#obviously nothing is good yet. i still have no certainty about what will happen to me this semester

[tardis--dreams]

Alright things are better today than yesterday. My lecturer, who deregistered me from my exam and told me that i couldn't get the grade for my term paper, which sent me into a state of massive existential despair and depression, replied to me after i explained the situation and said she'd love to give me the grade later when I'm enrolled again so i didn't do the work for nothing. It's all good now.

[trappedinafantasy37]

Welp, I just did the embrace Bhaal ending with Daedra and I gotta say, this is objectively the worse ending. And it is very much the ending I never wanted for her. Because this was always going to be the ending for a Durge who embraced Bhaal. And Minthara being killed was always going to be her ending too. What makes all of this worse is that Minthara saw it coming too, she just did not realize it.

When she first tells you about Orin, she criticizes Orin by saying that if she could turn the plot of the Absolute towards slaughter, she would take it. Minthara also criticizes Orin for wanting to be Daddy's Little Girl who would do anything to please Bhaal. She perceives these to be character flaws within Orin. Sadly her analysis is incorrect, because these are innate characteristics of Bhaalspawn in general, including Durge. All Bhaalspawn are born with the same urges: kill other Bhaalspawn, breed more Bhaalspawn, and then kill everything. Of course, a Bhaalspawn can fight these urges. But it is a never ending fight, one we see Durge struggle with throughout the entire story. They only "beat" these urges by having Bhaal's blood removed from them.

But because Minthara sees these as character flaws within Orin, she fails to see them in Durge as well. And when Minthara learns that Durge is a Bhaalspawn, of course she is elated. Durge is the child of a god. A deeply religious Minthara would obviously admire that, almost as far as borderline worshiping Durge (cause old habits die hard). She truly believes that Durge is nothing like Orin and would never be anything like Orin, and she has to believe this to be true because she does not want to be afraid of Durge like she is of Orin.

Despite popular belief, Minthara is indeed capable of love and has a strong desire for it. I have always read Minthara as a person who strongly wants what she feels she cannot have. And in Menzoberranzan, genuine love is frowned upon (or at least making it known). So of course she wants it. And there is no shame in that. It is trust that she struggles with, and she always has good reason to be distrustful. And the moment she became an exile, we see her start to deconstruct her previous ways of life, but with great difficulty as it is hard to let go of the only things you have ever known. She wants to love, she wants to trust, she doesn't want to be afraid, and she doesn't want to kill her lovers.

Thanks to the business with the Absolute, Minthara finds herself in a unique position in which she actually can read someone else's mind. And for the first time in her life, she has guaranteed certainty that the person that she loves won't hurt her, or betray her, or use and abuse her, or kill her. And that was a promise Durge made to her. And so she openly embraced Durge with everything that she has and becomes devoted.

Sadly, devotion is Minthara's fatal flaw. There is nothing wrong with being devoted to someone or some god, of course. But Minthara is too devoted in which her devotion makes her blind, and she has spent so much of her life being devoted to someone other than herself, and she does not know how to live a life without being devoted to someone. She does not realize the crux of her devotion until she is turned into a sacrificial lamb by Orin. It is Minthara who questions the worth of devotion if it only leads to death and she starts to become a little more selective of who she devotes herself to. Cause she was once devoted to Orin and was willing to be devoted to Bhaal if given the chance, and yet she was still put on that altar. But this never happens if Orin never takes her.

Edit: I forgot that Patch 7 added in the second part of Minthara's dialogue about Orin. Meaning Minthara can still come to question the worth of devotion, even without being a kidnap victim to Orin. However, she questions her devotion after Durge has made their choice in regards to Bhaal. Despite her beginning to question devotion, she still remains devoted to Durge as she perceives Durge as her savior, and not being like Lolth or the Absolute or Bhaal.

Her devotion to Lolth, still ended with her being abandoned (or so she feels) and left vulnerable to the Absolute, because her devotion to Lolth did not make her an exception. Her devotion to the Absolute still led to her mind being ripped apart, because her devotion to the Absolute did not make her an exception. Minthara may be of a feline nature, but she does not have nine lives and cannot always get lucky. Every time she has devoted herself to someone, it always led her close to the grave. Her devotion to Durge, encouraging Durge to embrace who they are, will get her rewarded with death. And death was always going to be her reward.

And of course she thinks this could never happen to her. She read Durge's mind and Durge did show her that they would never hurt her. That Durge would never do to her what Lolth or the Absolute did, or even previous lovers did to her. That her devotion would be rewarded with mutual devotion. But this is coming from a Durge who has not embraced Bhaal just yet and does not yet want to become Daddy's Special Baby. And Minthara is not stupid for believing that Durge was sincere. No one wants to believe that the person that they love would ever hurt them. That does not make someone stupid or weak. Minthara could only read Durge's mind, not Durge's future.

When Durge embraces Bhaal, she still believes them to be the same exact person with the same exact desires as when she read their mind. Durge has finally followed her advice and embraced themselves, become exactly what she always saw them to be. Durge is now on the path to ascension, to true godhood. And Minthara's proximity to it all will keep her safe from all threats because she would be that god's consort. She can finally have a life without fear or distrust. She will have a god to worship, someone to love, and a new house in Durge's name. She will have everything she could have ever wanted and all she had to do was be devoted. All she had to do was be herself.

In that moment, her devotion to Durge makes her blind to the reality that Durge has changed and has become the very thing she herself criticized about Orin. She still believes that Durge won't hurt her and that Durge won't use the Absolute as a tool for slaughter. Her devotion makes her blind to the fact that Bhaal is like Lolth and the Absolute and most certainly will use Durge like a puppet. Her devotion makes her blind to the reality that Durge has only become a master of their urges, because they are willfully giving in to them and no longer fighting them. And the urge wants to kill everything, no exceptions. Her devotion makes her blind to the knife that Durge will inevitably turn against her, because her devotion was never going to make her an exception.

[statementlou]

i’m sorry to bring this up again, but i wanted to ask how are you making sense of harry having his former girlfriend’s name tattooed on his thigh if you don’t think they were really together? i’m not a larrie and i follow you for your louis content, but i respect your opinions, so i guess i’m coming more from a place of curiosity rather than seeking reassurance. do you not even entertain for one second the idea that you might’ve been wrong about things? that harry was really in a relationship with olivia? that he might actually be attracted to women? that he might’ve been with louis once upon a time but not anymore? have you ever challenged your confirmation bias? again, i’m not trying to attack you, i really just want to understand where you stand. i hope u don’t take this the wrong way.

well first of all you bring up the very good point that there are actually multiple Qs at play and not just one, despite the fandom's (and my) attempts to simplify things. I personally am open to the possibility that Harry and Louis are no longer together- we don't have enough info to say for sure either way about that, and I am constantly recalibrating and considering and I'm going to be totally honest, getting flat out ANNOYED at how often I find myself being like oh damn they ARE still (or again) together ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? Because it seems so improbable and illogical! You think I don't KNOW I sound fucking crazy?! Absolutely infuriating, and yet there are just all these little Things all the time. Plus ofc the fact that they both constantly wink wink larrie stuff to the fandom which could just be playing to the crowd... except then they both continually take it that little extra way that makes me go oh but... you really didn't NEED to go THERE that seems VERY pointed?? But also sometimes I go well. Okay, maybe not. Since they both seem super happy at this point, it doesn't stress me out to think they might have split, the way it would if they seemed miserable and were still churning out heartbreak songs, but it's schrodingers relationship and with all the savvy they've acquired around this stuff and all the balls they're keeping in the air wrt to fandom etc that's unlikely to change in favor of us knowing anything for sure for a very long time, if ever. But I do not doubt that they WERE together, it's simply not realistic. The evidence of it is overwhelming and imo undeniable when taken all together. And the thing is that knowing one thing with certainty (that they were together back when), having really looked at the things that happened during that time, does actually have a lot of bearing on the rest of it even if they aren't together anymore. Because knowing that and having seen the way fake relationships to make them seem straight were managed back then means that when I see the EXACT SAME things being done in the current day, like they are working from a fucking blueprint, no, I don't look at that and think it might be real. I know that Louis and Eleanor wasn't real in... whenever they allegedly got together lol, that story still isn't even quite straight, so why would I believe they were together in 2020? And if I know Louis has a tattoo for a fake girlfriend why would it change my mind about a million things I can see with my own eyes if Harry did the same (if indeed he even has who tf knows)? So despite what I said at the beginning, in the end it kind of does just come down to the one question people are always asking, are you a larrie? Because when you've actually been down the rabbit hole of details that ends up with you saying yes to that question, it's like acquiring a rosetta stone that unlocks the ability to read everything else, like putting on xray glasses, and I look at what is so obviously a publicity relationship (holivia) and whether H and L are still together has nothing to do with why I don't think it's real. Like could a celeb relationship be both used in typical ways for publicity and be or become real on some level (looking at you Liam, heyyy), sure, but for this question the fact that I have never seen Harry show the slightest sign of attraction to a woman in his whole life and he so clearly embraces and identifies so strongly with gay male culture in every possible way and never shuts up about how much he loves cock does play into my thinking; I simply do not think he is attracted to women, no, and I have yet to see him do anything that doesn't seem consistent with things a closeted pop star might chose to do. So in conclusion yes I have challenged my bias and decided I'm right lol! But for real- all the time I consider that they perhaps aren't together but that isn't really the point when it comes to believing they are gay.

[lamemaster]

A Dismembered Memory

Chapter 1

Pairing: Iluvatar x GN Reader (pls don't kill me)

Genre: Mystery, drama, and romance (angst obviously)

Summary: Do the Gods love? What is it like to love one? What is it like to be loved by one? Is it a love beyond the shackles of creation and destruction or is it a tragedy bound in the chains of duty and predestination.

AN: I know nobody asked for this but...listen good plot...maybe good plot and loads of drama if I can actually finish this. Let me know if you like this because...I want to know if it's just me.

Chapter 2| Chapter 3|

Iluvatar was gone. He had been gone for the past two decades. None knew of it other than Manwe, the lord of Arda. Another knew but he was no longer considered a part of the song of Arda. 

Manwe the closest to Iluvatar, and the wisest of the Valar, had heard nothing from the creator of his existence. However, such was not unheard of. It had happened once before. The music and path of Arda’s fate passed as planned. Its inhabitants played their parts but its creator was gone. 

The lord of Arda should have known. He had seen the signs that had presented themselves in the past. The faint presence beside himself, the name that lingered in his thoughts yet, evaded his lips. 

Ages ago, when the world was young and the Sun and the Moon were new to it, he had become aware of another. A being who remained unseen by all around him. It was a faint light as if a reflection carried by a gust of his own winds. 

Maybe it was a manifestation of Manwe’s grief, but he knew better. He remembered the subtle music it brought around with it. 

Right after the flight of the Noldor, grief-struck Manwe found himself in his unlit chambers. The dark carried a reminder of his errors, of his misjudgment and all that it wrought. He had failed…he failed to protect Arda. His brother, his subjects, his brethren, Manwe failed them all. “The sorrow of your fall shall not hinder the rise of your might little bird,” words rang in Manwe’s head. They carried the sweetness of such familiarity that for once Manwe thought them to be Iluvatar’s.

None had dared to comfort the King of Arda. Not even Iluvatar had presented himself in such a manner. A gentle wisp of air caressed Manwe’s head. A faint consolation from a form he did not recognize. 

At that time Manwe had leaned into the unknown source of his comfort. He rested his head against the blinding light that seemed to carry the wisp of the Timeless Halls but imitate the scent of Arda from it. 

Away from the rest…even Varda Manwe laid his burden bare to an unnamed stranger. He sobbed for his lost hope, his trust, and his faith in an unmarred Arda. “What if I fail every single creation on Arda? What if my inability is the fall for this world?” Manwe whispered into the air that surrounded him. He hadn’t dared to utter those words out loud till then.

“That will not happen,” like windchimes the voice replied. 

“How are you so sure? I see death, I see the pain and suffering of so many…I see destruction by my own hands. How do you know?” he questioned the source. His eyes remained closed still brimming with unstoppable tears.

Manwe did not expect an answer. And for a while the voice was quiet. And then it spoke, “The ones destined to bloom, bloom even through the cracks of barren lands. Arda is not easy, it is bound to its misery but there is beauty there,” flashing images of past, present and future plague Manwe’s mind as the voice continues, “there will obstacles and trails but I promise you that everyone playing a part in this melody shall find their peace. Even your brother.”

Manwe was taken aback by the certainty in the voice that spoke to him. The images that flashed in his mind brought a mixture of emotions—hope, doubt, and a spark of reassurance. Who was this being that could see the future and offer such promises? And how did it know about his brother, Melkor?

With curiosity and a sense of vulnerability, Manwe opened his eyes to face the light that had been his source of comfort. But what he saw was not what he expected. The mist that had once surrounded him and had almost felt akin to a solid form now dissipated into the air with every passing second.

"Who are you?" Manwe asked, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and wonder.

None answered. The voice never did answer that question. It was as if it had forgotten itself. As if everyone including itself were unaware of who it was.

He had found the voice around him on several occasions after that. Sometimes it twirled around in the blooming gardens of Kementari. While others stood overseeing nesting birds in Manwe’s castle. 

On an uneventful day surrounded by solitude and the lingering mysterious presence, Manwe initiated the subject of his curiosity.“I shall ask Iluvatar about your identity. Maybe he can give you the answers you seek,” Manwe did not let his excitement seep into his voice lest he aimed to scare away his companion that floated like an untethered kite in the sky. 

Maybe that was how Iluvatar became aware of their existence. It could have been the reason, why the great musician himself became a fleeting existence after that. Manwe did not know the entirety of Iluvatar’s plan. No one did. But his vanishing had something to do with the shadow that Manwe encountered.

The comforting presence that endearingly called the king of Arda, little bird.

The Void stretches beyond imagination. Even for a Vala, aware of the Timeless Halls it is an existence unfathomable. It is vicious in marking its presence on whoever dares to venture into it. Melkor can feel its precarious talons tapping on the edge of his conscience. 

He has been here forever. Stuck in the dark of the Void. For ages, he has pried off the grasping hands of the Void that threaten to rip him into the sea of oblivion. 

It is a deserving fate. Melkor, the tyrant of Arda, is very much deserving of the end that the Void promises. Yet, it is unfair. It is an irreversible fate. A punishment for a song that Melkor did not write. 

Destinies of the Good and the Evil were written by the great composer, Iluvatar. Both sides were given their roles to play for a magnificent song to come true. Melkor had played his part. He had become the bearer of all bad. He had done those deeds without an ounce of regret. 

So, why now does he feel so wronged? Why does the abandonment from his creator scare him more than the end promised by the Void? Iluvatar had forsaken Melkor. Even after following his fate, Melkor ended up alone. 

In the moments of his weakness, Melkor dared remember the outcome of his betrayal. It had indeed led to tales of valiant heroes and formidable heroines. But there was one, Melkor could not accept. It was the broken look in his own brother’s eyes. The hatred in Manwe’s eyes had been the hardest to accept. 

And maybe at that moment Melkor truly wanted to destroy the great music. Every design of the one who called himself the creator of the world.

It was the weakness of those moments when the grip of the Void snuck up on him. He wanted plead to with anyone who listened. His struggle remained a silent scream. The Void would allow even a word of Melkor’s to reach his brother. Not even a goodbye or an apology. 

“I promised him your return,” a voice speaks in Melkor’s mind. It is clear like the silvery beams of the Moon. It wasn’t the somber timbre of the Void’s existence. “Your brother Manwe awaits you,” your words still Melkor. 

Even the invading tendrils of the Void scurry away from your presence. “I implore that you do not detest your creator,” a moment of clarity fills Melkor as a cooling sensation rests upon his forehead. “Who?” Melkor asks but he lacks words from the unuse of his voice for so long.

“None know, but I shall fulfill my promise. Remember me when the Void lays heavy on your mind and I shall be there,” your voice is firm and for the first time in all the ages past, Melkor finds hope. 

That’s what you are to him. Hope, found in the darkest enclaves of existence. He does not know your name or your identity. All he knows is that there is someone out there, a faint light that comes to his rescue, someone who promises a reunion with his brother.

A presence that relieves him of his pain with a soothing touch to his forehead.

 Iluvatar witnessed the magnificence of his song. He celebrated the victories of his children and consoled them in their loss.

The chorus of his music rang loud in Arda’s fate, but he remained untouched by it. His halls were brimming with his second children, who sang merry songs of reunion after the trials of Arda. Iluvatar stayed by them, comforting them.

Yet, he remained alienated in his halls. Surrounded by the Ainur formed of his thoughts and his children, he still lacked the will to be with them. There was a separation between Iluvatar and the residents of his halls.

The God of Arda lived solitarily. His thoughts remained scattered in the realm of Arda and his halls. Maybe that was the reason he caught a fleeting glimpse of you.

Just a passing flicker of your presence from Manwe’s perspective was enough to leave the supreme creator encountering the gaping chasm in his chest. A dread of an eternity’s worth of emptiness strangled Iluvatar.

He searched for more. He looked for you in the memories of his thoughts that graced Arda as the Valar. There were faint images of your voice. He found more of those from Melkor. 

And Iluvatar mourned. The being greater than any sobbed for an unnamed being. He could not remember your name or your form. He knew nothing but the stolen snippets of your moments next to the beings shaped from his thoughts.

And it was the lack of this knowledge that dragged Iluvatar into yearning. In his lonely existence, filled with his great creation and his joy for his world, you were the only one who held a semblance to him.

He had created infinite kindred for Men, for Elves, for Ainur, but for Iluvatar…it was just you. The only one of his kind. The one he could not remember but could not let go.

In the depths of his halls, Iluvatar sat, surrounded by the symphony of creation, yet haunted by the absence of your presence. He longed to understand who you were, to recall the moments you shared, and to grasp the essence of your being. But all he had were fragments, like stars scattered across the heavens, leaving him yearning for the whole picture.

For a being as eternal as Iluvatar, the passing of ages was but a blink of an eye. Yet, in that blink, he sensed a void, a void that only you could fill. He wondered if you were a creation of his own mind, a figment of his imagination that somehow gained a life of its own, or if you were something more, a being from a realm beyond even his understanding.

[marislittlestories]

Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Mature | Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Spy Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Hogwarts Eighth Year

3/10 - chapter one, two - read on ao3

may 1998 - july 1998

Draco used to be small, short and waif-like. In the past couple of years, he’s gained a few inches of height and enough wiry muscle to complete this one, final task for the Dark Lord. Even if he hadn’t, if he still had a child’s frame, if he was weak and underfed, this is something he would find the strength for. He would do it brittle and broken and barely standing, if he had to. 

He cradles Harry’s fragile bones, all the skin and sinew that make up this impossible body, against his chest. He’s reassured by the heartbeat he feels beneath his palms, faint and almost unnoticeable. Harry is alive. Harry is alive and Draco’s mind is a frozen, glassy lake, reflecting only the certainty on its surface. Voldemort’s attention is elsewhere, on the other Death Eaters and then on the crowd amassed in front of the destroyed castle, but Draco knows better than to let his guard down for even a second.

