#like even just taken on its own as a general theme i think 'coming out Good closet Bad' is not great. i will concede omgcp was operating in

[exercise-of-trust]

every six to nine months i remember how check please handled the whole kent parson storyline and i get so mad i could spit

[thedarkestrivernymph]

A Heart Of Gold pt.2

Y! Noble Child Nicholas x Mother! Maid! Reader x Y! Maid Maria x Y! Baron Charles

word count: roughly 10k

warnings: heavy angst, mentions of abuse (both physical and verbal), mentions of death, murder, violence, gore, blood, yandere tendencies/behaviour, weird relationship dynamics, anger issues, morally gray reader, child loss, mentions of alcohol addiction, domestic violence, breakdowns, morally grey yanderes, creepy behaviour, generational trauma, religious themes, reader in this is christian, cursing, not accurate depictions of history!

©Copyright - 2025 - thedarkestrivernymph - All Rights Reserved

Author's note: Phew, this turned out a very different than the initial idea I had. haha Still, hope you enjoy it!

“God, let me repent in your name. Allow me to witness the beauty and grace of nature, to cry and scream and know of my faults and erase them in your name. Let me love my neighbours, like you loved me. I will do only good, I promise, just grant me my new golden heart. Please, I beg you, free me.”

The seasons shifted again.

They morphed into the other, faster than you could blink, quicker than you could run after them and plead to stay, swift and merciless.

Death was the same.

Breathing in ice particles for air, snow crunching under the weight of your boots, you made your way down-hill. The sun hadn't come out yet, not that she really planned to anyways in the middle of winter—but the villagers were hopeful, at least tried to be. But you weren't. You knew frost had crusted the earth and left only destruction in its wake. The others were simply to optimistic. A bunch of idiots really, thinking this winter could be different, that the nobles would care about you, at least somewhat more, after the new baron had taken over the lands.

A new head only meant one thing; trouble and higher pay. The already scarce crops which were salvaged would only serve to fill his pockets. If you commoners were mindless worker ants, then the nobility sure enough were bloodsucking mosquitos draining you all until nothing but dust remained of your crumbling bones.

Perhaps you wouldn't have had to worry about any of this—not about your frozen solid fingertips from the worn-down knitted gloves nor about the burning in the bottom of your stomach from the lack of anything edible, if you just had not married him.

At first he had seemed promising, a nice clean face, good salary, stern tone—he had been a baker for god's sake, what could go wrong!

Oh how naive you had been.

Before you knew, heavily pregnant with your second, his bakery was in ruins, all the customers avoiding his bakery specifically like the plague. At first you were confused—he was a good baker and kept everything neat. Then he came drunk the first time. Reeking of cheep booze, he completely blacked out on your shared martial bed—which at that time at least had possessed a bedframe. You were furious with him, after all you were an only child and your parents had carefully picked him out, because of his financial status and now here he was wasting his money on alcohol while his baby was growing in your womb.

You couldn't break free from him, even after the birth of his second child, even after the tradegy of your first. Your wings were clipped—you were married, you had duties, responsibilities, children. Running away would only bring pain and shame upon you and your whole family. You didn't even want to imagine what the villagers would do to you if they found you after fleeing. All the blame would be placed on you—you the cruel mother, the miserable daughter, the horrible wife. Much rather, you would pluck your own hair than experience any of such shaming.

But death was a constant threat. And one that terrified you at that. After having closed down his bakery, you had been forced into work, anything you could find, really, anything that paid. Yet even that seemed to have not been enough for the monster your husband unraveled to be—because soon enough his explosive episodes started. He would roar and cry, stagger from wall to wall in your shared home, pant like a beast as he hunted after you, just to reach for your hair, clutching it as if he wanted to rip it out for you, before—

You hissed, digging your blunt nails into your scarf, this was in the past, he no longer could terrify you so. Keeping your gaze on the road on the pearly white snow reaching up to your knees you remembered to breathe, to calm down. You needed a crystal clear head for the interview.

No matter how much you wanted to melt away like the snow under the sun’s rays—which never seemed to grace you—you couldn't. Your life meant something to others, if you weren't there anymore, if you would actually choose to travel with the wind and disappear, then you would allow that man victory. But you just could not after having managed to slip through his grasp and land an opportunity at a new life.

So you walked, pushed through, even as you grimaced from the odd sensation of needles pricking your toes—your shoes not suitable for the weather, because nothing would stop you from at least trying for a better life. A life without him.

The estate was huge.

And admittedly, you were frazzled on how you managed to even land this job in the first place. If it weren't for Aunt Jane, you probably would've never even laid eyes on something so majestic, dressed in soft brown, winged windows and with elaborate woodwork and sculptures; it was a mix of everything you could only ever hear tales about.

Not that you minded, you did resent the nobility and the royals with all their spendings as if they didn't bleed you and the others dry on a daily to finance their overindulgence that was slowly leading the empire to ruin. Or at least you imagined it to be so.

Nevertheless grandmother surely would've scolded you for being so cynical. The only other person besides your aunt that you had known to be humane and she was six feet under your childhood home’s apple tree.

You sighed, shaking your head. This wasn't the time to be sentimental. She was dead, for years now. And you had moved on, like everyone did. So brushing over your skirt for the last time, you stepped even closer to the gate. God, even the gate was twirly and whimsical; something one could only achieve through the hands of a master with years of experience—or so you imagined, you had no clue actually.

“You—you the new maid?” you flinched, eyes darting to meet the eyes of a gruff man, armor covering him.

You nodded, eyes fixed on his face—really the only feature bare to the sight of others, which did make you wonder if he wasn’t cold with nothing protecting his nose or throat. Bennet, your little boy, if he had stood here instead of him, he surely would’ve caught a cold by now.

“Come. I ain’t got all day woman.�� the stranger’s voice was as harsh as sandpaper, which did make you wonder if they provided him with meals or water at all. Odd. Weren’t soldiers—also guards usually the most well-taken care of? But also what did you know, really.

So scurrying, with a soft sigh and enlarged eyes you stepped past him and immediately you felt so out of place.

Carrying scars of a past similar to that of a lot of commoner’s yet pushing through a gate meant only for the elite—it felt wrong, illegal even, as if you were committing a crime. You looked over your shoulder hastily, suddenly overcome with trepidation, with the image of being tackled and shackled by the very guard who let you in. What if he had mistaken you, accused you of trespassing, what if your aunt had messed things up and your children would be left motherless and—

“Just follow the cobblestones, then turn left.” he grumbled, and you calmed again. Seems he got lazy with you, sensing you were not a threat—see, you didn’t need to worry. You weren’t a criminal, like some others commoners vying for the riches the wealthy withheld, you were just here for a job you desperately needed, no one had ever been thrown into prison for this, right? At least you hoped so.

The freshly fallen snow crunched under your shoes again, the same ones you always wore—with a big hole under the left heel. If you had more of what others had, such as the lord (even if you still resented the aristocracy) you hopefully would be working for, then you wouldn’t have to worry about this, in fact then you wouldn’t need any of this—no begging, no pleading, no kneeling. You would be independent, no need to rely on your fool for a husband, you could just cut him out of your life, or cut him off. Shivering at the thought you pulled your scarf much tighter, clenching your hands around eachother.

Little did you know that all of this was the starting point for a life of sin your soul had sworn to repent from.

The interview had went well—as well as it could for your circumstances that is. They wanted you to live here, in the servant's quarters, and nothing you did could change the old woman's mind. That meant leaving your child in the hands of your Aunt Jane.

You loved your Aunt, she was truly a saint—albeit overly strict at times and very ignorant, but she was old, too old for your liking and could never emate the same warmth your grandmother had. Sometimes, in rare cases such as these, you did wish your own grandmother would crawl out of her grave and fix everything for you—like how she used to when you were a child, brewing you tea from pines during the cold winter months while telling you tales of all kinds. You wished that she now would stand in front of you, promising you that everything you were doing would benefit your darling and that he could truly flourish and live a life he deserved.

Because your sole reason in life was your child—your little pearl with his red runny nose, sniffling with each spoon-fed of his soup. You just craved to abandon all the shadows of the past.

Yet life wasn’t gentle with you neither then nor now—God seemed to really not favour you as one of its pawns, because why else would you be assigned to take care of the most bratty child you had ever met?

“Water.” the new heir, to pratically everything, snapped, voice smoother and deeper, not betraying his juvenile features and his childish antics you had learned and grown accustomed to in the few weeks you had been working here.

Swiftly, you poured him a cup of water, handing it to him with a somewhat strained smile. It was a warmer day than usual, which was why the window of his study was left wide open—and your teeth made to chatter the whole time you tried to serve and appease him.

Only, it seemed, that nothing could appease the brown-haired young man this morning, because in the blink of an eyes a glass shattered next to your head, making you jump up in surprise. Suddenly your pulse was pounding in your ears and for a moment you were back in that small hut again next to the river, with the face of your husband red from anger and the shattered bottle laying at your feet like the pieces of your broken heart, as your baby was crying. Why was he crying? Unconsolable and—

“Are you trying to poison me?” you snapped out of it as he spat out the words. Swallowing you tried to come up with an excuse, something to calm the storm in him.

“Master Nicholas of course I wasn’t—”

“Then serve me water instead of lukewarm piss!”

Silence.

Your face fell—you weren’t sure if it was due to exhaustion or just having to endure his childishness or it was the possibility that if he continued to complain about every single thing you did, you would lose your job. And you couldn’t have that, no matter how much you resented him for being as explosive as the man who's name you refused to utter, he was an aristocrat and not him.

So sighing, collecting the remains of yourself, you did what you always had done when your own mother used to have meltdowns due to delirium in her old age—gift her with love she didn't deserve but this time it was directed to a (man)child who you at least assumed to deserve it—because a mother's love was something sacred.

You hugged him.

It wasn't really a conscious decision per se, you had just wanted to show him some love; but to pull him into your embrace—you hadn't thought that you actually would dare to; not just out of courage but be able to stomach touching one of the upper class, who most definitely thought commoners and even servants were on the same level as pigs; stupid and dirty, probably carrying some time of diseases.

That's why you had dreadfully expected him to push you away, to scream to cry out in revulsion, perhaps even raise his hand against you; he was allowed to after all—yet nothing.

He froze instead.

“Maid—” he didn't even know your name, didn’t need to. You were just a fly; someone he could swat away with the back of his hand and no one would bat an eye. And you had the audacity to hug him, you, how dare you, you vile, little, tiny ant. His hands raised, clenching into fists, teeth grinding together in absoloute annoyance and yet he couldn't find it in himself to push you away.

Your arms, your beating heart; something about you was human. Oddly human. Much more human than he ever could be. And then your scent engulfed him. Moss and wet—like the open fields. Warm and motherly—like her.

He failed to take notice of you pulling away. His gaze was glossy, something was pinching his chest and he was disturbed. It hurt. Your touch itself and also the absence of your touch was agonizing.

“I apologize, I overstepped.” anxiety rung in your tone, lips pressed into a thin line. He knew that look, the fear of losing something precious—the fear of having ruined another banquet because he had smashed a teacup to the ground. And the fear he felt now, as you slipped back to being a remote figure; a background character, you wanted to fade away from between his fingers like sand, disappear in the billions of your kind when he had finally sighted something of his liking.

“I—” he cleared his throat, scowl moving back into place—the noble façade returning after the too often happening slip-ups. “I will excuse you this once.”

Yet no matter how much he tried to hide it, you took notice of the slight twitch in the corner of his mouth, but you didn’t give it much thought, much more relived to be allowed to continue working here.

If only you had suspected something— if only you had known what you had awakened in Nicholas on that fateful day.

You met the lord of the house some time after.

It was an accident really, you hadn't even meant to be on the staircase at such a dubious hour—it all had been just for Nicholas; he requested you to bring him warm soup and bread after refusing to eat dinner with his aunt, for reasons that made your chest ache and tighten in guilt.

Still you froze, clutching the tray in your sweaty palms, hoping and praying that he wouldn't demand of you to know who you were rushing the tray to—you were beyond exhausted, just having returned from the village; travelling by foot took up time and patience and it only broke your heart every single time to leave your baby behind in the hands of someone else; especially in the hands of a woman as old as Aunt Jane was. You were guilty of being a bad mom, you knew as much, but Bennett was so easily frightened and you weren’t allowed to take him in and—

“Are you new?”

You froze.

Just having passed by him, in hopes he wouldn't take notice of you, you truly had believed he would just let you slip by. At least you had wished he would. You didn't want to converse with another soul, especially not a man with a voice similary deep to that of your deadbeat husband's.

Still you had to say something. You couldn't just flitter away.

So you opened up your mouth.

“Yes, your lordship.” you recited the title you had been taught.

“Who hired you? I have never seen you before.” his tone was demanding, clipped and stern, but there was a soft edge to it, that made you take a peek back over your shoulder, only to startle at the sight. He was standing a few stairs below you, stoic as a statue and with a face hidden by the shadows of the night, the castle only dim-light by the tea-lamp in his grasp held too far away from his features to make anything out—except the penetrating stare you could feel slicing through you; judging and scrutinizing you.

Calm down, you're not a criminal. You're just doing your job.

You turned around, bowing your head and glancing away—somehow showcasing submission felt the right thing to do.

“The head maid, your lordship.”

“Ah.” you could hear some tension slip. “Good.” he probably nodded and you assumed he was finished with his questions until you heard him clear his throat, stepping closer.

“Do you work in the kitchen?” he took another step up, until you both stood on the same step.

“No, your lordship, I serve the young lord.” you answered while feeling his breath blow at your forehead—was it just you or was he standing too close?

“I see.” again with the stern yet awkward answer, as if he himself wasn't sure what more to ask—as it already was obvious that you weren't a robber nor a thief, just a servant working dutifully as he expected of them.

Yet there was something about you, a certain something emanating from you that just made him—

Time seemed to stand still and he with it after he leaned forward, nose so close to your crown it nearly bumped into it.

Sniff.

Was he—was he sniffing you?

You face immediately morphed into abject horror, worried that you stunk, you had been travelling all day and that mostly by foot. You gritted your teeth, cheeks flush with colour, ashamed; not having considered the possibility of sweat sticking to you like a foul-smelling perfume.

“Unbelievable.” he murmured, mumbling more to himself than you really. You could see his right hand, the one without the lamp, twitch as if he was tempted to reach out to you.

“You smell exactly like—” he cut himself off, and his features morphed into something unreadable as you stole a few glances at his face.

And before anything else could unfold he was gone, having sprinted down the stairs to god-knows where, having left you puzzled and confused by his reaction. Finally continuing to climb up the stairs you started to conclude that the entire nobility had to be weird people that were oddly obsessed with smell.

Life slowly but surely took some shape—as some sort of routine settled.

Even with how often you were stuck between work as a maid and being a mother, pendling between the manor and the village as often as you were allowed to, you still somehow felt more put together than before. As if each piece of you was slowly glued back together; as if God slowly saw you too and each of your prayers, one by one, would slowly be answered by him. And all came with the arrival of Spring; endless hope bloomed in your chest for a better world—for a less burdened life.

Yet your momentary happiness was ripped away again, replaced by somberness because what the fuck, god?

What was, she doing here?

Your childhood nemesis, as childish as it sounded—the girl who was always smarter, prettier, better than you, so much so that your mom couldn't shut up about it; Maria.

“(Y/n)!” she chirped, voice like nails against a chalkboard.

She repeated your name again—chanted it like a prayer that would be whispered under one's breath in sermons on sunday mornings. Only hers sounded like she was trying to summon something evil that would split the word apart—or at least your head, because it was buzzing in pain from her nagging tone.

“For God's sake Maria! What is it?” you clutched the edge of the kitchen table, huffing in exasperation, having just spent the last five minutes listening to her call your name while you were busy preparing the Master's dinner. A vein was surely about to pop out of your forehead, because this woman just giggled in response and painfully stupid at that.

“What’s with the sour face?” she chuckled, resting her cheek on her palm, black streaks of hair falling over her shoulders because she—like everyone else besides you and the lord's son—was already ready for bed.

“I am trying to haste! And you're chatting my ear off again—.” you quiped, gaze narrowing at her like you usually did when you were disapproving of something—hoping you managed to look as intimidating as your grandma did back then when she had caught you with your entire fist in the jar of strawberry jam. “Besides, why are you still up? You should be off to bed, shift starts early as always.” hopefully she would take the hint and leave.

Instead, she laughed.

Of course she would. Like she laughed when she stole your favourite red ribbon when you both were eight.

“You’re still up and I don't see anyone scolding you for it. So why is it wrong when I do it?” she snickered, truly the bane of your existence, especially because she slipped off of the chair, in her nightgown—shamelessly; she was not worrying about one of the others, let alone the lord, seeing her like this. Actually, scratch that, she probably wanted him to see her like this.

“Come on, you're so tired all the time, I thought I would offer you some of my company.” she drew closer, until her breath rung loudly in your ear, and her piercing blues for eyes slithered over you like a serpent’s tail.

“Laughing keeps young. You should laugh more.” she observed and it almost felt like a threat— she wanted you to react, to show visibly whatever it is that she managed to evoke in you.

You recoiled from the proximity, almost spooked by the sudden closeness. If it weren't for the wooden crucifix dangling from your neck, you almost would've feared that she was a demoness with those piercing eyes of hers. But even if she wasn't, her eyes still betrayed evil buried so deep in her core that you could only shudder and the snappy words you usually would retort with died on your tongue. She always had been weird, but it somehow was only more unsettling seeing her act the same way as a grown woman.

“I—I really should haste.” you were quick to pick up the tray you had finished preparing and even quicker to leave, without looking back at her even once.

Well, perhaps it had been for the better, because if you had looked back you would have seen the wet muscle of her mouth flicking out of its enclosure to lick over where you just touched on the counter.

You, the girl who's ribbons she had stolen, who's knitted scarf she would inhale when you weren't looking—just another kid from the neighbourhood but you were so much more than that, so much more to her. You the woman who clung so pathetically to religion, hiding behind it, when you both knew about the kiss at nine. Only you seemed to have forgotten—but she hadn’t.

Often times dealing with the young lord was bone-scraping work. Hard, exhausting, as if you were plucking weeds from the crops instead of following him like a shadow.

Somehow at some point, you had migrated from being just a maid to being only his personal maid, aiding him with everything. Truly puzzling, yet somehow endearing—because maybe you were too prideful and cocky, but you liked to imagine your own little Bennett growing into such a fine young man as Master Nicholas (only appearance-wise). He was lean, tall with a fair face and soft brown curls that were reminiscent of your own child’s wild locks (even if it was the one feature his father had passed down, you still found it endearing).

But truth be told, maybe that's why you were so inclined to serve Master Nicholas with more softness than you usually would—not just out of fear and respect of the wealthy, not because the thought of losing this job would send you spiraling into a meltdown.

“Maid” his voice was startling, as usual. Maybe it was because it did not match his youthful face or maybe he would bark at you like a dog to command you around.

“Yes, Master Nicholas.” you addressed him, staying put on your spot next to the window overlooking the estate—the snow had melted by now. You wondered if Aunt Jane would allow him to play in the snow before it completely faded. Bennett would surely be upset if he had to wait a whole year to feel the ‘potato milk’ he had called it as a two-year old. The term still made you crack a smile even now.

“What are you looking at?” he startled you again; you hadn't notice him getting up to his feet and dragging himself closer to you—steps heavy against the creaking floorboard of his study. “You seem so—” he continued only to quiet down and come to stand an arm length away from you.

You glanced at him, waiting patiently for him to finish—even when all you craved to do was think about your little baby. But even as you gave him all the time he needed, the end of his sentence never came, instead he huffed and leaned against the wall joining you in on your habit of looking out the window with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

His eyes darted over the landscape—noticing the returning of the splendor of birds in the garden.

“Ugly birds.” he spat, “they're thieves.” he was glaring down at the magpie’s dancing around in the garden, flying from branch to branch and picking at the grass.

Your eyes flicked to him, then they averted back down. “At least they're free.” your muttered and your finger instinctively touched your ring finger—it was a simple band of metal, something cheap but something so binding it felt suffocating, as if you dared to pull it off of your finger you would be cursed, even if you hated the burden marriage laid on your shoulders.

“Free?” he looked over at you—really looked at you, scanning you from head to toe, then scoffed. “So you aren't free, maid?” he still hadn't bothered to learn your name, perhaps never would, but his eyes belied real softness underneath his constructed politeness.

“I thought father was more lenient with you servants.” he furrowed his brows, green eyes a shade darker—growing upset at the lord.

“No, Master Nicholas!” you quickly cut in, not wanting to cause dispute between father and son, startled that he was even able to make our your senseless mumbling.

“His lordship is a fair in his handling with us servants. You needn’t to worry.” you claimed surprising even yourself—but to some extent it was true. You never thought you would side with a noble, but here you were defending the lord’s honour; because truth be told he geninuely didn’t seem like a bad man, but he seemed like a strange man.

“Are you certain?” he blurted, insisting oddly enough. How atypical of him when he was usually apathic to everything not concerning him.

“Yes, Master Nicholas.” you nodded, a strained smile on your face, when you only could smile at Bennett earnestly with a clear conscious—and without betraying god. Still some things had to be done. It gets the job done. You could recall your grandmother saying each time before she whipped out the same old rag to clean the floors, that was barely on; only throughdreams and prayers alone. So yes, it wasn’t truthful, but it got the job done.

So stillness took over you both again and you truly believed he wouldn’t initate a conversation with you again.

“Call me Nicholas.” it seems you were wrong.

“Master Nicholas I can't—” your eyes had grown wide.

“Call me by my name.” he demanded again, his narrowed.

You swallowed thickly. This was definitely crossing some sort of boundaries—nobility and commoner's shouldn't mix, shouldn't be too familiar you both knew that, yet he still asked of you the impossible, insisting even. But seeing his softened gaze—the longing and craving for affection, the same way Bennett would look at you whenever you had to part from him—begging you to stay with him, you couldn’t let a word of protest slip from your tight throat. Your heart felt scorching hot in your chest and your tongue heavy as lead. God, please don’t let me lose this job.

“Nicholas.” you let his name slip—it felt odd, it was bare without the title.

He didn't say anything anymore after. And you would've assumed it was because of indifference if it wasn't for the cocky smile that spread across his lips.

Oh, if you just had known that he didn't just feel satisfied at the little trick that he played on you—that actually his heart beat a drum faster when you called him that. That he felt little shocks of electricity zap at his skin and run down his spine.

You just had confirmed it,

—that you were like her, his deceased mother, but so much better. You were like the mother he had always wanted, the one that was quiet, loving and nurturing, who was there for him, showed emotion, behaved like a human rather than someone with a stick up their ass. You may have smelled like her, like the open fields and woods she so loved more than anything else, including him, but you weren’t her and for that he was forever grateful, because—

you were beneath him.

