#this is my way of processing the ending of this book

[nexwsyexw-the-curious]

Marxism is as alien to my culture as capitalism and Christianity are.

-Russell Means, Oglala Lakota patriot, July 1980

Below is an excerpt of the speech from which it comes, and a link to the full transcript at the bottom.

"It takes a strong effort on the part of each American Indian not to become Europeanized. The strength for this effort can only come from the traditional ways, the traditional values that our elders retain. It must come from the hoop, the four directions, the relations: it cannot come from the pages of a book or a thousand books. No European can ever teach a Lakota to be Lakota, a Hopi to be Hopi. A master's degree in "Indian Studies" or in "education" or in anything else cannot make a person into a human being or provide knowledge into traditional ways. It can only make you into a mental European, an outsider. 

"I should be clear about something here, because there seems to be some confusion about it. When I speak of Europeans or mental Europeans, I'm not allowing for false distinctions. I'm not saying that on the one hand there are the by-products of a few thousand years of genocidal, reactionary, European intellectual development which is bad; and on the other hand there is some new revolutionary intellectual development which is good. I'm referring here to the so-called theories of Marxism and anarchism and "leftism" in general. I don't believe these theories can be separated from the rest of the of the European intellectual tradition. It's really just the same old song. 

"The process began much earlier. Newton, for example, "revolutionized" physics and the so-called natural sciences by reducing the physical universe to a linear mathematical equation. Descartes did the same thing with culture. John Locke did it with politics, and Adam Smith did it with economics. Each one of these "thinkers" took a piece of the spirituality of human existence and converted it into code, an abstraction. They picked up where Christianity ended: they "secularized" Christian religion, as the "scholars" like to say--and in doing so they made Europe more able and ready to act as an expansionist culture. Each of these intellectual revolutions served to abstract the European mentality even further, to remove the wonderful complexity and spirituality from the universe and replace it with a logical sequence: one, two, three. Answer! 

"This is what has come to be termed "efficiency" in the European mind. Whatever is mechanical is perfect; whatever seems to work at the moment--that is, proves the mechanical model to be the right one--is considered correct, even when it is clearly untrue. This is why "truth" changes so fast in the European mind; the answers which result from such a process are only stopgaps, only temporary, and must be continuously discarded in favor of new stopgaps which support the mechanical models and keep them (the models) alive. 

"Hegel and Marx were heirs to the thinking of Newton, Descartes, Locke and Smith. Hegel finished the process of secularizing theology--and that is put in his own terms--he secularized the religious thinking through which Europe understood the universe. Then Marx put Hegel's philosophy in terms of "materialism," which is to say that Marx despiritualized Hegel's work altogether. Again, this is in Marx' own terms. And this is now seen as the future revolutionary potential of Europe. Europeans may see this as revolutionary, but American Indians see it simply as still more of that same old European conflict between being and gaining. The intellectual roots of a new Marxist form of European imperialism lie in Marx'--and his followers'--links to the tradition of Newton, Hegel and the others. 

"[...]

"There's a rule of thumb which can be applied here. You cannot judge the real nature of a European revolutionary doctrine on the basis of the changes it proposes to make within the European power structure and society. You can only judge it by the effects it will have on non-European peoples. This is because every revolution in European history has served to reinforce Europe's tendencies and abilities to export destruction to other peoples, other cultures and the environment itself. I defy anyone to point out an example where this is not true.

"So now we, as American Indian people, are asked to believe that a "new" European revolutionary doctrine such as Marxism will reverse the negative effects of European history on us. European power relations are to be adjusted once again, and that's supposed to make things better for all of us. But what does this really mean?

"[...]

"Now let's suppose that in our resistance to extermination we begin to seek allies (we have). Let's suppose further that we were to take revolutionary Marxism at its word: that it intends nothing less than the complete overthrow of the European capitalists order which has presented this threat to our very existence. This would seem to be a natural alliance for American Indian people to enter into. After all, as the Marxists say, it is the capitalists who set us up to be a national sacrifice. This is true as far as it goes. 

"But, as I've tried to point out, this "truth" is very deceptive. Revolutionary Marxism is committed to even further perpetuation and perfection of the very industrial process which is destroying us all. It offers only to "redistribute" the results--the money, maybe--of this industrialization to a wider section of the population. It offers to take wealth from the capitalists and pass it around; but in order to do so, Marxism must maintain the industrial system. Once again, the power relations within European society will have to be altered, but once again the effects upon American Indian peoples here and non-Europeans elsewhere will remain the same. This is much the same as when power was redistributed from the church to private business during the so-called bourgeois revolution. European society changed a bit, at least superficially, but its conduct toward non-Europeans continued as before. You can see what the American Revolution of 1776 did for American Indians. It's the same old song. song. 

"Revolutionary Marxism, like industrial society in other forms, seeks to "rationalize" all people in relation to industry--maximum industry, maximum production. It is a doctrine that despises the American Indian spiritual tradition, our cultures, our lifeways. Marx himself called us "precapitalists" and "primitive." Precapitalist simply means that, in his view, we would eventually discover capitalism and become capitalists; we have always been economically retarded in Marxist terms. The only manner in which American Indian people could participate in a Marxist revolution would be to join the industrial system, to become factory workers, or "proletarians," as Marx called them. The man was very clear about the fact that his revolution could only occur through the struggle of the proletariat, that the existence of a massive industrial system is a precondition of a successful Marxist society. 

"[...]

"So, I suppose to conclude this, I should state clearly that leading anyone toward Marxism is the last thing on my mind. Marxism is as alien to my culture as capitalism and Christianity are. In fact, I can say I don't think I'm trying to lead anyone toward anything. To some extent I tried to be a "leader," in the sense that the white media like to use that term, when the American Indian Movement was a young organization. This was a result of a confusion I no longer have. You cannot be everything to everyone. I do not propose to be used in such a fashion by my enemies. I am not a leader. I am an Oglala Lakota patriot. That is all I want and all I need to be. And I am very comfortable with who I am."

People love to go “ in the Soviet Union they picked your job for you 😭” yeah cunt that’s what we’re doin now too except they make you bark like a dog for three weeks straight first getting denied everywhere you wanna work until you end up somewhere you dont like anyway. Let’s just cut out that middle man why don’t we

[cheyisagirlkisser]

.・College Ellie Headcannons゜・

Note: This is more loser Ellie-centric, I wanna maybe do a part two with just reader and her. Some sexual content and mentons of getting zooted below so 18+ warning!

•Art major, but she’s not the typical hot artsy lesbian you dream of her to be. More like rolls a fat blunt and sketches in her journal, it’ll either turn out to be a masterpiece or look like a crackhead had a go with her paper.

•Speaking of art major, when she’s horny and frustrated because she refuses to hook-up…she draws the lewdest art known to woman-kind. Those are her real masterpieces, but she can’t exactly turn them in for credit in her art class, can she? Fuck, the things that woman can make, though. Lowkey uses her exes naked bodies as inspiration though, maybe kind of weird but who’s gonna stop her?