Harry is alive, and that means the war must continue. Draco is not done yet.

When Harry shifts in his arms, Draco gives up his wand easily, gladly, knowing that it will be Harry’s devoted and abiding servant, just as Draco himself has been.

It doesn’t even feel like a loss, not when it’s him. 

***

Dean finds him after everything has calmed. Draco is laying flat in an empty courtyard, away from most of the carnage. He can’t make himself move. Three years of his life, years that he won’t, can’t regret, but years that are now useless all the same. He’s tired, and he’s lonely, and there is nothing left inside of him. He has used up every reserve. He’s done what he promised, even if it was a vow he’d only ever spoken to an empty room, and now it’s over. He’s not sure what comes next.

His eyes are closed, but he can still tell when a shadow falls over him. He looks. 

“You know, there’s a bit of a mob after you,” Dean says, like he can’t decide how seriously to take it.

“They think I’m a Death Eater,” Draco pauses, runs a hand over his forearm, “I guess I am. You think they’ll leave me in Azkaban while they get it sorted?”

A strange sense of calm falls over him. It doesn’t matter much what happens to him now, no missions to complete, no one to save.

“I’m not letting them. Apparently, neither is Harry.”

Draco blinks, “Harry?”

“Yeah, I told him I’d find you while he kept them busy. He said you lied to Voldemort.”

Draco snorts, “Is that proof of innocence now? If so, he should let all the Death Eaters loose.”

“You lied about him being dead.”

“Yeah.”

“And you lied about recognizing him at the Manor. Obviously I wasn’t there to see that either, but Hermione’s a good storyteller. You might want to leave? It’s still a little chaotic, and there’s not exactly a way to notify the entirety of England that you’re actually fine.”

Draco rubs at his eyes, “I need to see my handler.”

“Alright,” Dean says skeptically, “Who’s the unlucky bastard?”

“Hestia Jones. I saw her earlier, so she’s definitely here.”

Dean hauls Draco up, grasping his elbow, and then lets go of him just long enough to throw an arm across his narrow shoulders, “Listen, after everything is less mad, Luna and I are going to spend some time in my village. You should come with us.”

“What?” Draco splutters, “Why would you want me to come with you?”

“You’re our friend,” Dean says like it’s a fact of life, like it should be common knowledge.

Together, they pass from the courtyard into a corridor, empty except for Ron and Hermione standing at one end of it, staring. 

“Apparently he’s got a death wish,” Dean sighs, “Have either of you seen Jones?”

Ron and Hermione narrow their eyes at him, perfectly in sync, heads tilted at the same angle and everything. It’s a little eerie. After a moment, however, Hermione sets her shoulders and her expression clears.

“She’s in the Hall with Kingsley,” she turns the corner ahead of them.

When they enter the Hall, Harry is not battling a crowd hungry for Draco’s blood. He’s sitting alone, staring out at the bodies lined up on the floor.

Draco eyes Dean with suspicion. He shrugs.

A few people shoot Draco angry or fearful glances while they make their way to the corner where Hestia and Kingsley are surveying the room. Hestia’s face brightens when she sees Draco.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Hestia says, “We finally meet.”

Draco rolls his eyes, “Hello, Hestia.”

She gives him a look, sharp and dangerous, “I heard a story, just now.”

He meets her gaze warily.

“Apparently, you had a chance to use your extraction plan and you didn’t.”

He winces, “I wasn’t compromised-”

She swats at the back of his head, “I could just strangle you! Oh, well, I guess it’s no use now. It’s all over. You’re a free man.”

“Am I?” he side-eyes Kingsley, who doesn’t appear to be paying any attention.

“Give me a break,” Hestia grumbles, “You just had the bloody Savior protesting your innocence, no one is about to cart you off under a binding spell. Is your mother here?” 

Draco shakes his head, though really, Hestia should know the answer to that question.

“Thought not. That’s probably for the best. I don’t think that the new Ministry will be eager to make an example of her, not when they have your father.”

Draco nods, just once, thankful for the confirmation. Hestia never does beat around the bush, and outside of the sporadic expression of care for his safety, she treats his life like a series of variables to maximize. He doesn’t really mind. He wouldn’t have responded to anything else.

Kingsley clears his throat, “The new Ministry won’t be making examples out of anyone, if I have anything to say about it. Justice is a worthier objective.”

“Of course,” Hestia says.

Draco is familiar with the tone of Hestia’s voice when she’s being patronizing, so he has to stifle a laugh. 

“Some people are being… difficult,” Dean says, “About Draco, I mean.”

Draco elbows him.

Hestia waves Dean off, turning to Draco again, “Yes, yes, I’m aware. You can handle yourself, no?”

“I can,” Draco says. 

Dean digs his fingers into Draco’s shoulder, “No, he cannot. Besides, isn’t handling him your job?”

Hestia smiles indulgently, “Not anymore. Free man, remember? But if anyone tries to hex him, you’re welcome to send them my way.”

Draco tugs on Dean’s arm, “I’m sure you’re busy, so we’ll just be leaving now.”

“Take care, Draco,” Hestia says.

“You too.”

Dean lets himself be dragged away.

“Is Luna alright?” Draco asks, words running into each other.

He’s operating on fumes now, and he’ll crash soon, but the conversation with Hestia has given him a bit of direction. His work is not done, not yet.

“Yes, she’s fine. She went to find her father.”

Draco nods absently, scanning the room, though he’s not sure what he’s looking for until he sees it: Harry, still alone, head hung. It’s strange. Draco hasn’t felt much besides weariness and desperation and scattered flashes of relief for months, maybe years. He doesn’t now. But he does get the familiar urge to smooth a hand over Harry’s shoulders, to take his weight, to help. Like muscle memory.

Draco blinks, comes back to himself. Dean is staring at him, waiting for him to speak.

“Okay,” Draco breathes, “Okay, then. I need to- You understand, I can’t stay-”

Dean groans, “Yes, yes, I understand. Go figure your shit out.”

“Could you tell Weasley and Granger thank you for me? If you get the chance?”

“Not Harry?” Dean asks, looking genuinely bewildered. 

Draco knows that he’s blushing. His only hope is that his face is streaked with enough dust and blood to obscure it, “Uh, yes, Harry too.”

“I’ll tell them,” Dean assures him.

Dean, thankfully, doesn’t try to prolong the goodbye, or extract any promises from him. He knows where Draco will be.

***

Draco’s mother has not moved since the last time Draco was at the Manor, nearly three days ago. As soon as he’s confirmed that she is alive, he ventures carefully into the dungeons. His body aches, bone deep. He hasn’t slept or eaten. He pushes through the lingering pain and dread.

He isn’t sure what to expect. There haven’t been many prisoners at the Manor in recent weeks, but there are other Wizarding houses that were used by Death Eaters, who will likely retreat to these last strongholds.

Hestia knows everything he does. He trusts her to take care of it. And she knows that he will take care of this. He has to. 

There’s something that happens when you’re powerless, when your mind is forced to confront the horror that surrounds it, when you have no escape: you contract to fit within the space you have. That’s what he does, what he has always done. He has one narrow path now, and he will walk it, no matter how painful it will be.

One foot in front of the other, all the way down the steps and into the first empty chamber. He’s more afraid of what he’ll find in the rooms at the back of the dungeons used for interrogations. 

Draco pulls the first of the iron doors open. 

“Onward,” he whispers into the darkness.

***

It takes a full week for her to gain consciousness. Most healing spells are accompanied by side effects of intense drowsiness, so Draco tries not to worry about it too much. The Muggle girl he had found half-dead in the very last room couldn’t be older than twelve or thirteen. Draco suspects that she survived because whoever was in the process of killing her was called away to fight.

When she does come to, she stares at him with bottomless black eyes and a trembling lip, “Please, please, I just want to go home.”

She doesn’t try to run away, or even sit up, but she does flinch away from Draco’s steady hand. 

“It’s okay,” he says as calmly as he can, “You’re safe now. No one is going to hurt you. Do you remember what happened?”

“My sister’s a witch. We were taken by Snatchers over Easter, but I don’t know where she is or, or-” she starts crying, and heaving these shuddery breaths that sound like they hurt. 

Draco shifts uncomfortably. He knows he has terrible bedside manner, “Um. She’s not here, but she could have been taken somewhere else, okay?”

“Oh-Okay.”

“The Wizarding hospital is still getting back up and running, so I’ve given you what treatment I was able to. Hopefully, they’ll be operational soon.”

“Where am I?”

Draco sighs, “This is the house above the dungeons you were in, but the war is over. The last of the Death Eaters are on the run, and I’ve locked them out of the wards. You don’t need to worry about them. You know about the Order?”

She nods. 

“They’re hunting them down right now.”

“Who are you?” she asks.

“My name is Draco. This is my house now, my father has been sent to Azkaban.”

“You’re not…?” she shakes her head, like she’s trying to assure herself, “I’m Marcie.”

Draco rolls up his sleeve to show her the Mark. He doesn’t want her to be afraid of him, but if he was in her position, he would feel safer if he knew everything upfront. 

“I got the Mark so I could relay information back to the Order. I swear you’re safe with me.”

Marcie’s eyes widen, “So you’re like a spy?”

“I suppose.”

“Wicked.”

He seems to have assuaged the last of Marcie’s fears, because she becomes instantly more energetic, peppering him with questions about the house and books he’s read. She seems horrified to learn that he’s never even heard of her favorite author.

“Well, if we’re to be friends at all, you’ll have to at least read Matilda and James and the Giant Peach, they’re my favorites.”

Draco raises his eyebrows, “Oh, will I?”

“Yes. And there’s a film for Matilda as well, but Ella says wizards don’t have tellies.”

Draco is only thirty percent sure he knows what she’s talking about, but he doesn’t have to admit it to her. Marcie is already nodding off into a restful sleep. Draco checks her vitals once before he slips out of the room. He has a monitoring spell up that will alert him if she shows signs of waking, but he still checks obsessively. It feels like the only thing he can do.

Dean and Luna come to check on him later in the afternoon, apparating directly into the most bearable sitting room while he’s pacing down the length of the corridor outside. Dean pokes his head out of the doorway.

“Everything alright?”

Draco joins him and Luna in the sitting room, “The little girl woke up. Her name is Marcie. She fell asleep again before I could get too much information about where she’s from and all that, but she’s much better. Her wounds have healed fine, and nourishment charms have improved the slight malnutrition, but she can’t fully recover here.”

Luna nods, “Too much Dark magic.”

“Too much rot,” Draco says fiercely, “I don’t have time to fix it now.”

If he’s being honest with himself, he’s not sure if it can be fixed at all. The Manor was the first thing he ever loved, before his mother, before anyone or anything else. It was never about the house, but Draco knows that the stain has seeped into the ground. He loves his home, but someday he may leave and never return. 

For now, he sets to finding a flat in London. 

***

“Marcie, do you have somewhere else you could stay?” Draco asks a couple days later, when she’s managed to stay awake for more than half an hour at a time. He has a feeling that he knows the answer already.

She shakes her head and makes a valiant effort to refrain from crying. Draco envelops her in a very stiff and very awkward hug. 

“Your sister, what’s her name? We can try to find her.”

“Her name is Ella. Ella Renford. She’s a fifth year, and she has the prettiest hazel eyes you’ve ever seen,” Marcie sniffs, “She was wearing a purple friendship bracelet I gave her when we got taken.”

Draco is silently relieved. He helped bury a lot of bodies, and none of them had a purple bracelet or looked the right age to be Marcie’s sister. She could still be alive.

“Okay. I’m going to write some letters to people who can look for her. For now, we’re going to find somewhere else to stay.”

“But you’ll be with me, right?”

Draco wants to fall at this little girl’s feet and weep for a week straight. Instead, he just pats her shoulder.

“As long as you want me there.”

He decides, fairly quickly, that his flat should be in a Muggle area. He wants Marcie to be comfortable, and he wants to be far enough from Diagon Alley that his mother can gaze unseeing out of a window and not be recognized from the street. 

He drags Dean and Luna to showings.

“I’m afraid of doing something strange,” Draco tells them, “I don’t know how Muggles behave.”

Dean and Luna exchange a pitying glance. They know as well as he does that he’s more afraid of being alone. They keep him company anyways. Dean is just as useful as Draco had imagined. He knows what to look for in a Muggle place, and a little about how magic interacts with Muggle technology.

Luna is supremely unhelpful. She contributes nothing but vaguely ominous commentary, delivered in her trademark dreamy lilt. Draco listens to her when she tells him not to apply to the flat above the chippy regardless.

Eventually, he finds a decent flat and moves Marcie and his mother in. Marcie recovers as much as she’s going to without a Healer. Mungo’s is still battling with potions shortages and staff shortages and too many patients that are worse off than Marcie, so they stay in the London flat and Marcie makes him go to the library with her so she can sign up for a card.

And then, one afternoon when Marcie has goaded him into a game of Go Fish that he is absolutely going to lose, Ron Weasley shows up at his door.

He’s laughing at Marcie’s bragging when he flings it open, expecting Luna even though she never knocks, or perhaps the nosy old man who lives across the hall. But no, it’s Weasley, tall and freckled and looking about as uncomfortable as Draco has ever seen him.

“Oh. Ron,” Draco says, then curses himself. He has literally never called him Ron, “Um, how can I help you?”

“Hestia sent me. She couldn’t get away from the Ministry, but there’s been a development about that girl-”

Draco moves out into the hallway quickly, closing the door softly behind him, “Ella Renford?”

Ron takes a small step back, creating an acceptable amount of space between them and narrowing his eyes, “Yes. Ella. We still don’t know exactly where she is, but one of the prisoners rescued from the Rosier house recognized the description you gave. Apparently, she escaped from there a week before the Battle. There’s no information that suggests she was recaptured.”

“So she’s alive?” Draco is aware that he’s wearing perhaps the biggest smile he has ever worn in his life. Ron looks a bit concerned.

“Presumably. We still need to locate her, of course, and there’s still a possibility that-”

Ron stops talking, probably because he is taken aback by the massive hug that Draco sweeps him up in. 

“Thank you, thank you so much, Merlin,” Draco sets him back down, “I need to tell Marcie.”

Ron frowns, “Who’s Marcie?”

“Oh, just come in. You might as well meet her. I’m sure she’ll want to hug you as well.”

His suspicions are correct. Marcie squeals and leaps into Ron’s arms as soon as he can get the words out. 

“I knew it, I knew it,” she cries, “Ella’s so clever, I knew she would get out and come find me. Draco, didn’t I tell you?”

Draco laughs, “You did.”

Ron leaves with orders to read Matilda at his earliest convenience and a stilted handshake from Draco, who is so happy that he wants to do something he hasn’t truly done in years: celebrate. Marcie and him venture out to a Muggle shop, where she coaches him through buying ice cream. They eat straight from the carton, saving a thick layer at the bottom.

“When Ella comes, she can have the rest of it,” Marcie murmurs, and succumbs to the inevitable sugar crash.

Draco hasn’t quite figured out how to be gentle with anyone but Marcie. It’s easier, he thinks, to do it when no one is around waiting for him to fuck it up. 

Luna and Dean are the best friends he’s had since fourth year, and he loves them as much as he’s loved anyone he doesn’t also hate, but despite their efforts to pull him into casual embraces he maintains his distance. There is a wall he’s built that he doesn’t know how to take down. He did it knowingly and willingly, and he will never regret it, not when it saved Harry’s life. 

With Marcie, though, it’s easy. It’s more instinct than it is desire, a softening of his voice and care to his touch that he’s never really experienced before. He grew up an only child, isolated from the rest of the world. She’s not exactly the gentlest kid anyway. She’s loud and often afraid but never sad. She is quite possibly the happiest person Draco has ever met.

“Do you miss Ella?” he asks one day, after they’ve spent most of it lazing about a park in London, picking at the food Draco brought and watching the ducks in the pond nearby. Marcie had named each and every one of them, even if she definitely couldn’t tell them apart. 

Marcie smiles, because of course she does, “We play this game, when she’s away at school, where we talk to the wind instead of each other. That way, we don’t miss each other as much. I’ve been talking to the wind so it’s not that different from when she’s at Hogwarts. I wish she was here, and I hope that she’s safe but I know that I’ll see her soon.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Draco says, swallowing the worry that tries to climb up the back of his throat. It has only been three or four days since Ron showed up at the flat, and the time is blurring. They’ll find her soon, he tells himself. They have to.

Dean has gone back to his village, Crawley Down. It’s close enough to London that anyone with a license can apparate, but he’s spending time with his mums and warned Draco and Luna not to expect him to be going back and forth very often. Luna is joining him at the end of May, which is rapidly approaching.

Draco doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He doesn’t particularly want to stay in London. Something about the city makes him feel claustrophobic. You can never really be alone here. There’s always someone on the other side of a wall or next to you on the pavement. He also doesn’t want to leave Marcie. He’s definitely not going to leave until they find Ella, and maybe not for a while after that. 

He knows he can’t hold onto her forever. She deserves a genuinely stable home, one that isn’t under the direction of a fractured teenage boy, one that ghosts don’t linger at the edges of. The beginnings of a Ministry program for war orphans is coming together, but he’s not sure where a Muggle kid fits into that. Some day, he will have to let her go, and then he’ll be alone again. 

He’s scared to return to the Manor, of what he’ll find there.

He sets it aside for now. It’s a beautiful day and Marcie wants him to teach her how to do a cartwheel.

***

The next time there’s a knock at the door, Draco races to answer it, full of breathless hope. Instead of Ron, Harry and Hermione are on the other side.

Draco’s smile falls. They both look far too solemn to be delivering good news. He glances over his shoulder. Marcie is in her bedroom, door shut, inhaling one of the books they’d checked out from the library last week. They’d forgotten to bring a bag with them, and had to walk back to the flat with stacks of books held tight beneath their chins. 

“Is this about Ella?” he asks quietly, hoping that they’ll follow his lead. If it’s bad news, he doesn’t want Marcie to overhear it before he can figure out how to tell her.

Harry blinks, confused, but Hermione seems to know what he’s talking about.

“Oh, no, still no word about her.”

Draco sags a bit against the doorframe, relieved. There’s a bit of silence, and then Harry clears his throat and his face hardens into a confident, serious expression. It’s a little disappointing when Draco feels nothing. Whatever fire had raged inside of him at fourteen has been snuffed out, and he’s not sure he’s capable of lighting it again, for anyone.

“We’re arranging public hearings,” Harry says, “And we need your testimony. If not against your father, then the other Death Eaters you interacted with.”

Draco doesn’t reply immediately. He thinks about everything he’d be asked about, everything he’d have to explain to a room full of people who largely despise him, all his worst moments laid out in front of a captive, unsympathetic audience. He’s not sure why he didn’t see this coming, but he does know what his answer is.

“No.”

Harry narrows his eyes, “What?”

“I have nothing to offer that you can’t get from someone else,” Draco says firmly, “I won’t participate.”

“You don’t feel responsible?” Hermione asks, finding her voice.

“For what?”

“For what happens next,” she says, “For the world being rebuilt.”

Draco feels a savage sort of vindication when he smiles at her, “Fuck the world.”