You would have to do whatever he wanted. Whether it was accompanying him, bringing him dinner, calming him down from one of his meltdowns or sleeping together with him in his bed like he always wanted his mother to do.

He could keep you here with him.

For him you were just another dog on a leash anyways.

A week had passed by now, and you had grown accustomed to calling him by his first name, albeit only in private, for obvious reasons that is.

Only it seemed that his father still caught wind of it, because why else would the lord of the house specifically request you into his study, a frown on his face, his scrutinizing dark brown gaze travelling over your form.

“So,” he cleared his throat and you were screaming internally—you couldn't lose this position, you needed it, desperately so, your child need it. You couldn't start from zero again, being a servant for a noble paid better than most other jobs and even provided you with the meals and the housing—the Baron couldn’t just throw you out because of the request his child had made! At least you hoped he wouldn’t.

“—I heard my son favours you.” he blurted out, his words felt like a good lashing with a belt that made you want to recoil.

“I wouldn't know, your lordship.” you were quick to answer, hot in the face, blunt nails digging into your palms, hoping, praying, pleading with God that he wouldn't throw you out. That he was as nice as you thought he was; that he would continue to prove you wrong about the secret evil of the wealthy.

He paused, looked at you and the longer the silence between you stretched on the more you felt stifled by the threat looming over you like a shadow you couldn't shake off.

You couldn’t stand it anymore, so you spoke up.

“Please I—”

“Your presence is doing him good.” his voice cut yours down and you lowered your head, heart beating against your ribcage rapidly, he was going to— Wait.

What?

“Your lordship? Pardon?” you blinked. It seems that the years spend on this earth hadn’t made you much wiser because you were baffled by his comment.

He sighed, ascending from his seat to step in front of his desk. Clad in his usual sade suit crossed his arms over his chest and let his eyes were stray from your figure.

“I want you to continue as you are. You know, his mother passed away when he was young and it has,” he paused, “affected him since.” he finished putting emphasis on the last words while leaving out that affected meant Nicholas’ emotions being all over the place; so much so that one moment he could be calm and the next he would trash his entire study. But you didn't blame the lord for not elaborating, admitting such a thing was probably ashaming.

“I understand, your lordship.” you replied, heart heavy now for another reason as the fear faded—every child deserved a mother. Your own hadn't been the one for you, emotionally neglecting you, yet your grandmother had. So you sympathised with him; perhaps nannies had tried to fill the void, but they never quiet could've, not like a mother could at least. Maybe that’s why a part of you had been searching for something more—maybe that’s why a piece of you had been missing until Bennett was born.

“I will be there for him.” you replied. No matter how insufferable you had assumed the upper class to be— and truth be told they were — there were still human, as you, nothing but your worth differentiated you from them. They were just born better; richer, with more possibilities at hand, but Nicholas' life of hardship proved to you that even born with a golden spoon in one’s mouth, one’s soul could harbour hunger.

And somehow this made you feel closer to him. Initially you had feared him because he had reminded you of your dreaded husband you had fled from, but slowly you realized that he was like you in a sense; of your childhood self. His gaze would often mimic Bennett’s disappointment everytime you had to leave. In a way, you felt relieved at the lord’s encouragment, seen and acknowledged but to also supported to offer a fraction of your love to Nicholas too.

A smile stretched across your lips—not a fake one this time.

“That’s—”he exhaled, slumping sideways ever so slighty, with gentle curls slicked back, “that’s good to hear, (Y/n).”

You let your smile widen and eyes soften. His visible relief felt rewarding and his words bordering on praise were flustering. Everything about the lord was stern but gentle, a walking contradiction some might say, but somehow it just made sense for him to be this way—a baron, a lord to his people and servants reigning over his land with a firm hand yet a loving father, tender in the way he would speak about his heir’s battered soul. He would’ve been a man grandmother would’ve liked.

As the words died down on the both of your tongues, you awaited him to dimiss you. However he didn’t, in fact he didn’t even move—still as a statue. So you took it upon yourself to inquire whether you should leave him alone in the privacy of his study.

“If that was all, shall I take my leave now, your—”

“Do you—”he paused, “do you wear perfume?”

Your brows scrunched up.

Oh God no, not again. Did you perhaps stink again like that night. Hopefully not, because if you did, you would start to scrub every layer of your attire—from chemise to the outer layer of your skirt.

“No, your lordship.” you answered thickly. God, you hoped you didn’t smell of sweat.

“I see.” he answered ambigously, not comfirming nor denying your worries. Besides, he should know that you as a servant could hardly afford such a luxury—so was he actually mocking you, telling you to wear perfume? You hoped that it was just an odd fixation that all nobles beheld and not the latter.

“You’re dismissed.” he finally exclaimed and you felt relief. Quietly you stood up, nodding politely, before turning on your heel and exiting his study.

Oh, only if you knew how enticing you actually smelled to him. Like Juliane, but with something motherly and tenderly sticking to you, a better version of his deceased wife. A commoner, so ignorant to the life of nobility, that wasn’t even aware of how her features tugged into different directions every second, so unsued to using titles that he could tell you sometimes were about to slip-up and not address him properly.

You were remisicent of his first love; love that was fiery and strong, but you were like the spring, a budding rose with dull thorns. He felt the aching pang of love in his chest whenever your startled gaze met his and that scared Charles. To think his heart would start beating again after a decade—and that for nothing but a maid. He knew he had to be sensible, love was fictious in the life of the upper class and to experience such a gift for the second time was laughable.

But if that love was you — someone so sweet, even his own son started to soften around the edges— then maybe he could induldge himself a tad; enjoy life a little with you by his side.

Yeah, Charles would like to enjoy this life together with you, after forced to experience this perputel loneliness for nearly a decade. Maybe you two could even gift Nicholas a little sibling in the future, only after having slipped a ring of your finger that is.

Yeah, he would like to indluge. After all, one was only born once, right?

Life was sweeter now—not as sweet as the cherries you would pick in secret from the neighbour’s tree at seven or the first taste of sugar you ever had at twelve, but it was worthwhile.

Especially with your little toddler sticking to you like glue; Aunt Jane had brought him here to visit you, after having whined the entire last week because of you failing to visit him again. So your clever little boy had suggested that he just visited you.

“Mommy, you live here?” you chuckled softly at the awe in his voice.

“I work here, Ben’.” you replied, smiling at the familiar face of the guard, nodding at you.

“So that's the little lad.” the man you had learned was Jonathan and surprisingly younger than you by a few years—which his broad shoulders and gruff voice would never hint at.

You nodded looking down at your child as he babbled a greeting to the guard. Now you were standing a tad straighter, eyes softening as your grandmother’s always used to and as your mother’s never had for you.

You were transfixed with your own little one; standing there next to you, finally close to you with a heart you knew hadn’t felt agony the same way yours had. So your mind wandered off and you questioned if he ever would experience what you had, but you knew he wouldn’t, because you simply wouldn’t allow fate to be this cruel to him as it had been to you. God was still listening to your prayers afterall. And suddenly you couldn't help but imagine Bennett grown up, flourished into a strong man as Jonathan with broad shoulders and biceps that could make anyone shudder in fear or perhaps like the lord himself, with a clipped tone yet a soft gaze and presence that was overwhelming.

“Good day to you too lad.” he nodded at your little extension, watching how proud you were of him—and he had to admit he liked it. The smile on your face was sweeter than the scent of flowers hanging in the air and your little buddy was shyly adorable. He offered you another one of his own smiles that inevitably ended up looking grim, while you both passed by him to disappear into the manor and leave him to sigh to himself again.

“Mommy—Mommy look that looks like a person!” was the first thing that left Bennett’s mouth, brown curls bouncing up and down with his jumps, big-eyed fascination clear across his face as he stared at the oil painting of the lord and his son hung up on the staircase. Even though you were feeling bleak from all the unfortunate circumstances, your soul ripping apart that you had been forced to neglect your son for so long— you couldn’t help but chuckle at his enthusiasm feeling warmth spread in you from the fact that your baby was with you in the moment.

“Shh, quieter Ben’.” you scolded him as you grabbed his tiny fist, leading him towards the kitchen, worried someone might take notice. You didn’t want to get yourself into trouble—and because you knew how strict the head maid could be, you lead your little boy into the kitchen.

However the moment you entered you wished you hadn’t because for the love of god, what was she again doing here, just loitering around; doing absolutely the bare minimum.

“If that isn’t my most favourite person ever!” she immediately chirped, as she usually did, stopping chewing on the piece of pastry in her hands to round the courner of the counter, adamant on annoying you on her short lunchbreak as always with the fattest grin anyone could have on their face—only to gasp.

“What—” her eyes widened, almost dropping her meal.

“What, what is that?” she pointed at your child as if he was a weirdly coloured bug that had slipped in. Unbelievably crude and rude.

“That's my son, Maria.”

“Your son? That's Ben you can't shut up about?” she grimaced and you felt your eye twitch, because you had mentioned him once in her presence.

“Bennett for you.” you were tempted to roll your eyes, picking your son up to sit him down on one of the many empty fruit boxes, perfect to be used as a chair. Maria just stared at you funnily.

“Do you want something Ben’? Mommy can make you anything you want.” you smiled at him, and somehow, in some way this just felt right. And for a moment you fantasised that this nice kitchen was yours—that this home was only yours and Bennett's. That you were free.

And then Maria’s obnoxiously loud stomping snapped you out of it again and you threw her a dirty look as she left the kitchen to do god-knows-what.

Only unbeknownst to you, not only the black-haired little snake and a few other maids, which were either adoring or annoyed caught you, but also the lord's heir—the one searching for you almost frantically, because you had not come when you usually would.

Where were you?

He was hurrying down the stars, frenzied, desperately searching for you—you were practically promised to him now; promised to stay by his side day-in-day out. You were just a servant for fuck’s sake—you didn't and shouldn't have autonomy to just anything. Could a dog walk without its owner? No. So where the fuck where you—

That's when he caught sight of you in the kitchen, with a little demon by your side, making you smile and yap so sweetly that it could rot teeth.

Straining his memory to figure out what that leech was that made you beam in a way that you never had at him before in the entire year you had been working here—his anger only heightened the moment he finally remembered.

”Oh, my little Ben absolutely loves..”

That's your kid.

Your child; this little ant.

How dare he, an insufferable brat, who probably still shits himself from time to time, dare consume your attention so entirely that you would neglect your duties and dote on something so tiny and powerless compared to him.

Why was it him, this fool, this insufferable little devil that took you—why couldn’t your eyes soften as much as when they laid on him. It was unfair, criminal. He was the heir to the entire land his father had inherited from his grandpa and to think with all the influence he held you would still go and pick a toddler over him was maddening. To think that you another insect scurrying around together with all the others could dare to be picky.

No, he was lying. You weren’t just another insect, you were his mom-to-be.

“Mother.” he spat under his breath, knuckles white from how tightly he clutched the pearls of his actual deceased mother's in his hand—he had specifically fished them out of her jewellery box that sat abandoned in one of the many rooms of the manor to gift you them but now here he was watching you betraying him.

“I have lost a mother once.” he was slowly ripping the poor necklace apart—the band holding on for dear life.

“I won’t lose one twice.” the pearls all spilled to the ground like blood.

So he laid a curse on you; one so cruel that you wouldn't have any other choice but to accept your rightful position as his dog.

Just you wait and see.

---♡---

Life sometimes developed in strange ways, did it not? Because you never would've imagined to sit with Jonathan under a cherry blossom tree.

The summer was fading and cold, cruel days were arriving, but somehow everything felt much better this way. It felt right. This fragile understanding of affection—you were glad the colder days would put some distance between the two of you, force you to part, because after the young man had confessed to you, you couldn't help but feel the flattery get to your head—allowing yourself to wish and long for something unattainable.

“I—” awkwardly clearing his throat he looked over at you, “I want you, m’lady.” scratching the back of his neck, he looked down.

“I am big and strong. My position is stable—my salary isn't half bad. I am quite a catch.” he declared cockily, with his chest puffed out proudly, trying to feign arrogance, when you knew he was nothing but a puppy in love.

You couldn't help but chuckle, “Jonathan, you're sweet, but—” you protested half-heartedly, more amused than anything. Mostly because you both knew you were officially still married.

“No—no, lady! I am serious, as I am about my feelings for ya.” you found his drawl endearing and found your fave heating up the moment he leaned closer, the lines on his forehead deepening.

“Stop laughing m’lady!” you couldn't help but laugh more—it was comical how he kept on addressing you as if you were noble yourself, as if you were above him.

“Just tell me what to do, so you'll believe me.” you didn't say anything anymore, instead you just smiled bashfully as he kissed your knuckles before fleeing inside again.

But, it seems luck despised you because father like son, Charles was glaring down at the scene from his study, feeling his heart rip at the sight of another man vying for your hand, while another already had bound you in marriage.

It wasn't fair, why was everyone getting a piece of you, why were you giving everyone something to cherish but you let him starve?

He so desperately wanted you, he craved you, but unlike his son, he would never take anything forcibly, especially not you a delicate rose with blunt thorns. Rather he would wait for all the flies around you to die by themselves so that your soul could find its way back to his, where it rightfully belonged to.

---♡---

No.

You refused this reality.

This couldn't be happening.

Crying nor screaming changed what had occured; you had murdered your child with your own two hands. All because you couldn’t take him with you, make him stay close to you.

Still you had tried to lie to yourself. To believe and to fantasize that your baby somehow could be well without you. You had hoped that your husband—as horrid as he was—at least would never reach him; never get too close to your treasured pearl, but he did. He managed to tear everything down and he took Bennett with him; he dragged him back into the lion’s den only to let his own son rot like a beggar out on the streets.

You had hoped. You had prayed daily, trusting god. But trust alone just wasn’t enough.

It never was.

He had died because of you—because you were stupid, foolish and worse than your own mother. Your grandmother would’ve died a second time if she had witnessed you now—a vile excuse for a human; picking up the cold corpse of her child, of a toddler with chubby cheeks that now were icy to the touch.

Tears brimmed at your eyes and you wondered if they would wet your cheeks first or your heart would shatter first—frail like glass. Memories flushed back into your head. Willow had died in your hands too—sick and frail as a baby, but Bennett, he had been a lively child, sticking to you like glue no matter how lithe he was. He was alive—had been alive for god’s sake! And now—now his chest didn’t rise anymore.

He was gone.

And it was your fault.

Until you sighted the man who had driven you away from your babies—who had inevitably caused their deaths.

So who could blame you now? An eye for an eye—wasn’t this what priests preached; wasn’t this god’s holy words? So as any good mother would do, following nothing but instinct, you followed the path of the holy to succumb to sin.

You tackled him—it was easier than you thought it would be. He was still weary; having just awoken from a drunken slumber, peacefully snoring away while your baby had lost the battle to a fever, that would’ve needed care and attention to heal; but it could have subsided, he could have lived. The only reason he was dead was this monster under you, now starting to struggle—roaring at you to get off. But the knife was already secure in your hand.

You had found it in the kitchen; it was a big butcher’s knife, one that your mother’s mother and her mother had owned to slice through a chicken’s neck like butter.

“Hey—what are you doing? Get off me you madwoman!” he yelped and cried, nearly managing to throw you off and tumble forward before you could swing. Nearly.

But as you had been too late, he also was, and the blade sliced through his neck without any resistance, tearing almost through everything.

He was dead before he could blink.

Still, you dropped the blade on his throat a few times more—just for good measures really—until his head rolled off; empty as it was, spilling all it was worth on the ground.

For a moment all you did was pant and stare, now he was just a shell spilling crimson in gallons, his blood your tears.

You stared until you couldn't anymore, until bile rised in your throat and you scrambled to your feet gagging.

Stumbling over him, skirt drenched in red and the floor slippery you crashed back to your knees, clawing your way back to your child like a mole, trying to navigate through the blurring of your sight. Yet the moment you felt his cold hand you cradled him, clutching him like a lifeline—like if you pressed him close enough to your own heart, his would start beating too like a match sharing its flame with another.

Even if all you wanted was to embrace and mourn your little boy, there was something inside of you—a certain fire, a nagging in the back of your head that screamed at you to get up, to get moving, that not all hope was lost yet.

And so you were quick to scramble to your feet, disoriented like a lamb but staggering forward and out the door. The wind whipped at you—untangled your scarf from you. It was winter, the north wind bitter cold, yet he couldn’t affect you, nothing could and the snow that had risen to your ankles inevitably bloomed in red with each of your steps as you continued to push through, to drag your feet forward, agains the bellowing howls of the wind. Your hands were red too, everything was, but what made you cry out was the filthy colour staining your baby. How dare he. To dirty him even in death, monster.

You were going to safe your son from the paw’s of his father that extended even death, you would bring him to safety and that safety was the manor—the only place where you once had felt warmth blossom in your chest that had beheld a functioning heart.

The walk was long, it took an hour. A whole hour out in the cold, ice nipping at your skin, and snowflakes decorating your hair—but all that didn't matter, it couldn't matter if it meant a way to save him. The lord was a powerful man, he could summon a doctor knowledgeable enough to save Bennett—you were sure of it. He would save your baby.

Yet, by the time you arrived, having left terrified figures behind you, the guard at the gait immediately jumped forward.

“Fuck (Y/n)!” Jonathan spat in surprise, eyes round in terror.

“What happened to you? Are you hurt? Did someone attack you? What is it him?—” and he would've demanded more, already reaching out to touch your shoulder, if he hadn't seen little Bennett in your arms—pale as snow and frozen on the spot. Something was deeply disturbing about the picture of the little boy in your bloodied arms and the longer he stared the more his hand trembled.

“He—” he started but cut himself off with a look at your face. He was worried, terrified for you.

While he could do nothing but stare in shock —like all the villagers you met on your way had looked at you—you slipped into the garden, striding forward to the manor, only hearing panicking behind you accompanied with heavy stomping after you slipped through the front door; already inside. And nothing could stop you from bringing your son back to life.

Fear was a stranger now.

So you climbed up the stairs and burst into the baron’s study unprompted, with no use of the usual manners you portrayed.

“Please—” you were quiet, so quiet you feared he wouldn’t take notice of you.

But it wasn’t just the lord, Nicholas was also standing there consumed in a lively discussion until you entered and both of their heads whipped towards you, eyes immediately widening.

“He’s stopped breathing. I don't know why—he was just laying on the floor without moving. I have tried everything, but he just doesn’t want to wake up, please, I don’t know what to do anymore and—” you were a broken machine, only able to repeat yourself over and over again, in hopes they could read between the lines of your anguish; that they could decipher your pleading for a doctor, even if you were just a maid. And even if your life was worth nothing compared to them, Bennett’s life was something worth to you and you hoped that they could see that. That even if your child was a commoner as you, he was worth the world.

“What happened?” the lord was the first one to speak up. He stepped close enough to look at the boy in your arms.

“Why are you drenched in blood? Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you? You look pale as a ghost. Where are you bleeding—” Nicholas questions rained down on you, yet you could do nothing but stare into his father's eyes, ignoring his fuzzing.

Slowly, the lord outstretched his arms.

“Come. I will help. Give him to me.” he urged, shutting Nicholas up.

You didn’t want to. This was Bennett, your little boy, a seed that had sprung from you and had grown under your wing and to hand him over to someone else, while the same blood pumped through our veins seemed odd; cruel even. But this was the lord, wasn’t he—he was kind, understanding and your only flimmer of hope. Only he could save your baby, your Ben.

So you let him take the one thing of value in your life; your child.

And that's when your world’s edges blurred and foreign arms wrapped around you.

“Mother—” yor sweet baby was talking to you. At least you heard his voice one last time.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe now mother.”

Only you didn't pass.

But your soul had.

“Bennett?” you were calling out for him until your throat was raw, but he never came.

“Mother, calm, I am here. It's alright mother. Your son is here.” Nicholas muttered again, chanting the string of words like a mantra, as if they would ring true when reached a certain number of repetition, as if you would magically start believing in them after a certain time.

“We’re here for you, love.” the lord muttered, calling himself Charles, telling you it was fine to mourn to cry and rage, but that you had a new family now. And that this new one would ensure your utmost happiness till the end of time. Everything was so bizarrely confusing—and all you wanted to do was scream.

Maria was ominously around you too; always in the shadows, serving you, whispering to you when she would hand you a glass of water and wipe your sweat-covered face, trying to awaken from yet another nightmare.

Yet no one mentioned Bennett. No one even spoke his name; it was like a taboo, almost like his mention would curse you all.

You prayed harder and stronger, yet no one ever heard you, or seemed to care. Nicholas' grip never loosened on you, he never stopped calling you mom and the baron not once failed to call you his beloved—and both expected you to wear it like a badge of honour when all you wanted was to be reunited with your child.

Finally you concluded that God had abandoned you long ago.

Just this time, please, don’t let me be reborn again.

[ceoofyearning]

I only pray, don’t fall away from me

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: The world feels like it’s falling apart around you, but Azriel finally comes home and helps you hold all the pieces together.

Tags/Warnings: Hurt and Comfort, depressive themes & thoughts, anxiety, nightmares, mentions of a minor character death (not the mc/reader) || please mind the tags.

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: this week was though so here’s a bit of a hurt & comfort fic; hope your days are kind to you guys xoxo

Links: Fic Masterlist | My Art

You’re so damn tired.

The last few weeks have been difficult, to say the least. The healing house has been filled to the brim with the wounded and sick. Altercations with Beron’s soldiers by the border have been increasing at an alarming rate, while countless spies from the continent have been winnowed in after being caught by Koschei’s contingent forces. You can’t even begin to imagine the state of the civilians that might’ve been caught in the crossfire. 

There is tension in the air with the threat of the inevitable war looming on the horizon. It doesn’t help that the winter chill, in all of its foreboding fury, has come to ravage the lands and its people. You love your work as a healer, you really do. Some days, the thought of the good you do, the people you help, is enough to keep you going. But too often, it feels like a thankless job that leaves you drained to the core. 

In your free time, you’ve been parsing through ancient texts in search of information on Death Gods and anything that could be used against Koschei. His looming threat is a cloud of dread that hangs over everyone, especially Rhys. The least you could do is to help carry the burden. It’s not like you could sleep, anyway. These days it is as though your mind adamantly refuses to let you rest. At the very least, the task keeps you distracted when you’re stuck alone in your apartment. 

Ever since Azriel had been sent to the continent for a reconnaissance mission nearly a month ago, the apartment you share has started to feel a little too big, too desolate. Before you knew it, the white walls had been transmuted from your home into what felt like the bars of a cage. 

The two of you haven't been apart for so long since the mating bond snapped. You didn’t think you'd feel his absence as acutely as you did, but it felt like the loss of a limb where the wound refused to heal and you were already bleeding out. His part of the bond is blacked out completely, a devouring void where Azriel’s comforting presence should have been. It’s for your own safety, he said. But you can’t help it. You’re plagued with worry, with imagined hurts and tragedies, amplifying the brewing conflict in your mind. 

