#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!

[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:

[metonomyg]

Realization: Lucemond modern day

Aemond and Lucerys reconciled by chance after meeting at a busy coffee shop one winter day. Weeks later when the two got to “peacefully” talking and Luke had the chance to give an earned apology, the two adults formed somewhat of a friendship.

Going to see a new movie that the younger was constantly texting about or visiting a restaurant chosen by a game of Rock Paper Scissors became a regular occurrence that none of the other family members knew of.

It is now over a year since their first encounter that Lucerys is huffing under his breath trying to figure out what cough syrup to get his stubborn uncle.

“This will teach him to go running when it’s snowing without a jacket.”

Deciding to get one of everything just to be sure and grabbing a bag of gummy bears (“because they’re superior Luke, you can’t tell me otherwise”), the younger man quickly paid and drove back to the apartment.

Silence greeted him at first but it was broken by light coughing coming behind the bedroom door. Getting the medication and a glass of water ready Lucerys opened the door and walked in.

He was presently greeted with a giant bundle of covers through which he could glimpse a couple of silver locks peaking through.

Vhagar was currently laying on the floor next to the ceiling balcony window and merely glanced at him before getting back to sleep, his presence started to become a usual occurrence awhile back.

Placing everything on the bedside table and sitting on the crook of the bed, Luke gently shook the bundle of sickness and received a grunt in return.

“Aemond get out from there, you’ve got to take some medicine.”

Violet eye met his after a moment of struggle and before he could say anything the cough started up again. Grabbing the sick man by the shoulders and gently supporting him, Lucerys hoped for it to be over soon. It hurt more than ever to see his Kepa in pain.

“Why are you here stupid boy?”

“Because you’re sick.”

“Exactly, get lost.” Muttered Aemond and promptly flopped back into the bed.

“I am not leaving until you’re better and take what I give you. So get over the attitude because I’m staying.”

Rolling his eye and rasping once more, Aemond dejectedly nodded.

The next few days were busy, between trying to feed a sick and stubborn man, Luke walked with Vhagar and brought his own dog back to the apartment, making both of them quiet at home.

It’s on the third day that he is struck by emotion. Reclining by the bedside chair, Luke observed his sleeping uncle. The sunrise light that shines through the balcony eliminated his features even more. The softness of them was so different from the sharp angles upon waking. Luke suddenly wished to see the sight everyday. He suddenly feared going back to the grayness of his apartment and trying to find home in it. He suddenly understood why Daemon would look at his mother time and time over as if lost in her mere presence.

Suddenly, he knew.

“Oh”

“I love you” murmured he, wide eyes never leaving the sleeping figure.

It is Lucerys own flood of emotion that made him miss the sudden intake of breath following the declaration.

[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.

[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

[daisymylove]

Hide the breakables and board up the windows, my beloved Mfs, for a rant is coming your way.

I want to be done complaining about chot I really do, I hate being so negative about a book I waited and yearned for, for so long, but there’s one more thing that annoyed me greatly, and, per usual, I want to know what yall think

Today’s subject is our Blackthorn sibling duo.

I wanna preface this by saying that Grace’s povs were one of my favourite parts of Choi.Her character in itself adds grayness to a narrative of angels and demons, good vs evil, and I really enjoyed all the complexity and layers given to her.I ended Chog cursing her name to the wind swear to god, the cursing emoji was a perfect visual representation of me when she put that thing on james again, but in choi cc achieved exactly what she aimed for with grace :” an explanation, not an excuse”

However, I feel like all that information we were given in the previous book was completely wasted in Chot.The characters never find out that she was threatened into putting the bracelet back on James, or that she tried to take it off at his wedding. Her motivations, too, are never known.The way it was portrayed, it looks like Grace stayed so long by Tatiana’s side bc she truly had some sort of fetish for torturing men, when, in reality, it was all for Jesse 

She could’ve begged for sanctuary in an institute, once she became old enough, she could’ve fled with Magnus when he offered to help her in TMH, but she never did.Grace never left bc leaving Tatiana would also mean leaving Jesse and what was all that for? home boy discarded her like some rancid food at the first opportunity  When she went to Curzon street to demand James kissed her? That was for him. Even that train wreck she caused by the end of choi was for him, bc she couldn’t bear the thought of controlling her brother and twisting his feelings for her.To me, this is some very relevant info that should’ve become known if all the secrets were going to be revealed, AND YET NONE OF THIS IS ADRESSED IN THE GODDAMN BOOK

the only explanation I can think of is because that knowledge would require of Jesse to have at least a little bit of loyalty towards his sister, or look like an ungrateful arse which he did, but I’ll get there.

Now about jesse.I had great expectations for him in this last installment, the first one in which he’s alive, but my main take away is that he has become an extension of Lucie’s feelings and opinions, in the most symbiotic way possible, with no personality of his own.

In choi we find out that Grace withstood a lot of physical and psychological abuse from Tatiana that he didn’t know about.I was expecting them to have a true heart to heart, they would discuss everything that went down when they were kids, not just james and the bracelet, and jesse would not only feel guilty about not being able to protect his little sister, but also decide to stick by her side no matter what.