“What was the point then? Of all the fighting?” Harry frowns, annoyed.

Harry is doing what he always does. He’s trying to understand what Draco is doing, ascribing motives and intentions where there was nothing but blind panic. Draco, though, is finally, finally free. He has done his duty. 

“I had people I wanted to protect, people I was responsible for, and I gave up three years of my life to them. I have no debts.”

“But-” 

Draco shakes his head sharply, “I won’t testify. Hestia knows everything I know, and it has not escaped my attention that she isn’t here asking me to do this.”

Hermione stares at him, disappointed and a little frustrated maybe. Harry is, as always, more suspicious than anything else, though he also seems rather angry. Draco hasn’t been paying very much attention to how the news of his true loyalties has been received, but judging from Harry’s willingness to fall back into old patterns, there must still be some skepticism.

Testifying in the trials could quiet that. It could also make it worse. The thing is, Draco doesn’t care. He will never be a convenient hero, and he’s not interested in plunging himself into the same hurricane of public opinion that he saw Harry experience at school. 

“Hestia doesn’t know everything, though,” Hermione says thoughtfully, “You didn’t tell her about the Manor.”

At that, Harry tenses up, coils, like he’s getting ready to strike.

“Astonishingly, I was not the only person present for that. I’m sure you’ll muddle through without me.”

Draco is getting tired of being cross-examined. He’s tired of fighting. 

He starts to shut the door, “Have a good day.”

“Why?” Hermione asks, “Why didn’t you tell her?”

“She would have been angry.”

“Because you stayed?”

Draco shrugs, “I’m sure she’d be happy to answer your questions about how stupid I am.”

***

Marcie is too old to ask for bedtime stories, but not too old to want them. Draco’s not sure how it happened the first time, all he knows is that it ended in Marcie fast asleep on the bed beside him and no nightmares for either of them. 

He does it every night now, reads a chapter from Fantastic Mr Fox and then leaves a nightlight on for her. He likes it. There’s something comforting about things made for children, and it’s a comfort he never had, not even when he was a child himself. It was always running off by himself between French tutoring and etiquette lessons. 

Marcie has him read James and the Giant Peach on his own time, and he surprises himself by bursting into tears when he turns the last page. If he had to put it into words, he would say something about how the world is depicted as cruel and kind in equal measure, mundane and magical. Marcie makes fun of him for the tears and hugs him tightly.

“You know why I like Roald Dahl?” Marcie’s voice is uncharacteristically sensitive.

“Why?”

“He knows how scary it is to be a kid.”

Draco nods, “Yeah, he does.”

“I used to dream of someone coming to save us, you know,” she continues, “But no one did. No one even helped us.”

“I used to dream of that too,” Draco replies. 

He had wanted to live in the kitchens, or be whisked off by some distant relative, or to disappear into the untamed wilderness. It was a lonely child’s fantasy. He wants nothing more than to make it come true for Marcie.

It’s a pointless exercise, really. Marcie has already seen the horrors of war, and before it, the cruel tide of an uncaring world, in all of its violent ebbs and flows. Draco can only give her space, only time. So a day before the trials start, he starts to build levees to keep the flood at bay. He takes Marcie out of London on an early train, barreling through the brilliant green dips and crests of the English countryside. Draco bought a pack of two disposable cameras at the station, and Marcie spends at least an hour of the ride adorning them with stickers. 

They end up, quite by accident, at the eastern coast.

She’s never seen the ocean, but she falls in love immediately, gasping at the very first sight of the deep blue waves, glimmering and churning, from the train’s window. They’ve made no plans, booked no reservations, so they spend the entire day at the beach, eating kebabs from a stand on the boardwalk. Marcie’s curls turn wilder, and the waves Draco has resolutely ignored all his life make themselves known, and forcefully. 

Once the sun starts to set, once Marcie starts shivering, he finds a nearby hotel and pays for a room. He’s never experienced this before, the quiet pleasure of taking a hot shower and sinking into a strange, pillowy bed, but it feels nostalgic all the same. 

The concierge at the hotel, when prompted, offers Draco a few bookshops and their addresses. They waste a delightful afternoon trying to navigate the winding streets, getting lost and ducking in and out of shops. Marcie finds a pair of terrifying porcelain dolls at an antique store and insists that they must have them. Finally, they locate one of the bookshops and they emerge with three bags altogether, mostly for Marcie. She sneaks in a few Muggle classics for Draco.

“We’ll need to watch the series once you’re finished with this one,” she says, back in the hotel room, holding up a cheap paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice, “Ella loves it. I’m undecided.”

Draco can’t respond with anything but a smile, “Undecided?”

“I don’t want to spoil it for you,” Marcie mimes zipping her mouth shut.

Sitting on the floor of the room that night, eating Indian takeaway and taking turns reading passages from Matilda out loud, he imagines another life, maybe a Muggle one, with seaside holidays and a large, warm family.

It’s not his, nor is it Marcie’s. It never will be, not quite, not completely, but for now this is enough. It is enough to spend the rest of the week going on precarious, salt-rusted rides and learning how to beat each other at arcade games and finding little nooks to read together in comfortable, placid silence and taking so many photos that Draco has to buy another set of cameras, then another. It is enough to roll it in sugar, to give her a glossy, saccharine summer as an epilogue to her bitter story. 

When he develops the film, it paints an eclectic, beautiful montage of wide smiles and blue skies; Marcie standing in the ocean, Draco sleeping on the train home, the view from the top of the observation wheel, Draco’s face half-hidden by A Tale of Two Cities, Marcie holding the creepy dolls, a cute dog they’d seen on the street. He gets two copies of all of them, one for him and one for Marcie.

She tapes one of them, a blurry shot of the two of them sprawled on the beach, over her bed. It tears at Draco’s heart the first time he sees it, and every time after. He thinks that maybe he could do this. He could keep Marcie safe, wrap her up in a patchwork of new memories, each replacing the ones he never asks about and she never offers up. He’s full to the brim, with love, with possibility.

Although the fighting is long over, and now the trials are as well, Draco feels for the first time like the war might be ending too.

And the war does end for Draco, on his eighteenth birthday, a breezy morning at the very beginning of June. Luna and him and Marcie are at the London flat, attempting to bake his cake, when Harry shows up on the doorstep, bearing the only gift Draco wants this year:

Ella Renford, fifteen years old, as tall as Draco and scowling at him with hazel eyes.

***

Luna darts into another obscure little shop he’s never noticed in Diagon before, pulling Draco right along with her. She’s joining Dean in Crawley Down next week, and she wants to get a gift for his mums before she goes. It’s a bit worrying, honestly, because she’s being quite indecisive for Luna.

“Maybe you should just bring flowers,” Draco suggests after the fourth or fifth shop, “Or, I don’t know, ask Dean?”

Luna shakes her head, pale curls almost floating in the breeze behind her. Her expression is as serene as ever, except for the miniscule crease between her brows. It gives her away every time.

“No. I need to get this right.”

“You get everything right, Lunes. You’re sort of a genius.”

“But,” she pauses, “I know there’s a perfect gift. I just haven’t found it yet.”

Draco raises an eyebrow.

“It’s a feeling.”

“Oh, it is?” Draco sighs, looking down the street. He doesn’t really go into Diagon much these days, just when Luna asks, because he still gets tight, apprehensive looks from people on the street. It’s much easier to stick to Muggle London, even if sometimes he feels like he’s bumbling around, especially with Marcie.

“I don’t think it’s flowers.”

“Is this a feeling,” he stresses the word, because you never know with Luna, “Or are you just being fussy?”

She gazes at him with wide blue eyes and Draco feels silly. Who would ever accuse Luna of being fussy?

“Alright, we’ll keep looking. What happens if you don’t find something? Are you going to postpone leaving?”

“Maybe,” Luna chirps, “I could just stay in London until you come as well.”

Draco folds his arms. He’s left Marcie at the flat with Ella, whose side she hasn’t left in the days since Draco’s birthday. He’s so fucking Happy that Ella is okay and that Marcie has her sister again, but it means he has to face the music of what happens next. 

“Don’t say that, you might end up staying forever.”

Luna slits about the sidewalk like an agitated pixie, “I might.”

“You won’t. You’ll go to Dean’s little village and make friends with all the cows, I’m assuming there will be cows, and you’ll charm everyone you meet and his mums will fall just as in love with you as Dean is.”

Luna doesn’t roll her eyes, because she never rolls her eyes, but there’s something fondly exasperated about the way she pats his hair, “Okay, Draco. I don’t see why you can’t just bring Ella and Marcie to Crawley Down.”

Draco doesn’t have anything to say to that. If he told her the truth, she’d only argue with him, in whatever way Luna argues. 

“You love them,” Luna says gently and then she mercifully lets the conversation wilt and die.

He returns to a flat quiet, except for the sound of Ella and Marcie talking through the walls, a near-constant hum. Ella has said no more than a handful of words to him. He loves her despite it, for it, and he does it fiercely. He also knows that there is only one way to be kind to her, and that is to let the both of them go. Draco is already fracturing beneath his own weight, and he cannot take her burden and stay standing. 

She deserves to set it down, though. She deserves the same careless freedom he’s tried to give Marcie, but Ella is older and wiser and she knows what Marcie doesn’t, what Draco can’t help but know. She knows that he isn’t to be trusted. Not with this. 

His mother sits, silent and still, in her chair by the window. Sometimes vague expressions flicker across her face now. He reminds himself that it’s progress, that she might get better, that one day she might even meet his eyes and smile. There’s an emotion that swells inside of him when he looks at her but he refuses to name it, to give it space within him.

He’s not sure how to help her and he’s tired of the obligation. He’s tired of the way it pulls at him, snagging on his skin and tearing his body up.

“Love you, Mom,” He taps the doorframe and moves on to his own room, which is depressingly devoid of his personality. Trinkets from Luna crowd the top of his dresser, but other than that, his space is generic. 

He’s tired of this too, of feeling like a blank sheet of paper that the people around him write on, only for their signatures to be quickly erased. He’s tired of loving, and staying, and being ripped apart for it. His love is a thing that has never brought out the best of anyone, Draco included.

“Home sweet home.”

***

The knock on the door, the one that Draco has been dreading, comes just after Luna has left for Crawley Down, a packet of seeds and a well-worn cookbook stashed in her bags.

Mr. Garnier, as he introduces himself, is coordinating the Ministry response for displaced children. He apologizes profusely for how much time it has taken to get to their situation, but he had much more urgent placements to deal with. And, as Marcie and Ella were safe here, they were some of the last children to be settled. 

“But we have found an older Wizarding couple to take you in!” He says, as if he expects Marcie and Ella to jump for joy. 

Marcie attempts a shaky smile. Ella glares. 

“Their children have all left home, and they’re eager to help in any way they can. I’m sure you’ll be very happy there.”

Marcie looks at Draco expectantly, but he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. 

Ella grabs Marcie’s hand, “Come on. We have to get our things.”

Draco hovers, asking them repeatedly if they have everything they need. He slips Marcie pastries, lemon raspberry like they ate the morning they got lost in a seaside town, bundled up in waxed paper and tied up with a blue ribbon.

Mr. Garnier flushes red, “They will certainly have food at their new home.”

Marcie pulls Draco into a tight, grasping hug. She trembles in his arms. Ella steps on Mr. Garnier’s foot on their way out and Draco has to choke down a laugh. She never really warmed up to him, but he’ll miss her all the same. Luna was right, after all. He loves them.

And he loves them enough to give Marcie a kiss on the head and give Ella a fistbump. He loves them enough to tell them they can write him anytime. He loves them enough to cry once they’ve well and truly left.

He loves them enough to not ask them to stay.

***

He tells Dean and Luna in a letter that the girls are gone, which is an adventure in and of itself. He has to send it off to Crawley Down in the Muggle post. He’s only certain that he’s done it right when he gets a letter back urging him to join them in Crawley Down.

They probably know that he’s not fit to be alone, but he doesn’t really feel fit for company either. He lingers in London, haunting the flat like some kind of phantom, until he can’t stand to look at his mother’s vacant, unseeing stare anymore and he does the only thing he can.

He goes to the Manor. 

Walking through the deserted halls is like walking through a mausoleum. A testament of things long gone. He is surrounded by decay, outnumbered. He doesn’t dare touch anything. There is a thin layer of dust, of course, but it’s worse than that. If he looks closely, he can see blood worked into the grain of the wooden floors. 

Dark Magic creeps over every surface like mold, like a living thing. There’s a chilling, spectral presence somewhere in the walls, in the very fabric of this place. He knows, without needing an official Ministry inspection, that it cannot be salvaged.

He walks out into the garden, stares up at the ivy-covered wall that he used to perch on. He hasn’t climbed it since that night last summer, the night he brushed death twice, but he toes his shoes off now and peels his socks from his feet. He scales the wall with practiced ease. It still leaves his soles sore and weeping. He looks out at his forest, and there is nothing left of that teeming, wild life, stretching as far as the eye can see.

Draco cries again, there at the top of his entire world. He hasn’t gone to the clearing yet, but somehow he knows what he’ll find, and he’s correct. He steps past the treeline into a meadow covered in snow. It’s the middle of June, but try as he might, he can’t banish the storm clouds from the sky above or the icy wind from between the trees. Within this sacred grove, it is eternal winter.

***

Hestia can’t have known that he returned to the Manor, but something prompts her to coerce him into lunch. 

“You look like shit,” is the first thing she says, the second being, “It’s nice to see you.”

He sighs and accepts a stiff but welcome hug, “You look great.”

“I know.”

“Where are we going for lunch?” 

They’ve met at Hestia’s office in the Ministry. It’s charmingly cluttered, with a picture of her dog hanging right across from the desk. A map of Wales is spread out on the floor, anchored in each corner with empty beer bottles.

“I’ve got my Wizarding robes on today,” she says as if he can’t see that with his own two eyes, “So it’ll have to be somewhere in Diagon.”

“You don’t want to swing by McDonald’s?” he jokes. 

She gives him a look, “You’re buying, and I know exactly how much money you have in your Gringotts vaults. If we were going somewhere Muggle, it would be somewhere a lot nicer than a McDonald’s. Our Wizarding options are limited. Diagon’s still a bit empty.”

“Yeah, I went with Luna a little while ago. So many shops were still boarded up.”

“There’s a bill working its way through the Wizengamot right now, special loans for small businesses,” Hestia gives a vague wave of her hand, “Anyways, we’ve got the Leaky Cauldron, that French bistro that just opened, and the chippy, which I’m convinced will survive the apocalypse.”

“What, do you want me to guess where you’d like to go?”

She rolls her eyes, “French alright with you?”

They apparate to Diagon, and Draco tries not to let on that he’s on the brink of puking his guts out on the sidewalk. Apparition does not agree with him. There’s a reason he and Marcie took a train to the coast. 

The teenage witch who seats them at the bistro seems to recognize them both, but thankfully doesn’t say anything except to tell them the name of their server. They make it through appetizers before disaster strikes in the form of Harry Potter. He is, for some unfathomable reason, alone and being seated at a table set for one. Hestia sees him before Draco does.

She raises an arm, “Potter, are you eating alone?”

Draco follows her gaze to its inevitable conclusion, green eyes and the casual line of Harry’s body. He feels the ghost of broken glass against his feet. 

“Uh, yes.”

“Join us if you’d like.”

And he does. He waves off the hostess and moves his setting to their table himself, grinning at Hestia and throwing an unreadable glance Draco’s way.

“Draco,” Harry greets him without meeting his eyes, “It’s been a while. How is your mother?”

The question only stings a little, “She’s alright. Better, I think.”

Hestia peers at him over her menu. For all of his secrets he’s laid bare at Hestia’s feet, this is not one of them. She knows him, though, and to anyone well-versed in the language of Draco Malfoy, he’s being quite obvious. He’s just answered a question about his mum, for Christ’s sake.

Harry immediately turns that fleeting glimmer of attention on Hestia, “Any luck with Robards?”

Hestia shakes her head, her lips cutting a grim line across her face, “I swear to Merlin, if he blocks one more thing…”

“Charlie told me that Travers might be susceptible to a bit of charm, but I don’t know. Seems pretty tight lipped to me. He’s the only person who might know anything.”

Draco stiffens, but keeps his head tilted down at his glass of wine. It’s no use, though. Hestia knows fucking everything.

“Hm,” she says, a laugh hiding just behind the sound, “If only you were the political sort, Draco.”

He glares at her, half embarrassment, half betrayal, “He won’t tell me shit.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure. What was it that he left for you? A bouquet?”

Oliver Travers, distantly related to one of the Death Eaters and educated at Beauxbatons, had been Draco’s only Order contact besides Snape and Hestia in the last year of the war. He was a low-level Ministry official, and he had been nothing but a middle-man, one stop along a winding channel of information, passed down from spy to spy.

He’d taken to leaving a bundle of forget-me-nots with the information drops after he’d met Draco for the first time, as a reference to his clothes, spun with Notice-Me-Not charms in the very fibers. 

It had been nice, and a little funny. Ironic. He still has a few of them pressed between the pages of a book in his room at the Manor, a reminder of the loneliest time of his life and one of the only people who had noticed. 

“He’s too self-serving,” Draco says, knowing it’s more an easy answer than a truthful one, “That’s why we understand each other.”

Hestia does something ridiculous with her eyebrows and Draco takes a long drink of his wine, bitter and dry against his tongue. He keeps doing it, not because he needs the buzz or even wants it, but to distract his mouth from contributing to the conversation.

He’s tipsy by the end of lunch anyways, and in no state to apparate. He’ll have to leave Diagon Alley on the other end and walk back to his flat from there. He’s never been intoxicated, in any sense of the word, in front of his mother, but he’s comforted by the thought that it won’t matter at all. She likely won’t even look at him.

Draco takes care of the check, waving off Harry’s insistence that they split it, “Tell him, Jones. She knows exactly how much gold I’ve got in my family vault. I’m convinced that she checks it every day, you know, just to know another thing.”

Harry hasn’t looked at him with open hostility at any point in the afternoon, but he gets close then. Draco smiles, and he knows it’s a sharp, brutal thing. His favorite thing about alcohol has always been the heat, the slide of it down his throat and the embers settling in his chest, but his fingers are cold and shaking on the tablecloth.

Harry clears his throat, “I meant to ask, how are Ella and Marcie?”

“They’re alright. The Ministry finally got to their case, they’re with an older couple now.”

“I thought-” Harry shakes his head, “I’m surprised. From what Ron said, Marcie seemed pretty attached to you.”

“They’re better off where they are,” he says blandly. If he says any more, he’s going to burst into a fresh round of tears, and then he won’t just be drunk, he’ll be drunk and crying.

Harry scowls at him but doesn’t say anything. He’s silent as they leave the restaurant, waving when he parts from them. 

“That was fun,” Hestia says cheerfully, “And enlightening.”

“Fuck off.”

***

He struggles through 7 days of interviews with French nurses and tries to coax out a sign of approval from his mother. He writes another letter to Luna and Dean, full of nothing, and crumples the paper in his hands. There is a dam inside of him, one of his own making. Every night when he lays in his bed, he can feel the pressure building, and he’s scared out of his mind at the eventual collapse, the one he knows is inevitable.