•Doesn’t eat the food on campus half the time. She is embarrassingly addicted to Tai Pei containers and the occasional microwavable egg-roll. “That shit’s nasty, Ellie! Goddamn, just eat the Tacos 4 Life we have on campus.” Her friends will all tell her, but no. It’s like a guilty pleasure. Maybe it’s cause she grew up lower class and is used to TV dinners, has a special trauma bond to food that should be banned and probably is outside of America.

•Wardrobe consists of band tees, honorable mentions to Gorillaz and Falling in Reverse.

•Is actually an insanely talented writer. After reading her journals I feel like nobody talks about how emotional her entries are and she keeps a journal of her own in college for sure, not only for sketching and organizing art but also to write all her feelings out.

“Fuck me, this is my last year being gay.” -After her and Cat’s break-up, probably.

•Hates coffee. Definitely game-cannon, but this is important to the college setting. It’s the classic Monster or nothing, and she will absolutely judge you for drinking coffee. She calls it “the devil’s dirt.” So dramatic.

•Used to watch bad Hallmark movies because of Dina, now watches them alone because she misses Dina. There’s nothing like crying your eyes out to Christmas Under Wraps!

•Has a collection of rubber ducks on her shelf. Doesn’t use her very small space for normal things like her wallet or books, no. It’s rubber fucking ducks.

•Also has a slipper collection in her tiny closet, from Pikachu all the way to dinosaur feet.

•Has the “two-seater” t-shirt (iykyk) but refuses to wear it in public because she’s a pussy

•Favorite fruit is grapes. I just know my girl loves grapes when she can get her hands on them steer clear bc she will NOT share. Favorite candy is gummy worms!

•Actually wears rain boots when it’s wet outside or snowing

•Likes wired earbuds over airpods, listens to Pearl Jam when she misses living with Joel

•Is oddly good at making those little paper stars and has a huge grocery bag of then in all different patterns and colors

•When she starts dating you she shows you her dinosaur cookie-cutter collection because you're really good at baking. (Also bc she wants to see you in a frilly cute apron!)

•Is a slut for hugs. Kisses are cool, sex is great but agghhh Ellie just loves wrapping her arms around you and sometimes when you two are in her dorm she'll just hug you for what feels like hours on end, she calls it her 'weekly therapy.'

•Loves high sex because when she's sober she hates feeling like she's awkward or all up in her head. She also has a tendency to invite you over for sex after smoking.

•Has a septum piercing. Maybe this one is self-indulgent because I would go ballistic over seeing actual Ellie with one, but I say that college Ellie got hers pierced at 16 and didn't cry over the pain but wanted to literally jump off of a bridge the entire healing process it was so bad.

•Sometimes when you kiss her, her septum will slide over and look uneven and she feels fucking NIGERIA FALLS in her boxers when you fix it for her. Also for those of you who are sluts for glasses, you can fix her glasses too and it'll make her just as weak.

[iichfilwypj]

but daddy, i love him! | percy jackson

ღ book! percy jackson x daughter of zeus! reader ღ warnings: pregnancy mention, sex implications :) i did this long ago so it sucks! ღ wc: 825

Sitting at the table and staring intently at the wood, she was still trying to adjust her dress so it wouldn’t slip over her shoulders, having not gotten the chance to fasten it properly. 

Just seconds ago, she couldn’t think about anything other than the feeling of his body close to hers, their lips pressed together and the heat of the room; now, she could only think about how to prevent her father from throwing a lightning bolt at Percy.

Next to her, Percy looked just as uneasy; he fidgeted nervously as her father gripped about how irresponsible and foolish they’d been. His eyes kept darting to the floor, to the walls, anywhere but at Zeus, who was ranting furiously. 

“Do you even know what you’re doing? For Gods’ sake, you’re so young! You could get… you know what!”

Zeus paced back and forth across the room, his eyes darting around like a predator circling its prey as his hands were planted on his hips. She turned to Percy, rolling her eyes with an exaggerated flair, and then bit her lip, exhausted by the endless cycle of this conversation. 

It was always the same, for God’s sake. She had heard it a thousand times: his disapproval, his anger, his worry. Nothing was ever different, and somehow, it always ended the same way.

“Seriously, you don’t want to have…” He paused for a second to point at Percy, his look of disgust so exaggerated that the boy couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “…his kids.”

“And what if I do? What if I do want to have his kids?” She fired back without hesitation, her words cutting through the heated atmosphere like a blade. "What if I am having his babies?”

The room was so quiet now that the sound of a pin dropping would have been deafening.

Percy looked horrified, his wide eyes locked on her as he tapped her leg anxiously, trying to process what she had just said. Not that he wasn’t flattered; honestly, in his far-off, very far-off, future plans, having kids with her was definitely on the list. 

But this? Oh, no. This was how he was going to die. Zeus would absolutely kill him with his bare hands, no question about it.

She barely held in her laugh as her father’s face turned crimson. His jaw dropped, his lips parted into a grimace of pure disgust, and his eyebrows arched in an almost comical way.

She quickly covered her face with her hand to keep from bursting out laughing. “No, I’m not, but you should’ve seen your face!”

But Zeus was already consumed by rage. As thunder growled like an angry beast in the sky and the rain began to pour, he stormed toward the door, his anger crackling in the air around him. Without a second thought, he yanked the door open with a violent motion.

He pointed at Percy, who quickly jumped to his feet to explain himself. “Sir, I-”

“Get out of my house, now! I told her it was a bad idea, but no, she insisted on being with you! Stay away from her!” 

And he had no choice but to leave, like a stray dog being kicked to the streets. 

She felt torn, unsure of what to do next. Disobeying her father was the last thing she wanted,  but her heart was telling her to run after Percy. Zeus’s endless ranting grew louder, but they only became more distant.

Percy loved her, and she loved him –what else mattered?

Through the window, she saw Percy approach the gates, his body language defeated, head hanging low as he opened the small door. Her chest tightened as she  turned back to her father, offering a brief sideways smile, as if to apologize for what she was about to do.

Under his glare, she stood up from her chair, defying him.

“I'm sorry, daddy. I love him!”

“¡Don't even think-!” 

But she was already sprinting toward the open door, running outside and disregarding the shouting.

The rain struck her nearly naked body, her unbuttoned dress almost slipping from her shoulders, and her hair becoming drenched. She cried out his name, hoping he’d turn and notice her.

And he did, of course. 

He turned with a smile, one that had been on his face since he left the house; it was obvious, they had already talked about what to do if this situation came up. Standing with arms crossed was not an option.

Their bodies collided, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her up and spinning her through the air. 

“What took you too long?” He said with a grin, his eyes sparkling with amusement. 

“Sorry, just a little problem.” She replied, her tone light, her smile wide, feeling like nothing else in the world mattered except this moment between them.

Her father’s angry shouts, filled with condemnation and disbelief, rang in her ears as he yelled that they were out of their minds and that nothing they were doing could be accepted. But none of it mattered anymore. 

As they shared a kiss, sweet and drenched by the rain, everything else faded away. 

Yes, maybe they were crazy. But it was for love.

HI SORRY i have some heavy homework because i only have one week of school left!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! fiesta fiesta y si alguien tiene ideas para el remerón AYUDA NO SÉ QUE HACER!