It is easier to catch yourself when Azriel is near. When the thoughts begin to swirl like a hurricane around you - winds whipping, oceans rising - it feels like Azriel’s arms are the only safe harbor you can rely on. But Azriel isn’t here now. 

What frustrates you most is that you’ve been better recently. You’ve been good. You ate your meals, slept reasonably, even had a goddamned routine set up. You guzzled down your tonics in hopes of smoothing out the edges of your frayed mind, that perhaps it could lend you some semblance of normalcy. But no. Weeks of being haunted by nightmares, of overextending yourself, of loss and suffering seeping under your skin day by day have taken its toll. 

You are just too damn tired. 

A child died, barely over thirteen years old. She was bastard-born, which meant she had nothing to her name other than the rags on her back and her birthright to suffer generational oppression and cruelty. This is the worst winter the Night Court has had in centuries, and she didn’t even have a decent roof over her head. Needless to say, she hadn’t been in the best health. But despite that, the moment her cycle had come, the men forced her to go through the clipping. In her struggle, the imbeciles accidentally nicked a vital artery. Normally, her Illyrian healing would’ve granted her a strong chance for survival, but she had been so sick, her body weakened by hours spent in the frigid cold. 

By the time you had been summoned to heal her, she no longer had the strength to recover. Numbness washed over you at the image of her unseeing eyes, the same shade as Azriel’s in the right light, trained toward the vast empty sky. You have a feeling it isn’t a sight you’d forget any time soon. 

You don’t know how long it’s been. The room is shrouded with a thick blanket of darkness, the only respite coming from the dwindling candlelight by your bedside. Only silence exists within these four walls, interrupted by the occasional patter of water leaking from the kitchen sink. You burrow deeper into the sheets, inhaling the trace of Azriel’s scent that still lingered like it would somehow quell this ache inside you. 

Despite spending most of the day bedbound, you’ve barely had any sleep. There is no respite to be found in the dreaming, only nightmares lying in wait. It seems your mind has a knack of bringing your worst fears. Azriel bruised, bloodied and utterly alone, lost, somewhere in the vastness of the continent, hazel eyes - his, then hers, then his again - glazing over, crimson seeping into the arid ground below. 

For the last few weeks, you’ve gathered your grief and worry like rocks to wear around your neck. Your body is heavy, the phantom weight sinking and settling within the marrow of your bones, refusing to leave. It feels like you could stay in this bed forever until you dissipate into nothing but sand, smoke and thought.

You managed to send out a request for the texts Rhys needed translated, but not much else. You’re thankful he directly portalled them on your worktable because you don’t think you could brave the journey to the library today. You don’t think you could do much of anything today, in all honesty. 

So there you lay, bundled up in a collection of blankets, at least three inches of cotton and down that never seem enough to warm you. A book rests in your hands, yet your eyes remain unfocused, not truly seeing the words.

You run your thumb over the crisp paper, knowledge older than you, older than this city and yet you couldn't even bring yourself to focus long enough to dissect their true meaning. Your will is liquid in your hands, slipping through the cracks in between your fingers. Accidentally, you tug too hard on a page and it tears easily beneath your touch. If you had your wits about you, you would’ve been horrified by what you’ve just done. But as you are now, it is difficult to care. 

That’s what you feel like at this moment, you realize. These past few weeks have left you feeling spent, worn out, paper thin. Absently, you stretch out your hand towards the candlelight, close enough to feel the warmth lick against your cool skin. The flame casts a brilliant silhouette around your shadowed hand. It’s a wonder why golden light doesn’t seep right through. 

That’s how Azriel finds you.

The front door of your apartment creeks open, letting in a flood of muted morning light. Your first instinct is to retreat beneath the covers to shield yourself. Azriel calls your name in the silence, worry permeating each syllable. No doubt, he is cataloging the mess your shared space had become in your unintentional neglect. 

You say nothing, wondering if you could just close your eyes and pretend to be asleep, anything to escape his scrutiny. A breath of relief escapes him when he finds you in bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he sits beside you. 

The urge to curl tighter around yourself is strong. But he repeats your name and, as though he had cast a spell, you unspool before him, your muscles unwinding, one fiber at a time. 

“Can I touch you?” He asks, voice painfully soft.

“Okay,” you croak out from beneath the blankets. 

Azriel gradually draws the sheets away from your body, giving you ample time to protest if you’d like. Then, he rests his hand on your shoulder. Unbidden, a shiver runs down your spine, followed by a stuttered breath. You don’t realize how much you missed his touch until his textured hand begins its soothing path up and down your back, his heat sinking into your skin. 

Shame washes over you despite the bone-deep comfort you find upon his gentle ministrations. You don’t want him to see you this way. Azriel deserves better, the voices in your head insist. He deserves a mate whose mind does not devour itself at every given opportunity, a mate who does not quake beneath the weight of the world and the idea of their own immortal existence.

As though detecting your train of thought, his shadows leave their preferred perch on his shoulders to pool around you instead. Tendrils of darkness brush away the tears on your face, while some thread through your hair like a gentle breeze. 

On the other hand, Azriel urges you to rest your head on his lap. He begins to run his hand through your hair, uncaring of how greasy and tangled it has become. Eventually, his voice pierces the silence, injecting warmth into the distance between you. He hums a tune you do not recognize, but you can't help but cling to each winding note like a lifeline. Azriel has always had a beautiful voice - depthless, silken and soothing. It feels like a privilege to hear the song that he normally reserves for his shadows.

You must’ve been a pitiful sight to behold, and yet Azriel never looks at you like you are. He always treats you like something to cherish, something to love, like you’re someone he’s spent lifetimes desperately waiting for and you’ve been entirely worth the wait. A traitorous part of you feels like you’ll never deserve it, this love.

Azriel must sense the hurricane of emotions waging a one-sided war in your head, despite the mental shields you adamantly keep up. But he doesn’t tell you to stop, doesn’t brush off your worry with empty words and false promises. Instead, he simply says, “I love you.” 

He speaks it as though it is a fact like one would say that the sky is blue, and the grass is green, and the world would keep on turning in peteruity, orbiting the sun the same way you’ll continue to orbit around each other. His chapped lips ghost over your temple, murmuring your name like a plea, a prayer. 

“More than anything in this world,” he adds as he pulls you into his embrace. 

Your body is pliant for him, arms winding around his neck like that is where they’re meant to be. His arms wrap around your waist to hold you impossibly closer. Webbed wings stretch to curl around the two of you, creating a cocoon of darkness that keeps the rest of the world at bay. With your head resting on his chest, you could hear his heartbeat thudding in chorus with yours. 

“I love you too,” you reply after a long stretch of silence. “But sometimes I wish you could’ve had a better mate.” 

“There is no one better,” Azriel insists. “There is only you, my love; through light, through darkness, through whichever end. Only you.” And you feel the truth of his words as surely as the twinned beating of your hearts. Sometimes it’s hard to convince your traitorous mind that you could have this, that someone could love you so deeply despite having seen you at your worst. Azriel presses another kiss against your cheek, and despite yourself, you begin to believe his words.

You don’t know how long Azriel holds you like that, but it finally feels like a stretch of eternity you could bear.

“What can I do to help, love?” Azriel prompts, cupping your face in the cradle of his scarred palms - their texture, a familiar comfort. 

You turn over his question in your head for a few moments, savoring his scent, the sensation of his skin against your own. A part of you is tempted to ask him to lay beside you for the rest of the day, for a week, for an entire lifetime. You know Azriel would if you asked it of him. But beyond this room, the world continues its elliptical path around the sun and time still ticks on regardless of how disconnected you feel from your own reality. 

“A bath,” is all you manage to say.

Azriel nods, before reluctantly peeling himself from you. “Have you eaten?” 

“‘M not hungry,” you mumble as you sink back into the sheets, sighing as the comforter swallows you up. In truth, you can’t remember when your last meal had been. Hunger didn’t seem so pressing in the last few days.

“That’s not what I asked.” Azriel’s tone leaves no room for argument or negotiation. 

“No,” you finally answer, although with much trepidation. “Not yet.” 

He hums, clearly displeased, but says nothing else. You can already imagine the frown that must be stretching across his face. But it seems Azriel’s presence alone is enough to quieten your mind, at least for now. You must’ve been dead tired because it doesn’t take long for the rhythmic sound of Azriel's familiar footfalls to lull you into dreamless sleep.

"Love," Azriel whispers, his hand hovering over your shoulder, rousing you from your shallow slumber. You blink languidly until molten eyes come into focus. The candlelight flickers, and shadows dance across his face. Azriel’s normally sharp features are softened by the tenderness in his expression. You’ll never tire of waking to the sight of him. 

With a groan, you half-roll half-stumble out of bed. Azriel stays an arm’s length away in case you need him, but he’s careful not to crowd you. His shadows have no such reservations, however. The dark tendrils fretfully twine around your arms, making you smile. You thank them quietly, and for a moment, they seem to dance with delight. Regardless of your initial unsteadiness, you manage to pad all the way to the bathroom.

Upon crossing the threshold, the sweet scent of jasmine immediately overtakes your senses. The tub has already been filled up, steam rising from the sun-covered surface. You begin to unbutton your tunic, clumsy fingers tumbling through your first few attempts. Azriel steadies your hands with his firm grip, his shadows gently circling your wrists. 

“May I?” He asks, gesturing to your tunic, and you nod, not wanting to think anymore. His movements are precise, almost clinical, while he undoes the first five buttons, before bunching the garment in his hands and pulling it over your head entirely. Your skin breaks out in gooseflesh once exposed to the cold air. Azriel is careful to keep his gaze on your face, even as you step out of your undergarments. 

Azriel only betrays his composure when he traces your cheekbone, like he can’t quite help himself. From this distance, you have to crane your neck to look up at him. For a moment, the two of you only stare at each other. The bond glows bright between you, the golden thread gleaming as though it hadn't spent the last few weeks completely stretched thin. 

But then, Azriel withdraws, tilting his head to the steaming tub. Obediently, you step into the water’s warm embrace, the heat nearly stinging your skin. Logically, however, you know it’s only because you’ve allowed yourself to stay in the cold for too long. 

A relieved sigh escapes you as you sink further into the tub. One of his shadows rushes to pillow your heavy head as it rests on the tub’s rim. You thank the sweet little thing, and swirls of black sway back and forth like a dog wagging its tail. Meanwhile, Azriel takes his place by the head of the tub, sitting back on his heels. 

“I’d like to wash your hair,” he says and you're touched by the earnest quality his voice takes. 

“Okay,” you breathe. You’ve never been good at denying Azriel anything, nor did you want to. The more the ice beneath your skin thaws, the more you find that you want him near. 

Azriel begins by running his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp as he pours warm water over your head. With a pop of a bottle, the floral scent of shampoo fills the air. He lathers the substance on your head, his touch tender even as his fingers work through the knots in the strands, untangling them with care. 

After a while, he rinses off the suds and coats his hands with oil. He begins combing his fingers through your hair, starting from the ends and working his way up. The rhythmic motion of his fingers is calming as he draws circles against your scalp. You find yourself melting into the moment, feeling utterly content for the first time in what feels like a very long time. 

Once done, Azriel grabs a small towel and asks, “Do you want help washing?”

You shake your head, wanting to do this for yourself, at least. Understanding flashes in his eyes, and he spares you a soft smile. With that, Azriel leaves the towel by the tub and politely excuses himself from the room. With the door left slightly ajar, you could still hear him move around the apartment followed by the lyrical clinking of silverware against ceramic.

It takes you a few minutes to gather the energy to lather yourself with soap, and a few more to finally rise from the bath. But once the grime is off your skin, you feel a bit of the weight wash off with it too. You feel a bit more like yourself.

After drying off, you tug on the silk robe Azriel has left for you, securing it loosely around your waist. Upon exiting, you spy him by the dining table, scooping a generous serving of soup into a bowl. The mouthwatering aroma of rich broth wafts through the room, and you realize just how hungry you are when your stomach growls in protest. You approach him from behind, making sure that each step is audible.

Azriel continues to set up the table, but you can tell he’s aware of your presence from the way his shoulders seem to relax. The sudden urge to have him close is palpable, an instinct so deeply ingrained into your being. So,  gradually, you wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face on his back. You take a deep inhale, breathing him in - a lungful of moontime mist and cedarwood smoke. 

“I’m glad you’re home,” you murmur against Azriel’s back, your voice muffled by his shirt. 

“I’m glad to be home,” he whispers. His hands abandon their task in favor of twining his fingers with your own. 

Azriel turns to face you and holds your face in his hands. Beneath the swathes of sunlight, his eyes are alight with golden flame, flecks of green scattered over his irises like an afterthought. There is nothing but love in his gaze, nothing but acceptance. 

“Thank you,” you say, tilting your head so the words could kiss his lips, not quite touching but close. “For being here, for loving me, for choosing me, everyday.” 

“I will always choose you,” he vows, before planting a kiss on your forehead.

“Today,” another peck on the tip of your nose; “Tomorrow,” one more on your cheek; “And all the days after,” he finishes with a chaste caress on your lips.

Then, he rests his forehead on yours, your bodies slotted against each other like a lock and its predestined key. In Azriel’s presence, you find it easier to breathe, easier to simply be. For the first time in a long time, your mind is clear and your heart beats in a calm, languid pace that matches his own.

“I’d like to kiss you,” you request, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. Azriel’s gaze is searching, scouring for any hint of anything short of absolute certainty. Perhaps you should tell him that in this world of constant change and chaos, he’s the only one you’re certain of.

Azriel must be satisfied with what he finds written across your features because he replies, “So kiss me then,” the ghost of a smirk playing across his lips.

You’re surprised to find that it’s easy to return the playful expression. Your rise to the tips of your toes while your fingers thread through his raven black hair. When your lips touch, it is as though the world breathes a sigh of relief. Reality realigns and everything outside the two of you and your shared breaths turns inconsequential. He moves against you with practiced ease, like the natural ebb and flow of the tide.

An eternity of this, you think, doesn’t seem so daunting after all. 

AN: i’m not sure if that was too much but thank you for reading 💙 As always, i’d love to hear everyone’s thoughts

English isn’t my first language, so if you see any mistakes, please lmk thru dm! 💙

Also, I just wanted to yap about the Az fics im in the process of writing:

1. Vampire!Azriel x Reader (Working tittle: Ashes in my wake)

I just love the idea of cannibalism (or yk, blood drinking) as a metaphor for love in literature so here we are. ( @/annikin-im-panicin this is ur influence) This one is a bit of a dark fic (nothing too crazy tho, I think), so i’m not sure how it’ll be received. But the idea has been haunting me for yonks so I just had to write it.

2. Tattoo Artist!Azriel x Lucien’s Best Friend!Reader (Working tittle: Drink dry the river Lethe)

This one is a multichapter fic (maybe 4-7 chapters, we’ll see) so it might take me a while before I start posting, but i’ve mostly finished writing the first (very smutty) and second (very angsty) chapter. I ‘m not entirely sure what direction to bring this yet but maybe you guys can help me decide?

Unrelated to Az, but i’ve been brainworming a poly dark-ish innocent!reader x Feysand fic, and a slightly less dark and more sappy(?) poly warrior!reader x royal!nessian fic. I’m so excited to start these but my pile of wips is giving me the stink eye 😂

[habitual-truant]

"Naoto isn't trans! Kanji isn't gay! You obviously don't understand their character arcs at all!"

I'm allowed to be critical of the homophobic and transphobic narratives that are in persona 4. Obviously in canon kanji is straight and Naoto is a cis girl, but it pisses me off when people decide to say "you don't understand their character!" because I do. I KNOW Kanji's arc was about toxic masculinity. I KNOW Naoto didn't like being a girl because she wasn't treated fairly and taken seriously for it. I KNOW they aren't queer. But they should have been.

Throughout persona, a person's shadow has been some part of their unconscious mind, the exact part varying from game to game, but the general consensus being that it's the part of the self that's unknown for whatever reason. In persona 4, its the part that is repressed and rejected. Characters defeat their shadow and gain their persona from accepting that their shadow, a manifestation of the things they hate about themselves, is in fact a part of them. It's not exactly the same for Kanji and Naoto though. Kanji's shadow is the result of internalizing what others say about him as the truth, and Naoto's is the result of rejecting what other people think of her, and repressing the reasons why they think those things. Unlike the other characters who's shadows entirely come from their own emotions and thoughts, Kanji and Naoto's shadows come from how other's perception of the two affects them.

Kanji's shadow is a "gross pervert" that lusts over men. Based off of the other characters and how they defeat their shadows, you would think he has internalized homophobia, and that by accepting his shadow, he accepts being gay. But, its the opposite. Kanji accepts he's straight despite liking feminine things. He accepts that he's NOT gay. I understand the intentions. I know his shadow was the way it was because he was accused of being gay and made fun of for liking girlish things, and he internalized it. I know his arc is about toxic masculinity and unlearning it. But Kanji was attracted to men before his arc. He all of a sudden magically becomes straight after accepting his shadow. "But he had a crush on Naoto, who ended up being a girl!" Yeah, I understand. Doesn't change the fact that Naoto presented as a boy, and was completely socially transitioned. At that point, Kanji had literally no reason to think that Naoto was a girl, he completely saw her as a boy. The writers backpedaled on his attraction to boys. It implies being attracted to the same sex is something you can change, and that it's worth changing. Not to mention, his entire arc is played off as a joke. his shadow is a "pervert queer" because its "haha funny" for a masculine man to like men. It's a mockery.

Naoto's shadow isn't nearly as insulting, showing the main focus of Naoto's arc; nobody respects her as a detective because she's a teenage girl. However, Naoto herself says she doesn't like being a girl when her shadow reveals the fact that she's a girl. Yes, it's because she's ridiculed and disregarded because she's not a man, but she's still uncomfortable as a girl and actively chooses to present as a boy, even after gaining her persona. She is undeniably transcoded, at the very least, before she accepts her shadow. She accepts that she's not taken seriously, that she IS all the things that people look down on her for being, and that she IS actually a girl. Again, while not doing a complete 180, the writers back out of Naoto wanting to be a boy. Even though her arc isn't as abysmally insulting as Kanji's, it still sells the narrative that trans people need to accept that they "aren't trans, just pretending,"

No matter how you look at it, the "moral of the story" for both Kanji and Naoto is that being gay or trans isn't something you should accept about yourself. Both Kanji and Naoto have queer themes in their stories, even if the writers backed out and effectively gave the opposite message. They're queercoded, end of story. For us queers to reject the homophobic + transphobic themes and decide "no, actually these characters ARE gay" is completely reasonable. Who are you to tell us that we aren't allowed to reject the honestly disrespectful writing from a triple A game franchise? Why wouldn't we dislike the way the characters are written? And why do you only complain when its the two characters that are so close to being queer rep?

I 100% understand and respect people who disagree with the headcanons, but those who mock and make fun of people who do consider Kanji and Naoto to be queer? That's something I can't accept.

TL;DR: People choose to interpret Kanji and Naoto as queer because of the queer themes in their arcs. The same themes that the writers completely backpedaled on, and ended up implying harmful things on instead.

[kantocamping]

Kichijiro. He/Him. 40s. Experienced pokemon trainer and studying ornithologist. Currently making a living selling/trading pokemon professionally; please inquire if you're looking for a pokemon native to Kanto, Johto, Hoenn, or Sinnoh.

I don't do competitive battling anymore, but I did in the past (non-circuit) so I may speak on the subject now and again. I'm also living in an RV for work purposes (no, I don't need help, I'm not homeless, I could buy a house if I wanted) and will likely also post about that from time to time. I don't care if you find it boring.

Please ask me about ornithology and my current research projects in Kantonian farfetch'd and its possible evolution.

My current team consists of pidgeot, noctowl, psyduck, delibird, farfetch'd, and rowlet. Feel free to ask about them as well.

// ooc

hiiii <3 my name is kristopher!! he/him + 22 :] i'm an enviro science/agriculture student, avid birder, and passionate hiker + camper!! please keep in mind that i'm a white american trying to portray a japanese man as best i can; feel free to let me know if i get anything wrong or do anything insensitive!!

i also run @pikachuwanted (meowth)

the pokemon lore i go with is based on a mixture of the games, anime, and comics, alongside my own headcanons that i've come up with over the years!! i'm totally okay with people interacting who have differing and even totally contradicting hcs to my own!! it's all in good fun.

that said, generally some baseline 'rules' (and i use the word loosely) that'll likely come up often enough i go with are:

pokemon are typically more intelligent than real animals and are treated as such. they have an understanding of human concepts that real animals don't, and can even communicate now and again. however, even humanoid pokemon still have animalistic behaviors, since they're not humans.

while multiple universes do exist, kichijiro is generally unaware of and skeptical about this concept. most direct references to this will be glossed over and not taken seriously by him. i generally just don't really like storylines like this and probably won't engage in them.

legendary pokemon are provably real, but rarely seen, and never documented as being captured by trainers. i won't ignore characters that have legendaries, but this won't be referenced outside of direct interactions! pseudo-legendaries are just considered to be very rare.

team rocket (which kichi is totally not in) is generally a more realistic crime syndicate that does genuinely awful shit aside from just stealing pokemon.

please keep the following in mind when interacting with me!

content warning: this blog may at any time contain themes of smoking, drinking, alcoholism/drug use, suicidal thoughts, pokemon death/abuse, veterinary practices, organized crime, guns, and non-canon typical violence. bolded topics will always be tagged! please let me know if you want anything else to specifically be tagged.

pelipper mail is on, but please don't go crazy with it, i'll just ignore it if i don't know what to say or think it's not going to be fun for me. magic anons are off.

fallers and sentient pokemon are fine to interact, but i'd rather not interact with eebies specifically

i'm totally down to write literate threads if anyone wants! i love long-form writing and am more than happy to plot something out. all of these will either be on discord or @finefeatheredfoes

kichijiro is not a nice man! he's trying to be better, but he's a generally rude person who's done a lot of bad things in his life and has been in rough circles for over 20 years. he might be mean, but this doesn't reflect my thoughts on you/your character at all!! if this upsets you, please just let me know.

related, but if you have ANY issues with me please please PLEASE bring them up to me in dms!!! i'm always willing to talk things out, and i'll never freak out on you or whatever :]

[pearlessance]

32:1 - Idle Threats [x]

Series Summary — Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for.

Chapter Summary — Joel builds the heaven you've granted him.

Pairing — Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings — Explicit sexual content MDNI, brat taming, age gap(32yrs), mean!Joel, religious imagery and symbolism, catholic guilt, reader has added backstory to progress the plot, themes of forgiveness

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cross posted to AO3]

Blessed is he whose disobedience is forgiven.