Draco doesn’t mean to, but he finds himself loitering outside of Harry’s office at the Ministry on Monday night, trying to stop himself from knocking on the door. He should be packing up his things, finding someone to watch over his mother, taking the train to Crawley Down if he can’t stand the feel of apparition in his stomach. 

There’s a light on inside, warm and inviting, and there’s a lure hooked deep in Draco’s chest, pulling him in. He imagines what would happen if he did it, if he knocked. Harry would call out for him to come in, and then he’d turn that shocked, pleased smile Draco’s way.

Except that’s not right. That’s an expression Draco has only seen in his periphery, directed at other people, or in muddled dreams. He recalls the look Harry had given him at lunch, distrustful and turbulent, and the way he’d looked at Draco in sixth year. Frustration and hatred and desperation, all warring for dominance in his narrowed eyes and the rigid set of his mouth.

Draco’s not sure what he’s doing here, but no, that’s not exactly the truth. He’s here because he’s looking for something. Whatever it is- redemption, understanding, punishment- he knows he won’t find it. Not in the green tiled halls of the Ministry, and certainly not from Harry Potter.

Draco decides that now is the time to develop survival instincts. He apparates to his flat, and arrives already hyperventilating. There is no reason why he should feel like he’s being hunted, like he’s back in the halls of the Manor, sneaking potions ingredients into Severus’ makeshift lab. He is fine. He’s in London, he’s safe, he’s fine.

If he spends another week here, he is definitely going to do something he will deeply regret. 

He owls one of the nurses on Tuesday morning and draws up a contract. He packs his things. He sends a message to Mr. Garnier, asking him to pass on his new address to Marcie and Ella. By sundown, he’s on the last train out of London.

Luna meets him at the station in Crawley Down. She doesn’t ask him why he didn’t apparate, or how he’s doing or what’s taken him so long, she just envelops him in a hug.

“Come on,” She says, pulling back just a bit to smile dreamily at him, “Arabella’s very excited to meet you.”

Arabella, Draco knows, is one of Dean’s mothers. He’s got two, because he’s lucky, but Arabella is Mum and Claire is Ma. It feels like something he has always known, but in reality, he’s only known it since the Manor.

Draco shakes his head, trying to clear it, “Okay.”

Luna leads him into the village and to a picturesque two story house in the center of it. Wisteria crawls up one side of the gray stone walls. The front door is painted a bright blue. Luna doesn’t bother knocking, she just opens the door and tugs Draco along after her.

They’re greeted with the scent of chocolate and the sound of low chatter, both filtering out from a room to the right of the main hall. Dean leans out of the doorway.

“Hey! Do you want a brownie?”

Draco pushes away the old, creeping feeling that he doesn’t belong here, “Yes. Please.”

Dean dresses him in his old clothes, frayed denim and soft, worn t-shirts from when Dean was approximately Draco’s size, years ago. They spend most of their time that first week at the house. Dean is worried about Luna and Draco sticking out in the village, though he doesn’t say it in so many words, but Draco is at least somewhat used to the Muggle world because of Marcie.

Luna is another story. 

They go on long walks up and down the river. Luna adores the ducks that float along with the current and waddle up onto the banks. Dean gives her corn to toss their way, and she greets each one by name. Draco is reminded, with a sharp pang, of Marcie doing the same thing. Luna, though, recognizes them and somehow remembers the complex web of relationships between them. She talks to them as if they can talk back.

Dean looks on fondly, trading faintly incredulous looks with Draco. They get used to it quickly. She does the same with the sheep that come up to sniff at their hands through the fence by the road. Luna could befriend anything with a heartbeat. 

“So,” Dean says on one of their morning strolls,  “I know you’re not exactly the most chatty person, but are we really not going to talk about it?”

His arm is wrapped around Luna’s shoulders, but his hold is light. She keeps running off to pick flowers or to take a closer look at the cows in the pasture across the road, but she always comes back to tuck herself into Dean’s side. It makes something warm spark in Draco’s chest, a brief flash of warmth and pain, and then it’s gone again before he can grab onto it.

Draco’s mind races, “Talk about what?”

“Any of it? The Manor, the forest, Marcie and Ella?”

“What made you finally come here?” Luna adds. 

“No, we’re not.”

They accept the answer, but he knows it won’t last. Eventually, the dam will break.

After a week or two, Dean takes them to wander around the shops. Luna is still odd, but that’s an immutable fact. Most of the villagers, who are primarily over the age of 60, are charmed by her lyrical way of speaking and the wide-eyed sense of wonder that lingers in the space around her. They seem indifferent to Draco. He’s quiet but there’s something about his accent and his posture that instantly sets him apart. He tries to bow his shoulders.

The summer is full of warm, sunny days and dark, muggy nights. He looks up at the stars and is comforted by their brightness, this far from the city. They still look wrong, like there is something in him that can tell they aren’t in the correct order, though he doesn’t really know anything about the constellations. 

And then the weather turns.

The storm lasts nearly a week, six days of rain and thunder. The sudden chill and the damp air and the dark clouds all conspire against him, and he ends up with the worst cold of his life. 

He’s spent so long boxing away the weak, vulnerable parts, punishing them. The deprivation is almost satisfying. It’s harder to do this, to let Claire measure out his medicine, to accept soup and honey lavender tea from Arabella, to allow Dean and Luna’s concern. Suffering feels like a natural part of his existence, an existence he has become accustomed to enduring alone.

“How’s your appetite today?” Arabella asks, voice soft.

Draco groans. He’s starving, a gnawing emptiness in his stomach, but if he eats something there’s a good chance he’ll throw it back up.

Arabella sighs and she manages to make it sound empathetic, “Oh, sweetheart. I wish there was something I could do. Sometimes you just have to wait these things out.”

Draco decides he hates cough syrup, its artificial flavor, the slide of it down his throat, the sickly sweet coating it leaves on his tongue and teeth. More than anything, he hates the way it makes him feel like a prisoner in his own body. 

It’s only a sensation, crawling across his skin, only a throbbing in his head and a heaviness in his joints. He slips into these strange moments where he loses track of time, drifting in and out of restless sleep, and it shouldn’t be a big deal. He should be able to get sick and let people take care of him and have a few nights of shitty sleep, without completely losing it. It’s not a big deal.

Except.

The last time he felt so disconnected from his body and from the world around him, he was sweating poison out on the Manor’s lawn. He tries not to think about it, but the memories persist, and he can’t hold onto the tenuous threads of his mind long enough to batter them away. He has a dream where he’s falling into an inky black emptiness, and when he wakes up, his skin is on fire.

He wants to plead, to his friends, to the universe, but his throat is scraped raw and no sound comes out. It makes him panic more. 

Flashes of that night come back to him, but they’re distorted, sometimes by sleep and sometimes by the effects of the cough syrup. He sees his clearing back at the Manor, but the trees are burning around him and he’s choking on the ash. He sees Nagini, poised to strike, and then her jaw unhinges and swallows him whole. He hears Snape singing a lullaby that Narcissa sings in Draco’s earliest memory.

It’s different from truly reliving the experiences, because in his delirium, they’ve become cartoonishly horrifying, easier to handle than the solid, awful truth of it.

He stops taking medicine. He recovers from the cold. He once again seals off the portion of his mind where he keeps all of the worst things about himself and he talks to Luna and Dean. He doesn’t tell them much, but it’s enough. It’s enough for now.

He tells them about the Manor, about his soft soles and the rough ground, about how much love has always hurt him. He tells them about the thing he was as a child, a boy whose friends were trees and rocks and the animals that roamed the Manor’s grounds. He tells them about Twila and his clearing and all of the beautiful corners of the place he grew up.

“I don’t think I can ever go back there,” he says, and he doesn’t have to tell them that he will never truly be happy anywhere else. They know.

They’ve seen him there, in the middle of war, not happy but more somehow than he is in the aftermath, like there was a center to him, a tie that bound him to his home. A tie that’s been cut now.

Luna leans her head on his shoulder, “Maybe we can find somewhere else.”

He nods and he smiles and Dean looks at him, just looks. It’s not lost on him that Luna had said ‘we’. He does not take it for granted. He wants to find a home with them, but deep down, he knows it’ll never be quite what he’s lost. 

The place where he spent his childhood was not inherently special or beautiful or magical, but because it was the first thing that was his. He had so much love within him once, and he poured it all into leaking cups, all except the love he gave to his home. It was the first and best thing he loved as a child, the only thing that ever truly protected him. It was the only thing that loved him back in a way that made a difference.

He can’t put it into words, or even thoughts, what it means to him. He will never be able to go back, and he will never be able to leave it behind him. He’s scared to even try. 

“You might not be able to go home, or find another one,” Dean says after a few moments, “But I think you can make one.”

[macfrog]

Is it annoying and/or anticlimactic to release an INCREDIBLE and LONG chapter of a beloved series and have people immediately clamor for more? Like “You literally just ate shut up”?

Anyway, this is such a fascinating series for me to read. I’ve always been/intended to be child free and just recently took steps to make that permanent. As much as I knew I didn’t want kids, it was startling to realize in the process that I also had to grapple with and mourn what I was giving up - in particular, seeing my husband become a dad. It was hard to reconcile my certainty in not wanting children with the recognition that there were aspects of motherhood I will miss. I guess I thought if it wasn’t all or nothing then I wasn’t fully committed and people would doubt me and pull the “you’ll change your mind” card too much, which could make me doubt myself. Anyways this has been cathartic and also a little extra sad for me but in a good way ❤️

hahaha honestly, i don't really mind. it's lovely to feel people's excitement over something you've posted! and those comments are also ways that people express enjoyment, so i'm cool with them. (also i'll always work at my own pace anyways - which is quite slow i'd say lol)

i love that you're intrigued by the series. this is such an insightful message, so thank you for sending it in. i love to think and talk about this sort of thing, so i hope you won't mind me adding my two cents here.

firstly, i think it's great that you assessed your own wants and needs and acted accordingly. super brave to put yourself first - it's not always easy to think that way and do it, so kudos to you.

secondly, i don't think these sorts of things are ever very black and white. i think it's perfectly normal and perfectly natural for you to know within yourself that kids aren't something you want, but to still wonder. the idea of what could've been, right? but i think that happens with every decision we make in life; it's just part of the deal.

personally, my feelings on motherhood have changed drastically. when i was younger, i don't know if there was anything i wanted more than to be someone's mom. now that i've grown up a little, come into myself, i've realized it's not really for me. that's fine! maybe one day i might change my mind, maybe i never will. both are also fine!

scom is obviously a pregnancy-related fic, and she clearly grapples quite a lot with the idea of fitting into this role that she just doesn't see herself as, yet. but it's not a fic intended to capture one side or the other (of an issue which i think is very gray, anyways). it's just a fic about a woman deciding what she wants, and doing it - which is the least we can really ask for, i guess. it's the least we deserve.

i hope you're good. your decision is so valid and i'm damn glad you made it. thank you again for this very thoughtful ask. how lovely that you're able to find catharsis in art! what a wonderful thing to have stumbled across. 🩵

[egcdeath]

HELLO i'm back with more succ thoughts!! i'm glad it's also been on the backburner of your mind lol.

firstly the tomshiv dynamic thoughts as per usual are so juicy. imagine the moment you tell him you're pregnant? tom instinctively didn't believe shiv and it was very angsty but imagine how much angstier it would be in this au because patrick would think you're trying to fuck with him or something because you're the only one not connected to the company by blood and by that point you are both so emotionally exhausted. and the shiv scheduling grief and then finding comfort in the husband she's currently divorcing thing is also something i see patrick doing with all his repression like s4 is the only season i haven't rewatched yet because it's actually physically painful to experience and tomshiv is half of that pain. you talking about watching patrick lose his true sense of self over time is also so perfect because that line in the balcony fight when tom goes "your sense of who you are is that fucking thin" and the idea of shiv not thinking the relationship would last and how that affected tom... angst!! who are you to each other anymore especially within the marriage!!

and your thoughts on the idea of you wanting stability and to make a family with patrick while he's a lot less open about stuff like this especially given your polar opposite upbringings are so good!! you'd have hope that he wants to have that big change from his family and upbringing for you and that he wants everything you want too but after the honesty of that wedding convo and how it's like an explosion of fear and anxiety on shiv/his part it would obviously hurt because it would make that hope go away. and the fact that you're the one who proposed to patrick too like the angstiness of feeling unbalanced in your love and how that contributes to the "unbalanced love portfolio" idea. i think shiv loves tom and being with him because he's okay with her loving him without having to always be vulnerable and emotionally open about it… yes it’s kinda conditional and has lots of underlying layers about power and control and whatnot but it’s still love and it’s a (kinda codependent) certainty no matter how hurt you both get (DIVORCE BED TALK SCENE) and i absolutely see that with patrick.

the jealousy with nate/tashi is also crazy to think about bc it bothered tom so much at their literal WEDDING!! just another underlying source of tension between you two and obviously shiv did cheat but would patrick?

and ok for kendallrava i was rewatching scenes and there's a moment in s1 he says "one of us is going to be unhappy. i just don't see why it has to be me" to rava and i literally gasped because i can see patrick saying that. like imagine that with the cog built to fit only one machine idea and how that dynamic plays out in a marriage over time like you're both unhappy lol. as far as we know their relationship was healthy at some point and she's far more selfless and dedicated to supporting him and their kids than he is but there's still so much angst in being in her position. like a breakup would only end up happening because you’re a good mother and you need to prioritize the kids so you can’t be with patrick even if you want to and despite it not being good for you and even if he's being pathetic and begging you!! there's so much angst and pain there and imagine if art was involved in your lives and your kids like art more because they see him more? and all this kinda ends with patrick alone and desperate with nothing to really live or fight for other than the company and ceo spot.

succession anon i’ve missed you!!

the tomshiv dynamic has really been speaking to me lately. like i think when i end up writing it it won’t be EXACTLY tomshiv as far as scenes go but like that very complicated dynamic will definitely be there.

the thought of reader telling patrick that she’s pregnant here is actually making me so sick to my stomach for exactly what you said. like i think patrick’s knee jerk reaction would be that you’re trying to make some sort of power play ESPECIALLY after the craziness they just went through leading up at that point. can you imagine being pregnant at the worst time ever, knowing it’ll probably impact your ability to be taken seriously at a company like his family’s, and when you tell your spouse he’s like….. stop fucking with me. and when you tell him you really are pregnant this isn’t some power play he’s like no it IS a power play because you’re not family but the baby will be. just devastating. devastating because after everything he sees you as nothing more than a manipulative and power hungry person and not like someone who could ever genuinely love him and want to start a family with him 🥲

and now i’m just thinking about you ending up as CEO because you played the game well but there’s also this kind of undercurrent from people around you that’s like. well once your child is old enough they need to be the one to take over the company or they need to be raised with this expectation that one day THEY’RE going to be the CEO and just how conflicted you would feel knowing that your child would have to suffer the way your husband has been suffering forever because of this constant pressure.

and just going back to patrick wanting things to be different with his family… i just think it would be so difficult for him to be trying to make life different for their child before he realizes that this cycle of fighting with their siblings or relatives for such an arbitrary title is just going to continue forever. and he sees how it ruined his relationship with his siblings and his relationship with you but he literally can’t stop it. ouch.

and i fear that you would just keep playing into the game even if you swore to him that things would be different with you as CEO and i think it crushes him because the you’ve also lost yourself and become a variant of his father but it also crushes him because he so desperately wishes that he was in your position.

what i love about this pairing is that they just keep hurting each other. intentionally or unintentionally. but they also love each other. and part of it is because they’re comfortable with that kind of pain, but also because no one else gets them like the other person does. idk. i don’t even think that made sense.

as for tashi being a nate character…. i don’t even know where to start with this. i actually do think that patrick would cheat at least a few times, mostly to feel in control of his life but almost to see if you would still stay. like how much could you handle before you leave him, or if you love him and the proximity to power enough that you could just take it. and i think you would dismiss it and be like oh whatever all men have mistresses but i actually think it would tear you up on the inside. i don’t think that their affair would last very long but i don’t think that it’s something that you could move on from. like in the back of your mind you’re always wondering if he’s found somebody else and you just don’t know.

i really can’t think too much about this dynamic bc i get SO DEVASTATED. like having to balance love for power and love for money and love for each other and you just keep hurting each other… it all just sounds so very exhausting.

kendallrava dynamic and unhappy marriage UGH i love it. the “one of us is going to be unhappy” quote is actually so wild kendall was really just saying anything 😭

kendall is truly such a tragic character and i love that i can project patrick onto him. like i can just see him being a selfish trainwreck because in canon he kinda is! just in a different way.

it is so sad to me that the relationship wasn’t always like that and at one point patrick was probably a good partner (or at least good enough to have kids with) but his family just ruined him. the suffering of being a character like rava literally cannot be understated. like having to decide between being a good mother who keeps her kids away from their father who is an out of control mess and being supportive of the man she loves and father of her children is just ugh.

art seeing the kids more!! AHHH i think that would absolutely DESTROY patrick. like his kids are just talking to him and they keep bringing ‘uncle’ art up and he just gets so angry at you like why are you letting him do this to me!?? why are you letting that man in our children’s life?? and you’re like well you’re not in their lives? if you want it to stop step up and be a father? but he simply cannot because in his head he IS a cog that’s built for only one machine. but i think you truly believe that if he just stepped away from it all he could be a really good spouse and father to your kids!!

and i’m sure we’ve discussed this before but i’m just thinking of that scene where stewy says something to kendall about rava seeing other people and imagining art telling patrick about you being back on the market and how that would tear him up AHHHH

thinking so many thoughts!!!!!

[neighborhoodscorpio]

Okay… in defense of the homewrecker.

The Ariana Grande hate is so crazy. I just feel like you have to be the most unserious person in the world to get worked up and feel the need to say something about a celebrity’s love life. Especially NOW. There are hundreds of abusive, toxic, physically harmful, predatory men in the entertainment industry and you can log on to see nothing but love for them! For FREE! Let alone every literal war happening right now. Yet this woman gets tangled in an affair and I see walls of hate everywhere. I don’t even care if what she did was wrong. I literally don’t. Half that industry should be in prison and y’all are yelling at her.

Let alone all the female artists who have made music very transparently about being The Other Woman… fucking baby daddies… etc etc. I feel as though she’s getting a misogynistic public punishment for presenting as a good girl figure and behaving differently. Weird aspect of the culture where indefensible behavior is more often tolerated when it’s openly shared.

Getting on a feminist high horse about jumping on Ariana Grande is laughable. The contempt for her is sooooo emotionally charged. I’m so surprised and confused by it. It feels like her biggest crime was daring to act like every other baddie while being 5’2” and I’m serious when I say that LMFAOOO… like… The amount of women jumping on it is crazy. They are speaking about feminism to hate on Ariana Grande. Girl we don’t have rights in half the states in the US. Ariana could steal five husbands and her feminist impact would still be greater than your comment. The fact that she did public democratic advocacy during the last election is literally enough to cover it. It’s like every woman feels as though miss Grande stole her man specifically. It’s giving traumatized. And I get that. But…

I have a really really really really hot take about cheating to add. To wrap up the whole topic… since I’ve been flabbergasted seeing the public opinion on every fucking website that I log into… listen. If anyone can steal your man, you should know about it. If you married a pathetic little worm, you should know about it. Instead of living your whole life convinced that your partner isn’t a piece of shit, I think it’s best to see what they’re capable of. My REALLY hot take is that the people who “steal” partners are doing a service. They’re the ones who reveal shitty character. They’re deep in the morally grey, to me.

