only way they both could go through with it without risking any more of their own.

“Alright,” the Queen sighed, “I’ll do it, but you must promise me you will spend no more than three days there before coming back and confirming it’s safe. Any longer, and I’ll order a lockdown and enlist Dr. Undyne to see if there is any way to keep our timeline from having any more intruders.”

Carrot smiled, “Thank you, your highness.”

It was getting home with the Queen’s orders that was a small issue. He knew Indigo wouldn’t agree to it, not to mention Undyne who would definitely have a tantrum over it, but they wouldn’t argue enough to try to force the Queen’s hand or actively go against her. Upon getting home, he saw the two people in question talking about the lists of things they had to say to Dream and Ink along with their belongings they had packed to go on the ‘trip’. Edge was off at Grillby’s little spot in Hotland because apparently Grillby’s was located in Snowdin in Underfell and that was his favorite place to go to. Poor guy.

“I’m back!” Carrot said, closing the door behind himself.

“About time!” Undyne exclaimed, “I was getting worried! What is it that you wanted to talk to the Queen about?”

Carrot tensed at the question.

“What was it?” Indigo sent his brother a suspicious look.

Carrot walked over to the table and held out the written decree of the Queen. A small piece of parchment but held the weight of the Queen’s words. Indigo took it and read it. The look on his face said it all.

“YOU DID WHAT?!”

Carrot leaned away from his brother while Undyne took the parchment for herself to read.

The stern look of Undyne was enough to give Carrot the idea that maybe, just maybe, facing Indigo’s wrath was a far more appealing idea than dodging Undyne’s. He had heard that the Undyne of Underfell was a nightmare of pure rage, strength, and could strike fear in the most fiercest of monsters, even long after Underfell's own Papyrus overthrew her as Captain of the Royal Guard, and that would mean the Undyne of his own AU could hold such power if she put her mind to it… which if her inventions showed anything… she could if she wanted to.

And given the fact Carrot has vague recollection of there being Swapfell and Fellswap AUs, he could put two and two together clearly.

This might be the time she showed it…

Before risking a teleportation to the cozy spot he knew in Waterfall to hopefully save his soul from the possible terror he has unleashed in the Underground, Undyne hugged herself and looked away to heroically contain her wrath.

“I…I can’t believe you pulled this shit on us!” she hissed at him with a small glare and scowl, the perfect face of betrayal.

Carrot didn’t dare release his breath.

“Why would you do this?!” Indigo pried. “I thought we'd all go together!”

“I didn’t want to risk us being lost to our timeline and universe!” Carrot explained, “The Queen has already lost Chara because of Ink, and we don’t know the state Dream is truly in. I’m the most expendable thanks to Edge. He held my position when his timeline was around, so that means if anything happens to me, he can take my place. We don’t have the same luxury with the rest of you.”

Undyne’s scowl worsened, the lights reflecting in her glasses, hiding the look in her eyes, “You are the worst.”

“Are you sure about this? I mean if we go–”

“I’m positive,” Carrot said, interrupting Indigo. “Besides, I can’t let this timeline lose someone so cool and someone so smart.”

“Trying to save your soul through flattery…” Undyne’s glasses stopped reflecting the lights, her look more stern than threatening lethal harm.

At that moment Edge walked in only to realize he had walked in on a mess. After a short while to explain and an even longer while of silence Indigo had been pacing for thirty seconds straight, and Edge had to stop him with blue magic so he wouldn't make a crater in the living room floor, snapping him out of whatever train of thought he had.

“Are you sure we can't just… think of something else?”

Edge made a doubtful snort and shook his head and released him from the magic.

“Nah. Your bro and the Queen have already made up their minds. Besides, the mafia guy won't let anythin’ happen to Paps if he knows what's good for ‘im.”

The armored skeleton crossed his arms and leaned back into the couch with a pout. Who knows what kind of rage he was sustaining behind a look so adorable.

“If what they’re saying is true, then they won't mind this idea, and I’ll be fine.” Carrot stated, “And besides, who knows what cool pictures I’ll be able to get from this AU they’re from! I’ll even be sure to get some souvenirs for you and the house…”

Indigo continued to pout. Of course Carrot would use that card. The stars card. Undyne shook her head glaring daggers at the taller skeleton.