[bamfkeeper]

Absolution. | K.W

warnings: Smut 18+ MDNI | AFAB reader | Religious themes | Priest/sinner roleplay | Soft dom/sub dynamics | Dirty talk | Spanking | Slight bondage | Anal sex | Sex toys | Corruption themes. Obviously not realistic don't just have anal sex without prep 😭

Do not read if this if any of the warnings make you uncomfortable, please just skip it. I mean no disrespect to religion, this is just a stupid fanfic please do not take this seriously.

a/n: I started this fic in JULY. So if the writing seems a little weird, that's why. I've grown a lot since I first started this blog so my style has switched up a bit. I tried to keep to Kurt's character even with the scenario, hopefully I balanced it out okay. Probably not everyone's thing so...don't read if not. Slowly making my way back here. Not proofread, will do at a later date. ;; wc: 4.7k

You were so bored.

It was a lazy day at the mansion, your boredom drove you into a cleaning frenzy. While rummaging through Kurt's wardrobe, you stumbled upon something you hadn't seen before. "Kurt, is this..." you begin, your voice trailing off as you carefully extract the garment from its hiding place.

Kurt glances up from the book he held, perched on the chair sitting in the corner of the room, his eyes softening with recognition. "Ah, ja...my robes," he responds, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. Rising from his seat, he approaches you with measured steps, gently taking the robes from your hands. "I have not worn them in quite some time," he muses, his fingers tracing the familiar fabric with reverence.

Intrigued by this glimpse into Kurt's past, you can't help but tilt your head, "You should put them on." Your curiosity piqued, you add, "I'd love to see how you look in them." You didn't share the same views, which might've been why Kurt was a bit reserved about that part of himself, not wanting to make you feel pressured or uncomfortable.

You make yourself comfortable on the bed, eager to see how he looked in his robes. Kurt, ever obliging, nods in response to your request and begins to don his priestly attire. The process is unhurried, almost ritualistic, as he carefully slips into each layer. Once fully dressed, he turns his attention to the details, his fingers working to adjust the collar just so. Standing before the mirror, Kurt takes a moment to assess his reflection, his expression a mixture of familiarity and something like nostalgia crosses his features.

"Well, what do you think, liebling?" he inquired, slowly rotating to face you with his arms slightly extended. His end of his tail tail swayed under the end of the robe in a languid motion as his eyes met yours, curiosity evident in his gaze. As you observed him, an unexpected sensation stirred within you, a powerful and undeniable attraction that you found impossible to ignore. You felt shame bubble in your belly, you shouldn't be this attracted to him like this. It was wrong, but...it felt so right.

Drawn by this magnetic pull, you rose from your seat and approached him. Your voice was low and appreciative as you commented, "You look really good wearing this." Your hand, almost of its own accord, traced a path up his chest, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric. He responded with a soft, knowing chuckle, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Ah... I see that mischievous glint in your eyes. You're thinking naughty things, aren't you?" he remarked, gently placing his hand over yours to halt its exploratory journey.

"I understand what you desire, liebe," he continued, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "However, I'm not certain I can fulfill that wish while wearing these garments. They hold too much sacred meaning for me...engaging in such activities while wearing them would feel far too blasphemous." His words trailed off, leaving an air of regret hanging between you.

Kurt held his religious beliefs close to his heart, creating a conflict between his desire not to disappoint you and his need to maintain the sanctity of his attire. The struggle was obvious in his expression as he grappled with the dilemma of wanting to please you without compromising his deeply held convictions.

"Why don't we pretend?" you suggested with a mischievous glint in your eye. "Something along the lines of roleplaying, maybe? Given your natural flair for theatrics and showmanship, I'm sure you could have fun with it." The proposition wasn't without merit, and he thought about it for a moment, his mind clearly working through the possibilities. His head tilted to the side in contemplation, and reaching his internal consensus, he nodded in agreement, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Very well," he replied, his voice a mix of curiosity and enthusiasm. "We can certainly give that a try. If it brings you happiness, then I'm more than willing." His smile widened as he leaned in, planting a gentle, affectionate kiss on the tip of your nose. "However, I'll need a moment to prepare. Allow me to make some alterations to my appearance and demeanor. I have a different robe I will change into, very similar to this one, don't worry. Just less significant to me."

And just like that, the scene was set.

In what felt like a few moments, Kurt had transformed. He now stood towering above you, his presence suddenly commanding and authoritative.

You were on your knees before him, a position that encouraged the power dynamic you both had agreed to explore. Kurt reached down and cupped your chin in his hand, gentle and assertive, tilting your face upward to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually warm and playful, now held a hint of stern judgment, perfectly in character for the role he had assumed.

"Well, well," he began, his voice taking on a rich, sonorous quality that sent a shiver down your spine. "You've been quite the naughty sinner, haven't you?" His tone carried a note of playful admonishment, but there was an underlying current of something more intense. "After all the transgressions you've committed, you now come seeking absolution? Seeking forgiveness from me?" He questioned, his delivery starting off with a hint of theatrical flair.

It was clear that this was new territory for him, and initially, he felt a touch of self-consciousness, a slight awkwardness in inhabiting this unfamiliar role. However, as he continued, you could see him settling into the character, his confidence growing with each word. His initial hesitation was rapidly giving way to a more controlled, measured performance, as he found his footing in this improvised scenario.

You felt nervous and excited, the feelings coursing through your veins, having never engaged in 'roleplay' before. A slight tremor shook your voice and a few nervous chuckles followed, you managed to formulate a response. "Oh, Father Wagner," you began, your words held playful desperation, "I've been so busy, I haven’t had the time to come to you. But now, I find myself in dire need of spiritual cleansing. You're the only one who possesses the power to absolve me of my sins." As the words left your lips, you had to bite the inside of your cheek to suppress a giggle at the sheer ridiculousness of the scenario.

"My child," he responded, his tone suddenly shifting, "The act of sinning is no trivial matter to be taken lightly." His abrupt immersion into the 'role' caught you completely off guard, leaving you momentarily stunned. He released his grip on your chin and fixed you with a stern, unyielding gaze. "However," he continued, his voice low and resonant, "You are fortunate indeed. For I have been bestowed the ability to purge the corruption of sin from your very soul."

A part of you wanted to burst into laughter, seeing him adopt such a serious demeanor for this playful charade was a surprise. However, not wanting to shatter the illusion or dampen the enjoyment of the moment, you made a conscious effort to maintain your composure and play along. You gave a slight bow with your head, responding in a soft, reverent tone, "Yes, Father Wagner." You repeated his title, savoring the way it rolled off your tongue.

Slowly, you raised your gaze to meet his, your eyes wide and imploring, your features arranged into the most innocent expression you could muster. "I humbly beseech you," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "Please, cleanse my soul of its impurities."

Kurt gently lifted you from the floor and guided you to the bed. "I will have to start with the basics, my dear, but do not be afraid. I promise you, I will purify your soul," he whispered, his voice acting as a soothing balm to your nerves. His lips brushed against the nape of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine as he guided you to lay across the edge of the bed, his touch both firm and gentle. "Now, stay perfectly still..." he hummed, his voice a low, melodic rumble. You felt him move away, his presence shifting to the side as he reached for something unseen.