Even though they might be doing it for self-serving reasons, obviously, there’s still a valuable function there. If a woman ever “stole” a partner from me, I’d thank her, key the guy’s car, and sleep really really well knowing that I’m not counting on someone weak. I wouldn’t even mourn what we had because it wasn’t actually there. If someone can’t even demonstrate a level of certainty with petty shit, I would never want to find out how weak they were in serious situations. Sooooo many men are horrible fucking people. If they cheat in love, they cheat in business, and elsewhere. The double standard is crazy there too. A woman doing romantic crimes is prison worthy. A man assaulting people though… just in his nature.

If anything, I feel bad for the women who actually want the cheating men they pursued. They’ve won a terrible life tournament and don’t even know it. The male validation is so strong, so addicting, that they can’t see the material damage that they’re causing to themselves, let alone OTHERS. If you can’t recognize that as a symptom of patriarchal poison idk how to talk with you about it. Feminism is so shallow in the mainstream that there is NO analysis if a woman’s actions are unsavory. Women hurt women because of men every single day. To be honest, if there wasn’t a baby in the picture, no one would give a shit about Ariana’s actions, and I haven’t seen that point made anywhere, either. An affair is an affair and no one cares. You hurt a woman? Who gives a shit. But now you’ve hurt a BABY? Suddenly the conversation turns into some bullshit about feminism. One of the most vile expressions of patriarchy is valuing a woman’s reproductive capacity more than her personhood, and this is no fucking different. Now that she’s reproduced, she almost deserves personhood. Outrage. Social commentary, even. Again— especially sickening in todays climate.

I just really can’t take y’all seriously. If it pissed you off just say that. But don’t invent a feminist argument to make yourself feel justified for hating Ariana Grande now. From that angle, there is far too much nuance to not make yourself look stupid.

[wri0thesley]

Nat. NAT. I just saw your concept about naoya "training" his wife by just throwing her in the room and just watching her struggle to defend herself... Until she ofc breaks and begs him to protect her🙈 you have a MASSIVE brain, the biggest and horniest brain nat can you please write this concept for the event😭😭 maybe w 45 and any other dark or spicy add ons that you see fit!

traditional discipline - naoya x fem!reader (3.3k)

naoya has had enough of you, and resorts to an unusual method of discipline.

warnings: not sfw/minors dni. DARK CONTENT. unhealthy relationship/marriage. fearplay, dacryphilia, finger-sucking, cock-sucking, punishment, threat of violence and death. dubious consent. afab reader with fem pronouns. 

[a/n: this concept literally wouldn’t leave me alone. i’m sorry to all of the readers who are naoya’s wife i’m always so horrible to them]

The room goes quiet as Naoya hauls you out of it by your upper arm.

It’s an easy mistake, a simple slip-up; accidentally talking over your husband. But it’s one in a slew you’ve been making recently, despite Naoya thinking that you were polite and well-bred and knew your place. He’s sick of it, to be quite frank; he doesn’t have time to be correcting you when you should already know how to behave.

You’ve done accidental, small things since the two of you were married. Denying him when he rolled you onto your back at night. Not standing quite as far behind him as you should. Pouring tea for other people before him. He’s given you swift reprimand with both his words and his hands, but . . . it’s clearly not sinking into your pretty little head, is it?

He warned you about this.

“Next time,” he’d growled to you, when you’d laughed too loud at a joke that one of his brothers had made and not laughed at one of his, “I’m going to teach you a real lesson.”

He tells you about the ‘training and discipline room’ on the Zenin estate later that night. A room that the family use for honing cursed techniques, both for practising and for learning purposes, when someone needs to be brought down a peg or two. It’s full of cursed spirits – all the way up to grade two, which makes your blood run cold.

Of course, you have cursed energy. You even have a careful little technique; one that would wrap your enemies up in vines, if you’d ever been allowed to train to use it for anything other than keeping your well-appointed garden neat and orderly. Naoya would not have married someone without either of those things, lest they not bear him fruitful children--

But you have never been allowed to use it for anything more.

The women of your clan are pretty decoration, with no need to learn anything other than how to behave and how to please their masters-and-husbands. You would be useless, thrown into the den of the wolves like that.

“Please don’t,” you’d said to him, your voice all soft and gentle, trying to be appeasing. “Please. I promise I’ll try harder.”

Naoya had taken your chin between thumb and forefinger, the grin across his face very sharp as his light eyes took in the pleading in your own gaze. You remember how the light had hit his earrings, the look of satisfaction at your begging and having you utterly and completely under his thumb.

“Be good,” he’d breathed, all slow and drawling. “And I won’t have to, will I?”

And he’d bid you to get on your knees for him and show you just how good you could be. Starting with your mouth.

So you know where he’s dragging you, down the labyrinthine halls of the estate. You try and pull back, feet sliding on the tatami mat, your voice pitching as you say;

“Naoya, please, I’m sorry--”

“Women should be seen and not heard,” he says to you. “Don’t make a fuss like that. You earned this.”

Your eyes are filling with tears, hot fear clawing its way up your throat.

“I’ll do anything,” you say to him, despite knowing that it’s a dangerous bargain to give him. He almost considers it for a moment, pausing – but then, his fingers just dig harder into the softness of your bicep (you’re going to bruise), and he tugs you.

“You’re making a scene,” he says. “If you don’t stop, I’ll leave you in there even longer.” You try to wrench your arm out of his grip, all of your self-defense mechanisms going into overdrive as you recognise the door he’s leading to you too. You’re breathless, so frightened you think that your heart might stop.

Naoya opens the door and pulls you in. You almost stumble at the flight of stairs, but he clicks his tongue at you in annoyance.

“So clumsy,” he drawls. “And here I was, under the impression I was marrying a graceful, lovely, credit to her family--” More steps, until he’s gotten you in the middle of the floor. He gazes around him, and you hear the low hum of a hundred cursed spirit’s voices murmuring the same things, over and over again. “The only time you’re a credit to them is with your legs spread.”

“Naoya,” you whimper, torn between pushing yourself into him for the comfort and protection that you know he can offer, or trying to tear away from him and escape the room yourself. You know the second option won’t work – he’s far faster, far stronger than you – but it’s hard to think of anything when you feel like your very survival is teetering impossibly over your head.

“If you run,” he says, still in that cold, uninterested drawl, “I’ll break one of your ankles.”

You don’t think he’s bluffing. Naoya says a lot of things, yes – but he’s also reckless and proud enough to mean them. You stand there, next to him, feeling yourself begin to tremble.

“W-why aren’t they attacking yet?” You ask him, voice very small. He looks at you pityingly.

“They’re afraid of me, obviously,” he says to you, very slowly, like he’s explaining it to somebody very stupid. “I didn’t get this good at everything by not training myself, darling.” He lets go of you, finally, a whistle escaping his pursed mouth as he rocks on the balls of his feet. He’s supremely unconcerned by your fear. “When I’m gone, they’ll come out for you.”

Your eyes fill with tears.

“What am I supposed to do?” You ask him, desperation leaking into your cracked voice. “I can’t—I can’t protect myself--”

Naoya narrows his eyes.

“You should have thought about that before you were such a pain,” he replies. And, without further ado, he turns around and begins to ascend the stairs again. You turn with him, moving forward, stumbling in your haste and ending up sprawled at the bottom of the stairs with your hand pathetically fisted into the hem of his hakama.

He looks down at you with a disgusted sneer on his face, and you hate that even with that expression his features are still unmistakably handsome.

“Let go,” he says. “Have some dignity.”

“Please,” you repeat. You can feel a fat tear spilling from the corner of your eye down the curve of your cheeks. You know the ‘dignity’ statement is a dig; the fact that you’ve heard his family members calling your clan power-hungry undignified gold-digging whores, but you can’t bring yourself to care when you can see the beginning of shadows spilling out too far into the main floor of the room. “Naoya. Please.”

He kicks out at your wrist, face twisted in distaste, and you let go to avoid it being stood on and crushed under his strength. You cradle it against your chest, looking up at him still all desperate and afraid.

“If I helped,” he said to you, “you’d never learn your lesson.” He takes a step up and turns away completely from you, as if you’re nothing more than an ignored child on the street. “It will be good for you, beloved wife. Character-building.” You hear the smirk in his voice and you hate him.

You want to strangle him. You want to beg him to protect you. You want to tear him limb from limb, but you want him to let you bury your head in his chest as he dispels the spirits with ease. You want--

The door slams shut behind him. He’s too cheerful as he throws behind him;

“Good luck!”

And you are left alone.

It takes a moment before anything slithers out from the shadows, and you clap your hand over your mouth to stop yourself screaming. The first cursed spirit is a hunched over creature with the face of a Pierrot clown, mouth stretched impossibly wide with gaping black abyss where eyes ought to be. It’s whispering something over and over to itself, but the wide mouth is so crowded with teeth that it comes out as an incomprehensible noise, dripping drool as it begins to move horrifically slowly towards you.

Oh, God. You’re not supposed to look at them, are you? You dimly recall something about many sorcerers wearing glasses so the creatures can’t tell where their gazes are, but this one has already got the scent of you; those dark pits staring at your crumpled form.

Everything you’ve ever been told in passing about jujutsu and cursed spirits and cursed technique just seems to flow out of your mind to be replaced by mind-numbing fear. You’ve not been trained for this; when your clan had arranged your marriage with Naoya, you know that they’d expected fine silken kimonos and traditional food and you being a pretty trophy on the arm of the future leader of their clan. You know they’d be horrified if they saw what was happening.

More of them are melting from the shadows, the whispering and moaning reaching a terrifying crescendo. You’re trembling. Your heart is beating so fast inside of your chest you think it might break free of your ribcage and sputter out onto the floor.

The Pierrot monster is close enough that you can see the six hands it drags on the floor are all tipped with claws that are sharp as blades. You scramble up the stairs on your ass, too afraid to turn your back on the creatures. You realise you’re shouting, but it seems just as blurred as anything that the cursed spirits are saying. You’re crying, too – howling, whimpering, so scared you’re surprised any noise is able to come out at all.

You’re going to die.

It hits you with cruel certainty as you reach the top and throw your weight at the door, only for it to not give an inch. You scramble at the heavy wood, not caring about your careful manicure (Naoya wants you to be a credit to him, and that means manicures and facial treatments and a fancy bathroom full of soaps and creams that he expects you to use and that he slathers, too, on himself). You hear a nail break but you can’t bring yourself to worry about that when the Pierrot monster is dragging itself up the flight of stairs, one step at a time. It makes a hideous sliding thump, like it’s both wet and heavy – and you notice, too, the scent of blood invading your senses.

Your tear-blurred eyes can see all of the other monsters, too – not quite as close, but still too close for comfort. Too many eyes and not enough eyes, too many legs, claws and teeth and misshapen bones and blood leaking from holes. What are you supposed to do?

Naoya has left you here, alone, to teach you a lesson. You hadn’t realised the lesson would culminate in your death, but with all of the spirits so close to you, you cannot see any other way.

All of the fight goes out of you and you sag against the door, a broken sob escaping your lips. Your throat is dry from hoarse screaming.

You are going to die. You hope it will come quick; you hope the Pierrot monster will tear you limb from limb and you’ll die in instants from the shock. Your voice whispers Naoya’s name one last, hopeless time.

Will he find another wife? Will they even bother covering up your death, or will they spin some rumour or lie to your family and the whole of jujutsu society that you brought it upon yourself?

You would do anything to be rescued right now. You would crawl on your hands and knees behind Naoya for the rest of your life, refer to him only as ‘Master’, fulfil every single thing he ever asked you with no more than a meek nod of your head. Pull out your tongue so you couldn’t make any more mistakes.

But the time for pleading seems to have gone entirely, and you are useless and stupid and weak as you run out of tears, eyes burning. All you can do, you think, is wait for death.

The door swings open behind you and you’re dragged backwards, onto tatami, by powerful hands gripping your shoulders as it closes once more with a massive clunk that echoes in your ears--

And you find yourself strewn out on the floor, face caked with dried tear-tracks, a trembling, pathetic mess looking up at your husband’s face.

He leans against the door, listening to you scream. He can hear his name mixed in with sobs and screams and pleading; saying that you’ll do anything, you’re sorry, you’ll never disobey him again you’ll take any punishment he metes out with a smile on your face, if he just helps you. He hears you call yourself weak and pathetic and useless around the tears clogging your throat; he hears the thump of you hitting the door and the sound of your nails scratching down the wood, uncaring of anything other than getting away from them.

Yes, he thinks as he opens the door for you and you fall, shivering and sobbing, in front of him. Yes, he thinks you’ve learnt your lesson.

You’re so pretty, he thinks, closing it once more (he sees the cursed spirits begin to creep back to where they came from at the very sight of him, now their preferred victim is protected), with your eyes all glassy and wet. You’re extra pretty looking at him like he’s a conquering hero who’s saved you from certain death – which he supposes he is.

You cling to his arm, pulling yourself up, burying your face in his chest as your hands cling to him like you’ve been lost and he’s the first familiar thing you’ve seen in months. Your tears soak his kimono, but . . . he finds himself not really minding, as big, lean hands pet you gently on the back.

“It’s alright now,” he soothes you, murmuring low. “Your husband has you.”

“Please, please, ‘m so sorry--” You’re mumbling into him, whimpering, your shoulders shaking. “Please never m-make me, again--”

“Shhh,” he continues, gently beginning to move towards his chambers. You cling to him, adrift in a sea of your own fears. “It’s better now. You’ll be better now, won’t you?”

He receives a fierce nod for that, your fingers twisting into his clothing. It’s nice, having you so wrapped around him; seeing him as the strong protector that he knows he is but you needed reminding of. You’re still mewling little pleas into him even as he unlocks the door to his bedroom and gently pushes you in. Letting go of him even for a moment seems to cause you physical pain--

Good. You should feel like that. You should feel incomplete without him at your side. Naoya rewards you with a rare, soft smile.

“You know why you had to be punished like that, don’t you?” He purrs to you, petting your hair and carefully drawing back so he can look at your face. Your lips are all swollen from crying and biting; he thinks you’ve never looked quite so kissable as you do right now.

“Yes,” you nod, fiercely. “I’m sorry. I’ll do a-anything, I promise. I . . .” You swallow, your eyes filling with tears again. Naoya has been hard since the moment he heard you call out his name from inside the training room, your voice filled with choked tears, and watching them well up again does nothing for the stricture against the fabric. “I needed you.”

“And I saved you,” he says, arching an elegant brow – to which you nod again, and your hands drift towards him like you’re aimless without him in front of you to serve. “I’ll protect you, darling, as long as you learn your place.”

“I will!” That’s said with such conviction that he can’t help the smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I will. N-Naoya . . .” Your voice trembles a little. “’m willing to do anything for you. J-just please . . . not again.”

“Shh,” he reaches out and deigns to touch you, to gently and soothingly rub his thumb over your cheek, where the tears have dried. “If you’re really going to be so good for me, I won’t have to, will I?” You stumble forward onto your knees and Naoya’s brows shoot up in surprise as your hands tug at his hakama.

“Please let me show you how grateful I am,” you whisper, your eyes wide and bright and desperate. “Naoya, please, please, please--”

Oh, there’s something so gratifying about you like this, begging to suck his cock. It stirs between his thighs again, reminding him that he’s painfully stiff; and you are here, a willing mouth, scared out of your skull and desperate to please him. He’s smirking at you but you do not register it as such; all you see is the smile of your rescuer.

Your protector.

Your husband.

“Say what you want to do to me, darling,” he tells you, keeping his voice as sweet as he can make it. “You’re a big girl. You can use your words. What do you want to do, to show me how grateful you are that I saved your paltry life?”

You’re pouting; your mouth is sweet, pretty. He wants to pry your jaw open and fuck the back of your throat, and his body roars as your fingers tug on the hakama again and your meek, soft voice whispers;

“Please let me suck your cock.”

“You have a dirty mouth,” he coos to you, leaning forward to brush a finger over your lower lip. “Not befitting of a woman of your station. I suppose that means that it’s up to me to keep you quiet, hmm?”

You obediently open it, letting his finger gently rest on your tongue for a moment.

Desperate to please, your mouth closes about it, your tongue gently swiping over the pad, your cheeks hollowing a little as you suck on the digit inside of them. Naoya’s smiling again, the victorious grin of someone who’s gotten exactly what they wanted. He pulls his finger out and thrusts back in with two, whispering to you;

“Do you think you deserve my cock, after what you put me through today?”

You shake your head, but you don’t stop lavishing attention on the fingers in your mouth, a string of drool falling from the corner of your mouth as he presses his third finger inside of it. So warm, and wet. He needs his cock to be inside of you or he thinks he may embarrass himself.

The fingers are pulled out, wiped on the hakama fabric, before he says (the carefully adopted tone almost disinterested);

“Take them off, then. Don’t make your promises empty words. I wouldn’t appreciate such thoughtlessness in a wife.”

You’re eager, stripping off his clothes. Your mouth practically waters at the sight of his cock; elegant, flushed, hard and straining with a light upwards curve that he knows will hit you in the right place at the back of your throat to make you gag.

“Wait,” he says, as you lean in to bring him to your lips. “What do you say, darling?”

Your eyes (still brimming with tears, he notices – and fuck, he loves how you look teary-eyed and pouting. He has to make you cry more often) meet his, but the look in yours is worshipful so he doesn’t chide you for having the insolence to meet his gaze directly.

“Thank you,” you breathe. “For saving me. For letting me suck your cock. For everything.”

Naoya is smiling.

“Good girl,” he says, placidly, as you place a delicate kiss on the head of his cock and slowly envelope it in the warmth of your mouth. “Very good.”

[logicalbookthief]

Things Left Unsaid -- An Analysis of Rei & Touya

Apparently Rei has been getting a lot of flack lately, all of it undeserved, and since I had a post analyzing her relationship with Touya in the works already, I figured no time like the present.

Disclaimer #1: There are a lot of issues with the writing for Rei’s character that have nothing to do with her and everything to do with how the storyline is using her, which I will address and examine.

Disclaimer #2: I’m someone who, while always curious as to what kind of relationship Rei had with her oldest son before he died, never thought it would be revealed that Touya was close to his mom. I don’t think you get the Dabi we see in Chapters 290-295 without him being so warped by his relationship with his father yet so dependent on his attention that he was willing to kill his brother and himself simply for his father’s acknowledgement.

But that’s what I find so interesting about Rei and Touya -- it’s a relationship that mainly consists of regrets and things left unsaid. There isn’t the anger or resentment Dabi feels for Endeavor, because that intense level of emotion sprung from the loss of the father who used to be his whole world. His feelings toward his mother seem more amicable, but also more distant.