And yes, he could’ve done that while also condemning her mistakes and treatment towards James.The two are not mutually exclusive, and would do justice to his little speech about complicated stories, which, to me, is a very hypocritical spiel since he decided to become his sister’s jury, judge and executioner

I never thought I would say this in my life, but I was infuriated on Grace’s behalf reading their scene in the silent city.Everything about it was very odd, Grace conveniently for cc withholding something so important, the way she explained herself, his storming off. Jesse had never had ONE conversation with Cordelia in his life, he barely knew James, can a kind soul explain to me WHY he would be more concerned about their marriage than his actual sister? Considering his beloved had just done necromancy (YES, Thats what it was, even if it was a unconventional form of it.Bro was dead, then bro was alive again, just like that. N e c r o m a n c y) his moralism is very hypocritical and his understanding of nuance lacking

It irked something so deep inside me to see not just kit defending a girl he barely knew tooth and nail over his cousin and life long friend, but also Jesse not giving a fuck about his sister.They were talking about leaving Grace completely isolated from society (that was disgusting btw, it was up to their authorities to decide her future, not a bunch of teenagers thinking they can treat a person like a broken doll, to be put away wherever they feel like it) and Jesse looked like he couldn’t spare a visit. He seemed more than eager to put Tatiana AND grace behind him in order to start a new life with the herondales. So much for them being all each other had growing up and his so called loyalty

As some last thoughts bc this is getting way too long, Grace should’ve been the one to kill Tatiana.That wasnt Cordelia’s business and had no emotional significance. When that fight happens Grace looks the polar opposite of everything Tatiana ever groomed her to be.She is dirty, shoeless, bedraggled and feral looking, Lucie even thinks that grace’s little training would only be useful if she got close enough.Imagine, my siblings in christ, Grace slitting Tatiana’s throat, after she kills Grace’s only friend, while she is distracted with Rupert.Tatiana molded Grace into her blade, and that Blade was responsible for her end.Feel the sheer power of it, the poetic justice that could’ve been ours.

I also think Grace should’ve been sent away to the scholomance (against her wishes, hence the I didnt choose this) for intensive training both bc she’s really behind in it, and as a punishment from the clave.Its not like she had a place to go to, and staying at her ex fiance’s parent’s house is not the way to go. . 

This new scenario would give her a fresh start to properly heal and eventually make friendships/ find love without the taint from the past on her heels.Her hanging out and chilling with James and his friends has no sense and is a disrespect to his abuse.James doesnt need his abuser living in his uncle and aunt’s house, Grace needs to start her life over where her past won’t haunt her everyday

[melodyofsky]

Yandere Adrian Graye

Sorry if it’s a bit confusing, had a random spark of inspiration.

 Based on this post here (If the creator is uncomfortable with me using this post then will take down) - 

https://at.tumblr.com/dopp-likes-yanderes/imagine-this-reader-who-works-in-the-emperors/qte1z6dpb9ju

TW: Yandere in general, mentions of stalking, blackmail, cornering reader, unwanted touch. 

Adrian Graye 

The man you’ve been avoiding since that blessing in disguise of a day off. When you woke up that day it had become apparent what happened the night before. The moment you had realized that you rushed out of bed, left some cash/snails to pay for the inn bill and left. But little did you know the certain coven head was already awake. 

Next few days were filled with paranoia. You served as guard captain under Belos so you had no reason to be paranoid that much but for some reason, you felt so insecure, like you were being watched. 

One while doing you rounds, kikimora you were called down for whatever reason. So you head down to her office and greeted with the one the only Adrian Fucking Graye Vernworth. 

“Holy fucking shit, no way.”

You think, as you enter. Kikimora gives a quick relay on why you were called here, “If you had not heard, the illusion head master was recently attacked, and has asked emperor Belos for a private guard, you have received that pleasure” She pauses to look at papers “Your shifts begin... tomorrow. You will receive a new schedule tonight. Do you understand?” You say yes in fear of what would happen if you refused. 

The next few days were anxious to say the least. “Does he like remember what happened on that day or like no?” you pondered. You were doing rounds around his area, until accidently running into a corner. You go to turn back but you are greeted with a looming shadow of none other then the coven head himself, Adrian

“Hello sire, how may I be of service of you as of right now.” You say with a bit of a quiver in your voice. “Yes, you can be of service of right now” “How so?” You question “Give me a kiss” He says bluntly with a smile “Excuse me sire?” 

“Did I not make myself clear? I said give me a kiss, not much maybe a peck on the cheek” At this point you’re trying to excuse yourself, without making it uncomfortable “Would you excuse me sire I-” “I said give me a kiss, not much, at least a peck on the cheek. After all you wouldn’t want a little lie about you sleeping with coven head for benefit running around now, would you?”  Well shit, you were stuck now. 

With no other options, you give him what he wants, a small peck on the cheeks, he waits for a moment then, moves out of your way, letting you know that you’re off duty for the rest of your day. He follows to your quarters, and lets you rest there. “Maybe a nap would do me some good...yeah that sounds nice.” You head to sleep. 

Meanwhile with Adrian, he feels like he’s just coming down from heaven. A kiss from his beloved. That night he saw you being cool in solitude and had a taste of you was when he fell in love for sure. He had been stalking making sure you were okay for quite a while and with that little sob story of him getting hurt and a illusions of bruises and such. He had scored the jackpot. With that little kiss of yours, you had just confirmed his delusions. 

You did love him, he was going to make sure of it. He has no intention of giving up.

[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.”

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.xv // Antipathy

Previous / AO3 / Masterlist / Next

Renee must’ve read through that forum at least a hundred times by now. Must’ve skimmed every tangent started on the thread a dozen times over, taking note of every new interaction, every uptick in the numbers. He’s been glued to his phone ever since he found it.

Parts of the conversation make his heart beat faster. Parts set his teeth on edge. Parts spark their own debates in his head, questions of how long it’ll take for this attention to snowball into its own niche community, to gain the attention of the average user. Davin told him, before he left on an errand run, that it’s better to leave it alone, that trying to direct the flow might cause more harm than good. That’s the only thing keeping Renee from joining in the conversation. That, and the fact that he’s on babysitter duty.

Aren’t these the first sprouts of public awareness? Is this where it all starts?