Curiosity got the better of you, and you attempted to turn your head, eager to catch a glimpse of what he was doing. However, Kurt's hand swiftly returned, his palm warm against the back of your head as he held you in place. "Ah, nein, my little sinner," he chided softly, a hint of playfulness in his tone. "You must remain still for the cleansing ritual to work its magic." His fingers began to move, gently scratching your scalp in a soothing manner before he slowly withdrew his touch.

You couldn't help but let out a small huff of frustration, torn between the desire to see and the need to obey his instructions. Despite your impatience, you forced yourself to comply, your body relaxing into the position he had placed you in.

"Alright, alright," you conceded, your voice a mixture of resignation and anticipation. "What exactly do you have in store for me, Father Wagner?" The question hung in the air, your curiosity peaking as you waited, body tense with expectation. The soft sound of Kurt's footsteps reached your ears as he moved around the room. When he returned, you sensed his presence beside you, accompanied by the subtle rustle of fabric.

"I have something special for you, mein Schatz," he murmured, his accent thickening slightly with emotion. You heard the gentle thud of an object being placed on the bed next to you, and from the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of a small, ornate box. The sight of it only heightened your curiosity, and Kurt knew it.

"This has all of my cleansing tools, my dear. I promise you I will be forgiven when I am done," Kurt said, his voice a low, husky whisper. His hand glided over the curve of your ass, slow and deliberate, his touch both gentle and electrifying. The anticipation built with each passing second, your skin tingling under his fingertips. Just as you began to relax into his caress, he suddenly laid a firm smack to your backside. The sharp sound echoed in the room, followed immediately by a stinging sensation that spread across your skin.

Your eyes widened in shock, and before you could process what had happened, a sharp cry of surprise escaped your lips. "Ah, Kurt!" You spat out, shock in your tone as you blinked and registered the sensation. The unexpected nature of his action left you breathless, your mind reeling as you tried to comprehend that he had actually spanked you, of all things.

"Es tut mir Leid, schatz...are you okay?" Kurt asked, his voice shifting from the dominant tone he had adopted earlier to one of concern. He paused, breaking character for a moment as he gently rubbed his hand over your backside, soothing the lingering sting from his unexpected strike. The tender ministrations of his fingers helped ease the sensation, and you realized that while the spank had been surprising, it hadn't actually hurt. You still appreciated his attentiveness and care, even in the midst of your roleplay. You nodded, meeting his gaze to reassure him of your well-being.

"Yeah, I'm okay," you replied, your voice a little breathier than usual. A smile played at the corners of your mouth as you continued, "I just didn't expect it, but I'm down if that's what you wanna do." Your words came out as a purr, laden with a newfound excitement.

A playful glint danced in your eyes, reflecting your growing intrigue with this unexpected turn of events. Kurt's cheeks flushed a light shade of violet, betraying his initial surprise at your enthusiastic response.

For a moment, his carefully constructed persona faltered, and you caught a glimpse of the sweet, sometimes shy man beneath the dominant exterior.

He quickly cleared his throat, visibly attempting to regain his composure and slip back into character. As you watched him struggle to maintain his role, you felt a wave of affection wash over you. You were genuinely touched that he had taken the time to check in and ensure he wasn't overstepping any boundaries. You gave him a nod, silently telling him you were good to continue.

He delivered another firm smack to your ass, this time with increased intensity. "Such a mischievous creature you are, I certainly have my work cut out for me, ja? What shall I do with such a naughty thing..." he mused, allowing his hand to caress one of your cheeks tenderly before administering another spank. A soft whimper escaped your lips as you bit down gently, eliciting a smile from him. "Remember, liebe, if you wish to stop, simply say 'red'," he cooed reassuringly, planting a gentle kiss along your spine. You nodded in understanding, acknowledging the safe word.

Kurt delicately parted you, tilting his head to the side with a knowing and somewhat playful smile. "My, my, you're already quite aroused, my little sinner...truly a naughty thing indeed. It seems I shall have to purify you in an alternative manner." His voice carried a blend of amusement and authority, causing your heart to race even more rapidly than before. He leaned in closer, his warm breath caressing your skin, as he continued in a low, seductive murmur, "This cleansing will be most thorough, I assure you. It will be an experience that shall linger in your memory for quite some time to come...and make you think twice before committing a sin again."

You could feel something warm on your ass and you stiffened slightly, feeling a lubricated finger gently teasing the ring of muscle. He felt your body grow tense, noticing the subtle shift in your posture. Kurt circled his finger around the tightened muscle, trying to ease the tension. "Are you alright, Liebling?" Kurt asked softly, his voice concerned again. "Remember, you can say 'red' if you want to stop at any point," he reminded gently, emphasizing your safety and comfort above all else.

"I-I'm okay, just new...is all." You managed to reply, your voice trembling slightly as you spoke. The sensation of your stomach tightening made everything feel a lot more sensitive. You had never done this before, and the unfamiliarity of the situation left you feeling a bit unsure, but willing to try it.

Kurt slowly pushed his finger past the muscle and you gasped. His finger weaseled its way into you, gently pumping in and out, the lube making it much easier than without. The sensation was so weird, but it felt so good too.

"Nngh...that feels good..." you murmured softly, your entire body melting into his gentle caress. With each delicate movement of his finger, you instinctively leaned back towards him, craving more of his touch. The sensation coursed through you, feeling so alien and unfamiliar, yet simultaneously exhilarating and soothing. The pleasure it brought left you yearning for more, desperate to feel more pleasure from your puckered entrance.

"Does it now? Well...a delicate little thing like you would naturally be drawn to this, wouldn't you? Such a taboo act...and here you are, completely enthralled by it." Kurt's voice was a low, melodious hum, tinged with a playfully sinister undertone. He deliberately withdrew his finger at an agonizingly slow pace, savoring every second of your squirming reaction. His intense gaze locked onto yours, observing with rapt attention as you quivered while looking over your shoulder at him.

The corners of his lips gradually curled upward into a self-satisfied smirk, clearly relishing the profound effect he was having on you. "Look at you, already trembling like a leaf," he remarked, his voice barely above a whisper, the intoxicating thrill of dominance unmistakable in both his tone and his piercing stare.

He decided to indulge in further exploration, his hands delicately gliding up the expanse of your bare back. He paused momentarily to bestow a gentle, comforting massage upon your shoulders, gradually easing away any lingering tension that might have been nestled within your muscles. His fingers traced a path down your spine, offering a soothing rub that coaxed you into an even deeper state of relaxation. You could feel each individual vertebra beneath his expert touch as he worked his way down your back with practiced precision.

As you surrendered more fully to his ministrations, he boldly ventured his hands lower, teasingly and playfully toying with your sensitive nipples. The unexpected sensation shot pleasure through your body, causing your face to flush deeply with a mix of arousal and bashfulness. Unable to contain your reaction, you let out a loud, unrestrained moan that echoed in the room, instinctively pressing your hips back against him in a clear display of eagerness and desire.