And while she could’ve done some things differently in regards to her oldest, I want to make it clear that the distance between them was very much by design.

After all, Touya was the end goal of their marriage. It was never any secret as to why Enji wanted to marry her and to some extent Rei must’ve realized that this child was not meant to be hers: the child was the transaction, the thing she was needed to create, to give to her husband. Of course she loved Touya and was likely his primary caregiver for most of his life, but there was no doubt that once his quirk manifested and he could begin his hero training, his life would be dominated by his father. Which is what happened.

Here, I would like to point out something I noticed in the flashback chapters. We never see any panels of Enji alone with any of his children during their infancy -- even with Shouto, the perfect child he longed for, we see Rei holding Shouto, sitting by him as he sleeps. Enji is there tangentially. Once Shouto begins his training, that is when we see him with his father.

So to see Enji with Touya when he was a baby, prior to his quirk manifesting, strikes me as a big deal. But it makes sense if you remember that he’d placed all his hopes, dreams and expectations on his firstborn. Initially, it doesn’t look like he even considered the possibility that Touya wouldn’t be his successor or that his little eugenics experiment would fail; this was his first, most optimistic attempt at a masterpiece. So I don’t believe it’s far-fetched to see him spend more time with Touya right off the bat (it’s what will make the eventual abandonment all the more crushing).

However, Rei isn’t seen at all in the snippet of Touya’s infancy, despite us knowing she was relegated to the caregiver role. Rei is literally out of the picture. Compare this to how she features prominently in Shouto’s infancy or how we see her holding a baby Natsuo. You could argue that, hey, we don’t see her holding a baby Fuyumi either, but there’s other scenes where Fuyumi’s attached to her mother’s hip or crying over her being hurt. Things that suggest a closeness, when the only scene we get of just her and Touya is one where they’re at odds. 

As we move further into Touya’s childhood, though, Rei becomes the only voice we hear advocate for him against his father. I’m referencing two specific instances:

When Enji coerces her into having more children to replace Touya now that his father has deemed him a failure, something she knows will hurt their son deeply.

And after Touya lashes out at Shouto, which Rei doesn’t blame on Touya, but rather on his father. She delivers such a satisfying condemnation of his actions, probably the most cutting one Endvr’s received to date, and it so accurately sums up one of his major character flaws.

How can you call yourself a hero when you can’t even face your own son?

The tragedy of it all is that Rei never said any of this in front of Touya -- it was always said in private, just to her husband. That alone took courage, yes, but it would’ve meant everything to Touya to hear her condemn his father aloud. Instead when she does speak to him, she says this:

It’s why I can’t wrap my head around that scene in Ch 302, where after Enji admits he didn’t know what to say to Touya, Rei replies, “Neither did I.” 

When we’re shown in flashbacks during that same chapter that she did understand her son. “He just wants to be acknowledged by you” is quite the indication that she, at the very least, understood the cause of Touya’s turmoil even if she couldn’t fully relate to it herself. So why can’t she say any of this to him?

The answer is in the way she addresses Touya, as it is nearly identical to how Nao addresses Tenko in this scene:

Both Touya and Tenko grew up in similar households: the father had all the power, physical and financial, so the mothers were left to try and comfort their children in a way that didn’t go against their husbands’ desires -- and so, to use Tenko’s own words, they would “reject them with kindness.”

So it’s no wonder that Touya lashes out at his mother after she suggests he pursue other things. He isn’t five like Tenko was, he’s thirteen and has a much clearer understanding of why she says this and why it’s a bit hypocritical, since he’s aware of her situation, too.

Just as she was bound by her family, who wanted her to marry Endvr for the money and status, he’s bound by the expectations of his family. I’m not sure if I’ve seen anyone else touch on this detail, but when Touya states that he knows his grandparents sold his mom into marriage so his dad could have a child, we could infer that Touya knows enough to realize that his mother might not have necessarily wanted him.

Not him specifically, but any child — the story has neglected to flesh her out beyond her marriage and motherhood, so we have no idea if Rei wanted to become a mother prior to this arrangement, despite how much she loves her kids now — although it is possible that he might’ve internalized it this way.

So you have Touya, who at least knows with certainty that his father wanted him to exist, yet he comes to understand that his father only wants him if he can meet a specific set of expectations, and if he cannot, he’ll be discarded. If he can’t surpass All Might, he can’t fulfill his reason for existing and his father will have to replace him. So to have his mother urge him to follow a path other than becoming a hero would mean, to Touya, accepting that he is the mistake he fears he is. Of course he isn’t going to respond well to that.

I don’t like when people try to compare Touya’s reaction in this moment to Shouto’s when Rei tells him he isn’t bound by his father’s blood, using that to paint Shouto as the “good” child and Touya as the “bad” one. They didn’t react differently because of any innate sense of goodness or lack thereof -- they reacted differently because the situations are different.

Telling Shouto that he didn’t have to be like his father comforted Shouto, who only knew his father as the bully who hurt his mom. He associated his father, and his father’s fire, with all of that fear and pain -- and thus, he associated the part of himself that took after his father with those feelings. She wasn’t denying his dream of becoming a hero, only assuring him that when he became a hero it could be whatever kind of hero he chose to be, that he wasn’t doomed to be like his father.

Whereas what she tells Touya sounds a lot like what his father told him, which was to give up on being a hero and pursue other aspirations.

Encouraging Shouto to become his own version of a hero still falls in line with what Endvr ultimately wants, which is for Shouto to be a hero capable of surpassing All Might. Whereas this is what happens when Touya continues to train to do that against his father’s wishes:

This is where the framing begins to bother me and where Rei’s characterization becomes inconsistent. 

So in this scene from Ch 302, we see Enji abusing his wife for “letting” Touya continue to train, punishing her for her “failure” to stop him. Obviously, none of that is Rei’s fault. If anything, Enji would be more responsible for preventing Touya from hurting himself since he’s the reason his son is hurting himself in the first place.

Moreover, the fact that he hits Rei over this sort of muddies the water of an previously-established narrative. Since the Sports Festival arc, we’ve known that Endvr abused his wife because she tried to interfere with Shouto’s training. It got to the point where she was terrified of her husband and it drove her to a breakdown. Why introduce this new aspect to the abuse, when it was already established that a) he was physically abusive and b) his motivations for abusing her were explicit to the audience? 

I’m not saying it doesn’t make sense that a man who hits his wife for one reason could find another reason to do it and justify his actions to himself. And while the scene does portray Endvr in a bad light to show how wrong his actions are, literally draping his figure in shadow, why does it even dare to suggest the idea that Rei was remiss in her duties as a mother? Again, the scene isn’t even necessary, since the narrative has long-since showed the audience that Enji abused his wife. 

By itself, the scene would read as further exploration of how Rei was victimized and how it affected her children. When you look at it with the chapter as a whole, though? Remember, this is the chapter where Rei claims that all of the family shares the blame in what happened to Touya, displacing some of the blame that rightfully rests on Enji. 

But my major gripe with this scene is how it reframes the sole moment we get of Rei and Touya alone. Because we know that Rei understands Touya, based on her confrontations with her husband in Ch 301 & 302. Rather than encourage him to be what he wants or acknowledge that his father is in the wrong, however, her advice falls in line with what Enji wants -- to stop Touya from training. And this comes after a scene where we see Enji beat his wife when she doesn’t stop Touya from training.

With all that in mind, it could potentially be read as Rei trying stop Touya for the sake of protecting herself and the family -- I don’t think it’s coincidence that in the scene where he hits her that we see Shouto, Fuyumi & Natsuo all as witnesses who are very distressed by what’s happening to their mother -- at the cost of Touya’s need to be validated. And if executed well or at least better than it has here, that wouldn’t be a bad choice of narrative per se, and it would fit into the pattern where the households the villains were raised in -- notably Shigaraki, Dabi & Toga -- mimic the society they live in, just on a smaller scale.

Except. Does that sort of narrative make sense based on what we already know about Rei?

Certainly, it is natural to want to protect yourself under physical and/or emotional duress by appeasing your abuser. This sort of complicated dynamic appears in the Shimura family, too. Just like in the house that Kotaro built, the Todoroki family revolves around the desires of the abuser and is dictated by his whims.

I would argue that Nao does give us a well-written example of this narrative. From the beginning, it’s established that she loves Tenko dearly. But in the house her husband built, there’s no room to love her son as he deserves. She prioritizes the feelings of Tenko’s father for the sake of maintaining peace in the household and this is established quickly and plainly.

Early on in the flashback, Kotaro exerts his control over the house, while Nao + her parents look uncomfortable. Despite this, we watch as they comply with his rules, all at the expense of Tenko’s feelings. When she stands up to Kotaro at last, it is not where Tenko can see and already too late. It’s a painful story, full of regret and sadness, but it is consistent from start to end. Nobody feels out-of-character or there to prop up anybody else.

So why doesn’t Rei feel as consistent in this narrative?

Because it doesn’t fit with everything we knew about Rei prior to her abuser’s subpar redemption arc.

The way she interacts with Touya would make sense, if this was how she was portrayed from the start. However, her behavior in Shouto’s flashback -- where she was first introduced -- contrasts what we get in the later Todoroki flashbacks.

Let’s compare this to the scenes in Ch 302. Here, Rei interferes on Shouto’s behalf. She advocates for her son in front of Shouto where he can hear. She stands up to his bully/villain and tries to protect him, while also validating his feelings in the process. Directly after this, Enji hits her, not for failing to comply with his demands, but for defying him. 

It is difficult to reconcile this Rei with the Rei we get in Ch 302. And if you try to find an in-story reason for the inconsistency, the options either do a disservice to Rei or make things even more painful for Touya. But I’m sure most of you have realized that I’m going to suggest a reason for this inconsistency that goes beyond the canon.

Because when Rei was first introduced in the story, Endvr was unequivocally the villain in the Todoroki family, not some misguided patriarch trying to atone for his “past” mistakes. Years later and in the midst of his redemption arc, the narrative seems to be intent on making this man more palatable to readers, and it’s used Rei at every opportunity to prop up his efforts to be better. Often, though, it takes some of the heat off Enji by displacing it onto other family members, most significantly Rei & Touya.

Like, you can literally see the difference in the frame from early in the manga to now:

Ch 39: Endvr trains his five-year-old to the point where he’s throwing up due overextension and being punched by a fully grown adult who is also his father. Rei tries to protect her son and gets slapped by Endvr. All the blames rests squarely on Endvr, who is clearly the aggressor and painted as the villain here.

Ch 302: Endvr hits Rei for not preventing Touya from sneaking out to train, knocking her to the ground. Again, Endvr is clearly the aggressor, but oh this time it’s not driven solely by his selfish desires it’s also cocnern for his son; Rei is the victim but oh she also should have been watching him more closely, and oh well why was Touya going out in the first place, when everyone has told him to stop and he knows his mom will get punished for it?

Honestly, I can understand where some people have mixed feelings over Rei’s character, particularly since the writing has done her such a disservice recently. With that being said, however, it takes a minimum amount of critical thinking to recognize that while you can criticize some choices she made, you cannot hold her to the same standard of accountability as Enji, it’s absurd. The power imbalance was obviously tipped in Endvr’s favor, always.

It is a shame, too, that we can’t have more discussions that don’t turn into some readers (a lot of whom are attempting to make Endvr sound less horrible than he actually was) trying to demonize her. It’s doubly a shame the story itself doesn’t bother to flesh her out as a person, instead using her as a prop, because the complex relationships she has with Touya -- with all her children, really -- has plenty of room for exploration. 

Like, there was no reason to add this new dimension of resentment due to her spouting Enji’s words back at Touya, when there was already a source of tension supported by previous canon -- the neglect the Todoroki kids suffered because Rei couldn’t be the parent they needed, due to her declining mental health and eventual breakdown.

Or, if you want to complicate their dynamic further, why not add something that focuses on Rei and has nothing to do with Enji? We learn in the flashbacks that Rei agreed to the marriage more-or-less to please her family, lamenting that she “intended to smile through it to the end,” essentially admitting that her hope was she could grin and bear it. It is telling that she had this attitude before entering her marriage; evidently, she was raised with the idea that she should be acquiescent to her parents’ whims and not express herself if she was only going to be contrary. Maybe she didn’t know how to deal with Touya’s very expressive, very emotional outbursts as a result. And her inability to respond would be the exact opposite of what Touya was seeking.

Not to mention that Touya died, and for the last decade, Rei was under the impression she had lost her son forever. He died while she was hospitalized, torn up with guilt over what she did to Shouto, only to find out that her other son died in a frankly horrific manner, and she could do nothing. By the time she would’ve found out, it was too late to even try to do anything. I can’t imagine what she must’ve felt in terms of regret alone, plus her grief. And I’m still mad we were robbed of her reaction to Touya being alive, because now suddenly there is a chance to do something, to change what was once written in stone.

Or what about Touya’s feelings for his mother, that have yet to be given much depth? As the oldest and most aware of his existence, it seems like he was the first to truly understand his mother’s situation and I can’t help but wonder: If Touya knew he vessel for his father’s ambition, and his mother was sold into role of creating/caring for him, did he question her love for him? Once he found out one parent’s love was conditional, it wouldn’t be a leap for him to consider it for the other. And yet if that’s true, Dabi doesn’t appear to hold any ill-will towards her for that. He was angry at her hypocrisy, because he knows she should understand, but her words to him didn’t reflect that.

All of that is fascinating and so much better than what we got in canon, so far at least. I’m hoping for them interact in the present at least once before the end of the series, and I think they will, but as to how satisfying a reconciliation it’ll be, I guess we’ll have to wait to see how the Todoroki plotline progresses from here on out.

[cooliogirl101]

so what happened with nana and shamal? are they a less intense version of gin and hisana? 🤔

The first time Shamal sets eyes on Nana Fujiwara, he is convinced he’s seen an angel. He takes in the warmth of her eyes, the silkiness of her hair, the way she smells like white tea and jasmine, and he leaps at her with welcoming arms, ready to embrace her and press himself against those soft, inviting curves.

He’s promptly enveloped in an enormous cloud of pepper spray. That basically sets the tone for the next two years of their relationship.

In general, Nana likes to think of herself as someone who gets along pretty well with people. She knows she has a bit of a temper, but she tries her best to keep it under control and to remain patient, calm, and understanding. 

That all goes out the window when it comes to Trident Shamal.

There are a lot of things about Shamal that she hates. She hates the way he leers at and chases after every girl he finds attractive. She hates his stupid, perverted grin and she hates the stupid, dopey look he gets on his face every time she sees him, and she hates his stupid, fucking ridiculous rule about ‘not treating men.’

Most of all though, she hates how he gets away with it. How every single member of the administration simply laughs it off, telling her it’s “just some harmless flirting, don’t worry about it.” One professor tells her she should be flattered and she almost commits homicide right then and there. 

Then to top everything off, she can’t even avoid him because as the top two members of their class, they always end up getting paired together for projects, which was...just typical. 

Honestly, Nana thinks the fact that she hasn’t killed him yet is an enormous testament to her self control. She could probably put that on her resume under ‘special skills’-- has refrained from murdering classmate (was there a word for that? Classmate-cide? Peer-tricide?) despite being given literally hundreds of reasons to do so. 

Not to say she hasn’t imagined doing so. Vividly. She ended up doodling so many scenarios that she had to get a second notebook. 

~~

Any other day, and Shamal would have been thrilled to have Nana Fujiwara, the loveliest, prettiest, most adorable girl in his class, knocking on his door. Any other day and he would’ve been more than happy to wax poetic about her beautiful smile, her fiery personality, her large, doe-like eyes, the soft curve to those plump, inviting lips, the-- well, the list goes on. 

Right now however, he hadn’t showered in three (or was it four?) days, he was drenched in his own sweat, he was running a fever of 39.5 C, his head was throbbing painfully, everything hurt, and to top everything off, the room smelled strongly of vomit. 

“Shamal, I know you’re in there! Open up!” Shamal groaned miserably, covering his eyes with one arm as the pounding at the door caused his headache to go from ‘someone trying to drive an iron spike through my head’ to ‘iron spike is now on fire and accompanied by a hundred tiny hammers, please kill me now.’ 

“Goddammit Shamal, you were supposed to send me the draft of your half of the project three days ago! Open the door!” Nana continued to shout through the door. “I swear to god, if you don’t open up, I will kick your door down, don’t think I won’t--oh.”

Nana blinked, irritated scowl melting away at the sight of his appearance. She frowned, a touch of concern creeping into her expression.

“Are you...okay?” She asked hesitantly. It was the first time he’d heard Nana Fujiwara sound hesitant and Shamal hated it. 

Summoning up whatever last reserves of strength he had left, Shamal put on his best flirtatious grin, eyes curving up into crescents. 

“Aww, you don’t have to be worried about me, beautiful!” He cooed, then clenched his teeth as he felt his stomach swoop nauseatingly. “I’ll be fine, just had a lil’ too much to drink last night.” He leaned casually against the doorframe, which had the added benefit of keeping him mostly upright. “I just need to sleep it off and then--”

“Yeah no, you’re clearly not okay. Stupid question,” Nana murmured, clearly ignoring everything he’d just said. She stepped closer, placing a hand against his forehead. “Jesus, you’re burning up. Come on, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No!” He shouted. Nana flinched, startled, and Shamal cursed under his breath. He hadn’t meant to do that. 

“No,” he repeated, calmer this time. “No hospitals. I’ll be fine.”

“Shamal--” Nana began. 

“They won’t be able to do anything,” he interrupted. “I’ve been through this before, I know how it goes. I just need to wait it out.” He swallowed. “Going to a hospital won’t help. Please, Nana, I--”

He suddenly doubled over, retching violently the rest of his words disappearing under a river of vomit. Shamal had just enough time to see Nana’s eyes widen before he slipped into blissful unconsciousness. 

~~

Shamal woke up to gentle hands dabbing at his face with a cool washcloth, the pleasant scent of white tea and jasmine, a familiar voice murmuring soft reassurances in his ear.

“Shhh, you’re okay. It’s just me,” the voice whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

“Nana?” Shamal asked, fighting to stay awake. “You stayed.”

There was a pause.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “Yeah. I stayed.” 

~~

Honestly, Nana had no idea what possessed her to actually listen to her obviously sick, half-delirious, idiot classmate instead of doing the reasonable thing, which would’ve been to dump him at the nearest hospital. 

Maybe it was the fact that he’d actually called her by her name for once, instead of some stupid pet name. Maybe it was the fact that she knew firsthand how miserable hospitals could be and could sympathize with his desire to avoid them at all cost. Or maybe it was the fact that she recognized the tone of voice he’d used when he’d told her that there was nothing the doctors could do to help him-- the kind of resigned certainty that could only come from experience, of having your hopes dashed over and over. It was a tone of voice she was well acquainted with. 

(“I’m sorry Christina, there’s nothing more we can do.”)

It could have been any one of those reasons, or all three of them. She tried not to think too much about it. 

It took another two days before Shamal’s fever started coming down and three before he started sounding halfway coherent again. On the fourth, she found him sitting in bed with his breakfast untouched on the nightstand next to him.