Renee hadn’t considered just how thoroughly they’d dismantle every frame of the videos, but now that they’re starting to, it’s all he can think about. He finds himself suddenly grateful for all of Davin’s precautions, which, although trite and seemingly useless in the moment, might have just proven their worth, he has to admit. Already, they’re picking apart his accent, as if that’ll help in any tangible way. They’re estimating his height based on a screenshot of him standing next to the table of tools – someone pulls up a reference for the average height of a table. Renee can barely believe how small the straws they’re grasping at are.

Across the dining table, Conrad sits none the wiser to the night’s unfolding online drama. His bruised face is void of emotion, his eyes distant, slightly unfocused, fixed to his plate in front of him. His injured hand, sporting a bandage at the end of each finger, lies in his lap, while the other listlessly picks at his food. The bags under his eyes are stark against the relative grayness of his skin.

If Renee hadn’t been made to watch him, he would’ve left the guy to stew in his own misery several times over just in the past half-hour. Each time the forum fails to catch his attention, he is reminded, and the dissatisfaction grows in his chest like a balloon being inflated anew, and his leg begins to bounce under the table. An urge hits him, nagging him to go for a smoke, to lock himself in his room and turn on the stereo, to go for a car ride.

Or to smash that stupid blank face into the table.

Conrad reminds him of something today. Although he can’t pinpoint exactly of what, Renee knows he hates it.

So he reads through the thread a dozen times over, genuinely swallowed up by the attention, although he knows at some level it’s a distraction.

At one point, Conrad clears his throat. “When is Davin coming back?” he asks.

“Fuck if I know,” Renee says, a tad harder than intended.

Conrad flinches slightly, a breath taken sharper than the one before it and a gaze cast away. Then he nods to himself, going back to picking at his food.

Renee is satisfied to leave that as the end of their conversation, but to his dismay, he soon feels Conrad’s gaze on him again, surprisingly insistent.

He looks up from his phone. “What?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Renee’s instinct is to respond with a flat ‘No,’ but he stops himself.

Conrad’s good hand picks at flaws in the table. He doesn’t make a move to speak right away.

It takes a second to click, but Renee eventually decides he might as well slam the guy’s face into the table. After all, maybe he should utilize the chance he has now, while Davin is away, to loosen up a bit, get some of that energy out. Renee could face his antipathy in a productive way – head on.

So before Conrad can stutter out whatever the fuck is on his mind this time around, Renee has pulled a cigarette from the carton in his pocket, stuck it between his teeth, and lit it. The smoke dances around the lights above the dining table, tendrils curling through the still air like creeping fingers. It stings in Renee’s eyes as he watches some of the color drain from Conrad’s face.

“Shoot,” Renee says.

Conrad opens his mouth and closes it again, a couple times, moves Renee can only describe as fish-like. Eventually he composes himself a little. “Those things you told me,” he says carefully. “They don’t matter at all. You still tortured me.”

Renee feels anger flare up, but all he does outwardly is lean forward to ash his cigarette on his plate. Conrad is getting good at saying the t-word out loud. “And?”

Conrad makes a grimace. “And you knew when you told me those things that it wouldn’t matter, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’re self-aware.”

Renee snorts at that. “And?”

“And that still doesn’t excuse you.”

Taking a long drag, Renee nods slowly, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. He looks back at Conrad. “Is that what you wanted to say?” he asks.

Conrad shakes his head. He shifts in his chair, and nods at the cigarette. “Are you going to burn me with that?”

Renee meets Conrad’s eye. “Yes,” he says evenly.

Gritting his teeth, Conrad takes an apprehensive breath. “Why?” he asks.

“Because you’re stupid,” Renee says, in that same even tone. “You ask stupid fucking questions.” He shrugs one shoulder as he takes the next drag, the ember creeping toward the filter.

Conrad swallows. The tears are starting to form in his eyes, even though it’s obvious from how hard he’s gritting his teeth that he is trying his best to keep them at bay. He takes several shaky breaths, and then spits his next words out like an accusation. ”Does it make you feel better? Huh?”

Although Renee is taken aback by the passionate hatred emanating from Conrad’s being, he’s not about to let that show on his face. In the place of surprise, he feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Be fun to poke a bit now, to see how far this moment can go. “Sure does,” he says calmly.

“It’s torture,” Conrad hisses.

Renee nods. Sniffing, he ashes the cigarette on his plate again. “I bet Howard is proud of how well you take it.”

He expects the moment of pause following the remark, in which Conrad stares at him, mouth open, frozen as his mind catches up to what was just said.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is for Conrad to throw his glass at him.

Renee barely has time to shield his face with his arm before it hits, spilling water onto his shoulder, sending it flying out in spittle behind him, as the glass itself ricochets to the floor.

As the glass spins itself to a halt, Renee meets Conrad’s gaze, and for a moment, they both just stare at each other in shock.

Then Renee bursts out laughing. “Holy shit,” he says incredulously. “You actually just assaulted me.” Wiping water from his brow, he shakes the wetness from his hand. By a stroke of good luck, the cigarette survived. He holds the still-smoldering ember up, wriggling it between his fingers. “Missed your target, too.”

“I wasn’t—” Conrad begins breathlessly, but he cuts himself off as Renee gets to his feet. Conrad follows suit, pushing himself away from the table with his good hand, scooting the chair away behind him as he takes a step backwards. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t know why I did that, I didn’t mean—”

“Save it, dipshit,” Renee chuckles, rounding the corner of the table. The ember has finally reached the filter, Renee can feel it in the proximity of the heat to his fingers.

Conrad keeps backing up as he approaches, as if repulsed by a magnetic force. He bumps into several of the other chairs along the table’s length until he finally sidesteps to the wall instead. His shoulder brushes along the white-painted mortar for each steps he takes in retreat. “Renee,” he says quickly, “Renee, please, I didn’t – I didn’t mean to do that, I swear—”

“You know I can’t let it slide,” Renee says ruefully.