Ellie stays at the farmhouse for the first couple of weeks and Joel’s grateful for it. The two of you get along so well that he can even hear you both laughing in the front yard from the bedrooms upstairs. And Joel knows you need it; the laughter, the company, the distraction. 

Because every night, he holds you in the bed you’d taken from Jackson and lets you cry into his shoulder over your loss. 

Maria’s decided to let the both of you come and go from the commune as you please, but she refuses to say a single word to you. It’s her who gives the silent treatment, now. And although you’re aware the traumatic bond the two of you formed is better off severed, Joel knows it must hurt regardless.

“She was all I had for such a long time,” you whisper into his shoulder on the fourth night. “I know it’s for the best but I…I miss her is all.” 

Joel helps you through it as best as he can. He listens to you whenever you’re ready and willing to speak, and remains patient with you when you grow angry and lash out at him over small things that don’t truly matter. 

“It’s okay to miss her,” he says gently. “But I’ll never let her hurt you again. I’ll never let anyone hurt you ever again, little girl.”

You and Ellie get the front porch fixed up and find a set of old, rickety rocking chairs in the attic in the barn. Ellie paints a meadow of lavender on the freshly painted white siding. She’s showing Joel all the small details, the stems that alternate between the colors of jade and emerald, telling him how she’d painted it first in blue to set the undertone when a familiar truck pulls up the long driveway with a trailer hitched to the back. 

Tommy is a welcome sight, in truth. Because the house needs a lot of work and his brother’s hands will cut the time in half. But, more importantly, his presence will cut Joel’s stress in half, too.

Still, he catches the way you look at the passenger side of the truck with hopeful eyes and watches your face fall when you notice it’s empty.

Tommy hugs you and Ellie and lets out a deep sigh when he wraps his arms around Joel’s shoulders and claps him on the back. “Good to see you, brother,” he says. And it is. “Brought y’all some things. Come take a look.”

The trailer is packed full and so is the back of his truck. You and Ellie tear into its contents, giggling all the while. Most of it came from the white house on the corner in Jackon, Joel knows. Most of it’s yours.

Not much work gets done on the first day. Joel and Tommy work on carrying in the heavier stuff; the weathered, handmade dresser, the round mahogany table with matching chairs, and the box full of kitchen utensils and towels. Joel’s most excited about the generator, though. They bring it out back and vow to hook it up first thing tomorrow morning.

The four of you split the two rabbits Joel caught in his snares and you and Ellie throw strands of pasta at the wall to ‘check if it’s cooked,’ but Joel thinks it’s just for your own amusement because the both of you laugh maniacally every time it sticks to the wallpaper.

You eat together and laugh together and for the first time, Joel feels warm. He feels whole. Complete.

After you and Ellie both go to bed, it’s just Joel and his little brother sitting at the table. Tommy stares hard at the glass of iced tea in his hands and says, “I know it’s, uh…I know it’s just a short drive, an’ Ellie’s got the guest room but is it cool if I crash on the couch for a while?”

It feels like old times. Feels like before. Joel knows there’s something left unsaid in Tommy’s words but thinks he might already know. It’s not his place to force the words out of him, though. So Joel just nods and says, “You’re always welcome to it. You know that.”

“Maria an’ I…we talked. She, uh…told me what happened. Told me the full truth. About what he…what he did to…”

“You see now, don’t you? Why I couldn't let it go on? Why I couldn’t let Maria look at her like that? She didn’t do anything wrong, Tommy. Compared to what we’ve done…she’s innocent.”

An innocent little girl who’s only ever harmed those who’ve harmed her first. Self-defense isn’t malice. It’s not rage or wrath. It’s a learned trait, a taught skill.

Tommy nods slowly and takes a sip from his glass. “I, uhm…need a place to crash for a few days. Some space.”

“Like I said, you’re always welcome here.”

When he crawls into bed that night, Joel holds you extra tightly. Because the moment he snakes his arms around your waist and you turn to face him, your eyes well up with tears as you say, “She’s only sending him with my stuff, Joel. She’s trying to erase me like I never mattered.”

He didn’t see it at first and is a little surprised to admit it. But hearing the words come from your mouth clears the fog in his brain because you’re right. Joel can see the subtle stroke of manipulation when he imagines that house in Jackson you lived in for so long, sitting empty. 

There’s nothing he can do but hold you and let you cry and promise it will be okay, so he does. He tells you he’s here with you, reminds you that you’re a person and not some mistake made on paper, reminds you you’re not erasable. But when your breath evens out and you fall asleep, Joel leaves the bed to open the window for some fresh air to soothe the anger that rises up in him. 

Still, even miles away, even after this big, impactful change of life, Maria has still managed to hurt you in a fresh way. Joel knows he can’t protect you from everything. Knows that being hurt is inevitable, but he wishes so badly that he could take it all on for you. Shoulder the burden to ease your strain.

He’s only just begun creating this life with you and already he begins to wonder if he’s failing. If he’s already failed.

Joel hears your bare feet pad across the creaky wooden floor seconds before he feels the palm of your hand against his spine. You slide your fingers gently beneath his t-shirt and the touch grounds him, brings him back, reminds him he’s doing what he can and that it’s enough. Reminds him that no matter where he goes or what he does, you’re with him. 

His.

You press your cheek to his shoulder and he turns to pull you in close. When you tilt your head back to look up at him, he knows what you’re asking for, knows what you want. He presses his mouth to yours and thinks you taste like sleep and sunshine and solace.

He finds his own sort of peace in your body, in the way you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him in deeper, in the way you press your lips to his shoulder to quiet your moans. He tells you he loves you while he’s deep inside you and knows without a single doubt that you’re the one salvation he’ll ever be allowed but knows, too, the sin of taking you has been worth it.

When he finally falls asleep, it’s to the rhythm of your heartbeat. He can feel the steady thump, thump, thump through your sternum that’s pressed up against his ribcage. The vibration of your mercy, your clemency, your forgiveness reaches down to his bones. 

Tommy stays for seventeen days. 

They finish repainting the siding, fix up the plumbing and electrical, patch the holes in the drywall, repair the gate in the back yard, build a water system connected to the river in the woods, and start cleaning out the barn in preparation for livestock. 

You and Ellie make a run to an abandoned hardware store for gardening tools and return with an entire stockpile of seeds and rakes and hand-sized tillers. The two of you are mapping out the size of the garden when Tommy says to Joel in the back of the barn, “Been a long time since I’ve seen that look on your face, man.”

He knows exactly what he means but asks anyway. “What look?”

Joel follows his brother’s gaze that lands on you. He watches, in complete awe of you, as you throw your arm around Ellie’s shoulders and smear the dirt on your forehead against her cheek. She’s laughing and trying to push you away and all Joel can do is smile, feeling himself settle, feeling roots growing from his feet into the very ground he stands on.

Tommy shrugs and uses his shovel to lift more stale hay into the wheelbarrow. “Since I’ve seen you happy.”

At first, the urge arises in him to argue with his brother on this. But then he realizes that Tommy’s right—because Joel has never felt anything like this before. Never changed his course so dramatically to make room for someone else in it.

Not since Sarah was born. Not since he met Ellie.

He swallows and says with his eyes focused on the rake in his hands, “I see so much of myself in her at times. Angry at the world, at what it’s become. She might not remember things like they were before but she’s had to go through hard lessons like we all do and it’s made her do cruel things. Violent, even. That’s not the only thing she is, though. Never been the only thing she is.”

Tommy stares at his brother for several seconds without saying a word. And then he confesses, “Never thought she was in the wrong about it, y’know. About Thomas. But I wasn’t…uh, I wasn’t there. When it all happened, you know. Can’t say much about somethin’ I didn’t know much about. But with what I do know now, I can’t say I’d do anythin’ different. If it were…I mean, if it were our Sarah. If it were Ellie, you know?”

The sound of her name feels less like a knife these days. He finds instead it feels good to hear it, feels like remembering, like healing. And though Tommy doesn’t say the words directly, he understands what his brother’s trying to say. Knows Tommy, too, would kill the man who tried to harm an innocent little girl.

Joel thinks about those men in the warehouse. Thinks about what he would do if it were you in your sister’s place and knows he would’ve killed Thomas even slower than you had. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

Ellie returns to Jackson with Tommy a few days later. It’s a bittersweet moment, in truth. Because Joel knows she needs to do this, needs to get out on her own, become her own person now that she has someplace safe to do so. But he can’t deny the urge that rises up in him to ask her to stay.

He doesn’t, though. He lets her go, knowing she’s safe in Tommy’s hands, knowing she’s safe because Joel taught her to take care of herself. He has full faith in Ellie and he has full faith in the two of you.

There’s still a lot of work to be done. Seeds to plant, rooms to clean out, wiring to the generator, walls to paint and pictures to hang. The two of you settle into a routine.

Somehow, you’re always awake before Joel. And every morning he makes his way downstairs to find you sitting on the porch with a warm cup of tea in your hand and the sunlight casting shadows on your face. You always smile when you see him and stand to your feet to give him your chair. 

There are two of them, but only one ever gets truly used. You sit in Joel’s lap, and he holds you and the two of you talk about your plans for the day. You’ve been working tirelessly in the garden, hanging flowers and herbs to dry over the porch railing, making lists of canning supplies to pick up from Jackson or on your next run. Joel’s been repairing the barn, sawing down trees in the forest and rebuilding cracked beams to restabilize the structure.

On one morning in particular, you let him sip from your cup and say softly, “Thank you.”

He presses a kiss to your jaw and wraps his arms a little tighter around your waist. “For what, sweetheart?”

“This,” you reply. “For the home we’ve built. For…I don’t know. For you.”

“Me?” He doesn’t understand, but he tries to.

“Just for being who you are. For loving me still. Thank you.”

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know that it’s ever been a choice for him. Joel thinks he’s loved you since the moment he’d first laid eyes on you, thinks it was always meant to be his fate to find you. “I always will,” he promises. And he means it.

When the barn is fixed Joel builds you a greenhouse. 

You’re more than happy to assist him when needed, and listen to him talk about this, that and the other. Once, without even realizing, he talks to you about how drywall is made and why it’s sometimes called gypsum board or sheetrock for an entire afternoon. You don’t complain, not even once, and he wonders why but then realizes he’d let you talk about anything under the sun for an entire afternoon, too. 

In June, Ellie and Tommy visit and they bring guests. In the back of the truck is Bonnie and her son Sam, as well as Greg, Mike who has a ziploc bag of coffee grounds,  and his wife, Stella, who carries a plate of strawberry scones. 

There’s also the addition of four lambs and six chickens. 

You greet and hug and thank everyone for coming but when you hug Ellie you let out this girlish giggle that brings him so much joy he thinks his chest may burst with it. The two of you bring the lambs and the chickens to the barn and Sam and Bonnie help you set out feed and fill a trough with water from the stream while Joel and Tommy start a bonfire in the backyard. 

Everyone gives the two of you updates on Jackson. They tell you about how Miley’s made a full recovery and Maria’s due within the next week. They tell you that Kelly and Abel are an item now and they like to flaunt it for all of Jackson to see, that the Tipsy Bison is getting an upgrade after Jesse had discovered a distillery on a run.

You and Joel both are showered in compliments about your new home. About the garden and the greenhouse and the barn. Mike and Joel talk for an hour about Joel’s newest project, inspecting the half-hollow body of an acoustic guitar.

Tommy and Greg leave the group for a short hunting trip and in the twenty minutes they’re gone manage to return with a deer. You roast venison over the bonfire and everyone eats standing with their plate balanced in one hand, talking and laughing.

Joel catches your eye in the cacophony, and for a moment you just stare at each other from across the yard with mirrored grins. You look so beautiful in your pretty sundress and bare feet. There’s a leaf suck in your hair and venison grease on your fingers and Joel fights the urge to kick everyone out early so he can lick you clean.

He loves you more than he’s loved anything in all his life, and it’s this precise moment where he thinks maybe there is no such thing as acceptance into heaven. Maybe the devil and his pretty, perfect Judas possessed enough love for one another to create it on their own with greasy, calloused hands and broken hearts. Maybe he’s been wrong this whole time and he’s never been cursed, never been punished for his sins. 

Because how can he stand here in this home he shares with you, surrounded by the people he loves, feeling the presence of those he’s lost in the wind, and say he’s cursed?

Joel Miller feels like the most blessed man on the face of the planet.

Just before dark, they all pile back into Tommy’s truck with full bellies and smiles on their faces. 

And the minute they’re down the long drive way and the lambs are safely in the barn, Joel’s hands are slipping beneath your dress. He squeezes the soft flesh of your thigh and you giggle into his mouth, kissing him deep, letting him invade your body, your mind, your soul. 

He lifts you into his arms with the intent to take you to bed but then you wrap your legs around his waist and rut your hips against him. Pretty, desperate little girl wants him just as bad and who is he to deny you?

Joel lays you down in the grass, pulls your panties to the side, and takes you right there beneath the summer sun. He pushes your legs up to your chest and holds your knees apart, watching himself disappear inside of you, encouraged by the sweet moans you make.

“Gonna take real good care of you, little girl,” he says, circling your clit with his thumb. And he means it now and forever. No more silent vows, no more internal battles—you’ve become everything. “Always gonna take care of you. Keep you real safe, baby. Make you feel real good.”

Your pussy constricts around him as your orgasm feathers through you and he follows you off the edge at the sound of the words I love you in your mouth.

When he pulls out of you, Joel uses his fingers and pushes his spend back inside. And even though he knows it’s impossible, for the first time in the last thirty years he wishes it would take. Wishes he could get you pregnant, wants to see you barefoot in the garden with a belly rounded with his baby.

But it’s impossible and he knows it. This is enough, though. The two of you and a couple of lambs.

Even though your thighs shake, Joel fucks you with his fingers until you’re writhing again before he helps you to your feet and heats up water for a bath to get you clean. 

Joel finishes constructing his guitar. He plays the chords to Stairway to Heaven from the backyard and can see you begin to sway in the kitchen through the screen door. He plays a little louder and swears he can hear you humming the lyrics and the elation hits him like a fucking freight train. 

Because when he’d first met you, you’d been callous and rude and brash. You’d lashed out at him and Maria and Tommy and anyone else who stood in your way. You’d bitten off every hand that tried to feed you because those that tried had never tried again after feeling the sharpness of your teeth. 

But Joel had. He tried a hundred times and still kept coming back for more.

And now you stand in the kitchen you built together, swaying your hips while canning the vegetables from the garden you watered to feed your family through winter. The sun is shining and he’s playing his guitar and you’re singing.

It took blood and guts and tears, it took a war to get here, to find peace, but you did. Fought tooth and nail for it, bled and lost and died for it.

Joel had done all he could but it was you who held the cards, who had all the strength. Not him.

And you’re singing.

Joel’s eyes fill with tears before the song’s over and when he goes to sleep that night he finds he can breathe a little easier. 

He learns that Stairway to Heaven is your favorite song because you ask him to play it all the time. Joel never gets tired of it. 

On the first day of August, Tommy comes to visit. You come rushing out of the front door, excited for Ellie to see how big the lambs have grown. Only, this time, Ellie isn’t sitting in the passenger seat. But Maria is and she’s holding a bundle of blankets close to her chest. 

You freeze on the last step of the front porch and Joel stands from his chair, on the defense before the truck is even in park. 

When Maria sees you for the first time in months, her face falls and she begins to weep.

No word is said, but you’re suddenly running through the tall grass in the yard and you’re throwing your arms around her and her new baby, an immediate exoneration that Joel’s not sure he trusts.

It’s a girl. They name her Olive. “Like that olive tree in the bible mama always used to talk about. It means forgiveness,” Tommy says.

You’re infatuated immediately. Olive’s a smiley baby, just like Sarah was. She doesn’t cry even once while they visit, while you give Maria a full tour of every room in the house and of the garden and the greenhouse and the barn.

“She’s been wanting to come for a while,” he tells Joel. “Just wasn’t sure what to say or how to say it. It’s been real hard on her since you guys left. I didn’t wanna say anything, cause, well…you know.”

He does know. Tommy didn’t say anything because Joel had no interest in hearing it. No sympathy at all. “Look, I’m…I’m real glad they’re getting to see each other. Even happier to see my niece. An’ you know that Tommy, but…they can’t ever go back. Not to the way things used to be. I won’t allow it.”

Tommy’s eyes soften. “I know that. Maria knows it, too. I’ll admit, I wasn’t always the loudest advocate for you two but I’m glad things worked out the way they did. Glad she’s got you. Glad you’ve got her.”

Tommy takes his daughter from you with some convincing to give Joel a turn.

He cries when he holds her.

She’s so small, so soft and delicate in his arms. Olive reaches a hand up and tugs at the wiry hairs of his beard and he laughs until his stomach hurts. He bounces her in his arms and gently runs the pad of his index finger down the bridge of her tiny nose.

“We should talk,” Maria says after some time.

Tommy takes Olive from Joel’s arms. “I’ll, uh…give you guys a minute.”

Maria sits on one side of the table and you and Joel sit on the other. The tension is thick in the air, so much so he thinks he may be able to cut it with a knife. She clears her throat and opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

Joel wonders how hard an apology could be for something so horrific. If he were in her place, he thinks it would come easily. He knows his face is contorted into a scowl but he can’t bring himself to smooth it.

She tries again. This time, her voice is successful. She looks only to you and admits, “I want you to know that I have never blamed you for the loss of Sarah. I feel that is most important for me to say.”

His jaw ticks.

“It always felt like you did. I blamed myself enough already.” Your voice is so timid and mousy, such a stark contrast to the confidence he’s grown used to.

“I know, and I’m so, so sorry for it.”

A start, Joel thinks.

“I know I didn’t want to believe it at first,” she says. “About…about Thomas. I never would have imagined he’d ever be capable of such a thing, but I…looking back, I see there are things I’ve missed. And I hope you know that if you had just come to me before you…if you had—”

“Careful,” Joel says lowly.

You take his hand in yours beneath the table.

Maria swallows and straightens her spine. “I’m sorry,” she says again, tears welling in her eyes. “I was angry, hurt. My entire world had imploded and then to lose Sarah, too, I couldn’t…” She shakes her head. “I needed you after losing them both. But I was furious with you for not trusting me enough to believe you.”

“You didn’t believe it,” Joel states. “And you made her out to be some sort of villain in front of everyone. Being angry is not an excuse.”

“I know,” she says. “You’re right. And I admit, sending you out on these runs was selfish and horrible. I know it. But I do love you like a daughter. I love you as much as I ever loved Sarah, more, even because of the loss we share. Your absence has been…catastrophic. Please, I…I know I can never take back the things I’ve done but I would like to work towards something. If you’ll let me.”

“I didn’t deserve what you did to me. The burden you put on my shoulders,” you say. The confidence has returned to your voice, the surety. It puts Joel at ease to hear it.

“No,” Maria says. “You’re right. You didn’t.”

“But she would hate us for this.” Your hand trembles in his. You reach your other hand out and lay it on the tabletop, palm up and open. “I have to cut some vegetables for dinner tonight. Would you like to help?”

Maria takes your hand and a tear slides down her cheek.

You turn to Joel then, and ask, “Can you and Tommy bring in some rosemary and thyme from the greenhouse? I’d like a second alone with Maria if that’s okay.”

He doesn’t trust it. Not at first. Because without him at your side to mediate, to keep you safe from the harsh things Maria has proven herself capable of saying, who will protect you from her manipulation?

But then you squeeze his hand in yours and Joel reminds himself that he has faith. Faith in you, in what the two of you have built. He knows you’re capable of fending for yourself. And, more than that, he knows should you falter, he’ll be wherever you fall to pick you back up.

Should you forgive her, he’ll be at your side. And should you decide to keep your distance, he’ll be there just as well.

He finds Tommy and Olive near the barn. The two of them talk over how the conversation went and Joel admits he’s weary of the truce the two of you’ve come to. He holds Olive while Tommy picks a handful of herbs.

When they return to the house, Maria takes the infant from Joel’s arms and says softly, “Thank you. For making me see the error of my ways. For being for her what I never could be.”

It’s going to take time for him. You might be able to forgive her after a long talk and some time away, but Joel isn’t so easily swayed. 

And he thinks Maria knows it because as they’re leaving to return to Jackson that night she nods and says, “I’m really sorry, Joel. To you as much as to her. I’m going to try and make this right. For what it’s worth, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this happy.”

He looks at you as Tommy holds you in a tight embrace, at the way the two of you have such an ease with one another. He looks at Olive and the way she stares up at her mother as if she put the stars in the sky. “It’s not me you’ve gotta make it right for,” he tells her.

“I know. I’m going to do everything I can to prove it,” she says. “You’ve built a beautiful home here.”

When they leave, you melt in Joel’s arms and he carries you to bed and rubs your back as you cry.

But Maria keeps her word. She brings Ellie and Olive to the farm twice a week every week. Sometimes they bring trinkets or gifts or supplies from Jackson, other times they leave with vegetables from the garden or fresh baked bread. She never raises her voice at you, never asks anything of you other than, how can I help? Tommy becomes Jackson’s most frequent runner, but he oftentimes will stop out to see the two of you before he goes anywhere and the farm is his first stop on the way back. 

It takes time, takes a bit more watering and sunlight, but eventually trust begins to take root.

A snowstorm hits in December. It takes out the generator, leaving the farmhouse dark for most hours of the day. Joel tries to fix it but after a few hours in the cold, you tell him to come back inside, that in a few days you’ll take a trip to Jackson to get tools to repair it. 

You make the most of the darkness. You light a fire in the hearth and sleep on the living room floor. You play rummy a hundred times and Joel lets you cheat for every game just to see the smile on your face when you beat him. He teaches you how to play poker and you use walnuts as chips.

He discovers you have the best poker face he’s ever seen. And when he’s backed into a corner, unsure whether to fold or to put in all his walnuts, Joel gives up and throws his cards down, and crawls to you instead. He pushes you back against the mass of blankets and pillows brought down from the bedroom, forces your legs apart, and devours you. He licks and sucks at your clit until you’re crying out for him. Until you’re crying out for God.

He doesn’t know why he chooses this moment, but he does. 

“I want to marry you,” he says with his head between your thighs.

“What? What are you…?”

With his mouth pressed to the inside of your thigh, he says it again. “I wanna marry you, little girl.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, brows furrowed in confusion. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. He leans back down and runs his tongue through your wet heat, delighting in the way you shiver and shake with just a single touch. “Want to give you everything.”

“You’ve already given me everything,” you say. Your hands tangle in the roots of his hair. “This is everything. You are everything, Joel.”

He slides his finger into you with ease. You’re dripping for him, slick coating his knuckles and spilling out of you and onto the blankets. “Wanna give you my last name, too,” he says. “Want you to be my little girl forever.”

“I already am,” you say, and it sounds like a promise.

The words make him groan against your skin. I already am. Of course you are. You’ve always been. 