“Is something wrong?” Nana asked, frowning. “Are you feeling nauseous again?” When he shook his head, she continued, “I can make something else if you don’t like--”

“Why?” Shamal interrupted. 

“Why what?” Nana asked, puzzled. “Why did I make eggs? I was looking up things that are good to eat when you’re sick and I came across a recipe for Chinese steamed eggs. I wish I knew about this before, I mean like it provides protein but it’s soft like a custard so you don’t have to chew much and--”

“No, why-- why do all this? Why go to this much trouble for me?” Shamal demanded, gesturing wildly with his hands. “The cooking, and the-- the washing, and you even cleaned up my apartment, and I don’t-- I don’t understand why--”

“Well, what was I supposed to do, just leave your unconscious body lying there on Death’s front doorstep?” Nana asked uncomprehendingly. 

“I threw up on you!” Shamal snapped, sounding mortified. 

“Yeah, you aren’t the first person to throw up on me, and you won’t be the last,” she responded dryly. “I’d be in the wrong line of work if I let a little vomit get to me.”

When he still refused to meet her eyes, she sighed. 

“Look Shamal, I may not like you-- actually, I can’t stand you-- but that doesn’t mean I want you to suffer like this. You don’t deserve that, no one deserves that.” 

No one deserved to feel like their body was failing them. Nana swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. 

“I was in a position to help, and so I did,” she said quietly. “It’s as simple as that.”

“...as simple as that,” Shamal echoed. “You truly mean that, don’t you? No favors, no debts, just--” He laughed, a little disbelievingly. “You’d go above and beyond the call of duty even for those you hate, just because it was the right thing to do.” He shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “You really are something else, Nana Fujiwara.”

Nana glanced away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. She wasn’t sure if he was just acting weird due to the lingering fever, or-- or dizziness from missing breakfast, but something about the way he was looking at her in that moment--

“I should take your temperature again, it’s been over eight hours since I last checked it,” she said abruptly. “I think I left the thermometer in the other room, wait here.” She marched off and tried to ignore how it felt like running away. “Eat your eggs.” 

[helion-ism]

let’s talk about elucien

there are so many reasons why I love elain x lucien and why I think these two would not only be amazing together, but also why they belong together. one of those reasons is lucien’s sassy personality, which we already got a glimpse of in acotar (and that I miss terribly btw), and which is, in my opinion, exactly what elain needs in her life. we’re talking about lucien “your eyes are like stars, and your hair like burnished gold” vanserra. we know he’s got quite a big mouth, that’s how we got to know him, but we also know that mouth is exactly what’s gotten him into trouble before. case in point: the eye incident. lucien doesn’t mince his words and yes, that is one of the reasons why elain really needs to spend some more time with him. 

she has been coddled by not only her father, nesta, feyre, but also the entire inner circle, which has allowed her to live her life passively. yes, she killed the king of hybern, and good for her, but she did it because nobody else could have done it at that point in time. ever since the war ended, elain has not actively contributed to any plot matters, whether by choice or because someone else took the choice from her. azriel said in acosf, “there is an innate darkness to the dread trove that elain should not be exposed to.” even amren pointed out that elain is capable of defending herself, but for some reason, nobody let her even though elain said she would try to find it: “then I will find it. I might require some time to … reacquaint myself with my powers, but I could start today.” and yet,  by the end of the book, elain’s been barely in it and has not contributed at all. (I know some people claim there’s certain things already happening in the background, but honestly, I’m not satisfied with that development happening off page, so I can’t wait to finally go on her journey and actually see her do stuff)

this moment is crucial:

does it look like she is happy with the way the others treat her? not really. when nesta snapped at her, elain started laughing. that signals relief to me because nesta, the one who has always tried to protect elain the most (nesta baby Ilysm), is the one who suddenly lost her patience. elain needs somebody like lucien, somebody with a big mouth and sassy attitude, who can coax her out of that paralysis she’s been stuck in, a bit like nesta in this scene. additionally, the banter would be top tier. I want another “if I offer you the moon on a string, will you give me a kiss, too?” moment, please. god please. (elain blinks. “and where would you like that kiss?” — and lucien just loses his mind.)

another thing that lives in my head rent free is the fact that lucien has travelled almost everywhere and could introduce elain, who wishes to see more of the world (see: “elain had always wanted to visit the continent to study the tulips and other famed flowers”), to the different courts and the continent. I refuse to accept that we will not get to learn more about the other courts, for my sake, but also for elain’s sake. I want her to see the spring court at least once. I want her to go and see those tulips she’s dreamt of. I want her and lucien to discover the day court as a new home, which brings me to the next point. 

elain has been craving sunshine for some time now. there’s several quotes that emphasise her connection to sunshine/light, here are a few of my favourites: 

I marveled at it, actually — that those years of poverty hadn‘t stripped away that light from elain.

the suite was filled with sunlight. every curtain shoved back as far as it could go, to let in as much sun as possible. as if any bit of darkness was abhorrent.

she had been always so full of light. perhaps that was why she now kept all the curtains open. to fill the void that existed where all of that light had once been. and now nothing remained.

what can I get you, elain? — sunshine.

elain doesn’t belong into the night court. feyre has found her family there, with rhys and the inner circle. nesta has found (or should I say accepted) cassian and found gwyn and emerie, her chosen sisters. but elain?

elain is somewhere in the background hiding with the twins and tending to gardens of the citizens of velaris. you can’t tell me that is satisfactory to you. she is currently ignoring her seer abilities, and the members of the inner circle are basically encouraging her to do so. the only time she’s been confronted lately was during that conversation with nesta and her reaction was not exactly what any of us readers would have expected, was it? that tells me there’s much more about her we don’t know yet, and I’m convinced we won’t know until she finally leaves and finds her own people, finds herself again and start dealing with everything that happened to her. elain must leave the night court, i.e. the darkness, behind in order to grow.

the same goes to lucien: he’s not at a place where he can just jump into a relationship or mating bond. he’s got so much stuff going on. lucien was forced to abandon his home and his abusive family, his “father” killed the fae he loved in front of his eyes, his best friend is an abusive pos who never appreciated him anyway, and neither has anyone in the night court. lucien is used because of his connections and because of the mating bond that ties him to elain, whether he wanted it or not. feyre knows he would never turn away from elain unless she explicitly wishes him to, and so she and rhys and the others use that to their advantage. it is smart, of course, but at the same time, they also keep important information about his own life from him that could change many, many things. so he’s spending his time with mortals in the human lands — a place where he as a fae really does not belong. 

lucien being the heir to the day court, well, to me, it feels like sjm is practically screaming it into our face: how could he find a home in the night court, the literal opposite to the day? darkness vs. light. and what about elain “he’d never once in the two years he’d known her found elain to be plain, but wearing black, no matter how much she claimed to be part of this court … it sucked the life from her” archeron? just looking at the symbolism, not only do the quotes from above indicate that the night court cannot possibly be her home, but also very recent quotes from the latest book. elain is a side character in the night court. and so is lucien. they both need to leave in order to become main characters — and it doesn’t even matter that both are already crucial to the further plot of the series because how can they possibly contribute to it in a place where they are both kept down? 

mor said in acofas: “stay out of it. she’s not ready, and neither is he, no matter how many presents he brings.” and “let him figure out where he wants to be. who he wants to be. the same goes with her.” mor’s power is “truth”, whatever that means. but there you have it. they’re not ready to be with each other yet, and that’s okay. 

[elain and lucien are also connected not only because of the mating bond, but also because of the plot. lucien must know quite a lot about her and her sisters simply because of all the time he spent with their father. the father who made a bargain with koschei. koschei who put a spell on vassa. lucien is therefore tied to both papa archeron as well as koschei and vassa. elain, we know, is a seer, despite her not using her abilities (or is she, and we simply don’t know?). elain is (obviously) connected to her father, but also to koschei and vassa (remember those visions she had).]

now let’s get to the mating bond stuff, and I need to say this loud and clear: elain has always had and will always have one (1) true mate. there’s no such thing as “false mate” or even multiple mates. there has been no indication whatsoever. lucien is the mate the cauldron had given her when she was born. and elain is the mate the cauldron had given him when he was born. even when she was still human, they already belonged together — tied together by strings of fate. absolutely nothing will change this fact. should elain reject the bond, lucien will remain a part of her life/her soul forever. should lucien reject the bond, elain will remain a part of his life/his soul forever.

when she was still human, lucien had already felt a pull between them and tried to save and protect her from hybern. when elain was already fae, when it came to protecting her, azriel clapped cassian’s shoulder and left (is this the true mate they’re all talking about?). it’s unfair to lucien, elain, AND azriel and this comparison alone is enough to disprove this theory.

the thing is, lucien has been nothing but respectful, kind and caring towards elain. when he arrived in velaris in acowar, he could immediately sense what she needed and said, “she needs fresh air” (vs. the response “we’ll judge what she needs”) and “take her to the sea. take her to some garden. but get her out of this house for an hour or two.” (I’m gonna make another post about this because I have a few thoughts on this)

of course, she doesn’t owe him anything, but elain herself doesn’t wish to be treated like a child, she maybe she should start acting like an adult because although she doesn’t owe lucien an apology or explanation, she has to have a conversation with him, like two responsible adults. there is no way feyre or anyone in the inner circle hasn’t told her that she can reject the bond and move on with her life. but just like her powers, this is another thing she chooses to ignore. I’m not blaming her because I know she has to work through her trauma first and heal, but by the end of the series, she has to acknowledge that at least.

in acosf, elain says “I am not a child to be fought over” when they discuss the dread trove. I wonder what she would say about the fact azriel threatens to challenge lucien to the blood duel because of her? based on literally everything we know about lucien, I can say with certainty that he would not physically fight over elain. if she only had a conversation with him and told him to move on and leave her alone, lucien would do just that. he would leave her alone and try to move on as best as he could (which we know is difficult for males). but he would never act as entitled to her as to demand a blood duel and fight to death. it goes against his principles. 

to finish this off, sjm summing up everything I just said:

[regina-del-cielo]

I was thinking about Copley’s Murder Conspirancy Board (mostly to deal with the absolute rage that the scene with Andy Copley and Booker gives me because ‘UGH THESE MEN ARE SO S T U P I D’), and... I may have a Theory about it - which mostly delves into how much Booker and Copley were in actual contact with each other before the events of the movie.

TL;DR: the Murder Conspirancy Board was built with a contribution of Booker’s information, and Copley was Very Confused on the workings of the Guard’s immortality

(the Essay(TM) is under the cut)

This excellent post expounds on how these two Grieving Dumbasses Definitely Did Not Think Their Plan Through, but still what little they did plan was not done in two days. And I would like to think that Booker would have required more than One (1) Persuasive Speech to get him to potentially get his family outed and put in danger for the (tiny) chance of getting a cure for their immortality.

So they’d been in contact for a while, possibly for almost the whole ‘break year’. Copley has lost his wife two years before the movie, so when he and Booker met again he’s one year into mourning. If Andy needed a break from their jobs, I can’t imagine in what mental state Booker must have been.

Copley probably started looking into the Guard because man, that Surabaya mission was a masterpiece, and how come these guys aren’t mercenary superstars? But they’re like ghosts, and the IDs don’t really match their supposed ages... and dealing with his wife’s death made him go into a Nerd Spiral. And then he finds Booker.

So this is how I think it went: they meet again. They talk. Copley is a grieving widower, Booker goes ‘man don’t I relate’. Booker is probably drunk a lot of the time (maybe so is Copley, misery loves company and all that). They enter a positive feedback loop of sharing grief over lost loved ones. Copley probably spills that he knows something, that they’ve done great things and they have a gift obviously. Booker probably answers along the lines of ‘fuck the gift, it sucks. Didn’t save my children when they needed it’. Copley goes ‘well, medicine is much better today. What if you could do it now?’ And the rest is history.

A) Booker ‘helped’ with the Murder Conspirancy Board

We know for a fact that the Conspirancy Board contains information about the Guard ‘from the last 150 years’ which is, approximately, the time photography’s been around. And it makes sense - photos are pretty easily accessible, and Copley knows their faces. He probably scanned them from one of those fake IDs and then used a facial recognition software to find them in historical photographic archives. But we know (and by the end of the movie so does he) that the last 150 years is a nothing in their lifespan. And while going backwards Copley may have found Booker’s original birth and/or marriage records, nothing of the sort would exist for Joe, Nicky and Andy.

Despite how much we joke about the Guard’s faces being Everywhere in museums and art galleries around the world, we can assume that they wouldn’t leave so many traces of them behind. The two known art pieces representing Andy in an obviously recognizable manner, her portrait with Achilles and the Rodin, are in the cave in Val d’Argent. I don’t believe Nicky and Joe wouldn’t have similar storage places, especially for Joe’s own art. Without photographic evidence and before newspapers, trying to pinpoint the three of them across history would be harder than finding a specific needle in a haystack of needles... unless someone tells you where to look. 

When Andy enters Copley’s living room, he calls her ‘Andromache the Scythian, the eternal warrior’. But how could Copley have known that Andy’s “real” name was Andromache? It’s not on her IDs, and it’s not the top choice for a full name that has Andy as a nickname. It’s a literary name, of course it would appear through history in poems or plays or novels. And how could he have associated Nicky and Joe precisely to the Crusades with what he knows of them from the last 150 years alone? For all he knew, they could have been as old as the Punic Wars, or as young as the Battle of Lepanto. Assuming he’d actually caught on on them being together together.

Well, I think Booker told him. Maybe just a thing here or there, while Commiserating on How It Sucks being an Immortal, like ‘Andy’s been around for so long she doesn’t even remember her true age, that’s exhausting’ or ‘Joe and Nicky are ridiculous for two people whose first meeting consisted of killing each other during the fucking Crusades’. And Copley fell into another Nerd Spiral that brought him to understand that holy shit these people are much older than I thought what the fuck.

B) Copley is Very Confused on How Immortality Actually Works

Copley talks to Andy by calling her ‘eternal warrior’ and talking of her immortality as if it was some kind of gift that can somehow be transferred from one body to another (debatable, but... ok). But he’s also flabbergasted by her not healing from Booker’s shot, and later with Nile he says ‘but then why would the immortality leave?’, which is... well, it makes it sound like he thinks the immortals are some sort of Chosen Ones.

Which means that Copley knows nothing about Lykon. He had no idea that at some point the Guard will stop healing.

But why would he not know, since I just conjectured that Booker told him enough about immortality for him to pinpoint the origins of the eldest members of the Guard? Why would Booker not have told him such a central detail of their “power”? (Booker obviously knows about Lykon. We see Andy telling Nile, and you can bet that ‘is this thing permanent?’ is probably the third question Booker ever asked when he met the others. He can’t not know)

I think it’s because despite having bonded over their grief, they are approaching this ‘discovering what the fuck is up with immortality’ from two extremely different sides. 

Copley wants to know if there is some biological aspect to their immortality that may be ‘transferred’ or ‘activated’ in any random human being. He’s gotten into his head that their regenerative powers can end all diseases. Which. I could probably write another entire separate post on how this is far-fetched at best. Point being, Copley never thought his endeavour as taking the immortality from the Guard to give it to someone else. He thinks Andy and the others are going to live forever and ever.

Booker knows their immortality is not forever and ever, theoretically. He knows that at some point, in the future, he’s going to stop healing and die. But he Wants to Talk to the Manager about it, damn it. He wants his death to be a certainty he can quantify, not something that may happen in another five thousand years based on the data he’s got at his disposal. He wants to have the choice to end it tomorrow or in fifty years - if discovering what causes his immortality saves other people, well that’s an undeniable bonus, but it’s not the focus of his motivation.

Just like Booker and Copley didn’t cover all the potential ways in which Their Plan Could Go Wrong (and honestly, has Booker not learned yet just how fast they revive on average? He tells Nile that ‘big wounds take longer’, and still he revived from the grenade in three/four minutes!), I think they also didn’t Delve into their motivations for seeking that knowledge. Booker probably thought that Copley knowing of their immortality being relative was irrelevant, because of course the doctors will find something (the thing that makes them stop healing), and then he’ll die anyway, so who cares? 

And Copley... Copley was probably Convinced that the Guard was a group of superheroes that just needed to be suggested a new investment plan for using their powers, because saving individuals during wars and natural disasters is very noble and good, but come on, it’s inefficient as hell, they can do much better!

(It absolutely sends me that Copley saw the kind of accomplishments reached by the people that the Guard saved, or by their direct descendants, and STILL it didn’t occur to him that there was a pretty decent chance that sometime in the future they would save someone that would find the cure for ALS and/or other shitty diseases! HE’S LITERALLY HINDERING THEM!!!) 

[suitetarts]

pockets full of stone

A mer-may collab with @miranhas-art 💙 See below the cut for another gorgeous Mari illustration! ... and my fic

Din Djarin nearly dies (again) and meets someone from the stories he heard as a child. He didn’t expect them to be so sassy, though.

Rating: General Word Count: 2.8k Warning: Description of drowning, thoughts of death, vomiting (water) AO3 Link

A push, grunt, then a large splash into the lake’s dark and chilled waters. 

This was the last time Din was going to talk business on a pier without his jetpack. He knew the bounty was desperate, and for Maker’s sake, the Quarren had thrown his body weight around earlier on the Crest trying to piss Din off by scaring the kid. He should have known better.

Din pulls himself back to the present and away from any blame. He could worry about that later. Or never, and he supposes he’ll find that out soon. His whole body feels incredibly heavy, much more than what he has grown used to over the years. Where metal meets man, he is dragged down; the weight of his padding and armor applying an inescapable pressure as the moonlight fades to black above him. He tries pulling at the water with his arms while kicking with his legs, grasping for anything, but still he feels himself sinking deeper. 

Wait, the… Who would take care of the baby if Din can’t....

His breaths are coming fast as he tries and fails to calm himself. Keeping his body upright means that the water still hasn’t crept into his helmet, which is something he can work with. But only for a short few moments. Din realizes he’s probably going to run out of breathable air before he reaches the bottom of this icy lake, much less walk out of it, as he continues to sink.

Din’s mind begins to fog as he figures he might be able to save himself if he loses some of the beskar. He doesn’t have the luxury to dwell on this, as close to his heart and soul the beskar may be. The armor will be at the bottom of the lake whether he succeeds or fails, so he gets going. His normally nimble fingers are cold and difficult, and they fail to find purchase on the slippery latches of his pauldrons. The cape wrapped around his chestplate in such a way to make it nearly impossible to remove without being able to look down and see it. His head lolls forward, allowing water to rush into his helmet and the dwindling air pocket. Din’s mouth and nose are full of water, his throat contracts, his chest stutters, his lungs burn. He can’t focus on the latches to his armor or removing his belts, all he can feel is the cold depths rushing all around and within.

Fuck.

Fuck.

The Mandalorian reflects for a moment. He’s done his best, but his best wasn’t good enough. This is it. He’s flirted with this for years, and it's finally here. Is it honorable? Probably not. Is it what he deserves? Most likely. What’s his legacy? A lifetime spent trying to be worthy of being saved, only to waste it. Figures.