Finally, Conrad bumps into the wall at the corner of the living room, and just as soon, Renee has caught up with him. He grabs his bandaged hand, hears the stark intake of breath as Conrad hisses in pain as a response, and feels Conrad’s good hand claw uselessly at the fabric of his sweatshirt to push him away. “Don’t—”

Renee would’ve liked to draw out the moment, to bask further in Conrad’s desperation, but he knows he has to act relatively fast if he wants to avoid the cigarette going out on its own. So without further ado, Renee finds the freshest looking bruise he can find on Conrad’s arm – the area right above the wrist where the cuffs have left layers of deep abrasions over the course of the last week – and he plants the cigarette butt there.

The hiss of pain becomes a short cry, Conrad face scrunching up in a grimace that doesn’t go away even when the cigarette has left his skin. Panting, he tries to jerk his arm free, but Renee doesn’t let him go.

“That was for being stupid,” Renee says. “And this?”

Renee drives his fist into Conrad’s midsection, knowing from the way the air whistles from the guys throat that he hit solar plexus.

“That was for the assault,” Renee says gleefully.

Conrad coughs violently, curled around himself, half leaning on the wall to keep from keeling over.

Grabbing a fistful of curls, Renee hauls Conrad back to the dining table. He maneuvers him into position, using his grip in his hair to tilt his head back, then taps his chest twice to get his attention. “Do you want to know why I’m doing this next thing?” he asks.

Conrad is wincing at the grip in his hair, once again clawing uselessly at Renee’s sleeve. “Please let me go,” he gasps.

“Answer my question, Connie,” Renee retorts.

Conrad grimaces, breathing heavily. “I don’t know!”

Renee tightens his grip and leans in real close. “Because I fucking feel like it,” he says low.

And then he slams Conrad’s face into the table.

Immediately following the impact, Conrad’s head whips up, and he staggers backwards, landing on his ass when his balance finally fails. With a somewhat dazed expression, his hand immediately shoots up to feel his face, and comes away red. Renee sees it when Conrad looks up at him, tears of pain in his eyes – he’s bleeding from the mouth, and it’s already dribbling from his chin down on his shirt. Maybe he bit his cheek or something.

Making a ‘shit-happens’ kind of shrug, Renee waltzes toward the kitchen island where a dish towel hangs from a hook in the gable.

He throws the towel in Conrad’s lap, then waves around the room. “You’ve got some shit to clean up before Davin comes back,” he says casually. “Get movin’.”

Previous / Masterlist / Next

[ask-codeearasure]

The Outer Realms -- Chapter 12

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—-----

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

[sandcobangevent]

Planning to Meet the Family

by C.S. Graye and @absolutely_no_thank_you

“Oh, maybe this one will be interesting! This guy says he’s living with a ghost and things keep moving around without him remembering having moved them. He also says he’s been finding notes...”

“No, boring. He should check the levels of carbon monoxide in his house before it kills him.”

“Okay then, ummm, let’s see. Well, there’s a woman who lost her dog, a guy who keeps hallucinating a giant hound, and a man who insists that Henry Rousseau's Surprised! at the National Gallery is a fake.”

“No, none of them.”

Mariana shakes her head slightly and sighs. This was going about as smoothly as John said it would. She stood up, leaving the laptop open on the table and turned it so it faced Sherlock.

“I’m going to make some tea. Would you like some?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Then can you look at the emails and see if one is interesting enough? I’m not sure I understand what you’re looking for.”

Sherlock shrugs but does at least glance at the computer screen. Mariana sighs again before heading to the kitchen. There is the sound of running water and the click of the kettle turning on. Knowing that Mariana prefers to put together everything while waiting for the water to boil, Sherlock quickly scans the unopened emails on the laptop.

No. No. Good God, do people really not know what’s happening. No. Absurd. No-wait, that actually may be interesting. He stretches his hand out to open the email and read more about the sheep turning up shorn in people’s houses in North London. As he reads the details, his train of thought is interrupted by a buzzing sound.

Bzzt bzzt!

He looks down, slightly annoyed and realizes that Mariana had left her phone. Seeing as she hadn’t left the flat, but was still patiently waiting for the water to boil, Sherlock did not think it necessary to inform her that she had done so.

The screen lights up with a message preview.

John: I'm just not sure how to tell him that…

Sherlock blinks and then reads the preview again as the screen goes black. Whatever could that mean. He is sure that John is referring to himself, but what could he be saying. They hadn’t had any arguments recently and John normally tells him if something is wrong.Curiosity and fear compete in his brain. There should be no reason to be afraid but John is his friend and he has been hurt before. Sherlock knows he shouldn’t, but he reaches out a hand to pick up Mariana’s phone, typing in the passcode. His eyes skim over the message and then more of the conversation between John and Mariana he’s confused. Just as he is getting further up the front door opens. John walks in with a bag over his shoulder.

“Ah, looking through some new…” John sees the phone in Sherlock’s hand and his face drops. “Is that Mariana’s phone?!”

Art by @absolutely_no_thank_you

At this, Mariana comes out of the kitchen with her prepared tea. “Hi John, what are you…” She trails off, looking at Sherlock holding her phone. She then looks at John who is still standing by the door, not having taken even a step inside. The doctor is clearly startled, but appears to remember his bag, which he quickly pulls off and drops to the floor.

“Yes.” Sherlock says, because he is holding Mariana’s phone, regardless of the reason it was important for him to know what the text was.