"Now, my lovely sinner, we shall proceed to the next crucial phase of your purification," he whispered, his lips barely grazing the delicate shell of your ear. "For this part, I'm afraid I must restrain you. Are you comfortable with that, my dearest?" His words, though softly spoken, carried a weight that made your pulse quicken.

You could feel your heart thundering within your chest, its rapid beats seeming to reverberate through your entire being. Your mind was racing, filled with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions as you tried to imagine what might come next. The atmosphere in the room seemed to shift, growing more intense and charged.

Every small sound became magnified in the growing silence - the rustle of fabric, the soft whisper of breath, the faint creak of floorboards. As you mentally steeled yourself for what was coming, time seemed to slow, each moment stretching out as you waited with bated breath for his next move.

He retrieved a delicate string adorned with small, shimmering beads. The intricate piece bore a striking resemblance to a rosary, yet it was not one in the traditional sense; the carefully chosen beads served a purely aesthetic purpose, devoid of any genuine religious significance. Kurt began to wrap the beaded string around your arms, his movements slow and deliberate as he secured them to the bed. Each loop was placed with thoughtful consideration, ensuring both your comfort and the effectiveness of the restraint.

He then turned his attention to your legs, repeating the process. The beaded strings were artfully arranged, positioning your limbs wide, you were unable to close them. The sensation was novel and a little weird, yet not unpleasant. Before going any further, he paused, allowing you a moment to acclimate to the unfamiliar feeling of restraint and the gentle pressure of the beads against your skin. His eyes met yours as he softly inquired, "Gut?" His voice was barely above a whisper, laden with care and seeking your approval.

After a brief moment of introspection, you responded with a nod, you found yourself surprisingly at ease. The bondage, expertly applied, caused no discomfort whatsoever. He made sure that the bindings around your wrists and ankles were secure without being restrictive or painful for you. Finding your voice, you replied, "I'm good, Father Wagner." Your tone carried a hint of playfulness, embracing the theatrical nature of the scenario.

He was pleased, so he continued. He shifted himself so his cock was exposed, he slowly stroked himself hard and he stepped closer. His cock head gently massaged between your folds and you mentally prepared for penetration but instead, he angled up at your other hole. You took a moment to realize what he was doing and you smirked, "Father Wagner...are you sure I'm the sinner?" You questioned playfully and wriggled your hips back.

"Hush," he said back quietly, his face blushed a bit before he got back in the mindset. "This is necessary for your sins. I unfortunately can't cleanse you through your womb, I must use the other hole you have..." he whispered, his spongy, blushed head pressed against the ring of muscle gently, prodding you lightly and teasing you.

You couldn't help but bite your lip, "Oh, are you sure I cannot pay for my sins with my pussy?" You asked with a gentle strain, turning to look back at him and blinking with feigned innocence. "Or have I been so naughty that my sweet cunt isn't worth my sins?"

Kurt grinned at your playful words, though caught a little off guard by the vulgarity, he was still enjoying the banter between you and he continued to prod your ass. "Oh, my dear, your sins are far too great for just one part of you to pay...I'm afraid only this hole will do." His tail curled behind him and handed him a small toy, he reached between your legs and teased your throbbing clit before he dragged it through your wet folds and pushed it inside your pussy. "Can't have temptation now can we?"

The surprising action from him made you let out a desperate whine, you could feel your pretty bundle of nerves throbbing at the light touch he had given you. "Only my ass, there isn't any other way?" You questioned, playing along with the direction the scene was going.

He leaned over you, kissing between your shoulder blades gently and he leaned close to speak in your ear. "Now then...let's see if we can't absolve some of these sins of yours." he whispered teasingly, spreading you a bit more before sliding into your ass slowly. The sudden intrusion into your ass made you stiffen in surprise. It was uncomfortable at first, the muscles not used to being stretched out.

The sensation was intense, causing you to inhale sharply as he eased in just past the tip. Immediately, he halted his movements, his eyes fixed intently on your face to gauge your reaction. Your comfort and well-being were important to him, regardless of the intimate act you were engaged in. He had no desire to inflict any discomfort upon you. "Are you alright?" he inquired in a gentle, concerned tone, his body completely motionless as he awaited your response.

"I just..." you exhaled slowly, trying to steady your breathing, "Need a moment to adjust..." you managed to say, your voice slightly strained. The initial discomfort was challenging, even with the careful preparation he had undertaken beforehand. His hands moved to your hips, gently caressing them in soothing, circular motions, but the rest of his body remained perfectly still, allowing you the time you needed.

Several minutes passed as you gradually acclimated to the new sensation. When you felt ready, you cautiously shifted your hips backward, assisting him in entering further. "Mmm...it's better now...f-feels good," you murmured, your voice a mixture of relief and growing pleasure.

"Gut...I will purify you, my child, do not fear," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He began to move his hips steadily, a rhythmic motion that gradually increased in intensity. Slowly, deliberately, he rocked into you, his thrusts careful and measured until he was fully seated within you. Kurt's arms encircled you, holding you close against his body, the warmth of his embrace felt good against the cool bedroom air.

The soft fabric of his robes swayed gently with each movement, creating a whisper of sound in the quiet room. "Ach....you are tight as a drum," he breathed, his words barely audible. He swallowed thickly, his body trembling with the effort of restraint, fighting against the overwhelming urge to lose himself in the moment.

You sighed deeply, your body responding to his movements with a shudder that ran from the base of your spine to the nape of your neck. Instinctively, you were rocking back against him, your bodies moving in perfect synchronization. "I can feel it working," you panted, your voice breathy. "I feel it, getting better...aah...the sins are leaving me…" Your words trailed off into a soft moan.

"They will fade, just let me cleanse you..." Kurt hissed against your skin, his hips thrusting faster against you as he focused on pumping himself in and out at a good pace. His cock stretched you so good, your previously unused hole now burning with hot desire, squeezing every ounce of him into your cavern.

"Kurt, oh my god...keep going," you moaned loudly, feeling every single bit of his dick deep inside you. Every vein against the muscle of your ass, the curve of that soft tip and the thickness pushing its way in and out with each piston of his hips. It felt so damn good, you were molding to him.

"I...am almost there, liebling..." Kurt rasped, his tail wrapped around your thigh tightly as he focused his thrusts. His endurance was impressive as hell, and he was determined to continue the pace he set without faltering.

The spade of his tail slithered over your clit and rubbed over it, gently teasing the bud enough for you to react and moan. His hands moved from your hips and ran under you to feel your chest. He was practically laying on you now, his hips not stuttering for a second.

You felt your climax approach and wash over you before you could warn him, and you let out a loud cry of pleasure as you came. Kurt's eyes widened, you tightened around him with your orgasm and his hips halted. He shot his climax deep into you, a guttural groan leaving his throat as he held you still.

Kurt gave a few more solid thrusts before he pulled out of your swollen hole, watching his cum drip out of your throbbing muscle. He felt such pride seeing you this way, but he knew you were extra sensitive now and the play was over after your respective climaxes. He reached and carefully removed the toy from your pussy, earning a soft whine from you.