Before Din lost consciousness, two glowing blue lights rushed towards him, but he was too far gone to care. He was finally warm.

Death is a funny thing. No one really knows what happens in the instant before it actually happens. Everyone says they know, but obviously they don’t. There’s no certainty in death, just like in life. What happens to someone when they cross the veil, from one world to the next? If it's anything like traveling at lightspeed, Din knew that like the back of his hand. A shudder felt through the hull, a pause, and then that’s it. Silence and flashes of stars, except perhaps these would fade to black before long. What would he see in those stars? A story?

If Din was to see a story before he died, he knew plenty of them. He had once been fond of the stories that came from strangers. He would beg his father to take him to the cantina, to let him sit in the dirty booths and eavesdrop on the travelers talking about their recent journeys to Coruscant or to any number of exotic planets in the outer rim. The idea of being totally free to do whatever Din wanted in the whole entire galaxy was so thrilling, especially compared to his reality of being tied down to his father’s shop in the bazaar forever. What kind of story would that make for, compared to what was out there in the stars? There were dashing pilots, gunners and soldiers, merchants, bounty hunters, peacekeepers, missionaries. Stories of war in far off places, of mysterious species unlike anything he’d ever dreamed, of personal loss, of unexpected love. Whenever he asked to go -- before, that is -- his mother would give his father a look, one that was always angled so that Din couldn’t see, and then his father would relent and take the young boy out for the afternoon. But eventually, both of them would shush him when he asked. They stayed inside, ‘it’s not a good day’ his mother said, and kept the store closed. There were whispers of war, a real war. The whispers were exciting to Din at first, they reminded him of the stories. The heroes were going to swoop in to stop the bad guys and put everything back to normal. But then the whispers grew into screams, explosions, shooting. Where were the heroes? All the thrilling things he had heard in the cantina, but terrifying and happening to him with no one here to--

Stop. Din’s dead, and yet he continues to torture himself. If he gets one last laugh, it should be at himself.

Din didn’t want a story, or to relive his life. What about something he never got to do? He had always hoped that he could live in a fantasy, if only for a moment, where he could have a simple life. A moisture farmer on some backwater planet, or a working class mechanic for a Mid Rim starport. Although that was never a life he would actually want for himself, a simple life was always a nice thought for a different Din. One who wasn’t so…. damaged.

So here he is, a man on the brink of death. Is he seeing his life flash painfully before him again, is he living in a dream, is he nowhere at all?

A kiss. He’s being kissed.

Now, Din had never kissed anyone on the lips in life. He knew the steps, the basic mechanics, but he imagined that it was a much different experience to be kissing an actual active participant and not just the skin on the back of his own hand. There was a certain give and take that he was looking forward to -- a dance, a battle of will fought with plush lips and soft tongues. Even beyond the direct battlefield, there was the periphery of where one’s hands would be, knees intertwined, legs weak and swaying. His arm wrapped around their waist and his fingers brushing tenderly over their cheek, while they pull him in by the shoulders until they melt together.

He would have much rather died in a kiss like that.

In this brief moment of purgatory, however, he can settle for this one chaste kiss. This ‘kiss’ he is having now, if it’s to be called that, is… Hmm. It isn’t what Din imagined. Everything is dark, and it's not anything like a dance. This person seems to be gasping into him with their mouth wide open, like a fish out of water. Whoever he’s kissing has clearly never done this before either, otherwise why in Maker’s name would anyone want to kiss again? He strains his arms to reach forward at whatever is capturing his lips, but he can’t find his strength. He had never known that kissing would need to be so rushed, or involve so much blowing of air? He --

Oh.

Din grunts around a cough, finding himself on his back and in quite a bit of pain. His insides feel like they are saturated and about to burst. He rolls over onto his hands and knees on the muddy banks of the far side of the lake so that he can proceed to throw up an obscene amount of water, which only makes the burning in his lungs more and more painful with each heave.

A sigh of relief, a soft voice breaking through the silt caked in his ears which seems to speak only above a whisper. “I-I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Din freezes. The discomfort and pained heat in his chest is nothing compared to the inferno under the bare skin of his face. He continues to stare at the ground, but shifts his eyes up so that he is looking in the direction of his savior.

A human, scantily-clad with only a dark cloth wrapped around their chest and some sort of leather skirt, sits in front of him on the rocks, their legs still partially submerged in the murky lake water. They thumb at their wet lips as they smile at him, and he feels a blush creep from his face all the way down his chest. Those glistening, smiling lips had been on his lips.

His lips.

His face.

The Creed.

Despite a sensible voice in Din’s head trying to remind him that they had saved his life, despite the weakness that pervaded every inch of his body, a flare of anger rises in him. He is dar’manda now, because of them.

He pulls himself up into a seated position on the lakeside and puffs out his chest, only to find the pain evaporating his anger. “What did you do….” he asks himself.

Their smile fades as their brows furrow. “I think that’s pretty obvious. I saved your life.”

“I didn’t mean-- My life?” Din sighs around a laugh. He’s done this before, hasn’t he? Why’s this different from the cantina? Because this person isn’t made of metal? He knew going along with anything less than what the Creed requires of him would become a slippery slope. The tears come easily and he does nothing to stop them. “No, my life is over.”

They set one of their hands on the rock beside them, leaning their weight onto it and towards him. They open their mouth around a smirk, then pause. They start again, but with a blank sincere expression. “Why’s that?”

It’s probably the adrenaline from nearly dying and being unmasked again, but for a moment Din considers grabbing their arm and pulling them in for a real kiss. What does it matter now? His body shows no signs of his thoughts, not a single twitch of muscle, but his face must be betraying him as he watches their eyes train in on his as they purse their lips and smile with their dark, shimmering eyes. Whatever blush he still had on his face grew a shade darker.

“You’re a bold one.” They say around a smile, their long fingers twisting through their hair.

Din squeezes his eyes shut and turns away from them, towards the dark sky full of stars. His voice cracks as he gives weight to the words running through his mind, to the feeling of emptiness inside. “I’m dar’manda.”

They snort, and Din can’t help but whip his head at them. 

“Can’t be that big of a deal if I’ve never heard of it.”

Din expected them to not know, but not for them to be so arrogant about it. He had an explanation ready, but since he was caught off guard and doesn’t want to get lost in the weeds with this person, he summarizes the summary as, “It means I’m done. I can’t wear the armor anymore.”

“Because I saved you?”

“Because you’ve seen me,” Din explains, finding the familiar words of his Creed. “No living thing can see me without the helmet. That’s… that’s the one rule. And I broke it.”

“But I’m the one who broke it.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

They blow a raspberry and wave at the air with their free hand. “You humans really can be so dramatic.”

Din pauses, squinting up at the twinkling stars as he absorbs their words. Well. Now he’s curious. He brings his gaze back down at his savior. It's dark and he’d just drowned, but he didn’t see anything… off.

“You seem human to me,” he says as he turns over and sits back on his haunches.

“You seem duller than I hoped.” They bite their lips around a smile as they laugh softly. They pull their legs out of the water; the skirt seems to shine iridescent in the moonlight, like facets of a precious gemstone. Their feet were…. Hm. Their skirt, their legs, are covered in leather? No, scales…. 

Din finds his mouth gaping as he stares at a tail, the fin slapping wetly against the rocks in step with the drum of their fingers against their thighs -- singular, thigh?

As he struggles to think of a good first question, they purse their lips in thought. “Let me go get your hat,” they say before quickly slipping back into the lake.

“W-wait, it’s not a...,” Din calls out stupidly, launching himself slowly and awkwardly from his haunches and reaching out in the empty air where they once were. 

This can’t be real. Mystical, intelligent beings with the head and upper body of a human, but the fins and tail of a fish. He was more than familiar with the stories, but such creatures were just children’s tales. Although, what was fiction now that he is taking care of a fifty year old infant with telekinetic powers? The galaxy was a big place, he supposed.

The mer-person seems to come back just as fast as they’d left, setting Din’s helmet on the shore at his feet before pulling themselves back up to sit their colorfully-scaled behind on the rocks.

Din reaches down and fumbles for a moment with the beskar, checking the inside before placing it back on his head. The pads are damp and uncomfortable, but not any more uncomfortable than feeling so exposed. “Thank you.” 

“It's no problem, hat boy,” they prod as they casually clean their fingernails. Din bristles.

“It’s not a hat.”

“And I’m not alive,” they say seriously, looking at Din’s eyes through the visor somehow. The jovial tone fades to a comfortable yet tense silence. He tilts his head, waiting for them to continue their thought.

“Why get yourself all worked up? No one would believe you if you told them about me anyway.”

“I would know,” Din states softly. The tension dissipates but the two stay motionless. Din contemplates and shrugs minutely in defeat. He would know, yes, but he already knows. This isn’t the first time he’s failed when his Creed has been tested. Yet, who would argue whether droids or mer-people are ‘living beings’? The line is blurry, so it's up to Din to decide when the line is crossed. Considering his responsibility to his foundling’s care, he pushes the thoughts of being dar’manda far from his focus, into hiding in the recess.

Ripples from the lake, bouncing moonlight off of its surface, catches his attention. Save for a brief fading view of two blue lights in the dark water, nothing. They are gone, and Din is alone. His wet lungs wheeze as he reaches down, patting along the areas where they had been, searching for any remnants of their existence. An imprint, a misplaced item, a loose scale. Not a trace.

After a moment, Din pulls himself to his feet and trudges up through the pocket of trees surrounding the lake to a small path leading back to the pier. It had only been ten minutes or so since he had been pushed into the lake, but the bounty and his client were gone. Din assumed they both left giddily, since the bounty could think he was dead and the client didn’t have to pay the back half of his premium. Wasn’t the first time, after all.

The Razor Crest’s security lights flickered to life as her prodigal son returned, the side bay ramp welcoming him inside with a flick of the wrist. As Din walked up the ramp, he was faced with an empty carbonite rack -- and more accurately, what amounted to an empty coffer. He wondered if he still had some of the murky lake water swimming through his brain because he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The beskar helmet quickly pivoted away from the carbonite chamber as he heard a grumble and the shuffling of blankets. The baby stirred from their shared cot, chirping and cooing to be held. Din crossed the hold with long, swift strides and obliged, removing his damp and filthy gloves to thumb over the baby’s warm cheeks.

Din sucked in a breath to speak, but paused. No one would believe you if you told them about me anyway. He would always know, but… He had nothing to hide from his sweet little foundling.

Din sat on the floor below the cot, leaning against the wall as he cradled the sleepy babe in the crook of his legs. The lake water dripped off of him slowly, glinting in the safe yellow glow of home as Din told a story.

[bored-storyteller]

Oh dear, I don't really think I deserve so much 😅, I love Kaeya but really in my opinion there are so many ways to see him, therefore... I wonder what he really is like. For now, I don't know how comfort this is.

56- Genshin Impact, Kaeya Alberich x Reader

“It will never be forever”

Kaeya has few certainties, and those certainties are often superficial and ephemeral. He believed that you were a certainty, you had been, now not anymore. Of course, he had been selfish to think so.

Yet wasn't it obvious? The fact that he regularly visits you two days a week to take you to the tavern with him - even if he hadn't found you tonight - wasn't that a way of making it clear that he had chosen you? Has his respect for your principles, accepting your hesitation, ever made you understand that he really loves you? That he esteems you and loves you more than anyone?

So what are you doing now, sitting far away from him, with that boy he doesn't think he's ever seen, with green eyes and an innocent smile?

A friend, you would tell him. But then why are you so distant from the world, as if only the two of you existed?

You are so bright, so sweet and loving, you laugh and joke softly. Did he ever have you like this for him and just for him?

He feels anger scratching the inside of his chest like an angry lion, yet he knows he is unfair. Because he is the first to joke and laugh with people, he is the first to find secluded dark corners to enjoy the attention of others. Yet never once has he given his heart the way you are now with that stranger - who is probably not that unknown to you.

The umpteenth content of a mug falls down his throat like a waterfall, incandescent and fresh at the same time.

How much did he drink? He does not know it. Still, he might say that he has exceeded his normal threshold. It is certain that if he moved from his stool his feet would not be as firm on the ground as they usually are.

"Captain!"

Your lovely voice calls him - it's obviously calling him.

You look surprised, as if you've seen him now for the first time. Were you really focused on that boy so much that you didn't even notice him?

Glancing around the corner where you were sitting, he realizes that you are left alone. The place now has only a few customers who still insist on staying late into the night and you are probably only there to enjoy a little more of the warmth of the tavern.

“But look who's around late at night! My little mouse! " The empty drink rises towards you, before returning to his lips.

A disappointed moan escapes him when he realizes that his taste buds are not welcoming anything, and then he again calls for a new round of Death After Noon, as you sit next to him, more uncertain. Your still almost intact drink rests next to his arm.

"Haven't you exaggerated a bit, Captain?"

Oh, why are you telling him so fondly? How can you treat his fragile heart like this?

"Let's not talk about me!" His voice is slightly higher than normal. Is it really so hard for him to control himself?

Your eyes linger on the figure of him. There is something wrong with him, but you really don't know what.

"Who was he?" The question comes out more inquisitive than he would like and he feels you waver beside him, but you don't hold back anyway.

"Well ... a friend."

He knew it.

"He didn't seem like just a friend." Now it seems like an accusation, an accusation that causes silence on your part. Yet it doesn't last long.

He is drinking again when you speak. No trace of resentment in your voice, maybe just a badly veiled sadness: "For now he's just a friend."

Now the alcohol goes down his throat too quickly, not by his will. You said it to him so candidly, transparently, as if nothing could change between you two.

No. If only he could see beyond your smile he could see how much pain he has caused you, how much it costs you every moment to give up on him. Because he is free, and you are not. You want something to put your feet on, he wants wings. You never understood that he had already welcomed you into those wings of him, that his firm grip would not make you fall during your flight. He never made you understand.

What wouldn't you give for him? Yet he is always so elusive, so ambiguous in his ways.

Maybe it's good, maybe it's right. This judgment cannot help but touch Kaeya's mind. After all, he doesn't even know if he has a future.

But ... he's so selfish, and he's already so broken.

"I drink to your friend then!" He exclaims gleefully as his fingers claim your glass.

You don't care. There is something wrong with him, and understanding it is worth more than your stolen drink.

"I drink to your happiness!" He continues, halfway between reality and a lie.

The glass intended for you is completely emptied, and when it comes back segregated on the table in a bad way the Captain's smile has completely vanished.

"Don't make fun of me." Your voice is not bad, but firm. You're definitely sober, he deduces it.

"I thought you were mine."

He didn't have to say it, he hadn't foreseen it, not like this.

You jump up and his eyes flash on you. His lips open, and then close, as do yours.

The flash of anger that has invaded you fades under the gaze he gives you. Despite the pretentiousness of his words you see in him an abandoned child, never grown up. He is so weak, and so strong.

"Well ... I was wrong, it happens even to the best, right?" He probably wants to be ironic, but his head leaning towards the counter doesn't make him as playful or jovial as the Kaeya everyone knows.

"Kaeya ..." You call it softly. You should take him out where the fresh air can bring back to him the determined nature of him, he should sleep, you should confront each other awake and sober. Yet ... if he had been sober, would he ever open up?

"Kaeya ..."

“I thought I had done enough, but that's not the case I guess. That's right, you do well. I…"

Your arms wrap around him, your chin rests on his shoulder as you squeeze him desperately, silently asking him not to continue. It hurts him and it hurts you. Yet he doesn't listen to you.

"I cannot promise you eternity."

His words sink into the hearts of both of you, heavy as metal blades. Nothing is true, and at the same time nothing is fake between you two.

"I know ... it's not that ..." You murmur softly in his ear "I just ... just stay with me."

His gloved hand touches your cheek and a soft sigh slips from his nostrils. How cruel and selfish he is.

"As long as I can, I'll stay with you." His answer is frozen in the ambiguity of your lives. A desire for "forever" which, however, no one can promise.

"Promise me you'll miss me if you ever leave." You just tell him.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, and his smile is finally back.

"Know that it is your responsibility if your claims are so mild."

He tells you, as he welcomes your hand into his palm, to bring it to his lips.

He is cruel, selfish and ruthless, but he can't really leave you in the arms of others, at least as long as he can be by your side.

[persimmonsimmer]

“You again?”

“Me again,” the red-haired man smiled back at her, matching her playful tone.

The trader who had introduced himself as Carl Worth had become enough of a regular that Citlali felt comfortable making the occasional quip to him. Sometimes, when the store was mostly empty and he could see that she wasn’t too busy, he liked to stop and chat for a few minutes before heading on his way. Like most traders, he’d collected some fascinating stories during his travels, and Citlali, who’d never stepped foot outside Panorama, soaked them up eagerly.

Today he wanted to know if they had any ground coffee in stock.

“You’re in luck,” Citlali said.

“Ah, thank the Watcher. Are you a coffee drinker?”

“No. I tried a sip once, but it was too bitter for me. And it’s so expensive, since it can be so hard to come by, I don’t really see the point.”

“You’re better off, believe me,” Carl said. “I used to feel the same way, but now I’m hooked. Decent coffee is a devil to get a hold of, but I’m useless without it.”

Carl paid for his coffee but didn’t leave right away. He often stuck around for a few minutes to browse the store’s wares, and sometimes quizzed Peter to find out if they’d gotten any new items in stock since his last visit.

“Tell me, Citlali,” he addressed her again while peering at the store’s collection of dry goods, “is everything sold here secondhand? What I mean is, do you sell anything you produce yourselves, here in Panorama?”

The store was still mostly empty, so Citlali stepped out from behind the register so they could talk more easily. She took a moment to think before responding. “Well, not really. Peter used to sell a lot of fresh produce, and building materials, and things like that, but then the farm stand and hardware store came along, so he started selling more of the kinds of things you can only get from traders.”

“What about these clothes?”

“Some were made by my mom. She gives Peter a good rate. But most of them come from traders, too.”

“So this store is kind of like a middleman’s middleman, huh? Everything sold here comes from somewhere else by way of traders, and most of your business comes from selling it back to different traders at a higher price?”

Citlali frowned. “I guess you could say that.” Put so simply, it did seem… problematic.

“I know unsolicited advice is rarely welcome, and you’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now, but I’ll try my luck anyway,” Carl said. “Obviously what Peter’s doing here has worked so far, and deletion, it might keep working for a while longer yet, but I can’t see his luck holding out much longer. The world is changing. Very, very slowly at the moment, but one day the pace will pick up, faster than you can believe. One of these days, people are going to have better options than to rely on a handful of greedy, lazy traders for all the little luxuries they can’t make themselves.

“Peter seems like a good man, but you want my advice, Citlali--humor me--I’d say not to wait around for that day to happen. Think of something you can do that’s original, that no one else can undersell you on. And do that.”

Citlali hardly knew what to say. Carl’s tone had been warm, his face open and friendly. It seemed like he genuinely wanted nothing more than to give her a word of advice. But what he was saying, with such easy self assurance, was that the store was doomed? Could he really pretend to know the future with such certainty? It was a lot to take in at once.

She stammered out a reply that must have been acceptable to him, because he nodded, gave her one last smile, and left.