Joel makes you finish on his mouth one more time before crawling up to you and pulling you close. Before he has a chance to lay his head down you’re asking through panting breaths, “Did you mean it?”

“‘Course I did.” He presses a kiss to your hairline that’s dotted with sweat. You stay silent for a moment, and Joel finds that it doesn’t frighten him. Whatever your answer may be he’s content with. Satisfied, happy. As long as he gets to hold you like this there’s nothing else he’d ever need. 

Still, he can’t deny the excitement that courses through him when you say, “Okay. We’ll go to the chapel when we get to Jackson.”

While you sleep, he carves two identical oak rings to perfectly fit on your ring fingers. He stains them black, seals the wood, and fries eggs for breakfast to present them with. He asks if you’d rather wait and put them on during the ceremony or if you want to do it now. 

“We should do it now, don’t you think? Just the two of us.” 

He puts yours on for you around a mouthful of scrambled eggs and a smile so wide it hurts his cheeks. When you place Joel’s ring on his finger, it doesn’t feel out of place or foreign on his hand. It feels like taking off an uncomfortable piece of clothing after wearing it all day, like kicking your feet up and laying your head back. It feels like coming home.

The moment is intimate and he knows he’ll always remember it, always hold the memory close. He finds himself missing it even while still living it, finds himself wanting to stay in this little happy bubble with you forever.

After breakfast, you’re readying yourself for the journey to Jackson. Bundling up in warm clothes, tightening boot laces, filling canteens. But then the front door is ripped open and on instinct, Joel grabs his rifle from the side of the bed. 

“Joel!”

Tommy’s voice is frantic. The both of you are at the bottom of the stairs in a second. 

His brother lets out a sigh of relief and doubles over with his hands on his knees. “Oh, thank God. I thought the storm might’ve taken out the farm.”

Joel doesn’t understand it at first. But when the three of you climb into Tommy’s truck and head to Jackson, he realizes just how fortunate you’d gotten. 

Less than a mile away, there are downed trees on every side of the street, thousand-year-old trunks severed in half. The abandoned buildings between the farm and the commune have been demolished, splintered into a thousand tiny pieces. 

Somehow, you’d been left untouched. The generator was the worst of it.

For the first time, he wonders just how safe you really are. He’d brought you to the farm, away from Jackson, to protect you. But there are things he can’t fight against. Beasts he has no business battling. He wonders if the two of you should abandon the home, the heaven you’ve created in order to ensure your safety.

You’ve gotten lucky twice now. He knows there won’t be a third time.

You reach through the space between the driver and passenger seats and grip Joel’s hand in yours. He can feel your ring press against the palm of his hand and it grounds him, pulls him out of his head. With your free hand, you hold the cross necklace you’ve never taken off since he’d given it to you in that church and say, “I know you don’t believe in God much anymore, but I think something has been looking out for us.”

At the chapel, Tommy stands beside Joel and Ellie stands beside you. Dina takes pictures on an old Polaroid camera. Half of Jackson sits in the pews and there’s so much joy and laughter in the day that Joel wonders if he deserves it. 

But then you look at him, slide your hand into his, and press your cheek to his shoulder. You say, “I love you,” as if it’s the simplest, easiest thing you’ve ever said. As if it’s second nature. You don’t fight it, don’t hesitate or second guess. You say it because it’s true. You, an innocent, love him.

Joel Miller thinks he might be worthy of forgiveness after all.

[part nine]

taglist; @heartbrokenlilbitch-nef @elliesr1fle @pascaltesfaye

[masterlist]

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

HotD seems a bit kinder to Ser Otto and Queen Alicent and now even Ser Gwayne. Granted the Hightowers we meet in the main story are only just briefly mentioned by other characters, but what do hear of them like Leyton or Lynesse aren't that great. The Lannister get a lot of (not undeserved) flack from within the fandom, but are under-the-radar terrible as Houses like the Lannisters or even the Freys or Boltons?

I wouldn't say HOTD is kinder to the Hightowers, as much as it allows them to be real people and not just historical caricatures or empty shells. (The biggest failure of F&B's history book conceit, more than any of the other problems with that book.)

For example, Gwayne in the book gets assigned to the Gold Cloaks to keep an eye on them in case some are still loyal to Daemon, and then during the Fall of King's Landing gets murked by his own men because indeed they are still loyal to Daemon. That's it, that's all there is to him, there's no there there. (Although the "You turncloaks!" "Daemon gave us these cloaks and they're gold no matter how you turn them." is a great line, and I hope it's kept even if Gwayne may not be involved.)

Gwayne in the show, however, is a prissy classist racist aristocrat, who is still brave in battle and protective of his sister and caring for his nephew; he's a knight who helps depict GRRM's knighthood themes with Criston; he's an actual person, both good and bad as a GRRM character should be. I have hopes that Gwayne takes the Ser Hobert Hightower role for the Caltrops and Second Tumbleton, that would be a great ending (especially considering his relationship with Daeron) for an excellent actor.

Re the main story Hightowers -- well, generally GRRM goes by Tolstoy's principle of "All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Or as he put it, "happy families are boring." Not everyone always gets along in real families, and even the most beloved king and queen can be real assholes to their daughters. I imagine that when we actually meet Leyton in TWOW and find out exactly how complicated his family is -- four wives and ten children, you know there's friction there -- we'll see something imperfect, but different from the Lannisters, Freys, or Boltons. Maybe more dysfunctional the way Cregan Stark's family was dysfunctional or the Tyrells are dysfunctional. (If you think they're a perfectly happy family, then you entirely missed Olenna's relationship with Mace, Mace's relationship with Willas and Loras, Mace's relationship with Margaery, Olenna's relationship with Alerie, and so on and so forth.)

I can see Leyton as a patriarch who became increasingly distant as he got more into esoteric research (he hasn't come down from the top of the Hightower in more than a decade), leaving the eldest son Baelor to manage everything practical in the absence of his father. Was Leyton already half-distant the year before he stopped leaving the Hightower, and that's why he let his youngest daughter (only 16 or 17 years old) marry a newly knighted 35-year-old poor-ass lord from the back of beyond just because he did well in a tourney? How did the rest of the family react to that? The people of Oldtown don't think much of Lynesse now, but how did they feel when their young golden lady was taken away by a bear? These kinds of complicated relationships are the sort of detail GRRM loves to sink his teeth into, and is one of the reasons I'm so looking forward to Sam's Oldtown chapters almost more than anything in TWOW.

[withthewindinherfootsteps]

MDZS Notes + Analysis — Chapter Two: “Reincarnation”

Three main things stood out to me when rereading this chapter: the theme of status, our intro to WWX, and the information we’re given about his state after death.

…Well, four things, but the other one will get its own post.

The theme of status is immediately introduced* with ‘MXY’’s treatment and the backstory of MXY and his mother, yet again showing just how well MDZS’s ideas are integrated into the text and how well it’s paced! You’re introduced to every important theme so, so early on. Two screenshots are analysed below:

(See: entitlement of the upper classes towards the lower classes, and how this can exist even between members of the ‘same family’; and arguably the idea of debts between a richer family and someone who was 'taken in'. There are a surprising amount of parallels between MXY and WWX, but I'll make my own post about that)

(See: once again, differences in status between members of the same family, and also the worse, and disposable, treatment of one daughter because she was "the daughter of a servant". Now, why does that phrase sound familiar...?)

Also, MXY's mother was sixteen when she attracted JGS's attention... if you somehow needed even more material to hate the guy...

We also get introduced to WWX’s personality(!), which immediately disproves the rumours from last chapter on how he'd cast the world into ruin:

(That's one of the first questions he asks after waking up – I love how he's so concerned about this! It shows us two important things, too: 1) Morality is important to WWX, and 2) Doing immoral things seems to be out of the ordinary for him. Both of these stand in direct contrast to the picture of WWX we were painted earlier!)

(Same thing here, along with showing us some of the (healthy!) pride WWX has – he wouldn't be offended at this if wasn't something he held as important within himself)

(I use this quote again, but here it's once again proving that the vengeful, evil WWX who'd sink the cultivation world into "nothing but chaos and despair" at the first chance he got... very much does not exist.)

(And finally, it's explicitly confirmed here that he's not the type to take exessive revenge and take pleasure in it... at least at this point in time, because. MXY definitely had reason to think this considering Sunshot!WWX, if everyone had been working from the truth. But importantly that isn't who he is now, and isn't who the WWX villified by the cultivation world was – imo that's including Nightless City, we'll get to that when I reach it. But note that actions during the Sunshot campaign aren't even mentioned in the prologue, because, shock, they actually helped the cultivation world win the war! Though that doesn't mean they weren't part of rumours + the WWX hatred mill later.)

Then some non-morality related things:

This is just really funny to me, with how the makeup being badly applied (:o) is enough of an issue to merit a thought – WWX I love you.

And then this way of thinking comes back a few times esp during the earlier chapters, enough to be noted I think.

Confirmation on WWX's status after he died – it's not anything new to point out, but this chapter does give us rare insights into what state he was in during the post-death, pre-rebirth period.

So, he was somewhat conscious, enough to be aware of what he was(n't) doing – seeking vengeance, haunting the living – and was seemingly in control of those actions. However, he was specifically a "wandering ghost" – his soul didn't pass onto the afterlife or "return back to Earth"** like the body-offering spell's caster's would. He was conscious that a long time had passed as well, and this long period of downtime where he could accept + deal with what happened in his first life is what likely allowed him to be so well-adjusted the second time round – even taking into account the remarkably good way he tends to deal with things in general (cue the "forgetting the wound when the pain fades" quote, it summarises WWX's mindset really well)***.

Also, as for resisting the summons from the prologue – I'm wondering how much was due to WWX's experience with resentful energy + general capability (if that affects it..?) allowing him to consciously refuse, how much was due to WWX not being the type to hold onto resentment (so possibly spells targeting ghosts, full of this resentful energy, wouldn't be as affected?), and how much was due to the relative lack of knowledge about how ghosts/resentful energy works compared to WWX. Or, if it was something else. Either way, achieving the impossible, that's WWX for you :D

It is interesting that he hasn't heard a voice in ages despite wandering, too – do ghosts just not hear the same way, or did he deliberately avoid areas with people? I could see both, the second being more likely, especially considering how many people wanted to summon him back for... less than stellar purposes.

Misc:

Poor Mo Xuanyu....

--

*Well, reinforced – in the prologue, one of the things said about WWX is that "if not for the YunmengJiang clan’s adopting and teaching him, he would have been a hobo living on the streets", which is among the insults people throw. So of course, class-affecting-perception is tied to WWX from the very beginnning! But this is the first time it's actually explored, not a throwaway line.

**Though that may be what's literally happening to WWX's soul here – it is wandering around Earth – I don't think that's what this line refers to. There's a very good meta on how different translations handled that line, I really recommend it (tysm @/mxtxfanatic for finding it)!

***It would be very interesting to read a fic where it felt like no time had passed for him since his death, actually! Though the extremely stressful circumstances are gone, it would still be interesting to see a WWX for whom the Siege, Nightless City, Qiongqi Path etc are pretty recent – but only in fic territory, since I'm so, so glad we got the WWX we did in canon. Also, I'd love to see a fic maybe exploring some of his time as a ghost...?

[fishy-poof-crackers]

Why Trios Work - Part One

The Training Trio: Kaito, Maki, Shuichi

In Danganronpa: Killing Harmony, Kaito invites Shuichi and Maki to train at night. Though their time together comes with character and relationship development between the three of them.

Relationship & character analysis.

Disclaimers:

Spoilers for the entirety of v3: Killing Harmony.

Content warnings: illness/disease, discussion of blood.

I haven't seen v3 in awhile. I tend to think as I write and I may ramble and repeat things and not make any sense, haha.

1. Kaito has Maki's and Shuichi's best interests at heart.

The loss of Rantaro and Kaede has taken its toll on everyone in the killing game. It starts a sequence of events that leads into a downward spiral of bloodlust and murder.

Kaede's death hits the hardest for Shuichi. It's implied that Shuichi had feelings for Kaede. Even if it was a small crush, Kaito knows that they had a deeper emotional connection. They trusted each other, they were there for each other, etc.

But because Shuichi spent so much time with Kaede, he didn't form hard connections with the other students.

Kaito invites Shuichi to befriend him and help him cope with the loss of Kaede.

Shuichi makes a promise to Kaede that he will end the killing game. Kaito knows that Shuichi can't do this on his own. He knows that someone at least needs to be there to boost Shuichi's morale. By showing that he believes in him, Kaito is being his shoulder to lean on.

(Kaito himself also wants to end the killing game. He doesn't believe that he can do it by himself, or that Shuichi can do it by himself. It isn't just Shuichi fulfilling Kaede's wishes to stop the killing game; Kaito fulfills her wish to have everyone band together. He believes that it takes a team. Teamwork makes a dream work, right?)

Kaito invited Shuichi to help him grow stronger.

They have similar interests at heart.

Kaito invited Shuichi to achieve their goals.

Since this is chapter two we're talking about, there isn't much to say about Maki.

Kaito takes an interest in Maki.

Okay, Kaito isn't very smart, but somehow he's able to see inside her. The rest of the students brush her off, including Kaede, the main protagonist. I don't remember who, but one of the two (I think Shuichi) points out that Maki can't be heartless due to her talent. In chapter two, Shuichi still doesn't have the mindset of the others when it comes to her. He doesn't make an effort like Kaito, but he doesn't think she's some stone-cold bitch with a secret.

Yeah, it isn't much, but Shuichi sees something else in Maki, too. So, Kaito and Shuichi both see something in Maki (mostly Kaito).

Shuichi is surprised to learn Kaito invited Maki, but he's even more surprised when she joins. It's disappointing when she doesn't interact with them like Kaito and Shuichi have been, but as you probably know, this eventually changes.

Like Shuichi, Kaito invites Maki to help her grow stronger.

When I say stronger, I mean in all aspects. Emotionally, physically, mentally. He wants them to become stronger people, wants them to have stronger relationships- Kaito wants them to be strong.

Kaito invites Maki because he wants her to open up.

This is a big recurring theme in chapter two. Going back through this analysis in my head I simplified the reason why, and it makes me kind of sad. There are a few reasons Kaito wants Maki to open up. I'll do my best to emphasize how heartwarming they are.

Going stronger, yadda yadda.

Curiosity. This is far from the main reason, but I respect it. Heavily. I'm a curious person (sometimes) and I always want the fucking answers.

He sees her as a closely-guarded person. This ties into the third reason, so view this as a prequel, haha. Kaito doesn't think isolation will help her at all. I don't remember if he thinks this will make her a target (he probably does, but he's still not the main reason he wants to connect with her), but in general, he thinks isolated people are not happy. In a high-pressure situation, Kaito believes she's burying her emotions deep. He knows that isn't a good thing.

Kaito is genuinely concerned for Maki's well-being.

This hurt me a lot. It's so sweet, and it shows how good of a person Kaito is. As stated, the reason he's concerned about her is because he wants her to be happy. He wants her to be comfortable with herself. Kaito shows this throughout the game- evidence on this later.

Kaito wants Maki to heal.

Again, evidence on this later, but Kaito believes that if Maki lets her guard down and learns to trust others, she can learn to trust and love herself.

2. Dynamic (+Humor).

Their dynamic works beautifully.

Technically, their dynamic is called a "complex bro-ship" LMAO. ("Gym bros" also works, I guess. I hate that term, it's more sexualized than bro-ships.) But they ARE! This post was meant to be ambiguous- you can interpret it as a friendship or a romance. You still can! I just use the term 'friendship' a lot for this point.

Honestly, "bro-ship"s in media makes it seem like they have to be between two guys and there's sexual tension and they're probably fucking on the side, or it's a Disney Love Triangle where it's romantic and you have to choose one (not to mention that your love interests don't like each other), or it's one ship and friend-zoning and jealousy.

The Training Trio not only defies the typical stereotypes, but they go beyond it. It truly is a complex friendship. I fucking love it when relationships make the stereotype complex, but I love it even more when they break it entirely.

This trio also brings some good comedic relief.

And relief in general, but allow me to elaborate on the humor aspect.

When Maki first starts exercising with the group, the boys' reaction is priceless. They're like, 'Woah, where the hell did this come from?' It's hilarious.

Kaito doesn't do the workout with them. It quickly becomes obvious that he set the group up for emotional reasons, but it's still funny to watch. Maki and Shuichi call him out on it and he straight-up makes excuses and picks on Shuichi.

He isn't hurting Shuichi's feelings too bad either, and it gets Maki to laugh.

I adore humor like this if no one is actually getting hurt. Maybe this isn't the perfect example of how this humor works because Shuichi does feel a little put-down, and I don't think he should feel bad at all.

Even so, the way they make me laugh feels way less awkward than most of the other characters do in the cast. Partly because the other jokes used in v3 are rude and sexual, partly because the Training Trio brings a sense of comfort because it feels like a joke between friends.

3. Character Development.

Character development and a closer look to each of their characters.

I'll start with the most obvious one.

Maki

Maki becomes less cold-hearted and more open. She shows kindness to others while not letting them walk all over her. In the past, she kept up a prickly barrier that would poke you if you even touched it.

In the end, she falls for Kaito. She reveals it after the fifth trial when he's about to get executed for murdering Kokichi.

"I've never... fallen for anyone before."

Kaito replies that by learning to love and trust others, she can learn to love and trust herself.

More than vulnerability, allowing herself to care, and showing the two on numerous occasions, Maki allows herself to feel. After Kaito's death, she admits she cried that night. Although she also says she wouldn't allow herself to cry about it anymore.

Shuichi

Honestly, most of his character development can be chalked down to Kaede, but... Nah. I do believe that she was a huge influence, but hear me out.

I believe Kaede pushed Shuichi towards being more confident, but there were still times when he doubted himself. Shuichi is always doubting himself; however, we see Kaito and Maki not only back him up, but sometimes they even go so far as to give words of encouragement.

There were multiple times when Shuichi said he didn't think he could fulfill Kaede's wishes. At some point, he thinks about how he doesn't think he's able to do it without her...

...But he has Maki and Kaito.

Shuichi will never be alone again.

Kaito

This was harder to think about, especially because I didn't really care for Kaito in my v3 phase. I did go back to be able to form an opinion.

Kaito is encouraging, brave.... and full of himself. Maki (and Shuichi) have to put him in his place multiple times. Kaito listens and tries to become a better person while still maintaining his own beliefs. He sticks to what he believes in, which is also his downside.

But that's a character description, not development you're saying?

Yeah. You're right.

Kaito more or less stays the same. Not all the characters are going to develop that much. Especially in v3.

4. Mutual Relationship.

I implied before that their relationship doesn't lean one way or the other, meaning it's extremely mutual.

"But Maki has a crush on Kaito!"

Yeah.

So?

Maki still looks out for Shuichi after Kaito dies. While they're training Maki chooses to talk to Shuichi to get his view on something. She says that Shuichi can give her different viewpoints than Kaito, so she goes to him instead.

You have to understand that Maki and Shuichi went through Kaito's downfall together.

I've already explained how Kaito cares for Shuichi and Maki and how they care for him in return. So, there's no need to elaborate on that, but I will add a point.

Kaito's illness. They're both genuinely horrified. Neither of them wants him to die, and both of them want to do their best to help Kaito recover. He brought them together.

Conclusion

I've never been good at ending things, haha. I really like these three! I believe they were crucial to the plot and they definitely didn't waste our time.

If you have any suggestions you can put them in my inbox, but I also read comments and reposts.

Speaking of which, both of those are very appreciated! I've never done an analysis on my own time before. Thank you.

[quickgirl]

The Astrology of Fame: Jupiter and Pluto's Link to Superstardom

Jupiter expands and Pluto intensifies. When these two connect in the natal chart, something magical happens.

Note: Not everyone with a Jupiter/Pluto link is going to explode in popularity and become household names echoed around the world for decades to come. Not every star has the Jupiter/Pluto link, either. However, this is a theme I've (and others) have noticed more often than not in the charts of people who have had their breakthrough.

In the many charts I've seen, almost every single celebrity had an aspect to their Jupiter/Pluto midpoint OR Jupiter and Pluto connected through a different midpoint instead (i.e Jupiter conjunct Moon/Pluto midpoint). It seems to be a far more accurate and reoccurring marker than just a natal aspect between the two planets (though that shouldn't be ignored, either).

I believe long-time astrologer, Basil Fearrington, was the first to notice the link between wealth and the Jupiter/Pluto midpoint. Even though midpoints only tend to count when activated through a hard aspect (conjunction, square, and opposition), Basil surmised that the Jupiter/Pluto midpoint is so potent that even soft aspects should be considered.

The late and wonderful Marga, creator of Dutch astrology website "Astromarkt", took it a step further and said that the Jupiter/Pluto midpoint didn't even need to be activated. The two planets conjoining at all in any midpoint combination (or through natal aspects) was enough to generate immense potential for power and fame.

Soft aspects are not generally considered in midpoint astrology. The reasoning for that is because sextiles and trines require little to no effort. The owner of them may or may not ever put those talents to use, and thus the potential of certain aspects and midpoints may never get recognized. But I think that's underselling it a bit. We do use them, we're just not privy to honing them in the way we would a hard aspect.

Humans have a penchant for believing that suffering equals greater reward, therefore we're far more likely to try and understand then tame a Mars sq. Pluto and let the Venus trine Jupiter do its own thing in the background virtually untouched. Sometimes semi-squares and sesquiquadrates are taken into consideration in midpoint astrology, but their influence is weak. If they can get their day in the limelight, I'm also giving some to the sextile and trine. They obviously have a purpose or else the aspect wouldn't even exist.

Now if you'd like to check for this theme yourself, use Astro.com. The drop-down menu for "Chart drawing style" has two different midpoint options. Ebertin chart allows for a wider orb of up to 2°, but only shows major hard aspects. Keller has a much smaller orb, but also shows soft aspects and parallels/contra-parallels. I use both.

With the clerical info out of the way, let's gain more insight into the Jupiter/Pluto energy itself. Astrologer John Sandbach describes it as such:

A tremendous desire to learn and to grow, and to acquire power, be it of the more intangible, mental sort, or worldly in nature. Driving, unstoppable enthusiasm. A relentless urge toward excess. The ability to transform how things are organized. To have big ideas and far-reaching aims. Going to great extremes. The persistent urge to do whatever is needed to overcome problems. Grandiosity. Religious fanaticism.

Jupiter/Pluto promises a larger than life persona with strong intellect and passions to stitch it all together. Think not of just musicians, models, and actors, but of cult leaders, gourmands, CEO's, luxury jewelry salespeople, and even fine art collectors who amass the rarest of paintings. There is a salient and recognizable power and privilege. Clearly fame isn't the only highlight here.