"Ach...liebe...you will be the death of me..." He moved to unbind you, his fingers working methodically to remove each restraint one by one. As the bindings fell away, your limbs were finally free to relax from their confined position. Your muscles, having been held taut for so long, now felt completely boneless - like warm honey flowing through your veins. You rolled languidly onto your side and curled up into yourself, savoring the pure bliss that came with being able to bend and stretch your limbs again.

He settled beside you, shrugging off his robe before taking one of your arms into his hands as he began to massage the places where the restraints had been. His strong fingers working in slow, deliberate circles to encourage proper circulation. Each press of his fingertips was perfectly measured, firm enough to be therapeutic but gentle enough to soothe. He punctuated each rub with soft kisses, his lips trailing over the subtle marks left behind on your skin, trying to kiss away any lingering discomfort.

You were grateful for his gentle touch, melting into his embrace as he carefully tended to you. The warmth of his hands was soothing against your skin, and you couldn't help but sink deeper into the comfort he provided. You weren't hurt, but there was definitely a pleasant soreness settling into your muscles now. "That was...amazing," you breathed softly, your voice filled with contentment, "I mean...wow... I don't even know what to say..."

"You liked it?" Kurt asked, a gentle smile playing across his features as his hand splayed across your back, fingers working in slow, methodical circles to ease the tension around your hips.

"I didn't expect you to take the role so easily, or seriously..." You chuckled lightly, looking up at him from where you were comfortably nestled against his chest, your fingers idly tracing patterns on his skin. "But...it was fun. I mean, really fun. Did you enjoy it too? You didn't feel pressured into anything, right? I know it was kind of a weird request..."

"Of course not, liebe. I enjoyed it very much. Besides, seeing you so completely blissed out is one of my absolute favorite things to see...~" Kurt teased with a gentle smirk, his playful tone making you squirm as his tail lazily wrapped around your waist.

"Kurt..." You whined and quickly pulled the soft blanket nearby over your flushed body, burying your face against his chest, "We just finished! Don't get any ideas!"

"Okay, okay...no more play tonight. Just let Father Wagner take care of his precious little sinner now. You need your rest."

"Kurt!" You exclaimed, playfully swatting his arm despite the smile you couldn't quite hide. Regardless, you curled up as he continued to pamper you after the scene, his slow rubs and hums lulling you into a much needed nap.

Thanks for reading.

*BAMF*

dividers by @/adornedwithlight

Cover Image from unknown source. I searched for over an hour to find the source but wasn't able to find it. If you know please message me so I can update this.

[hikarry]

I...I think I just spent 13 hours processing my newest trauma through Aziraphale and ended up writing the most serious and fucking real break up scene between Aziraphale and Crowley I've ever even considered writing

I...Fucking hell

Just-

I sat here, tears in my eyes, and I chose them to help me procress and I just wrote the most real thing that ever came out of my lil fingertips

I will not throw this away. I will figure out a way to write a story around this scene alone, but I'm just going to leave it here for now. Cause, fuck.

It's still not refined, mind you. I just wrote this and felt like posting it here, so nevermind the mistakes and whatnot

Crowley awoke to sunlight spilling over him, casting a warm glow that he immediately tried to escape. He groaned, pulling the blankets over his head, desperate to keep the world out a little longer. But as he tugged the covers, he noticed a strange weight to them—not quite right, somehow softer, smelling faintly of old books and tea. The dissonance nagged at his half-dreaming mind, until the realization hit him, sharp and sudden.

This wasn’t his bed. This was Aziraphale’s.

Memories surged, each one a jolt to his drowsy senses. Aziraphale collapsing into his arms, Raphael’s sombre warning about the angel’s deteriorating core, the fear that it might devour him from within. Crowley recalled their painful conversation—Aziraphale pressing his pinky ring into his hand and giving him an ancient box, packed with letters, photographs and sketches. Each drawing was of Crowley—his eyes, his smile, his hands—captured in Aziraphale’s tender, attentive gaze. They were relics, moments preserved over centuries, a farewell gift for Crowley to remember him by if…

Then he remembered the new attack at night. Aziraphale’s body trembling, his essence struggling against itself, and Crowley, desperately holding him close, trying to soothe the angel through the worst of it, following Raphael’s advice as best he could.

Finally, exhausted, Aziraphale had drifted off, leaving Crowley to watch over him until sleep claimed him too.

Crowley reached across the bed, expecting the familiar warmth beside him, only to feel the cold emptiness of the sheets. Panic surged through him, flooding his senses and banishing any lingering sleep. His heart pounded as he sat up, scanning the room with wild, searching eyes.

“Aziraphale!” he called out, his voice hoarse, thick with fear. He pushed himself out of bed, stumbling, as he searched the flat in a frenzy.

He dashed down the stairs, heart racing with every step, calling Aziraphale’s name. His voice echoed through the stillness of the bookshop, each unanswered call intensifying his dread.

Then, he spotted him.

Aziraphale sat at his desk, removing his reading glasses with that calm, familiar gesture, looking up at Crowley with a mildly perplexed expression, as though yesterday’s horrors were nothing but a forgotten dream. He was impeccably dressed, the picture of serene composure, as if-.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft, achingly gentle, piercing through Crowley’s panic and grounding him in a way only the angel’s presence ever could.

Crowley freezes, his breath catching in his throat as a rush of disbelief floods through him, quickly followed by an overwhelming tide of relief that he barely knows how to process. His heart is a frantic drumbeat in his chest, each thud like a battering ram against his ribs. The word escapes him in a choked whisper, almost too quiet to hear. “Aziraphale…” His name sounds foreign on his lips, trembling, as if he’s afraid speaking it too loudly might shatter this fragile moment. Without thinking, he takes a step, then another, his feet moving quicker than his mind can catch up.

Aziraphale watches him, his expression a study in calm, but there’s a subtle sorrow hidden behind those soft eyes. He sets his book aside with deliberate slowness, as if aware of the weight of the moment, as if he understands how badly Crowley needs him to be real, to *be here.* When Crowley reaches him, he stops, every inch of his body tense, his eyes scanning Aziraphale’s face like a desperate search for any crack, any fracture, anything that would suggest the angel is not whole. He’s afraid to blink, afraid that when his eyes open again, Aziraphale might disappear.

“I-I thought…” Crowley starts, the words stumbling from his lips, each syllable trembling as if the very act of speaking could unravel everything. His breath is shallow, the air thick with an almost suffocating fear. His chest is tight, constricted, and his heart thunders in his ears as he struggles to form a thought that makes any sense at all. But the fear that clings to him like a shadow has no words, no logic. All that remains is this raw, pulsing panic, the lingering horror of something worse just out of reach.

Aziraphale’s eyes soften, a glimmer of understanding passing through them. He steps closer, slowly, deliberately, as if every movement is meant to reassure, to calm. His hands rise, gentle, placing themselves on Crowley’s shoulders with a touch that feels both familiar and distant. It’s cold. The coolness of Aziraphale’s fingers seeps into Crowley’s skin, a stark contrast to the warmth he craves, and something inside him snaps. He’s here, yes, but there’s something wrong. Something’s missing.