“Right, well, give me that back.” Mariana walks over, places her cup on the table and swipes her phone back from Sherlock. Placing it in her pocket, she grabs the open laptop, which is promptly shut so she can carry it under her arm, and the cup of tea. “If either of you need me, I’ll be downstairs responding to people and looking through the other cases available.” She gently scoots past John, having to hop over his bag. The doctor has finally removed his coat, hanging it up. Mariana nods to John as he moves past her into the room. She grabs the doorknob and closes it behind her.

“Why did you have Mariana’s phone, Sherlock?” John falls into a chair across from the detective.

“I saw your message and wanted to know what you were talking about.” Sherlock found he was having a hard time looking at John and instead started tapping his fingers as though moving them on violin strings.

John sighed. “Yeah, I probably should have just told you.”

This makes Sherlock look up. “You should have just told me what?”

John’s hand goes to rub the back of his neck. If anything, he looks anxious, with just a bit of embarrassment. “Well, um, you know my mom and I talk, right? Like pretty often?” The detective nods. He’s overheard their conversations in the flat before. It was pretty clear that John and Carol Watson got along well and that she supported the doctor no matter what he was doing. “And you know that sometimes I talk about you.” Again, Sherlock nods. Something else he has overheard plenty. He supposed it made sense to talk about friends to one’s family, but he was still confused as to why John was bringing up the conversations the doctor had with his mum.

“Um, it’s just that, um, she wants to meet you. In person. Over dinner.” John finally says, stumbling over his words. “And I know how you feel about meeting new people, so …” He trails off. Sherlock sits stunned for a second. John’s mother wants to meet him? ONe of the most important people in John’s life wants to meet him? Him? Whatever for? The detective knows John is his friend, but friends don’t have dinner to meet the family? Right? At this point, John has started talking again. “I mean, I can just tell her that it’s not a good time. Maybe we just got a case? Hmm, I might have to come up with someth…”

“I’ll do it.”

“...ing better. Wait, what did you say?”

“I’ll do it. I’ll meet your mother over dinner.”

John stares at Sherlock, clearly surprised. The detective squirms slightly under the gaze, clearly debating if he made the right decision.

“You’ll meet her? Truly” John smiles nervously. “I know my mom will be excited. She’s always so interested in our cases. That and she wants to meet my best friend. That’s good ol’ mum, for you, always wanting to spoil my friends. Would next week be enough time for you to get used to the idea?”

Sherlock considers this carefully before nodding. “Next week should be fine, provided there is no case.” The doctor shakes his head at this response, laughing softly.

“Of course. How about Thursday evening? We always seem to have extra time on Thursdays.” John asks, pulling his phone from his pocket. He types out a message to his mom with both hands.

“Thursday should be fine.” Sherlock answers. The detective taps his nose lightly. “Is there some kind of etiquette to meeting one’s friend’s parent that I should know?”

John looks up from his phone. “Oh no, just be yourself. Mum has been asking for a while to meet you and you’ve definitely heard everything I’ve told her about you. Maybe just stay away from describing anything too gruesome? And I’ll try to let you know if you say something that she doesn't want to talk about?” This reassurance calms the slight fear that Sherlock hadn’t even knew he had. After all, how hard could it be to meet John’s family?

“Well, now that’s settled I suppose we should look at the cases that Mariana just sent us. I’m assuming that you already discussed a bunch but…”

John’s voice faded into the background. Yes, how hard could it be to actually meet Carol Watson?

[sergeantsporks]

Gilded Family

Rating: Teen and Up, Gen

Ch 23/?: Gameplan

Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6 , Ch 7, Ch 8, Ch 9, Ch 10, Ch 11, Ch 12, Ch 13, Ch 14, Ch 15, Ch 16, Ch 17,  Ch 18, Ch 19, Ch 20, Ch 21, Ch 22

In which none of the previous golden guards or wittebro died, actually, they're all fine and living happily together as one big dysfunctional family

Ao3

Deep breaths.

Phoenix opened a door. “Terra. Glad you haven’t been turned into a puppet.”

“Hello, Rosebud. I see you’ve cooled down from your little tantrum. Here to get me to join your little owl house game?”

“Not quite yet. Where are the rest of the coven heads?”

Terra studied her nails. “I don’t know.”

Liar.

“Incredible. You lost them? The most senior of the coven heads didn’t keep track of her cohorts?” Phoenix shook his head. “I guess I came to the wrong place.”

She eyed him. “Adorable. Let’s cut to the chase and quit dancing around our objectives, shall we? You’re looking for allies. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come to me. What are my options? What’s my standing right now?”

Equal exchange of information. Alright.

“You’re one option out of several to play the owl lady. The last one got turned into a puppet. High risk, high reward, Terra. If you get picked to play, you can get close to the Collector. But if you fail, you’ll lose everything.”

“Oh, are those the only stakes? I’ve been in that situation for fifty years now.”

“It’s not the same. You’re not dealing with an adult who has adult reason. You’re dealing with a child.”

“I’m excellent with children. Just look how you turned out.”

Hating your guts?

Phoenix shook his head. “With Belos, the blame and risk was spread out among coven heads. Now? It’s all concentrated. We need to get a scapegoat, maybe Graye?”

Wouldn’t hate seeing him turned into a puppet.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Rosebud.”

“I’m not trying to fool you.”

“You never were a good liar. You’re not looking for someone to spread the blame out, you’re looking for a coconspirator to plot with. One who isn’t a tiny dog thing.”

Phoenix kept his face still and neutral. “And you think you can be that partner?”

“Undoubtedly, but I’m certain you already have a particular abomination head in mind. One you’re fishing for information on. Like I said, you’re not fooling anyone.”

Right. One more card to play.

Phoenix took a step closer to Terra. He’d surpassed her in height a long time ago, and without her plants to stand on, she had to look up at him to meet his eyes. “I have the Collector’s ear. If I recommend you, he’ll loop you into the game. Is that something you want, or not?”