“That’s it!” Undyne stood up and crossed her arms, “If you don’t at the very least bring me something too, then I’ll… I’ll….” she took a deep breath and said with enough vindication that Edge jumped in shock, “I’LL PULL A CARD THAT ONLY THAT UNDERFELL VERSION COULD PULL IN HER DREAMS!”

If it was possible for a skeleton visibly pale, Edge certainly did it upon getting such a thought from Undyne’s declaration.

“I’m trusting you on this, Papyrus.” Undyne glared. “You stay safe or else.”

“I will.” Carrot said as carefully as he could.

With that, Undyne took her leave.

After about a minute of pure silence from the shock, Edge got up and grabbed Carrot by his arms, “Paps… You better get that woman something good and keep your promise, you don’t know what an Undyne is capable of! TRUST ME! THAT WOMAN COULD KILL US ALL!”

“You’re exaggerating,” Indigo said, rolling his eyelights, “But seriously, stay safe or I’m dragging you back home myself, no matter what it takes.”

“What part of I will, are you all not hearing?!” Carrot wished that they’d trust him a little bit more.

Indigo glared at him before Carrot had to deal with the most fussiest packing he had ever had to deal with. Indigo went around Carrot’s room packing what he deemed to be necessary, from a picture of the two of them, to blankets, pillows, and clothes. The taller skeleton dared not even attempt to argue with his brother on whether or not what he was being forced to pack for the trip. He had to put up with it for Indigo’s own sound of mind, but honestly… It was a great comfort for Carrot.

When Morabito and Muffet arrived at the house, they had to explain the change of plans and the Queen’s decree. Much to Carrot’s surprise, the two agreed wholeheartedly with them.

“It only makes sense,” Muffet smiled, “Besides, I can stay here as extra security and help around! Plus, I get to mess with this cutie right here~” she sat down next to Edge who jumped off of the couch just to avoid her.

Morabito simply nodded, “Yeah, and to avoid Dream’s brother I can stay on the run on my own, and keep up his job. So I’ll be the one to take you there.” he looked over at Carrot who had a rather decent sized duffel bag, “You got everything you need?”

“Yeah, I got everything.” Carrot nodded.

“Alright then, let’s go.” Morabito opened a portal that looked to be made of a sparkling blue and gold mist.

“I’ll be back. I promise.” Carrot hugged Indigo goodbye before he left through the portal.

[bohemian-nights]

I'm talking about Book! Daemon:

As someone who is not Daemon Stan I say that book! Daemon really and genuinely loved Nettles; I don't buy it Nettles was her daughter. why in the hell he would choose a bastard over his true born children.

Their goodbye didn't seem platonic at all, it looked like two lovers separating because of the circumstances.

In real life, some men tend to choose their second wives instead of their children and that is Daemon.

Was he selfish? Yes, a selfish husband and father; yet we can see he is capable of genuine care and love and that is the beauty of morally grey characters.

I did know nothing of Fire and Blood and honestly I thought Daemon died for Nyra, but I was wrong, he died because he saw no reason to live and his reason to live was Nettles...

I believe his reason to live used to be Laena and by re-reading your Daemon and Laena fic, Daelaena's conversation and how vulnerable Daemon sounds: he couldn't live without Laena and I remember in another fic( A Baela and Aegon fic) where the authors have made a interesting analysis of book! Daemon and I remember they used to describe Daemon as a cruel man, darkness and stuff but with Laena and his daughters.

Within the sanctuary of their home, Daemon was a simple man, a happy man and if the writers hadn't been cowards(and racists) we would have seen Daemon as happy and content.

He was away from politcs, he couldn't have the throne, but at least he could choose a wife.

then that happy man died when Laena died and shit went down.

With Nettles he was happy and stuff but soon reality hit and Daemon realized he was tired to fight.To live

“why in the hell he would choose a bastard over his true born children.”

That right there is one of the many reasons why she’s not his kid.

That’s not even getting into how someone can read a man bathing with a fully grown woman and think that it’s his daughter. Like do I need to retroactively call CPS for y’all?🚔 Even for Targaryens that is not normal father-daughter behavior👏🏽

It is supper messed up, but when Daemon loves he is just that type of man who prioritizes certain people and says screw the rest. He had that at first with Laena(the showrunners were so wrong for what they did and that’s why I had to write that fix-it fic). Lost that and found it again with Nettles and then lost that(and yes it broke him; leaving poor ugly little ole Nettles broke him).