But if you are fixated on fame, what kind are we even talking about? 15-second TikTok fame? One-hit wonders and Meghan Trainor's of the world who have a shelf life of 2 years then respawn 10 years later because of a viral tweet? Absolutely not. These are the stars you never forget who cannot be compared to others. Rather, others are compared to them. They set the standard and are known everywhere, even outside of their home country. They amass wealth, power, respect, and create a legacy.

May the examples below speak for themselves.

Very well-known celebrities with aspects to their Jupiter/Pluto midpoint:

Ariana Grande (Saturn trine)

Zayn Malik (ASC trine)

Jeon Jungkook (Sun trine)

Selena Gomez (Mercury sextile; Saturn trine; Neptune square)

Conan O'Brien (Saturn trine)

Tom Cruise (Saturn trine; Node sextile)

Marilyn Monroe (MC conjunct)

George Clooney (Mercury opposite; Uranus square)

Brad Pitt (MC square)

Leonardo DiCaprio (ASC contra-parallel)

Beyoncé (Saturn & Mercury contra-parallel)

Cristiano Ronaldo (Uranus conjunct)

Naomi Campbell (Moon sextile)

Taylor Swift (Neptune trine)

Barack Obama (ASC square)

Very well-known celebrities with an active midpoint that contains Jupiter and Pluto together:

Rihanna (Jupiter square Moon/Pluto)

Meryl Streep (Pluto trine Moon/Jupiter)

Kurt Cobain (Pluto sextile Moon/Jupiter)

Al Pacino (Pluto square Sun/Jupiter; Pluto square Jupiter/Saturn)

Zendaya (Pluto parallel Moon/Jupiter)

Angelina Jolie (Jupiter opposite Uranus/Pluto; Pluto contra-parallel Jupiter/ASC; Pluto parallel Jupiter/S.Node)

Stephen Colbert (Jupiter square Venus/Pluto; Jupiter square Pluto/Node; Pluto parallel Venus/Jupiter)

Timothée Chalamet (Jupiter conjunct Mercury/Pluto)

Joaquin Phoenix (Jupiter trine Neptune/Pluto)

Nicole Kidman (Jupiter parallel Mercury/Pluto)

Robert De Niro (Jupiter conjunct Pluto/Node)

Kim Kardashian (Jupiter parallel Moon/Pluto)

Priyanka Chopra (Pluto conjunct Jupiter/Saturn; Pluto parallel Mercury/Jupiter)

Margot Robbie (Jupiter sextile Pluto/ASC; Pluto trine Sun/Jupiter; Pluto trine Mercury/Jupiter)

Drake (Jupiter trine Venus/Pluto; Pluto sextile Sun/Jupiter)

From all of the midpoint combinations, Moon/Jupiter/Pluto was the most prevalent. For this post I personally combed through the midpoints of about 45 celebrities total with 30 making the cut here. The other ~15 did not have an active Jupiter/Pluto midpoint nor an active midpoint combination with them. What they did have was a natal aspect between the two planets in their chart, or Jupiter and Pluto both made an aspect to either their Sun, Moon, ASC, or MC within 7°.

If I had to speculate on short-term fame aka "fast rise, even faster fall", I'd wager those kinds of viral sensations have a transit hitting their Jupiter/Pluto midpoint instead, and the lack of natal support can only push it so far. This is something I have to do more research on.

All done! Thank you for reading. This is my first real astrology post. I'm not sure if I'll ever write more as I prefer to lurk, but who knows. Ciao🌷

Sources: (1), (2), (3), (4) + astrotheme.com for providing the birth details

[copperboom82]

Southern Cross

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC (female)

Word Count: 4k

Prompts: "Try focusing on your life and less on mine" and "first snow."

Title credit: Southern Cross by Crosby, Stills, and Nash

Summary: Holidays aren't always easy for everyone. As Christmas approaches, neither Dean nor Katrina are having the best time. Can they find solace in each other, or is it just too natural to push each other's buttons?

Set mid-season 6. Precedes my other one shot, Something, but can absolutely be read on its own.

AN: Hello! This is my second submission for @jacklesversebingo and my first story for @chevroletdean's Promt-Mas for the Supernatural Writers Community (First Snow prompt). Also - please forgive me, I wrote this in one go, while sick. I did proofread, but will definitely do another round when my head's a little clearer.

Warnings: Mild language and themes of loss and grief. Please let me know if I missed something - I don't think I did, but I'm also very new to posting my writing.

*****************

“Hey, I was using that!” Dean exclaimed as the TV remote was yanked out of his hand. It was the middle of the day on a cold, dreary Wednesday, and while he was sure there was plenty he could be doing, with Sam still out cold in Bobby’s ghost-proof panic room, taking up residence on Bobby’s couch and flipping through crappy day-time TV seemed to be his best option.

God forbid he do it in peace though. Katrina looked over her shoulder at his outburst, that irritating grin of hers in place, and stuck her tongue out at him before flopping down onto the other side of the couch.

“Get better taste in TV and maybe I’ll share,” she quipped, settling in and starting to do her own flipping. Dean grumbled but settled deeper back into the couch himself. It wasn’t worth the fight. Even if he won, she wouldn’t stop complaining, and Dean wasn’t all that invested anyway. Everything was just white noise these days anyway.

“You’re one to talk about taste,” he retorted, eyeing her outfit… though the term seemed generous. She was dressed down today, or rather, she hadn’t gotten dressed yet, still clad in black and red plaid pajama bottoms and an orange t-shirt that had an illustration stretched across the chest, with Crosby, stills, Nash & Young printed under it and clashed horribly. “I don’t know what’s worse, your fashion sense or the band.” 

Katrina rolled her eyes and threw a pillow at his head. “Fuck off. I don’t say anything when you dress like a wanna-be biker, do I?”

Dean narrowed his eyes, but Katrina ignored him, her own gaze intent on Bobby’s crappy TV.

It had been a few months since Katrina Black had come into Dean’s life. She’d been an unwelcome but seemingly non-negotiable addition to his found family when Sam had shown up at his door back in the Fall and he’d had to bring Lisa and Ben to Sioux Falls in search of a safe landing spot while they took care of the djinn. It had taken some time, but what had started as a begrudging tolerance had given way to a genuine friendship, one that Dean had trouble imagining at times how he’d done without. But she still had a way of grating on his nerves at times. Today was one of those days.

He’d been there for just about a week, not counting the day he’d spent trying and failing to fill Death’s shoes. Kat had only shown up the day before, but from what Dean understood, she was planning on staying until after Christmas. He’d been more than a little surprised, considering from what he understood she had a full-time job and was missed when she disappeared for too long. The surprise had immediately been replaced by annoyance when she’d told him someone needed to check in on Bobby after Sam’s failed attempt at patricide. As if Dean weren’t perfectly fucking capable. 

Bobby was more than fine. The old bastard was tough as nails. Even robo-Sam didn’t have a shot of taking him down. He didn’t need Kat checking up on him. Neither did Dean, for that matter. Or Sam. The three of them were fine, and if Kat was just going to lounge around all day and steal his remote, he wasn’t sure what help she thought she was being.

“What are you doing here anyway?” he asked after a few minutes of silence. To that point, she still hadn’t settled on a channel, but the wrist she had extended towards the TV faltered at his question, and he noticed the shadow of a frown cross her face.

“I told you; I came to check in on Bobby.” 

She clicked the channel button a few more times, slower than before, and then dropped her arm back to her side and curled deeper into her chosen spot.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean allowed, even though he still thought it was stupid. “He’s fine though, and last I checked, you were planning on staying till after Christmas, which is still over a week away.” 

Katrina shrugged, eyes still fixed on the TV. Dean followed her line of sight and noticed she’d landed on I Love Lucy. He had to work not to snort at the predictability. In the months they’d known one another, he wasn’t sure he’d seen her pick anything aside from I Love Lucy, Bewitched, Gilligan’s Island, or The Munsters. Creature of habit, she called it. Boring was the word Dean used, but it was mostly to get a rise out of her. Given the way she kept him on his toes most of the time, he found it oddly endearing that she had some quirks that were so insanely consistent. 

“So what? I have some time off. You got a problem with it?” 

“No.”

It was a mostly honest answer. He didn’t have a problem with it… he just wanted to be left well enough alone. There was enough shit on his mind… the nonstop anxiety over whether Sam was going to wake up and whether he’d be Sam when he did… the near constant ache for Lisa and Ben that only seemed to grow as the holidays approached… his growing concern over whatever goddamn war Cas was fighting but keeping them out of… the bitter anger he was still feeling towards dear old gramps. 

The last thing he needed was Katrina and the complicated feelings her presence stirred in him.

“You seem like you’ve got a problem with it,” she prodded, and Dean held back a groan. Why did she always have to poke and prod? “You’ve been in a mood since I got here.” 

“I have not been in a mood,” Dean deflected, giving an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Katrina snorted and shook her head, clearly not convinced, and Dean’s eyes narrowed further. “Just doesn’t make sense is all. Christmas with a grumpy old hunter, a coma patient, and a – what did you call me the other day? A stubborn ass? Doesn’t exactly scream holiday cheer to me.” 

A wry smile formed on Kat’s face, but it didn’t reach her eyes, and Dean thought he noticed her shoulders tense.

“What do you mean? Sounds just like home to me,” she jabbed back.

“Aw, c’mon, Kat,” Dean pushed, finding himself curious now. “Don’t you have a younger sister? Wouldn’t you rather spend it with her than with us hacks?” 

Dean definitely didn’t imagine the reaction that time. Katrina’s jaw definitely clenched.

“Jenna’s on a cruise with her boyfriend and his family,” she informed him flatly. Dean frowned, his mind working overtime to recall what he knew of her situation. From what he understood, she and Jenna were close. Freakishly close… though he understood the irony in having anything to say about something like that himself. 

“What, and bailed on you for Christmas?” he asked in disbelief before he could stop himself. Katrina rolled her eyes.

“She didn’t bail on me; we talked about it. She’ll be back in time for me to see her before she goes back to school. It’s no big deal.” 

Dean doubted that very much, but he wasn’t stupid enough to voice as much. He was, apparently, stupid enough to keep digging, however. 

“Alright, fine, your sister’s not around. Still, though, you gotta have something you’d rather be doing.”

“Shut up, I’m trying to watch,” she dismissed, but Dean snorted. He was fairly certain that she could quote these episodes by now.

“Bullshit. C’mon, Kat. What’s the rest of your family up to? You should spend the time off with them, not watching crap TV on Bobby’s couch and helping man the phones.” 

He realized seconds too late that he’d pushed too far, and when Katrina’s head whipped around, he nearly gulped when he saw the fire in her eyes.

“The hell is your problem?” she hissed. Dean felt his mouth drop open, feeling stupid when the words he needed suddenly evaded him.

“Kat, I’m – “

“Save it, Winchester. Why don’t you try focusing on your life and less on mine?” 

And without another word, she pitched the remote back in his direction and took off towards the stairs, leaving a bewildered Dean in her wake. 

The next few days were tension filled to say the least. While their spats typically blew over of their own accord, there was something different about this one that Dean didn’t know how to put his finger on. It was a small house, but Katrina still managed to find a way to mostly avoid him. He tried to apologize, but any time he got close, she made up an excuse to be anywhere else, or quickly struck up a conversation with Bobby. 

When they were occupying the same space, the snark that had permeated every conversation they’d had in their early days returned tenfold. Dean couldn’t seem to say so much as a word without Kat having some sarcastic comment or biting remark to throw back in his direction, even when he was talking to Bobby. It was bad enough that Friday night Bobby cornered him about it, and given Bobby’s preference to stay as far out of their disagreements as possible, that was saying a lot.

“What’d you do to Trina?” the old man asked, dropping into a seat at the kitchen table and sliding a beer across the table. Dean looked up from the article he’d mindlessly been scrolling through on Sam’s laptop, surprised at the question – though not too surprised to scoop up the offered bottle, even as he pushed the laptop aside.

“Oh, c’mon, Bobby. I didn’t do anything. You know how Kat gets. She’s been in a mood since she got here.” 

Bobby, however, looked back skeptically, raising his eyebrows as he took a pull from his own beer.

“Is that so?” 

Dean nodded, knocking back his own beer. It was late. There still hadn’t been any change in Sam, a thought that was gnawing at Dean like nothing else. The house had been quiet since dinner – pizza Bobby had ordered before Katrin had slipped upstairs, citing she needed an ‘early night.’

“Yeah. She came in the other day while I was watching TV, stole my remote, and told me I had no taste. Typical Katrina.” 

A voice in the back of his head nagged at him that he knew there was more to it than that, but Dean didn’t want to get into it with Bobby. He didn’t understand what had gone so wrong himself, and he wasn’t in the mood to rehash it. Bobby, however, seemed to be able to sense the damn voice. 

“Oh yeah, that sounds like her alright,” Bobby agreed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And I’m sure you didn’t clap back at all Mr. Calm and Collected.” 

Dean sighed and ran a hand down his face. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Bobby. I gave her shit for wearing a Crosby Stills shirt, and I tried to ask her why she was hanging here for the holidays. If that got her all bent outta shape, I gotta say… I thought she was made outta tougher stuff.” 

Dean had hoped that would be the end of the conversation, but he’d anticipated maybe a bit more ribbing… maybe another round of prodding on the subject. What he didn’t expect was the look of utter exasperation tinged with disappointment that flashed across Bobby’s face, and Dean found his brow furrowing automatically in confusion.

“What?” he asked. Bobby was quiet for a moment, before he ultimately exhaled, shaking his head slowly. The disappointment seemed to win out over the exasperation.

“You know, Dean,” said, his voice surprisingly quiet, “did you ever stop to think that you ain’t the only one that’s got baggage?” 

And just like with Katrina, Bobby was gone before Dean could get any real answers. He kicked at the chair next to him in a bout of frustration before he could think better of it. Why did everything have to be so damn complicated? 

The next day, there was still no change in Sam, and Dean found himself sitting once more at the kitchen table, mindlessly flipping through one of Bobby’s books, looking for anything they might have missed about souls, when a hat and a pair of gloves landed in front of his face. He looked up in confusion that quickly morphed to surprise when he saw Katrina standing in front of him. She was bundled up in one of her heavier coats, a scarf draped around her neck, hair pulled into a messy side braid, and her hands shoved into her pockets.

“Let’s go,” she said simply. “I’m getting a Christmas tree to brighten this place up, and you’re helping me. Move your ass.” 

For a moment, Dean stared back at her blankly, too caught off guard for the words to register. But as they did, the skepticism took hold.

“The hell I am,” he tossed back. “What do we need a Christmas tree for?”

“If I’m spending my Christmas here, we’re getting a tree, and I need your help.” And despite the inexplicable guilt that Dean had been feeling for the last few days, he felt a flare of anger.

“Yeah, well no one asked you to spend Christmas here, did they?” 

Katrina was already walking towards the door but called back to him over her shoulder. 

“Wrong again, darlin. Bobby asked me months ago, which makes you the interloper. C’mon, we’ll take my car. Wouldn’t want to scratch your precious baby.” 

Christmas tree shopping was not Dean’s idea of a good day. But something about the tension of the last few days and how it had been eating at him pressed in, and Dean found himself pushing to his own feet and following after her, shrugging on his coat as he went. 

“Whatever, Black. Just don’t expect me to decorate the damn thing.” 

Christmas tree shopping with Katrina was an experience, to say the least, but Dean had to admit it felt better than sitting around the house had. For a few merciful hours, he was distracted from the constant pull he’d been feeling towards Bobby’s basement. Even the memories of doing the same thing with Lisa and Ben the previous year – the only other time Dean could remember going tree shopping – skewed to the sweet side of the bittersweet scale, a gift in and of itself these days. 

She was still a little prickly, taking any opportunity she could find to take a stab at him, but Dean gave it back as good as he got, and the tension melted back into the playful banter he had become accustomed to. It was about halfway through the second field that Dean made the mistake of complaining that he was cold, immediately regretting the slip when Katrina’s face lit up in her I-told-you-so expression.

“I thought Winchesters didn’t get cold,” she teased, elbowing him gently. Her hands were still tucked into her pockets, despite the fact that she’d donned gloves for the occasion. Dean rolled his eyes good naturedly. 

“I did not say that,” he disagreed, and Katrina chuckled.

“No, you were just adamant that you didn’t need the hat and gloves I found for you. Because, and I quote, it’s only thirty degrees out.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t expect to be at this for hours,” Dean pointed out. Katrina laughed, and Dean tried not to let himself get too drawn into her dazzling smile, or dwell on how pretty she looked with her cheeks all flushed from the cold. That was a path neither of them were equipped to go down, and even with all her rough edges, Dean wasn’t willing to risk the friendship they’d formed.

“Joke’s on you. Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbled half-heartedly. “C’mon, what do you think about this one? It looks like it would fit downstairs well enough.” 

Katrina came to stand next to him, frowning as she studied the tree. 

“I dunno, what about there? That’s a huge gap,” she complained. Dean followed where she was pointing but squinted, not seeing whatever she was talking about.

“What are you, high?” he asked, bending down. “This is the best looking tree we’ve seen so far.” 

Suddenly, however, it felt like ice had been poured over the back of his neck, and he yelped, in a way that he never did, too caught off guard at the sensation to do anything else. As he stumbled forward and upright, Katrina’s laughter filled his ears, and when he turned around, he found her grinning at him, mischievous glint in her eye and suddenly bare hands visible in front of her. Dean felt his mouth fall open in shock, and Katrina’s laughter only grew louder.

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that,” he told her, and she wasted no time arching an eyebrow at him in challenge.

“Oh yeah? Good luck.” And the next thing he knew, she was off to a running start, her laughter floating back to him over the air. Dean tore after her without a thought, glad they seemed to be the only ones this far out.

Katrina was fast, but he was taller, with a longer stride, and he caught up easily enough. Of course, Kat also had feline-like reflexes, and before he knew it, they both ended up on the ground, both winded, but laughing.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he complained. She snorted.

“Like you’re one to talk.” 

Dean ran a hand down his face and tried to catch his breath.

“Yeah, yeah. C’mon, I think I’ve had enough fun for one day. What did you actually think of that tree?” 

They were halfway back to the front of the farm, Dean hauling the tree with them, when the snow started to fall. He’d never had any particular attachment to the snow himself, it was just colder rain, but he couldn’t help smiling at the way Kat’s face lit up.

“Seriously?” he asked. “You getting’ all excited about snow?”

Of course, in typical Katrina fashion, she didn’t pay him any mind and only grinned wider.

“It’s the first snow of the year, don’t be a curmudgeon.” 

“I’m not a curmudgeon, I’m just an adult. Snow’s a pain in the ass.” 

“Yeah, well. Being an adult’s boring. Live a little. You might enjoy it.” 

The snow was still falling, already sticking to the ground and coating the earth in a thin layer of white powder when they reached their destination. The world seemed to grow quieter, muffled against heavy flakes, and with it, Dean noticed Katrina did too. They were almost done, when the kid running the machine to put the net around the trees ran into a problem and had to go inside to get help. That was when Dean noticed Katrina had drifted to the side, leaning against a fence, a faraway look in her eyes and she stared out blankly towards the road. Frowning, Dean approached, hands in his pockets, his expression morphing into one of concern.

“You alright?” he asked. 

Katrina jumped, turning quickly and flashing him a smile when she realized he was next to her, but Dean noticed it didn’t reach her eyes. Her dark hair was dotted with fresh flakes of snow, growing wet as it melted into her braid. She nodded, but Dean knew better.

“Yeah, I’m good, sorry.”

Dean’s frown deepened, and he shook his head.

“You don’t have to be sorry. What’s up, Kat?” 

She bit her bottom lip, seeming to wrestle with herself for a moment, her eyes darting back to the road, away from him. Finally, she took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, the expelled breath rustling a few loose strands of hair.

“Nothing, really. I, uh… thanks for coming with me today. I’m sorry, about the other day. About the last few days. I was a real bitch.” 

Dean had been so caught up in their afternoon that he’d almost forgotten about how they’d ended up there, but at the reminder, he suddenly felt that weird guilt again, and scratched at the back of his neck, feeling the heat creeping up it.

“Oh. No, Kat. You don’t have to – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –“ 

But Kat finally turned to look at him again, and he fell silent at the look on her face, the subtle shake of her head more powerful than anything he could have said.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I overreacted. My uh… my mom… this is the first Christmas since she died. It wasn’t too long after the new year that she passed. It’s been… harder… than I expected. I had sort of hoped that Jenna and I would still do something, but Jenna said it was too hard. She just wanted to get away this year, not celebrate. And, um… well, you know what it’s like looking out for your younger sibling. The second she told me that’s what she needed, I knew that was the way this year was gonna go, but… it’s still been a little rough. It’s just been the three of us since my dad walked out. That’s why Bobby invited me to come stay for a bit. We happened to be on a hunt together when Jenna and I had that conversation, and he didn’t want me to be by myself. But, uh, that… that doesn’t give me the excuse to treat you like crap. You didn’t know, and I should have just told you. I’m sorry. It was stupid.”

Dean felt like he’d been punched in the gut, especially when he noticed water pooling at the edges of Katrina’s eyes. He may not have known her long, but he knew she wasn’t a crier. He’d known her mom had died, but he hadn’t realized when. 

Without a second thought, Dean reached up and brushed a thumb over her cheekbone, cradling her face and keeping her from giving into that instinct he knew she had to look away. Neither of them were good with emotional vulnerability, but somehow that made it easier for him with her, and he was determined to try and give her that same outlet.

“That’s not stupid, and you don’t need to apologize. I’m so sorry, Kat. I wish I could say something that would make it better, but I’ve been there, and I know how much it sucks.” 

Katrina sniffed but nodded, still biting her lip.

“I know you do,” she whispered. “And thanks, I appreciate that.”

Dean smiled softly at her, and before he could second guess the gesture, he kissed the top of her head. When she leaned into it and wrapped an arm around his middle in a hug, Dean felt his breath catch in his throat, but he wasted no time in returning the embrace and holding her against him.

“No need to thank me, sweetheart. That’s what friends are for.” 

He wasn’t sure how long they stood like that, letting the snow fall over them while the world continued to quiet around them, but he savored every second of it, and for just a little bit the rest of his worries fell away. All that was left was him, and Kat, the stupid tree farm, and the damn snow… and he almost wished it could stay that way.

Of course, it couldn’t, and all too soon the kid was back, with his manager trailing behind him, bringing reality with them. Katrina disentangled herself from him, a different kind of flush gracing her cheeks now. Dean spared her a small smile and squeezed her hand – gloved once again, of course – before backtracking to collect their tree.

Their lives may have been a mess, and Dean wasn’t particularly happy about what the past year had brought him… but if there was one thing he was grateful for it was probably Katrina Black worming her way into his reluctant heart, and he couldn’t help but wonder what the next year might bring. 