Her eyes glinted. “According to you, I’m safe here, but the game is a risk. What do you think?”

A vine grew out of the ground between them, pushing Phoenix back.

“You’re not the only choice I’ve got in this titanforsaken house. Make no mistake, I can find another ally. You’re rusty, Rosebud. And you were never had as good at keeping the coven heads in your pocket as your predecessor.”

Phoenix pushed the vine to the side. “Remind me which of us is a statue right now?”

Sorry, Petro.

“This isn’t the coven, Terra. The rules have changed, and you are not well adjusted to follow them. The Collector isn’t me, or any of the other kids you’ve taken interest in. He’s not going to be as easy to control as you think. If you want to stay free, I suggest you start following my lead.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” she purred, “Best of luck finding Darius.”

Phoenix’s gut clenched at the direct mention of his name, but he pushed out of the room without another word. A dead end. Not that he’d ever wanted to team up with Terra, but it wouldn’t hurt to have her at the very least not trying to actively sabotage him.

“I’ll just find them myself.” He opened the door to the puppet room. “Titan, I hope he’s not in here.”

Phoenix left the door open for light, gingerly stepping over puppets left strewn all over the floor. One’s hand rolled under his foot, and he winced, crouching down to make sure it wasn’t broken. “Sorry.”

“They’re not conscious, you know.”

Phoenix’s spine stiffened. “Odalia.”

She dangled her pendant from one hand. “You appear to have misplaced this. Again.”

“Oh, no, how careless of me,” he replied flatly, “My mistake.” Phoenix snatched it out of her hand, but didn’t put it back on. “You don’t know that they’re not.”

She sighed. “If they’re conscious then that means that they are intentionally being difficult when I have to put them away. And I’m sure—” she punctuated her words with a kick at the nearest puppet’s arm, sending it clattering to the side. “—that they would never intentionally do something like that.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Oh, what do you care, Rosebud?”

Phoenix jerked backwards. “Terra.”

So that’s what she meant by a choice of allies.

This is not going to be a good duo.

“She’s a very interesting woman. Had quite the insight on you.”

“You can’t trust Terra or anything she says, Odalia.”

“Oh, so I suppose you’re not here looking for Darius, are you?” Odalia pushed another puppet to the side with her foot. “You know, I’m hurt that you didn’t come to me for help with this. I have more time to explore this place than you, always out on the Collector’s little games, and of course we share equal concern for Darius’ well-being.”

What.

“We share what now.”

Odalia sighed. “Oh, now I’m disappointed you don’t remember me.”

Don’t… remember…

Phoenix slammed the heel of his palm into his forehead. “Odalia. You’re—titan—you are… a lot bigger than I thought you’d be. As in taller. Like, older, not—I’m going to stop talking now.”

She crossed her arms. “Well, I may never have seen under that mask, but you don’t exactly look like a seventy-year-old man. You must tell me your skincare routine. I hope it doesn’t involve burning half of my face off. Not that the look doesn’t work for you, dear.”

“I cannot believe you stuck with Darius this long.”

“If you must know, he ditched me a few months after your… disappearance. Accused me of using him. But obviously I still care abou—”

“HA!” Phoenix barked, “Good for him! Okay, maybe I didn’t know you’d be like… this… when I told him to stay away, but am I glad I did.”

“When you did what.”

Phoenix shoved Odalia’s pendant at her. “We’re done. My answer is no. I hope you and Terra have a lovely time trying to get close to the Collector without me.” When she didn’t take the pendant, he dropped it, letting it clink to the floor. “I’ll find Darius without you.”

“You may not need me, but you do not want me as an enemy,” she warned as he pushed past her, “You will regret this.”

Phoenix growled, turning and taking slow, threatening steps towards her. “No, Odalia. You don’t want me as an enemy. I am giving you and Terra the choice to stay out of my way. Try me, and getting turned into a puppet will be the least of your worries.”

She was the first to break eye contact, stepping backwards. Phoenix took another step closer.

“I’m the one the Collector considers a friend. You’re just ‘Mamadalia.’ When it comes down to the two of us, I am the one who has his ear. Your word against mine. Who do you think he’ll trust? Last warning, Odalia. Try to edge me out and the Collector will hear a little something about how you think you can control him.”

Phoenix spun on his heel, marching out the door. Outside of the archive house, lightning flashed across the sky, and thunder cracked. Phoenix let out a long hiss, leaning against the wall.

“Okay. Oooookay.” The wounds on his arms throbbed in time with the angry tempo of his heartbeat, and he put one hand on his chest. “Take a breath, Phoenix. Cool down.”

I have got to get out of here before things get worse.

Unless…

Maybe the way Odalia was going about it was wrong, of course it was, she wanted to control all of the isles and manipulate the Collector to do her dirty work. But since he was here, and the Collector did listen to him, at least sometimes, would it be so bad to run damage control? Maybe get the Collector to release some of the puppets?

I should get Terra and Odalia out of the way for sure. They’re going to be trouble.

Phoenix patted his face, pacing to shake off the thoughts. “Whoa,” he said firmly, “No. We’re finding Darius, saving Eda and Lilith, and then—”

“Heyo, Phoenix!” Collector pounced on his back, clinging to him. “We’re having an inside adventure today!”

Phoenix staggered under the weight with a little ‘oof,’ but readjusted quickly. “An inside adventure?”

“Yeah, it’s raining! Mortals like you have to stay indoors! Plus, we never have inside adventures. Inside can be fun. Just not toooooooooooo inside.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Nothing too fancy. Oh, I saw people play this one alllllllllllll the time, c’mon, c’mon! To the stairs! King’s waiting!”

Phoenix backtracked through the hallways to the main entrance. He shot a questioning look to King, who made an ‘I don’t know’ gesture in response. Collector’s legs kicked back and forth, and Phoenix let him down.