Again it’s messed up how he eventually ghosted his family because he had to leave Nettles, but at the same time, it’s what in large part makes him morally gray.

Funnily enough, this same dynamic happens with another famous Targaryen man(except he was a total flop who got both his wife and his mistress killed), yet he’s praised for it and people worship that ship…

So people do not mind the grayness. People want Daemon to be gray, but they just don’t like the people(if Nettles looked like Lyanna…) and circumstances that make him gray. They'd rather lie than admit what actually happens.

(Which is stupid because this is all fictional. It's supposed to be fun, none of this should matter, but you guys are really killing the mood when you bring in your real-life biases).

[mermaidsirennikita]

Twisted Knight by K. Bromberg is kinda going super hard, which surprises me as it is compared to It Ends with Us and Ana Huang's Twisted series, while having literally nothing in common with IEWU (at least 70% of the way through, and I don't see that changing) and being... if I am being honest, somewhat similar in setup to an Ana Huang book, but A LOT BETTER in terms of writing quality/character development.

(This is where I've gotta be honest and say that while I get why Ana Huang works for a lot of people and I want! To like her books! So bad! .... I've yet to Get It.)

But the IEWU is the more concerning comp because I feel it will absolutely turn people off when:

A) this is clearly a romance; the hero and heroine DO have a very aggressive push-pull dynamic and he IS very dominating in... fun ways... but it's not abusive and I don't foresee it becoming that way

B) it's not at all set in the same space as IEWU... 80% of this book takes place in boardrooms, the general corporate world, or high society functions... it really gives Succession but romance, and more... multimillionaire than billionaire... which was also refreshing tbh

C) the heroine is a DELIGHT and is very much a woman who has her shades of moral grayness, her own motivations, her issues and damage, and she very much teases this dude uses him for her own ends

D) this is a very equal dual POV and not even close to being women's fiction

Like... does a traumatic backstory now = IEWU...? Because that's really the only commonality I see

None of this is a shot at the book, I'm honestly loving it, very strong contemporary "lifestyles of the rich and famous" type book as of now

I just don't want people to write it off because of that IEWU comp

[rainset]

Rough Short Story- White (Working Title)

**Explicit Warning: Mature Themes, Violence, Gore**

Pilgrims walk across the skyline of a frozen wasteland, white chiseled tundra and glacier lap over one another while the rest is lost to a sea of white.  

They walk on with blue toes toward a dark beacon. A peak of darkness that cuts through that sea and no winds dare caress it. Air itself is repelled by its existence and an aura of a green stink radiates off it.  

But still they walk.  

For hope is not a golden light, but whatever gives in to its call.  

Rope clings between their waists as they descend into a slope that’s not discernible from the rest of white. Each one of them is numb but losing themselves. There’s a trail of rope dragging by the last man’s waist. Those they loved, they knew, they had hoped would make it, interred by the white.  

Welcoming them in are dark daggers sloughing off snow from its edges. Reflecting off its ebony sleekness is a grin that waves in and out of mist as they pass through. Finally, a road is carved out from the ice. Hope leads the way.  

Too soon- too soon- all too soon- their line is cut of slack. They’re pulled back and so does each pair of two sets of eyes look. They lay into the white, just lapping over the road. There’s a gasping and a sob. The second takes a blunted knife and cuts the string. The rest of their dwindling clan come together around their fallen and drag him into the snow. Burying him. Ignoring his sobs, his cries- I just fell- he wanted to say, but his throat too dry and the ice seeps into his veins. That cold returns.  

Another interred to the white. They walk on to the road.  

Wind lifting as does its fog to a pole. Arrows twisting one way, another, and another. Connected and rotting but standing. Each direction on those frozen rotten woods is written nothing. Paths that say nothing. So do the onlookers. Trying to read something in grains that are just not there.  

Till an unusual stepping comes from the side of where no arrow points. It is a lumbering thing coming closer. A body greyed and softly muscular with a metal clenching helm. There’s no face to it- it is simply carved with a grotesque insignia. It smells something new.  