“Forgive me, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice gentle but carrying a depth of sorrow, as though he, too, feels the weight of the unspoken words between them. “I woke hours ago and couldn’t bear to disturb your rest.” His hand moves up, his fingers brushing a lock of Crowley’s hair away from his forehead with such tenderness that it almost aches. But the coldness of that touch, too, is an unforgivable reminder of the fragility of this moment, of how close they came to losing everything. Yesterday lingers between them, a tangible thing, and Crowley can almost taste the terror that still clings to the edges of his mind.

Crowley’s breath shudders in his chest, his hands moving on their own to grab Aziraphale’s wrists, the action almost frantic, his fingers trembling with an urgency he can’t control. He holds on as if the simple act of touch can anchor him to this reality, to the feeling of Aziraphale being alive, being here. “You… you scared me, angel,” Crowley breathes, his voice hoarse, cracking under the weight of the emotions he’s barely able to express. “I thought…” He falters, unable to finish the sentence, unable to voice the horror that still simmers in the pit of his stomach. His pulse races, but the relief he should be feeling is tangled with something darker, something deeper that refuses to let go.

Aziraphaletakes hold of Crowley’s hands, his fingers cold, trembling—just as they were yesterday. The coldness isn’t just the absence of warmth, it’s something else, something more. A coldness that seeps into Crowley’s bones, that gnaws at his soul. The tremors in Aziraphale’s touch are like a faint echo of the nightmare they just survived, a reminder that whatever they’ve survived—whatever they’ve won—isn’t over. Not yet.

“Take a deep breath, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice low and soothing, yet edged with something brittle, something that tells Crowley this calm is fragile, as if one wrong move could shatter it. Aziraphale’s thumb traces circles on Crowley’s knuckles, slow, deliberate, trying to steady him. But the touch is faint, delicate, like the fluttering wings of a moth in the dark, and Crowley feels the tremors of Aziraphale’s fingers under his own, an unmistakable sign that the danger still looms over them. The same cold fear claws at Crowley’s insides, pulling him down into a place he doesn’t want to go, a place where he can’t save Aziraphale, can’t stop whatever is coming.

Crowley inhales sharply, the breath caught in his chest, but it does little to calm the panic roiling inside him. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hands harder, his knuckles white with the effort, trying to hold on to something, anything, that might give him control over this suffocating fear. “How can you stay so calm?” His voice cracks, thick with emotion, the words escaping like a ragged plea. “How can you act like nothing’s wrong when you…” He can’t finish the sentence. It’s too much. The thought hangs in the air, suffocating him, a silent terror too vast to voice.

Aziraphale’s lips form a smile—gentle, almost pitying—but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a smile that feels like a lie. He lifts Crowley’s hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to it with the same chilling coldness that’s invaded every inch of their world. The touch is wrong. So wrong. Crowley feels it deep in his bones, the absence of warmth, the emptiness where something vital should be. Aziraphale’s warmth has always been his anchor, but now it feels like a lie, like something pretending to be real.

Aziraphale pulls back slightly, his gaze meeting Crowley’s with an intensity that sends a shiver down his spine. “We said what we had to say yesterday, remember?” he whispers, his voice soft, but the words heavy with unspoken truths. “It’s done, my dear.” He kisses Crowley’s hand again, the coldness like a knife to Crowley’s heart. “Now we just have to keep going and see what happens.”

Crowley feels his heart twist at the words. Keep going? The question hangs between them like a stone. How could he go on, knowing that at any moment, the coldness might take over, that Aziraphale’s life might slip away, like sand through his fingers? How could he keep living in a world where any breath might be the last?

“Keep going?” Crowley repeats, his voice raw with emotion. “You want me to just go on, knowing I could lose you at any second? That any moment might be your last?” His hands tighten around Aziraphale’s, his fingers pressing into the cold skin, trying to hold on, trying to do something—anything—that might stop the inevitable.

Aziraphale gazes at him, soft and steady, though Crowley sees the weariness in his eyes, the fragility beneath the calm. “I’m here now, Crowley,” he whispers, his voice carrying a quiet, almost tragic certainty. “I’m still here.”

“But for how long?” Crowley’s voice cracks, the words slipping from him like sand through a sieve. He can’t stop the tremor in his voice, the panic that tightens around his chest. “How much longer before…” He can’t finish, his breath catching in his throat, his chest constricting under the weight of the unspoken. His grip on Aziraphale’s hands tightens, desperate, as though holding on tighter could keep the inevitable at bay.

“Remember what I told you yesterday,” Aziraphale says softly, his voice imbued with a quiet strength that Crowley can’t quite reconcile with the coldness in his touch. His eyes are gentle, but there’s a firm resolve there, the kind of determination that makes Crowley feel both comforted and frustrated. “Let’s make the most of the time we have left. Worrying won’t change anything right now.” His words are like a balm, meant to soothe, but they sting, too, because Crowley knows the truth buried in them—their time is slipping away, and there’s nothing either of them can do to stop it.

With a fluid motion, Aziraphale gives Crowley’s hand a tug, a silent invitation to follow, and Crowley moves almost automatically, his feet dragging slightly as though his body’s trying to delay the inevitable. Aziraphale leads him into the kitchen, the familiar hum of the backroom falling away as the warm, homely space embraces them in its quiet comfort. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, but it does little to erase the heavy, anxious weight that still clings to Crowley’s chest.

“Come now. Sit down. Just breathe, okay?” Aziraphale’s voice is still calm, still that gentle pull to something more grounded, more present. It’s almost maddening—the way he seems to accept everything with such grace, such peace when all Crowley can think of is the clock ticking away, each second closer to the end. Aziraphale releases his hand, and Crowley’s eyes linger on his retreating form as the angel moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, opening cupboards and retrieving mugs as if this is just another morning as if the world isn’t crumbling in slow motion around them.

“Coffee?” Aziraphale asks, his back turned as he busies himself with the preparations.

Crowley nods, but the action feels hollow, the sound of it a thin echo in the stillness. He can’t tear his eyes away from Aziraphale, the fluidity of his movements unsettling in its normalcy. It’s so strange, so disorienting, to see the angel functioning as though nothing is wrong when everything feels so terribly, undeniably wrong. The sense of detachment gnaws at him—like he’s floating, disconnected, watching this moment unfold from a distance.

“I can’t just…” Crowley’s voice breaks the silence, raw and jagged. His words feel like they’re being pulled from somewhere deep inside, something ugly and vulnerable. “Sit here and enjoy our time together, knowing…” His throat tightens, the words strangled with an emotion that refuses to settle. “Knowing that every moment could be our last.”

The words hang in the air between them, thick with fear and pain, but Aziraphale doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t turn away. Instead, he finishes making the coffee with the same unhurried precision, then carries the steaming cup over to Crowley, setting it gently in front of him. The warmth of the cup contrasts sharply with the chill that still lingers in Crowley’s veins, the tension that hasn’t yet loosened its grip.