“We are going to have.” Collector inhaled deeply. “A tea party! Don’t worry, Phoenix, Terra isn’t invited. No poison tea.” He clapped his hands, and a china set appeared in the air. “And we are going to have our tea party iiiiiiiiin zero gravity!”

Phoenix’s feet lifted off of the ground, and tea started to drift out of the pot. “Whoa—Uh—” He clung to the stairs. “I don’t think—tea parties—are like this—”

Collector soared over, prying Phoenix’s fingers off of the railing. “But it’s more fun!”

Phoenix winced as his index finger popped under the Collector’s pressure and finally let go. “Ooookay.”

Collector pointed at the teapot, and the liquid splashed back in. “Geeze, okay, some gravity. Or else we’re not going to be able to drink this.”

Phoenix examined his knuckle, gingerly popping it back into place.

Right. I forgot that he flicked Uncle through the wall. I’m lucky he didn’t strangle me trying to get a piggyback ride. Or rip my hand clean off just now.

Phoenix kicked off of the stairs, grabbing a teacup for cover and soaring towards King. “How’re things going on the Eda front?”

King glanced at the Collector. “Well, I—”

“You know what would make this more fun?” Collector clapped his hands. “More friends!”

In a puff of smoke, puppets appeared. Graye’s face loomed in front of Phoenix’s, and he kicked out, connecting with the puppet’s chest and sending it flying. The force of the push sent him tumbling backwards.

“Ack!” Phoenix put out his arms to steady himself, noting symbols decorating each of the puppets.

Illusion. Healing. Potions…

Phoenix’s eyes landed on a purple cloak and his stomach churned at the sight of usually-shifting hair that had gone stiff and still.

Darius.

Something tugged on his sleeve. “Phoenix? Hey, Phoenix, buddy... You with me?”

Phoenix’s eyes moved slowly to King, who was tugging on his sleeve.

“Yes,” Phoenix’s voice said, “I’m with you.”

“You, uh. You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” his voice continued from far away, “Would you like some tea?”

How do I save him?

Can he even turn back?

What if…

When the tea party was over, the puppets disappeared. Phoenix drifted towards the hallway, thoughts stuck in an endless loop of “save him” “how?!”

“Phoenix!” King called, running after him, “I’ve got something to—”

“Do you know where the coven head puppets are?”

“Usually they guard the owl beast. Eda’s kept on the other side of the archive house, but about that—”

“Thanks. Keep the Collector from looking for me?”

“Yeah, okay, I will, but Phoenix—”

Phoenix ran down the hallway, his boots creating heavy thuds that echoed through the house like a heartbeat.

Thump

Thump

Thump

A row of puppets stood before an iron cage, lifeless.

“Darius?” Phoenix whispered, “Can you hear me?” He reached out, his fingers stopping just shy of the puppet’s face. “Titan. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I should have been there, I should have—I should have—I should have told you. I should have told you I was alive. We could have—we could have faced him together, we could have come up with a different plan, we could have done something.”

Phoenix’s hand dropped down to his side, heart twisting in his chest. “Or… maybe I would have just been a distraction. Maybe I would have just made things… complicated. You got pretty far without me. Maybe I would have made it worse.”

I probably would have made it worse.

Phoenix’s hands curled into fists, shaking. “I’m going to make it up to you. I am. I’ll explain everything, I’ll tell you what happened—I’m going to fix this. Somehow.”

“Holy mother of apple blood!” a voice yelped, “Lily, get out here, the golden nerd went through the world’s biggest growth spurt!”

Phoenix jumped, a flush spreading across his face. How much did—

“Wait,” he blurted, “People. Not puppet people. Not Odalia or Terra not puppet people!”

A woman with a poof of grey and white hair peered around the puppets. Her eyes were black voids dotted by glowing yellow irises, and feathers floated in her wake. “Heya, nerd, you look more beat up than usual. And bigger. Ah, wait—” she snapped her fingers (of her only hand, Phoenix realized). “You’re the Phoenix guy! I know your…” she waved a hand around for a minute. “…smaller you,” she finished, “Sort of. In passing. King told us about you! Man, that resemblance is uncanny.”

Her voice was uncanny, seeming to echo inside of her chest and vibrate with raw force, like a wild animal’s howl.

Another woman stepped delicately out of the iron cage, adjusting a pair of huge round glasses. “Edalyn, stay inside, we don’t know… if he’s…”

Her jaw dropped, and she fumbled her way into attention, snapping a perfect scout’s salute. “Gol—sir! You’re—you’re—”

Phoenix hissed in. “I’m… sorry… if I’m supposed to know…”

She let out a high-pitched nervous giggle. “Oh, no, no, no, I wouldn’t expect you to remember me, I was hardly a scout when you… I never introduced… my goodness.” She nudged ‘Edalyn.’ “Show some respect. He is the golden guard—the one before… the real golden guard.”

“Um…” Phoenix scratched the back of his head, the tips of his ears burning. “Please don’t—it’s fine. Phoenix is fine. I’m not… hi?”

Edalyn gave him a mock salute. “Alright, then. Hi, Phoenix. I’m Eda. This is Lilith.”

“Oh. Ohhhhh, King—you’re not a puppet! Or an owl beast!” Phoenix knuckled his forehead. “That’s what he was trying to tell me.”

Eda waved her hand. “Surprise! Lilith got transformed last night, and she brewed an elixir that turned me back this morning.” She coughed, and a feather floated out of her mouth. “Mostly.”

“I’m working on it,” Lilith insisted.

Phoenix seized Lilith’s hands. “How did you turn back?! Can you do it to other people?!”