As it approaches, the two fall to their knees in hope. They prostrate before that thing as if it was their divine mother. As its lumbering form radiates a stench and puss sweats off its grayness. Cold metal screeches as it looks down at them. Towering far above the sign.  

A voice breaks the ice- “O’Missionary of adamant foul, we humbly approach thee to ask of salvation.” The bearded man raises his head, red blazing off white as snow drips from every hair. His eyes bulging up at this creature. “We beg of you sir, take us there.”  

Black metal grinds and creaks as its encased head tilts. There is no sign of anything, but darkness carved past their master’s sigil. A father clasps his hands together. “We will do whatever they ask.. We come as humble servants!”  

That thing straightens its head and stares down at the puny man and his punier son. There’s a long line of silence between them. There’s no wind blowing. Only the heavy breathing of lungs caked with slough and mucous, huffing out breaths through dead teeth. Fog creeps out that mask’s sigil. The only face to a thing with none.  

Finally, it begins to turn, dragging its lumbering limbs through snow. That bearded pilgrim approaches, tugging his son behind him closer as well. “WAIT-”  

“Just follow him dah.” Says the fair brunette. “He’s doing as ya say.” Artie’s instincts are never wrong when it comes to dead things. His old man stares for a moment, then marches forward. Pulling himself and his son along. The last two standing.  

Their feet pelt into pure snow as they march closer and closer to the darkened camp ahead, within a frozen pit. The grounds steep lower and lower, Artie slides into his father who nearly tumbles into the ground over—but doesn’t shout at him for it. Their goliath companion keeps lumbering on down without any regard for the sleek or steepness of terrain. It just doesn’t care.  

Yawning before them is an ebony ground with high death spires and open stores. Things crawl from everything that points and every surface. Bodies. Living corpses that crawl along and drag frozen death out from white and into those labyrinths with dim green lights. No wind blows but only sounds they hear as they come into camp are of those things that groan to command, communicate, and to understand.  

Each having flesh bound to darkmetal. Turning limbs into knifes both to walk and to kill, towering on stilts. Snarling at them as they pass. Their missionary halts in his wake. So do they as they look up and see a maw of ice. A glacier opening with a glassy blue-green glow to its edges, its lips peeled back to pure gummy jaw. Breathing came from it. The entry way to Sardonic Pinnacle’s lord.  

The lich.  

Their steps freeze to the touch, bits of skin are left behind as they tread. Glossiness surrounds them as does the swirling mists that resounding in glass- growing a bit wilder as they both through the throat and into the oval chamber.  

Where at the far end is a blasted throne. Which sits upon it is a feeble skeleton. Their garments cave into their corpse. There is no motion, yet a voice calls: 

“..What is this..?”

The green swirls from one side of glassy walls to the other.  

  “...Ah. True living souls.” 

That greenness centers itself behind the lich, draining down, creating a massive silhouette of a figure that laps up from the throne to the ceiling that spires up near endlessly.   

The father falls to his knees and bends over to kiss the icy ground at the feet of this strange picture before him. While Artie is perplexed till, he did the same.  

“Lord of Sardonic Pinnacle- please, take us into your service. For you are our only salvation in these godforsaken lands!”  

There’s a chuckling coming from the figure.

“...by begging one is to receive.. A troubling gift... you are bound to my world now... and I am your god... is that clear..?”  

The old man's eyes stay glued to the fluorescent ground. He swallows- “Yes. I and mine son are yours. You are our god, Venite.”  

“Rise.”  

As their voice spoke, both men felt their bodies lift by strings upright.  

From behind the throne, the figure grows out of the glossy wall and spills onto its vessel. As it coats the bones, it reaches its left hand up then shoots down into its own abdomen. With a partially formed body made of light green ooze- it pulls out a long, darkmetal sword. Ruins etched into its blade that glows at it comes out from its stomach.  

It carelessly flings the sword, and it stabs into the glassy ground between Artie and his father. Cracking the floor on impact.  

“...I want.. Entertainment...”

Venite hangs their dripping skeletal hand in the air. Then it sways, dancing a little, strumming their fingers.

“..pick up the sword.”  

Artie looks to his father. His father bugs his eyes down at him.  

“...Kill one, or the other... or the wastes shall welcome you home.... choose.”  