[sillybayo]

Bayo's Black Rose Arc Analysis

Some notes before I begin:

-This ramble/essay contains heavy discussions of CSA, general sexual themes, and incest. Also, keep in mind that the characters discussed here are 12-17. While I will be looking into how sex affects them mentally and such, I will not tolerate child sexualization here. I will block anyone who makes a single weird comment or make me uncomfortable. We'll be talking about this from a pure psychological standpoint.

-This is a thought dump rather than anything formal, so I won't be dropping episode titles or numbers. I'm also going purely off of memory, and things I said in group chats. So if things lack clarity, this is why.

-I'm not saying I "cracked the black rose arc code" or anything, this is purely my interpretation that I wish to share, due to not seeing many black rose analysis', and being displeased with what some people have said and concluded. I just want to put what I think out there for others to enjoy :3.

-To avoid being repetitive and cluttered, I'll be generally referring to any character who pulls swords out as "wielders", and any character who has had a sword pulled out of them as "sheaths". Any scene where this transpires will be called a "sheathing scene."

-Once again, due to the material of this analysis, I will be blocking anyone who sexualizes the characters in notes, or anyone who I see as creepy.

With that out of the way, let us begin :3!

So I was watching rgu video essays one day, and I stumbled across one about Miki. About halfway or late into the video, they begin talking about how Miki and Kozue had sex in the black rose arc, due to the way she touched him before the sheathing scene, and the way he turned beet red when Nanami asked how it felt for the sword to be taken out. And I thought it made sense at the time, as I was still new to utena, and I only watched it once. And the allegory is clearly there in other black rose sheathing scenes (besides with utenanthy), right?

But then I thought about it more when I rewatched the juriori black rose episode a year or so later, and caught Juri blushing when Nanami asked her the same question. And...wait. Because doesn't all of the black rose sheathing scenes look..uncomfortable? The sheath cries in pain as the sword comes out of their chest, and Wakaba even forced it out of Saionji. And this weirded me out, because why would a show thats so clearly against rape of any kind go on to write something like this? Why did Miki and Juri blush about something that was so forceful? And even if they were under a mind controlled like state, why would they write the wielders to be rapists? With the way rgu writes sex and rape, it didn't seem right, y'know?

So a few months later, when I decided to continue my rewatch and reached the Wakaba black rose arc episode, thats when I truly started to think about it more. And thats when I reached a conclusion: Miki and Juri are more influenced by Touga and Saionji than they realize. And by extension, they're all influenced by Akio.

You see, Touga and Saionji clearly view Anthy as someone to be sexualized. Shes their wife, who would fulfill their every request. Even though they might not know Anthys and Akios relationship, and/or how the latter treats her, this is an undeniable shared mindset.

Even though the boys and Utena uses Anthy as a sheath in the exact same ways on the outside, you know that when its with Touga and Saionji, its sexualized. They own her. When Touga demands Anthy to kiss his sword, it feels so off that Utena couldn't bare to watch. You could argue that its because it would hurt Anthys lips, but in later episodes its clear that it isn't the issue, as Utena uses the same powerup but in a more supportive fashion rather than sexual. So whats up with that?

I say; in (most of) the wielders view, the sword is like a penis.

I know, a very silly thing to say. But I don't mean exactly. And I, of course, don't mean literally.

Do you know that scene from the scream movie, where the two guys are stabbing each other, begging for it and all? It definitely has sexual undertones, because of the mood set by the characters, and heres where I'm getting at; the idea of a long pointed object being thrusted in you.

What I think is that Anthy is so sexualized by the student council, that the idea of a simple sword being pulled out of her 14 year old south asian brown girl chest, is arousing.

So when each of the student council members become sheaths themselves, of course they think that its one of the most sexually intimate things to experience. And its so stupid, right? Its just a sword. a SWORD.

And I shouldn't be referring to the student council so generally, because Nanami is the only one who sees through this. As far as I remember, she wasn't weird in the slightest when she was Tsuwabukis sheath. And even in the apocalypse arc, shes uncomfortable when Touga kisses her, and disturbed when walking in on Akio and Anthy (but then again I haven't rewatched that episode yet, so I could be wrong). She purely meant to ask how the sword felt, with no sexual intent. Miki and Juri were just pure idiots on that part.

So then, wait, if the sword pulling in the black rose arc wasn't a metaphor for rape, then what is it?

Well, I argue that it black rose wielders follow the same mindset as some sexual assaulters when they're under the effects of Mikages reverse therapy, in a way. Its the strong feeling of thinking the sheath owes the wielder something, and that the wielder deserves it no matter what they say.

Another reference to a different piece of media, but remember when its revealed that Pearl continued to fuse with Garnet for her own personal wants, which crossed Garnets boundaries? People interpreted that scene as Pearl raping Garnet, when....no. What? Of course she isn't. Its just the general idea of your wishes being disrespected, and boundaries ignored. Do you see where I'm going with this?

The black rose wielders see something in the sheaths that they want for themselves, whether it be their love, their attention, or some secret third thing. So with nothing but entitlement and desperation in their heart, they force the sword out of their hearts, where their desires lie.

But, wait. How about other scenes with swords? Like when Anthy is Utenas sheath, and when Anthy has a thousand swords stabbed into her? Do swords still represent desire?

Well, yes! Very easily. Utena fights for the pure sake of love and friendship. She fights Saionji when hes cruel to Wakaba, and she swears to protect Anthy with all her heart. She duels with the strongest ounce of care in her soul. Thats the desire to keep her loved ones happy.

What about when Anthy what continuously impaled? Well, that was the villages desire to get to the prince. And it was Akios desire to finally revolutionize the world after so long.

I may be missing a few scenes, but this is the general idea, and I hope I got the idea across. Thats the end of my little ramble :3. As an acespec hypersexual, I already spend a lot of time deconstructing the truth behind sexual things and feelings. So this was fun to think about. I hope y'all liked this, and understood it most importantly. Toodleeess

[svtellify]

kotlc: unraveled review [SPOILER WARNING]

keeper of the lost cities 9.5: unraveled by shannon messenger ★★★☆☆ *parts of the review were taken directly from my goodreads review of the book!

“I tried,” he told the empty room, wishing it made him feel like less of a failure.”

see, if you told me a year ago i'd sympathize with alvar and not mind reading about him, i'd assume you were trying to start a fight.

that being said: this wasn't a necessary book for the series. is it going to provide some helpful context going into book 10? sure. definitely. would it have also been better served as part of a post series anthology of short stories (see: keefe short story, fitz short story, tam short pov) that didn't quite fit into the series elsewhere? yeah. was it a cute short novel about my favorite character that expanded on a lot of what i've been waiting to see explored? also yeah.

before i continue, i want to add that i'm not the target audience of this series, not by a long shot. i was ten when i picked up the series in sixth grade, when only the first three books were out and had to suffer the wait for neverseen. i'm twenty one, and will have finished my master's degree before book ten comes out. i'd like to think i've grown up with the series, but i know that also means outgrowing the majority of the fanbase, since this is a kid's series. i hope the kids reading this can still find some value in my words though!

i'd argue that unraveled shoots itself in the foot a bit in terms of the series as a whole. kotlc is best told through sophie's perspective, because it's limited and lets us see the lost cities through the pov of someone else who's also equally new to it. unraveled breaks up that rhythm and lets us see our own world through keefe's eyes, as someone unfamiliar with it. it works, and it doesn't.

what unraveled does best, however, is drive home that while kotlc is told from sophie's perspective, it's very much more than just her story. keefe has equal stake in it, at this point, and it's only inevitable that they'll share custody of the rest of the story because of what's to come next. it's a story about the lost cities, about the change that needs to happen there, even in a species that's effectively immortal. a change that we've slowly witnessed two warring groups attempt to bring about.

(it's rather fitting given current political events, but i digress. kotlc is not a modern day political commentary, and i stand by it. the series took shape in the early 2010s and has meandered its way through the 2020s. it's applicable, but not intentional, if that makes sense.)

i loved that shannon tackled keefe's abuse directly, along with his trust issues and myriad of trauma. it's been building up and needed to be addressed so i'm glad we were able to see that.

it's also evident in unraveled that shannon's ready for something a little more mature (unlike let the sky fall.) writing-wise, and like jjk before it, i'm curious to see what kotlc would've looked like as a YA book with more room to explore it's darker themes. she does a great job with it as a middle grade series, but there's tones throughout unraveled that show better writing, so i look forward to book 10 and whatever her next project will be!

onto the annotations!

i have been waiting for someone to talk about this. and while i'm not like. alvar's number one fan now or anything, i think he was kind of the perfect person to talk about this. he's directly responsible for some of this, starting with trying to recruit keefe on numerous occasions and the role he played in keefe's involvement with the neverseen.

he's also fitz's brother. fitz, who's been a general disappoint at best to cruel at worst when it comes to keefe and his mom and his familial abuse. alvar might not understand all of it, but i'd like to think that he gave keefe a bit of closure on the vacker-keefe front. and on keefe's general guilt.

this is here purely because it hit like a gut punch. it's so simply written but i think we all need to hear it sometimes.

keefe being down bad for sophie is the funniest thing ever actually, but this is written so cutely ;(

a south indian dish name drop in a kotlc was not on my radar. i love it though?

it's a short book, there's not much more i think needs to be mentioned. it's good, nothing mind blowing, and the characters shine when shannon doesn't have to juggle the whole ensemble and then some. it did what it needed to⎯fill in some gaps that the cast expansion got in the way of and draw us back in for book 10. and it worked.

i wasn't particularly looking forward to this or dreading it⎯i've been too busy for either lately, but there's something very special about reading from a series you've grown up with, something so heartwarming about finding magic in a book series that wasn't necessarily written for your age group.

i don't want to make this too long, so i'll just say: i'm looking forward to book 10! i'll be well in the middle of med school secondaries and hopefully interviews by then, but it's a lovely reprieve to anticipate.

3.5 stars.

(also wanted to drop the kotlc playlist here for anyone interested in a series reread. catch me rereading the series when i'm out of the trenches of finals 🫡)

[jujumin-translates]

★ Main Story | Act 13 - Budding Spring | Chapter 10 - Forced to the Starting Gate

Itaru: (I think it’s about time to head out… ah, right.)

Itaru: (Now that I’ve got a rough idea of our performance schedule, I’d better apply for paid leave before I forget.)

Boss: Chigasaki-kun, may I borrow you for fifteen minutes?

Itaru: --Of course.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Boss: It appears you’re all here.

Itaru: (Looks like there’s a few of my colleagues… and a handful of younger guys too.)

Boss: I called you all here to ask if you’d be interested in participating in an urban development project that our company is currently working on.

Boss: The project itself is already in its final stages, so what we’d like from you is to provide support in the form of an induction course.

Itaru: (So this is that large-scale overseas urban development project. The one about creating a theater establishment and developing the surrounding area to be a center of arts and culture…)

Itaru: (I checked out the outline since it was related to theater and sounded interesting.)

Boss: It’s not mandatory, of course. It would just be something to do alongside your current jobs.

Boss: That said… there is a reason you all were chosen specifically.

Boss: As individuals who are important to the company’s future, I truly hope you consider becoming core members of this next project.

Itaru: (Eight racehorses competing in the promotion race line up at the gate. Favored to win is Communication Skills Demon, but My Parents Are Absolutely Loaded is also attracting quite a lot of attention.)

Coworker A: I’ll do my best to meet your expectations.

Coworker B: I’ve been interested in this project for quite some time now, so I’m honored to be part of it!

Itaru: (The gate has opened and both of the favored horses have taken off running.)

Coworker C: Considering the state of my current workload, I should be able to participate in the induction course.

Itaru: I… sorry, can I have a little more time to think about it?

Itaru: (If it weren’t for the timing, I probably would’ve been all in, but…)

Itaru: (Honestly, I’m so busy with the troupe and the Fleur Award right now that I just don’t have time to think about anything else.)

Boss: …Ah, because you have your own theater company to worry about, right, Chigasaki-kun? Please do consider it based on your schedule with that in mind.

Boss: However, the theme of this urban development project is the arts, which is why the other team members were really hoping to work with you, Chigasaki-kun.

Coworker A: …

Itaru: I thank them for considering me.

Boss: I’ll set up another opportunity at a later date to explain more on what the induction course entails and to introduce the project’s team members. I hope to see you there.

Itaru: I will seriously consider it.

*Door closes*

Itaru: …

Coworker B: He seriously can’t just say he’ll consider it and then refuse.

Coworker C: Must be nice being in a position where you can just quit the company if worse comes to worst.

Coworker A: Well, it is a popular theater company, and the fact that it’s generally well-known definitely doesn’t make it any easier for the company to deal with him.

Itaru: …

Itaru: (If you’re gonna say it, at least do it behind my back.)

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Chikage: I’m so sorry, but my hands are full at the moment.

Company Employee A: I see. I apologize for dropping it on you so suddenly.

Chikage: Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with.

Itaru: …

Itaru: Wanna head somewhere a little nicer, Senpai?

Chikage: …I don’t even want to try and guess where that might be, but go on.

Itaru: The hell is that supposed to mean?

Chikage: Haah, I suppose I can’t say no. I’ll go with you.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

*Punching SFX*

Itaru: Start by cheesing it and then follow that up with a double finishing move and K.O.! Man, is there any greater high than this?

Chikage: If you’re going to try and hide the way you actually feel, do it a little better.

Itaru: …Ughh, this is so stupid. Why can’t it just be the people who actually wanna be part of the promotion race at the starting gate?

Itaru: I mean, they should dip if they don’t wanna do it. Directing hate at me isn’t gonna go anything.

Itaru: There’s supposed to be a fine line between noobs like them and a mid-tierer like me. Why is it that the more of a mid-ranker you are, the less human rights you get?

Chikage: There aren’t really that many mid-level people to begin with.

Itaru: The company knows what to expect from the “Elite Chigasaki-san”. That’s why they’re hiring guys fresh out of college to steadily raise them into the perfect corporate slaves.

Itaru: I get why my colleagues are so desperate to advance their careers by using their outer appearances and mild manners to do so.

Itaru: From their point of view, it’s gotta be infuriating to see a guy who acts so carelessly while chasing after both theater and a career.

Itaru: And hit ‘em with a triple combo finisher-- But I’m just trying to figure out where I stand, so just eff off.

Itaru: Must be nice for you, Senpai. You go overseas a lot and get to level up your career stats in the least complicated way possible.

Itaru: And the things people say about you aren’t nearly as harsh, either.

Itaru: Me, on the other hand, I’m just stuck being the “can-do guy” who does a little better than decent work around the office.

Itaru: At the end of the day, I’m just a mediocre handyman at best.

Itaru: Even if I’m not being treated like the favorite, I still don’t slack off with my work. I may not be the most motivated, but I’d like to think I’m still doing everything I’m supposed to.

Chikage: You sure move your mouth and your hands a lot.

Itaru: What am I even trying to do in the first place?

Itaru: Should I sell my soul and become a corporate slave like you, and aim so high that no one can ever possibly complain about me not being good enough, or should I try and attain a rank that’s purely “Itaru Chigasaki”?

Chikage: Dad jokes and pro-level dodging techniques, huh? (1)

Chikage: Anyway, shouldn’t your first step be thinking about what you want for yourself?

Itaru: What I want… Well, I guess just to maintain the status quo so I don’t have to deal with everyone’s complaints about me… No, actually, maybe I want to speedrun my way to early retirement with passive income…?

Chikage: Then stop spending money on pulls and start investing.

Itaru: Absolutely not.

Itaru: …I originally chose this job based on the benefits and was lucky enough just to get in, so it’s not like I have any real desire to climb the corporate ladder.

Itaru: Most of the troupe have more than one thing on their hand, but they all have dreams and love what they do.

Itaru: And then there’s me who’s job is just a source of income. I feel like I really don’t have a whole lot to bring back to the troupe.

Itaru: It’s an important time for Spring Troupe to compete, and here I am getting caught up in a promotion race while all my coworkers talk behind my back.

Chikage: So you’re in a position where your hobby is more useful to the troupe.

Itaru: Exactly. To be honest, I wonder if there’s even any point in me continuing to be an office worker, but I don’t have the backbone or the self-confidence to just quit and do theater as my full-time job.

Itaru: Basically, I just wanna have something to fall back on.

Itaru: Ugh~, who would’ve thought I’d still be having these kinds of student problems even now… You ever think about this kinda stuff, Senpai?

Chikage: Well… there’s a variety of upsides to my job.

Itaru: A variety?

Chikage: A variety.

Itaru: Oh, okay. By all means, don’t elaborate or anything.

Chikage: No matter where you are, there are always two sides to things. There’s the side where you’re appreciated and the side where you’re disrespected. It’s not just you.

Chikage: The same goes for me, just with a different set of people. I guess I’m just glad to even be able to do theater activities in the first place.

Itaru: But if we’re actually nominated for the Fleur Award this time around, I doubt the company’s gonna be too eager to accommodate for that.

Chikage: Well, the company does have a performance-based evaluation system. If you can’t contribute to improving the company’s image, you’ll be told you need to be giving your work your undivided attention.

Chikage: At any rate, that doesn’t change the fact that we need the results of our next performance to be good too.

Itaru: I guess you’re ri… Hell yeah, I win! Haaah, I feel better now.

Itaru: Oh, right, didn’t you get asked to do something annoying too, Senpai?

Chikage: Ah… I was asked to accompany a client on an overseas business trip as an interpreter, but I had to decline because I just don’t have the time for that right now.

Itaru: Guess even cheaters like you have it hard sometimes. But y’know, I’m sure there’s tons of people who would kill to have the opportunity to do some sightseeing while all you have to do is be an interpreter.

Chikage: Well, it’s not to a country that I particularly want to go to.

Itaru: But you know the language, don’t you?

Chikage: I guess.

Itaru: Yeah, okay, we get it, you’re cheater.

[ ⇠ Previous Part ] • [ Next Part ⇢ ]

• • •

T/N:

(1) Itaru says “役職 『茅ヶ崎至』 に至る” (yakushoku “chigasaki itaru” ni itaru), literally “Attain the position of “Itaru Chigasaki”. The joke is that the verb “to attain” (至る; itaru) and Itaru’s name are the same kanji and have the same pronunciation, hence why Chikage mentions dad jokes.

[edwad]

I think my “mode of thought” question was poorly worded, because I mean “why is political economy not cognizable such that we could critique it (either in the way that Marx frames it, or in general) in the same generalized way we might critique Marxism or humanism, i.e other modes of thought?” I was not making an analogy between political economy and “genre.”

“Marx made it up” is a reasonable answer but basically all modes of thought are, at least initially, post hoc (and self-serving) constructions by other people observing or naming common intellectual themes, underlying values, phrases, symptoms and tacit arguments. “It’s impossible because we’d have to account for everyone” seems, pragmatically speaking, an unreasonably high bar for criticism. (You might say, as you have before, that it’s Marx himself who set the unreasonably high bar - but then I don’t really get why some other more achievable standard for the critique of capital couldn’t be developed; that conclusion of impossibility honestly makes the HET stuff seem like a big waste of time, at least for the purposes of critiquing capitalism/advocating for communism. If the CoPE is impossible, does that make the critique of capitalism impossible by the same standards?)

Writing a general critique of - for example - contractarian or humanist thought seems possible to me, and I don’t think such a project would succeed or fail on the basis of not “accounting for everyone’s beliefs,” even if it makes claims about how a larger system operates based on that critique.

lots of points here are well-taken, but i still feel like this misses the main core of the argument. it isn't that classical political economy is made up while other "modes of thought" aren't, because if that's what all my concern amounted to then it wouldn't really matter. all i could do with that is rate him better or worse as an intellectual historian, and maybe i'd be able to say i'm better at it than him because i have access to more documents and scholarly research or whatever. great for me, i guess, but it doesnt get us anywhere.

the argument i'm making, and you sort of hit on it here, is that *he* is aiming to not just construct demographic groupings of economists (sure whatever), but also to account for these economists out of the dynamics of the system. from here, the actual taxonomy should come *out* of the analysis, so we can assume that this is how he proceeds and that his categories (classical, vulgar, etc) should be fairly adequate for the task and not theoretically premature. this turns out to not be something we can fully grant because his opinions of the economists and how they relate to one another are constantly in flux, but even if we could treat this as a non-problem, he would still have the very hard job ahead of him of actually doing the accounting.

is it an impossible task? you say its a high bar (i agree), and acknowledge where i've said this is marxs own standard not mine (which matters a lot, i think!), so where does that leave us with other standards? well, that's basically not my concern here. if we're assuming the need for other projects, other methods, other standards, then we have accepted my critique. beyond that point, i'd definitely be interested in other attempts at contributions to *a* CoPE rather than *the* CoPE (marxs, apparently no longer salvageable). in fact, this is exactly the sort of thing i've been trying to invite for a few years.

what should be said here, though, is that the difference between projects can't simply be one of degree, where we simply loosen our epistemological claims and decrease the percentage of thoughts we'd need to account for. to me, this just isn't achievable on the terms laid out by marxs CoPE, and this would require a bigger change than just lowering the bar we'd have to clear. this has stakes for his method, and what would it mean for materialism if we weren't able to ground particular dynamics out of the social machinery? why would some be achievable while others aren't? and, pretty significantly (to return to the beginning), how is that any more possible than what marx already did when he got these things *wrong*? we haven't come any closer to offering answers, we've just cut ourselves some slack on how many we're supposed to provide.

this has direct consequences for the critique of capitalism, as ive said elsewhere, because his analysis of capitalism has to inform and be informed by the analysis of political economy. these two levels have to connect for his epistemological argument to work. if they don't, then that isn't just a one-sided problem. but is a critique of capitalism possible otherwise? sure, lots of people have offered them, it's just whether or not they're any good. is a *good* critique of capitalism possible? maybe, but i'm increasingly skeptical of it being rooted in marxs CoPE. is that depressing and frustrating? yeah, absolutely, i fucking hate it.

as for critiquing anything else (humanism, etc), i think it's worth saying how the CoPE isn't merely supposed to be account for political economy alone, as a narrow discipline. he is concerned with PE as the science of capitalist statecraft, but from here's he's working much more broadly to try and tackle liberal social theory as a whole (hegel, bentham, comte, etc). this is why, in the past, i've talked about marx's critique as a critique of modernity. the HET angle is incredibly relevant to estimating marx's success on this front, since this is the direction he goes about approaching the issue, but contractarianism, humanism, etc are all supposed to be bound up with this. if you tried, independently, to offer critiques of these things, i think you'd either be making an incredible mistake if you tried to pursue it in a marxy mode, OR you'd have to find another way in, which might be permissible for the same reasons that i think alternative attempts at the CoPE would be. that doesn't guarantee their success, by any means, but i'm not stopping anyone from being good, creative communists. my whole point is that i think this critique of marx leaves us in the position where this is exactly what's required of us.