“Oh…” Lilith extracted one hand from his grip, patting his fists. “I didn’t transform myself back. King just… convinced the Collector to turn me back. I’m sorry.” She glanced around the hallway. “Why don’t you come inside? Odalia prowls around here sometimes, and I don’t want her to see Eda.”

“Of course she does.”

Phoenix followed Lilith and Eda into the cage and a spacious cave beyond. “Wow. I’ve never… been this far over.”

Eda chuckled. “Well, based on what King told Lilith and Lilith told me, you’ve been getting knocked around for the last couple weeks. Belos, and then a slitherbeast, not to mention running around playing the Collector’s games—I’m not surprised you haven’t explored this whole house. I’m impressed you’re even still standing. You’ve got the world’s worst luck, kiddo.”

Lilith’s face twisted up as if in pain at the nickname. “Yes—well, King also says you’ve been working on a plan to get everyone out. We’re pretty strapped for ideas ourselves, so. Any input welcome.”

Eda shook her head. “The biggest problem is that we’re on constant surveillance. You two with the Collector, and Lily and I with those puppets.”

“I’m mostly worried about the drop. I’ve done some mapping of the area, and I think I can find my way out of the Collector’s playground, but getting down from the archive house to the ground safely is… going to be an issue.”

“Oh!” Lilith scrambled through her pockets, finally pulling out a notepad and pencil. “I can help with that.” She drew a glyph, handing the paper to him. “This will slow your descent, but only for a few moments, so be sure not to use it until you’re close to the ground. As long as you’re touching King, it will save both of you.”

Phoenix tucked the paper into his pocket, heart thumping wildly in his chest. A way out. A sure way to get out, one that doesn’t risk a deadly fall.

“What’s your plan for once you get out?” Eda asked. Her eyes moved over him in quick, sharp moments, “Where will you go?”

“I know a house. The people there… I haven’t seen them here, so I’m assuming they found a way to hide themselves from the Collector. We should be safe there, if we can make it. I think King and I can make up a game where we get a head start and we can get far enough from the Collector, but the puppets won’t be so easily distracted. We’ll have to find a way to lure them away from here—or to free them. Preferably to free them.”

Lilith and Eda glanced at each other, then back to Phoenix.

“I want you to just get him out of here,” Eda announced, “You focus on that.”

“What about you? What about Darius?”

“We’d… like… to free our friends and to escape,” Lilith admitted, “But… we want King to be safe most of all. And I’m sure Darius would want you to be safe.”

Phoenix spluttered. “I—you—are you sending me away?!”

“You are the only one of us who can leave the archive house without the Collector suspecting something! You’re the only one of us who knows where this safe house is, and, quite frankly, injured or not, I think you may be the most capable of getting him out of here safely—at least at this moment in time.”

“Then let’s wait,” Phoenix urged, “We can come up with a more solid plan, we can work on freeing some of the others…”

Eda shook her head. “Absolutely not, I’m not leaving King in danger a second longer than I have to.”

Phoenix took a deep breath. “What if I said… King and I aren’t in any real danger? Not for now, at least. The Collector is… not harmless, I won’t say that, but for now, he’s not going to hurt King or I. Not intentionally.”

“We still have to worry about that unintentional,” Lilith piped up, “And what if his mood changes? No, King needs to go somewhere the Collector can’t find him.”

“Collector won’t stop looking,” Phoenix warned, “He’ll try to hunt us down.”

“Do you want out of here or not?”

“I want out. I’m just wondering if this is more of a long game than a short-term problem.”

Lilith’s eyes widened just a bit, but just as quickly, her expression shifted back to a neutral one. “Phoenix, it’s… it’s not a game, whatever the Collector pretends. It’s not the coven.”

“What? I know, I’m just wondering if we could do some go—”

“No, Phoenix, listen. There’s not a way to win this if we stay, we’re just delaying the inevitable. The way we win this is by getting away, and figuring out a way to eliminate the threat. If we play this the way we played Belos’ game, we’re only going to get killed. He can’t be controlled, and he can’t be reasoned with.”

“I know he can’t be controlled, I don’t want to control him, I just…” Phoenix’s hands opened and closed helplessly, “There’s got to be a way to get everyone out of this. And I don’t want to leave until I’m sure that saving our allies is impossible.”

Lilith and Eda glanced at each other again. “Let us figure that out,” Eda said firmly, “Let us work on a way to save the puppets. But I will feel a lot better about it if I know King is safe and out of the line of fire.”

“And what about King? Do you really think he’s going to be okay with leaving you?”

Eda sighed. “No. But we have to try. Phoenix. Listen. I’m counting on you, alright? I’m counting on you to get him out of here, no matter what. I need you to protect him.”

“Jason. I need you… I need you to protect them.”

Titan. It’s not fair that King’s caught up in this. It’s not. I know I’d want him out.

Phoenix glanced back at the entrance to the cave. “Promise me that you will look out for Darius.”

Eda nodded. “I will.”

“And… if you can unpuppetify him, will you tell him—”

“You’ll tell him yourself,” Lilith interrupted, “Just get my nephew out of here.”

“I will.”

Eda sighed, seeming to deflate with her exhale. “Thank you.”

Phoenix gave her a nod and left, checking both ways for Odalia before heading back out and towards the main entrance to the archives.

Maybe… maybe I could leave King with Caleb and Evelyn, and then come back for Darius.

If they let me.

They have to let me.

But would the Collector buy it if I told him I just got lost? Would he take me back?

Collector floated in front of him, hanging upside down. “Heya, Phoenix. Where’d you go?”

“Oh. Kiiiiiiitchen?”

“Huh, were there not enough snacks at the tea party?”

“No, it was fine. I was juuuuuust… washing the dishes?” Phoenix took a deep breath.

Here we go.

No going back.

“Hey… Collector? How would you feel about playing a new game?”

[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.”