Venite’s skeletal hand falls and plops onto the arm of their throne. The rest of their green ooze recedes back into the back slat of their throne and disperses around the oval room. Swirling around and evoking images of eyes and figures within.  

Artie starts to shake in his breathing as he looks back down at the sword. His father’s voice mumbles. “Pick up the sword, Artie.”  

His breathing quickens. “Do it.”  

“No.” He backs away just as his father grips the handle. He unveils his rudimentary shive as he trembles before his father.  

Dah stands there with a limp wrist that doesn’t properly hold a sword right in his palms. He steadies his breathing and keeps eye contact on his boy. “I told you to pick it up Artemis.” He begins to raise the blade with a crude arc. “Fight me!”  

His father comes at him with a high swing which Artemis easily dodges, then his dad swings pathetically to the left which all he does is step out of the way.

With shaking breath: “I-I don’t want to do this Dah, please-” His father raises the sword up high again—leaving his arm pit open, shaking his head with anger. “I TOLD YOU TO TAKE THE SWORD”. He swats at him again.  

There’s a sprawl of green ichor spreading across the walls as they clash in their obvious dance. Hands press on the glass. Then dozens more, then more spread across the surface till everything is covered with handprints.  

There’s echoes of murmuring as Artemis parries his father’s blade. His dad comes closer to where sweat and breath are horrendously felt on his son, in low tones. “You can do it my son. You can stand tall before them.” Artemis barks back- “I DON’T WANT TO-” His dagger splits and as it does, the blade slices directly into him. Superficial at the shoulder and chest, but then clipping in deeper to his right abdomen. Artemis is frozen, looking at his father.. Then down at his side where a blade rests within him. Blood trickling out.  

Quickly- his father cuts it out of him, his son stumbles back because as he does, it unleashes a pool of blood. Much more than he expected. He looks down to the blade and its runes hunger for more as it lets the blood dance across its surface tension. He looks back to his boy. A decision is made.  

Steps flurry closer and then- shrnk! Right between Artemis’ chest. But it didn’t end there. His body drops as the blade cuts out of him, back in, back out, in- out- in out-  

His body lays on the floor as the image of his papa cuts into his body like a pin cushion over and over, an over. He was already numb but there’s something extremely hot about each bite of that blade. In, out.. In.. Out.. his vision clouds. Last seeing his father on top of him. Stabbing his insides to shreds.  

Artemis’ head turns to the side. His eyes still open but unseeing. The old man grips the blade a moment longer and stays knelt on his son. The one he slaughtered. He tries to shut his eyes but he can’t stop seeing them. Hot-hot tears drip from them. Sizzling the ever-frozen ground with each drop. Everything that drips from his face burns in that ever cold. Not able to unsee his son’s lifeless, bloodied body lying there. He begins to bend over and moans in pain, letting his own hand slide down that runic sword and cut him too. His blood joining his son’s in death. But he doesn’t rise, he doesn’t come back. His body is soon becoming as cold as the ground. His father couldn’t hear the cries of joy that surrounded them in ghostly echoes.  

Cheering his name.

“Daimos! Daimos! Daimos!”

over and over.  

He never gave the lich his name.. But it already knew it. He won. Congratulations. How does it feel?  

There’s a distant wet clapping of bones. Daimos raises his head to his new lord.

“Well.. Done. That....was entertainment.”

A gross green grin slimes over half of a skeletal head, making a face.  

“..you have your prize... my knight.”

It raises a hand.

“Christened with kindred blood.. Suiting.”  

The elderly man stands up from his son. Quivering.

“...you knew the price of coming here... yes?”

Daimos doesn’t do anything but profusely shivers as that voice echoes into his brain once more-

“..Yes.. you did.. Was it worth loss...? Would you of... done it again..?”  

Daimos says nothing, he thinks nothing, and he wishes that he was deaf and blind at this moment—- as a torrent of green liquid gushes down from the throne and coming straight for him.  

“..Of course you would...hahaha...”  

Then as it draws near, it turns. Lapping itself over his son’s corpse, defiling it by slipping into each of the stab wounds his father inflicted upon him.  

Daimos struggles to breathe as he sees what it’s doing. Artemis’ skin turning into a green-hue and muscles start to twitch. His head jolts from side to side. Foam coming from its mouth.  