[pixel7777]

The First Worshipper: Ch. 10

The naughty version of the beautiful artwork commissioned from the incredible misfitlunatic (https://x.com/misfit_lunatik or https://bsky.app/profile/misfitlunatik.bsky.social) can be seen in all its glory here.

And we finally earn the explicit rating for this fic! Over the months I edited this, I took the smut in and out several times. I just wasn't sure if it was appropriate for the general themes of this fic. Finally a beta reader told me that while the story was fine without the smut, it wouldn't be unwelcome, so I put it back in one last time and here we are. All this to say: if you don't want to read the smut, I get it, and you can skip from the first kiss to Astarion's POV and you won't miss any plot.

If you want to read from the beginning, searching my blog for #myfic will bring up all my fanfic posts. Link for Chapter 1. Link for art discussion post.

Read this chapter below the break here or on AO3!

121 years AB

From his celestial domain, Gale watched another prayer filter through the divine ether. Astarion's voice, raw and familiar, twisted something in his immortal chest. The vampire had taken to praying at all hours now, each confession more desperate than the last.

"...and what if I made the wrong choice?" Astarion's words drifted up. "What if I threw away the only chance I had at—"

Gale pressed his hands to his temples. Three weeks of this. Three weeks of listening to Astarion tear himself apart over leaving Sebastian, and all Gale could do was send wisps of divine comfort that clearly weren't helping.

He shouldn't intervene. It was always a bad idea to mess around in a friend's love life, no matter how much they asked for it, and his own confused feelings about Astarion made objectivity impossible. But watching his friend spiral into self-recrimination day after day...

"I keep thinking about his face when I left." Astarion's voice cracked. "He didn't even try to stop me. Just looked at me like he expected it all along..."

Gale's resolve snapped. Rationality be damned.

The transition from divine plane to material was always disorienting. One moment he floated in celestial light, the next his feet touched the marble tile in Astarion's dim Lower City apartment.

Astarion knelt before the altar, head bowed. He hadn't bothered to light more than a single candle, though dawn was hours away. The room smelled of stale wine.

"Enough," Gale said.

Astarion's head snapped up. "What are you doing here?"

"Apparently listening to you flagellate yourself wasn't quite entertaining enough from afar." Gale crossed his arms. "I needed a closer view."

A flicker of the old Astarion surfaced in his glare. "If you've come to mock me—"

"I've come because watching you torture yourself is becoming tedious." Gale softened his tone. "And I will always come when you truly need me."

Gale watched the fight drain from Astarion's frame, his shoulders slumping. The sight of his normally impeccable high priest in such disarray sent an unexpected pang through his chest. Astarion's clothes were wrinkled, his silver-white hair stuck up at odd angles - a detail that concerned Gale more than he cared to admit. Even in their darkest moments during the tadpole crisis, Astarion had maintained his perfectly coifed hair with, well, religious devotion.

Empty wine bottles littered the floor around the altar. Gale knew it would have taken a considerable amount for Astarion to achieve even a mild buzz, given his vampiric constitution.

"Well?" Astarion's voice cut through his observations. "Since you've descended from on high to grace me with your presence, how do you propose to fix this mess?" He gestured vaguely at himself.

Gale sighed and lowered himself to sit on the floor beside his friend. How many times had they ended up like this over the decades? Sharing drinks that barely affected either of them, spilling their troubles across temple floors and tavern corners.

The weight of Astarion's head settled against his shoulder.

"Just tell me if I've thoroughly ruined my life," Astarion mumbled. "I can handle it. Probably."

Gale shifted, adjusting to Astarion's weight against his shoulder. The familiar scent of Astarion's cologne mixed with wine reminded him of countless late-night conversations spanning their decades of friendship.

"You haven't ruined anything." Gale kept his voice steady, divine resonance carefully controlled. "In fact, you made the right choice."

Astarion scoffed. "Did I? Sebastian is—"

"A wonderful person. Creative, understanding, patient." Gale wrapped his arm around Astarion's back and pulled him tighter against his shoulder. "And you're better for having known him. But he's not right for you."

"Because I'm incapable of maintaining anything good?" Astarion's bitter laugh scraped against Gale's ears.

"Because what you had with Sebastian was a chapter, not the whole story." The words came easier now, divine insight mixing with the more intimate knowledge of friendship. "He helped you heal, showed you new ways to see beauty. That doesn't mean you were meant to stay."

Astarion pulled away, running fingers through his disheveled hair. "So if, deep down, I knew all along we weren't forever, what does that make me?"

Gale caught Astarion's restless hand. "Listen to me. A bad fit doesn't mean either piece is bad. Sometimes things just don't belong together."

"Even if both pieces are lovely on their own?"

"Especially then." Gale squeezed Astarion's cold fingers. "Would you force a desert flower to bloom in the Underdark just because both are beautiful?"

The smile that bloomed on Astarion's face was a rare sight these days, and Gale couldn't help but return it.

"So you think I'm beautiful?" Astarion repeated, his voice low and teasing.

Gale swallowed, suddenly aware of how close they were pressed together and the weight of Astarion's hand in his. He'd been holding it for what felt like hours, but in reality, it had only been a few moments. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through him, and he felt his heart race in response.

"I do," Gale admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I always have." What am I doing?  I'm mad. I'm absolutely insane, the timing is awful, and I don't care.

Astarion's smile faltered, replaced by a look of surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he leaned forward, closing the short distance between them.

Gale's breath hitched as Astarion's lips met his. The kiss was gentle at first, a tentative exploration of lips. But as Gale deepened the kiss, Astarion responded in kind, his hands roaming over Gale's body. Gale allowed himself to settle fully in his avatar, to feel Astarion's touch and to touch in kind.

Astarion buried his fingers in Gale's hair and shifted on top of Gale's lap, sliding their torsos together as he kissed Gale's mouth, his jaw, his forehead, his mouth again.  Astarion's mouth was everywhere.

Gale wanted more.  He wanted everything. For once, his own ambition was crystal clear—Astarion, Astarion, Astarion.

They broke apart for a moment, both panting heavily. Astarion's pupils were blown out with desire, and Gale felt a thrill run through him at the sight. He knew that look— it was the same one Astarion had given him during their old adventuring days, when they'd shared a bedroll that one, memorable time.

But this was different. This was more than just two rivals swept up in the strange intimacy of their competition and the adrenaline of death defied one too many times. This was a connection that had been building for years, one that Gale had tried to ignore but couldn't deny any longer. Even if this is the worst timing ever. Fuck it. When would their timing ever be good?

Astarion must have seen the realization in Gale's eyes, because he leaned in for another kiss. This time, it was more urgent, more demanding. Gale responded eagerly, his hands fumbling with the laces on Astarion's shirt.

Gale lost himself in the kiss, his divine essence thrumming with a very mortal desire. Astarion's cool lips sent shivers through his manifested form, and he struggled to maintain his corporeal state as sensation overwhelmed godly restraint.

Each touch threatened his control. The vampire's touch was precise, practiced - finding sensitive spots that made Gale's divine form flicker at the edges.

"Stay with me," Astarion murmured against his mouth. "Don't fade away."

Gale focused on anchoring himself, on feeling every point of contact between them. He poured more power into his manifestation, determined to remain solid and present. The effort made his head swim, divine energy warring with physical sensation.

Astarion pushed him down to the floor, and Gale went willingly. The marble tile was cold against his back, but Astarion's weight above him burned like ice and fire combined. Their kisses grew desperate, more than a century of tension finally breaking.

"We shouldn't," Gale managed between breaths, even as his hands pulled Astarion closer.

"When has that ever stopped us?" Astarion's laugh vibrated against his throat.

Gale couldn't argue with that logic. Not when Astarion's fingers were working at the fastenings of his robes, not when every touch sent sparks of divine energy crackling between them.

Somewhere in the celestial plane, obligations tugged at him. Divine responsibilities demanded attention, the weight of godhood pressing against his consciousness. But for once, Gale ignored them all, focusing entirely on the cool press of Astarion's body against his, on the marble floor beneath his back, on the way energy arced between them like lightning.

Astarion's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his head back to expose more of his throat. The gesture sent a jolt through Gale's entire being, making his form flicker dangerously.

"Don't you dare disappear on me," Astarion warned, teeth grazing skin, lips following to sooth.

Gale tightened his grip on Astarion's shoulders, using the contact as an anchor. "I'm not going anywhere."

For once, he meant it completely.

Gale's breath caught in his throat as Astarion's fingers deftly undid the ties of his robe. The fabric parted, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the bulge of arousal pressing against his trousers. Gale sat half up and slipped his arms out of the sleeves of his robe as Astarion straddled Gale's lap and leaned back. Astarion's gaze raked over him, hungry and open, and Gale felt a surge of power pulse through his veins in response.

He reached out, his hands trembling slightly as he returned the favor, pulling Astarion's rumpled shirt over his head and then pausing a moment to smile and rearrange Astarion's curls the way he liked them.  They were soft, and Astarion leaned into his touch. When Gale was done he lay back and looked up at his friend's—no, his lover's—beauty as Astarion returned the smile.

Gale couldn't resist the urge to touch, to trace the lines of Astarion's body with his fingertips. Astarion shuddered under his touch, a low moan escaping his lips as Gale's hands explored lower, sliding over the bulge in Astarion's trousers, working the buttons.

Astarion was already hard, his cock straining against the fabric of his pants. Gale could feel the dampness of precum soaking through, and the knowledge that Astarion wanted him this much sent him sitting upward again, seeking Astarion's kiss and trying to remove all the offending air between them.

With a growl, Astarion pushed Gale back onto the floor, his hands fumbling with the fastenings of Gale's trousers. Gale lifted his hips, helping Astarion to free his own aching erection. They kicked off their remaining clothes, their bodies finally pressing together, skin to skin.

Gale gasped as Astarion's cool flesh met his own, the sensation almost too much to bear. He could feel Astarion's cock, hard and leaking, pressing against his thigh, and he wrapped his hand around it, eliciting a low, rumbling groan from the vampire.

Astarion's hand found Gale's cock, stroking it in time with his own movements. Their hips moved in a desperate rhythm, each thrust driving them closer to the edge. Gale could feel the pleasure building within him, an ecstasy that threatened to overwhelm his senses. He had forgotten how good a physical form could feel.

They moved together, their bodies slick with sweat and precum, their breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Gale could feel the power of his godhood surging through his veins, mingling with the raw, physical pleasure of Astarion's touch.

Astarion's lips found his again, the kiss deep and demanding. Gale surrendered to it, to the sensation of Astarion's body moving against his, to the overwhelming desire that threatened to consume them both.

Gale's breath hitched as Astarion's hand tightened around his cock, the vampire's movements growing more frantic. The sensation was exquisite, a maddening spiral of pleasure that threatened to unravel his composure. But this wasn't how he wanted it. He needed more. He needed to be inside Astarion, to feel his body close around his cock in a tight, intimate embrace.

With a gentle push, Gale guided Astarion onto his back. Astarion looked up at him, his dark eyes glazed with desire, his lips parted in anticipation.

"May I?" Gale asked, his hand sliding behind Astarion's balls and grazing his entrance.

Astarion nodded, his gaze never leaving Gale's. "Yes," he breathed, the word a whispered surrender that sent a jolt of desire coursing through Gale's veins.

Gale closed his eyes, focusing his divine energy. A moment later, he opened them to reveal a small vial of shimmering oil in his hand. Astarion's eyebrows raised in surprise, "Now tell me that isn't a misuse of your divine powers," but Gale merely smiled and popped the cork with his thumb.

He poured a generous amount of the oil into his palm, the liquid cool and slick against his skin. Astarion watched him, his dark eyes tracking every movement as Gale reached again between his legs, his fingers teasingly light as he spread the oil over Astarion's entrance.

Gale's fingers circled the tight ring of muscle, applying gentle pressure until the tip of his index finger slipped inside. Astarion's breath caught, his body instinctively tensing at the intrusion. But Gale was patient, his movements slow and deliberate as he worked his finger deeper, crooking it slightly to rub against that sensitive spot inside.

"Mmm, yes darling, just like that."  Astarion's moans made Gale's cock throb with impatience.

Astarion's body relaxed, his hips rocking in time with Gale's movements. Another low moan escaped his lips, and Gale added a second finger, scissoring them apart to stretch Astarion open. His moans grew louder, his cock weeping onto his own stomach as Gale prepared him.

"Gale, please," Astarion gasped, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I need you."

Gale withdrew his fingers, his gaze locked with Astarion's as he positioned himself. The head of his cock pressed against the slick, oiled skin, and with a slow, steady thrust, he pushed inside.

Astarion's body welcomed him, the tightness enveloping him completely. Gale groaned, the sensation almost too much to bear. He paused for a moment, giving Astarion time to adjust to the intrusion, before pulling back and thrusting in again.

Astarion's legs wrapped around Gale's waist, his heels digging into the small of Gale's back as he urged him deeper. Gale obliged, his thrusts growing more forceful as he claimed Astarion's body with his own.

The sound of their bodies moving together filled the room, a symphony of moans and gasps and the wet, slick slide of skin against skin. Gale's hand found Astarion's cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts. The vampire's body tensed, his walls clenching around Gale's cock as he neared the edge.

"Come for me, Astarion," Gale whispered. "I have you. Let go."

Astarion's body convulsed, his cock spurting thick ropes of cum onto his stomach and Gale's hand. The sight of it, the feel of Astarion's body clenching around him, was enough to send Gale over the edge. With a final, desperate thrust, he buried himself deep inside Astarion and let go, his hips rutting erratically as he found his release.

For long moments, they lay there, their bodies still joined, their breaths slowly returning to normal. Gale withdrew from Astarion with a soft sigh, his cock slipping free. They had made a proper mess of each other, and Gale used a quick prestidigitation to clean them both.

Astarion rolled onto his side, a contented smile playing on his lips as he watched Gale. "That was... unexpected," he murmured, his voice soft and sated.

Gale chuckled, stretching out beside Astarion and pulling him close.  "I suppose we've always had a knack for the unexpected," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to the man's forehead.

They lay there in silence, the only sound the sputtering of the dying candle and the steady beat of Gale's heart. Astarion's hand found Gale's, their fingers intertwining as Gale let himself drift off to sleep.

* * *

I traced my fingers along Gale's shoulder, marveling at the faint shimmer beneath his skin. Even in sleep, divinity clung to him like morning dew. Gods slept? That was new. Perhaps it was just the avatar form, conserving energy or... something equally divine and incomprehensible.

I was doing it again. Focusing on irrelevant details to avoid the obvious question hanging over us like a guillotine: what now?

When he woke up, this would become a Whole Thing. I knew Gale well enough to predict the stammering, the philosophical rambling about divine responsibilities, and probably some nonsense about maintaining appropriate boundaries between gods and their high priests. He'd bring Mystra into it. He'd try to be noble about it, and in doing so, he'd absolutely ruin everything.

I didn't want it ruined. This was... good. Better than good. The best thing that had happened to me since the early days with Sebastian, if I was being honest. Maybe even since—

No. Different kind of good. The point was, I wanted to keep it. Which meant I needed a plan, because Gale was absolutely hopeless when it came to matters of the heart. Worse than me, if such a thing was possible. (oh, fuck we were depending on my relationship skills, and we were probably doomed.) No, don't panic! At least I'd had practice with Tav and Sebastian. Gale's last relationship had been with magic itself, and look how well that turned out.

I propped myself up on one elbow, studying his face. The slight furrow between his brows, the way his lips parted just so—even in sleep, he looked like he was puzzling through some cosmic equation. Adorable, really. And completely useless for my current predicament.

I needed to decide what I wanted, and fast. Before he woke up and started overthinking everything into oblivion. Before he could convince himself this was some terrible breach of divine protocol or whatever nonsense his babygod mind would conjure up.

I snuggled closer and tried to think. Even unconscious, Gale radiated warmth like a banked fire, and I couldn't get enough of it.

Weeks of self-recrimination about Sebastian had not put me in the frame of mind for more honest self-reflection, but there was no help for it. Alright then, ageless vampire man who advises nobles and gods alike, what do you want?

Well, Gale. More Gale. That had been... astonishing. And even when I was spitting mad or twisted with grief, there was no one else on this planet whose appearance could lift my heart like his did, whose opinion I cared more for, even when I scoffed it away.

But what I wanted most desperately was to not hurt either of us. If there was one thing I had learned from Sebastian, it was that it sucked almost as bad to be the one doing the hurting as it did to be hurt when you were foolish enough to give a shit about someone else. And I very much gave a shit about Gale.

And I was certain he gave a shit about me.  Fuck. Fuckity Fuck Fuckballs.

I'd spent two centuries thinking I was incapable of truly caring about anyone. Then Tav proved me wrong. Then Sebastian. And now here I was, watching a sleeping god and wondering how I'd managed to fall into the same trap again.

The worst part was, I couldn't even blame it on past trauma or emotional ignorance this time. This was all me, walking right into another emotional disaster with my eyes wide open.

Gale's eyes fluttered open, and a lazy smile spread across his face. Shit. If gods slept, they clearly didn't need much of it. I'd hoped for at least another hour to sort out my thoughts, but apparently divine rest was more of a power nap situation.

'Wing it' it is, then.

I kept my expression neutral—or what I hoped was neutral—as I watched that familiar furrow appear between his brows. The one that always preceded some grand philosophical proclamation or crisis of conscience.

"How old are you?" I blurted out before he could speak. "Faerun years, I mean. Not counting divine time or whatever nonsense that entails."

He blinked, still shaking off sleep. "One hundred and fifty-six. Why?"

"I'm three hundred and sixty-seven." I propped myself up on one elbow, studying his face. "So between us, that's over five centuries of accumulated experience. Plus, you know—" I gestured vaguely at his still-glowing form. "The whole divine perspective thing."

"I... suppose that's true." His brow furrowed deeper, but curiosity had replaced the impending existential crisis in his eyes.

"So probably, if we put our heads together, we can manage to not make a complete mess of each other about this?"

He laughed—a startled, genuine sound that made the air around us sparkle. I couldn't help myself. I leaned down and kissed him again, just lightly, before pulling back.

"Perhaps we could skip the Mystra comparisons and the judgment and just... be kind to each other? For a little bit longer, at least. Until we can put all that brain power—" He laughed again, and I felt something in my chest loosen. "—to use figuring out a 'what next' that might bruise, but doesn't cut?"

"You've been lying there staring at me in my sleep, haven't you?"

"You're lovely in your sleep."

"You're lovely right now." Gale caressed the side of my face and I turned into his palm, hiding for a moment before turning back to meet his eyes.

"I'm always lovely." I gave him my best arrogant smirk but I couldn't hold it in place in the face the gentle warmth in his eyes.

I traced a pattern on Gale's chest, gathering my thoughts. "So with my many years of experience—" I smirked at his raised eyebrow "—some things I have learned. Lying to oneself or others generally fucks things up before they can properly start."

His fingers stilled in my hair, listening.

"Pretending reality isn't real is also not helpful. And denying one's feelings, regardless of the motivation, is pure disaster. Especially in the long run." I lifted my head to meet his gaze. "And you and I are nothing but long run, immortality and all."

"Those sound like hard-won lessons," Gale said softly.

"Mm. Care to hear what they mean for us?"

He shifted to face me properly. "I'm listening. With kind ears, as promised."

I took an unnecessary breath. "I care for you. I'm maybe in love with you." The words fell between us like dropped stones. "I'm also currently too much of a wreck about not really knowing myself to turn that maybe into something that won't screw both of us in the end."

His expression remained open, encouraging. It made the next part harder.

"I think you—" I had to take another deep breath for this one "—are maybe less sure about this whole god business than you'd like to be."

Gale started to protest, but then stopped, his brow furrowing.

"And you need time to figure it out. And, let's face it, if you stay a god and I stay, well, a not-god, then a true relationship of the romantic kind is doomed. We could figure something else out, if that's what it must be, but not until we figure ourselves out."

I ran out of steam then, and courage. The silence stretched between us as I waited for his response.

I watched the emotions play across Gale's face—concern, affection, and that particular furrow between his brows that meant he was about to say something devastatingly honest.

"You're right." He traced a finger along my collarbone, following the path of a scar that had faded centuries ago. "About all of it. I'm... less certain than I pretend to be. About godhood. About what it means for us."

I caught his hand, pressing it flat against my chest where my heart should beat. "And here I thought I'd have to argue with you about it for at least an hour." (or a year.) (or ten.) (a century wasn't off the table.)

"Perhaps I'm learning to listen." His smile was soft, almost shy. "Or perhaps you've finally learned to speak plainly."

"Rude." I released his hand, but he kept it there, wonderfully warm against my cold skin. "I've always been plain about what matters."

"Like Sebastian?"

I tensed, but forced myself to meet his eyes. "Yes. Like Sebastian. Who deserved better than what I could give him."

"And me?"

"You deserve—" I stopped, considering. "You deserve to figure out what being a god means to you. Without complications. Without... me making everything harder than it needs to be."

"And what do you deserve, Astarion?"

I laughed, but it came out shakier than I intended. "Time. Space. To figure out who I am when I'm not running from something or toward someone else."

"That sounds..." Gale's thumb stroked absently across my skin. "Remarkably healthy, actually."

"Don't sound so surprised. I do occasionally learn from my mistakes."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "So what now?"

"Now?" I stretched, deliberately showing off my physique to maximum effect.  His eyes widened in a most gratifying fashion. "Now we go for round two wherein I give your a few more things to think about when we part."

"Mmm, that sounds unwise but I'm here for it.  And then?"

"We'll figure it out. Slowly. Without breaking each other in the process."

* * *

My long-departed but ever-present Tav,

Apologies for interrupting whatever delightful chaos you're causing in the afterlife, but there are things I still struggle to discuss with anyone but you. Though I'm working to change that—which is rather the point of this letter, so...

I wonder what you thought when you saw Gale and me together. Were you appalled? Did you laugh? Or did you just think "finally" and roll your eyes at how long it took? Not that you get an opinion these days, but I find myself curious all the same.

It's difficult not to dwell on that night, but I must focus elsewhere if I ever hope to earn another. And so, I've departed on what one might call a journey of self-discovery. Stop laughing. I can practically hear you from here.

The world is... fascinating, actually. For the first time in my existence, I'm wandering it alone and by choice. No masters, no missions, no obligations beyond my own whims, no romantic partner to draw my focus. It's rather nice.

Had to take a brief detour to rescue Wyll again a few weeks back. The man simply cannot keep his corporeal form intact these days. The whole Blade of Avernus business must be taxing, though you don't see me requiring resurrection every few years. (Yes, yes, I know—different circumstances entirely. Still.)

I suppose what I'm trying to say is that life has taken strange turns, and perhaps it's not entirely horrible. You may say "I told you so" if you wish. You usually did anyway.

With love,

A.

P.S. - The mushroom wine Sebastian taught me to make is actually quite good. Don't tell anyone.