He steps back as it begins to stand, and blood mingles with a green ooze. It looks back up at him. With the dead eyes of his son. That voice.. Speaks from his mouth.

“You’ve given me a prize.”

He grins as ooze drips from his lips with saliva.

“Such a good knight.”

It stands up straighter. Easy for it to do.

“Fresh dead is so rare in these parts.”

He smirks.

“I was really hoping that this.. would be the outcome.”  

Daimos falls to his knees before Venite’s new body. Who, which, is getting adjusted to their new skin. Rolling their wrists and looking to their garments.

“Mmm yes.. Perfect.”

He looks down at Daimos.

“In any case... I might’ve done the deed myself if you weren’t so prudent.”

His face falls of any expression.

“Your act was true of your character. Pathetic.”  

He walks past Daimos, to a broken entryway leading down pitch, black tunnels.

“I’m sure he’ll remember that image of you.. Every single day.. For eternity.”

He enters that darkness.

“Was it worth it?"

Daimos doesn’t move from the throne room floor. His sniveling as he scans the ground of where his son’s body once was. There was still that discarded shiv. He reaches for it- he hoists it towards his throat-  

“No.”  

His body freezes in mid motion.  

“I have something delightful to show you.”  

Daimos’ body is raked across the ground by ghostly hands and dragged into the darkness where his lord crossed through- shouting all the way.   

Pieces of his rags rip off as the ice takes hold of it, and so does it to his exposed flesh, causing tares and bleeding till he is ragged. He’s dragged up, down, and his stomach is near taters as his blood smears like a blemish on carpet. It is never ending—till there is. A light that blinds him.  

Everything stops. Daimos cannot move and can only shut his eyes. Artemis’ voice echoes through his mind-

“Get up.”  

He feels his body being pulled by a dozen hands up and fingers force his eyes open to that same blinding light. It adjusts to see his son’s figure standing before him in that light. He wears garb alien to him, it looks vicious and proud, darkmetal piercing the reality around it as Venite wills it.  

They turn away from Daimos and his feet scrape against the ground till he sees a wide-open expanse of white.

“You’re very lucky to be one of the few truly alive to find me... my rival would’ve been less hospitable.”

They point across and there’s nothing at first.  

Then, there is a fata morgana- a refracting citadel up and down, covering itself in the guise of white, but when one uses their true sight... they see the invisible guise. There stands a wide monument forming massive broken skulls that come together within the center.  

Below their alcove is a horde of dark grey beings who roar when Venite addresses them.  

“We have our great work at hand... and I need much more of you to win our game.”

They turn to Daimos who is all but dead inside, looking at their new lord.  

“I need more of your hope.”  

[epiceneandroid]

so, i decided to do @mousesquared's blorbosquared 2 gender/orientation/misc coining challenge, but this time, with a twist: it's a character that likely none of my followers will know! by the time it comes time to guess, you probably won't even know WHO that blorbo is, despite having thousands of candidates for them!

first one is...day one, a term that gives your blorbo "vibes":

polygynandromorph: when you're a gender that is in between, has characteristics of, or is a blend of, masculine and feminine and/or male and female, but are always shifting between the core genders you identify with besides androgyne/gynandromorph. may or may not be related to polymorphkinning

basically, a kind of androgyne-fluidflux with a combination of polymorph, based on the theme of my blorbo!

note: the flag is themed around gynandromorph butterflies, and that's what the heart pattern is themed around! i also just realized the grayish color of the "wing" on top and the stripe on bottom could signify grayness within and between androgyne/gynandromorph related identities, as no androgyne or gynandromorph seems to describe their gender the same, only that it has a masculine/male or feminine/female component!

[image description: a 700 x 300 image of the polygynandromorph flag. it is a coronado paints c-5007 on top emperor butterfly color, around a brownish orange on top "wing" of monarch butterfly. the other colors have the same pattern as the below. end image description]

[hyperfixated-writer]

Grasping for Safety Chapter 8 be like

Graye: Working with these incompetent scouts is just horrible, they’re to blame for everything, and literally none of this is my fault-

Gus: Please, I’ll tell you where the galderstones are, just let me go, I have a family-

Graye: QUIET. None of this is my fault, because (as we all know) I am the most talented person in all of existence-