Aziraphale pulls out a chair and sits down beside him, the movement smooth, almost comforting. For a moment, they’re both silent, the weight of everything unspoken pressing on them like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Then Aziraphale speaks again, his voice soft but unshakable. “The more you focus on that fear, the less you’ll appreciate the time we have.”

His words cut through the silence, and they settle into Crowley’s mind like stones dropped into water, sending ripples through the chaos in his chest. It’s not what Crowley wants to hear—not at all—but there’s something about the way Aziraphale says it, with that same quiet conviction that has always grounded Crowley in a way he’s not sure he understands, that makes him stop and think.

Crowley looks down at the cup in front of him, the steam rising in delicate tendrils, and for a moment, he allows himself to inhale deeply, the rich scent of the coffee filling his lungs, pulling him away from the frantic, spiraling thoughts. The world feels still, as if time has bent around them, waiting, uncertain. But no matter how much he tries to center himself in the present, the fear lingers, clawing at the edges of his mind. Every moment could be their last.

“You don’t understand,” Crowley mutters, the words barely above a whisper. He takes a sip of the coffee, the bitter warmth hitting his tongue like a small comfort, a brief distraction. But it doesn’t change the heaviness in his chest, the pit of dread that refuses to let go. “I can’t just forget about it. I can’t just…” He trails off, his voice faltering, before adding, softer, “I can’t lose you.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything at first, his eyes searching Crowley’s face, reading the depth of the fear that lingers there. His fingers move to rest lightly on Crowley’s hand, the touch tender but insistent. There’s a stillness in him that Crowley can’t quite understand, a quiet acceptance that doesn’t sit right with the storm of panic inside him.

“Then don’t,” Aziraphale finally says, his voice low, a thread of sadness woven through his words. “Don’t lose me. Not yet. Not here.”

Crowley wraps his hands around the cup, the warmth of it almost mocking as his fingers tremble around the edges. The heat is a stark contrast to the chill gnawing at his insides, and he presses it to his lips, taking a sip without truly tasting it. The burn on his tongue barely registers—his mind is too consumed with the weight of everything else to care about something so trivial.

As he lowers the cup, his eyes find Aziraphale, and in that moment, the frustration he's been holding back finally boils over. He doesn’t even try to hide the sharpness in his voice, the edge that has been growing with each passing second. “You can’t just expect me not to worry,” he spits out, his chest tightening with the sting of helplessness. “You can’t be so… accepting of your own fucking death. It’s… it’s not fair.”

Aziraphale doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away from the heat in Crowley’s words. Instead, he places his hand on Crowley’s forearm, the coolness of his touch seeping through the fabric of his shirt, sharp and unmistakable. The contrast of it hits Crowley like a punch to the gut, a reminder that nothing is normal, nothing is safe. The weight of Aziraphale’s touch is gentle, but there’s a certain finality to it that makes Crowley want to recoil.

“What else can I do?” Aziraphale murmurs softly, his voice as calm and steady as ever, almost too calm. His thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles on Crowley’s arm, as though the gesture alone can somehow fix everything. “I’d rather focus on living—on cherishing you while I still can, reading the books I still can read—than worry over what may or may not come.”

The words fall over Crowley like cold water, and for a moment, they don’t make sense. He watches Aziraphale, still not entirely grasping the serene acceptance that emanates from him, the angel so resigned to a fate Crowley can’t even begin to wrap his mind around. He wants to scream, to shake Aziraphale, to make him see reason, to make him *fight*. But the words that come out instead are hoarse and raw, brittle with frustration. “You could… try. You could look for some way to fix this, to—”

He falters, the rest of the sentence dying on his tongue. The weight of Aziraphale’s cold hand on his arm pulls him under, like sinking into the deepest part of the ocean. He can barely breathe as he looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him, and for the first time in a long while, something like doubt, something sharp and ugly, pricks at his heart.

Aziraphale’s expression is unreadable as he stares back, that familiar calm still settling around him, but Crowley can see it now—the faintest tremor in the angel’s eyes, a flicker of something deeper, something resigned. It’s that same quiet acceptance, but now it feels different. It feels like… giving up.

Crowley feels his chest tighten with something dark and unbearable. His breath catches in his throat. “But you’ve already… given up, haven’t you?” His voice cracks on the words, the realization settling on him like a weight he’s been carrying for far too long. He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows it now, deep in his bones. He knows that Aziraphale isn’t fighting anymore. And that thought, that cruel truth, makes his stomach churn with helplessness.

Aziraphale doesn’t look away. His hand lingers on Crowley’s arm, but it’s colder than it should be, colder than Crowley remembers. “No,” Aziraphale says softly, his voice steady despite the weight of Crowley’s words. “I haven’t given up. I’ve simply chosen to live as fully as I can for however long I have left.” His gaze doesn’t waver, and Crowley feels the weight of that look, like the angel is daring him to understand, to accept it. But all Crowley can think about is the absence of hope in those eyes, the stillness that has settled in Aziraphale’s soul. It cuts deeper than anything he could say. Aziraphale shakes his head slowly, almost as though trying to rid himself of the weight of Crowley’s words. His voice is softer this time, but the strength in it is undeniable. “I haven’t given up, Crowley. I’m still waiting for the right moment to meet with Raphael—to finally get concrete answers about what's happening to my core, my True Form…” He takes a slow, steadying breath, as if gathering every last bit of strength. His grip on Crowley’s forearm tightens ever so slightly, a silent anchor. “But… the risk of it all… It’s real. I can’t just live my life in fear.”

The words hit Crowley like a stone sinking in his gut. His chest tightens painfully, the breath in his lungs becoming thick, difficult. He sets his mug down with a soft clink, the sound somehow more jarring than it should be. The porcelain seems too delicate in his hands, too fragile for the weight of what Aziraphale is saying. “So, we’re just… waiting?” he asks, his voice rough. “Waiting for this thing inside you to slowly eat away at you until… until everything is completely gone?”

He reaches out for Aziraphale’s hand, his fingers trembling, but he grips it firmly, unwilling to let go. His touch is desperate, as though holding on to this one moment, this one piece of Aziraphale, might somehow stop the inevitable.

Aziraphale’s hand trembles beneath his grip, and the sight of it breaks something in Crowley. He swallows hard, forcing down the bitterness rising in his throat. “We wait… until Raphael can get me to Heaven and do a thorough examination,” Aziraphale says quietly, the words almost a whisper, as though speaking them aloud makes them too real to bear.

Crowley’s knuckles whiten with the intensity of his grip, his breath coming in shallow bursts. “And if he finds there’s no cure?” he forces out, his voice cracking as he dares to ask the question he’s been too terrified to face. “If he tells you that your core is… is set on destroying you?”

Aziraphale meets his gaze without flinching, the sorrow in his eyes as clear as the day itself. “Then… we’ll have to accept it.” His voice is steady, but Crowley can hear the hesitation, the barely contained fear beneath it. He leans in closer, his forehead almost touching Crowley’s. “That’s why we need to cherish this time we have now, Crowley.”

But the words only make Crowley’s chest tighten even more, as though an invisible weight is pressing down on him, squeezing the air out of his lungs. “You say that like it’s easy,” he rasps, his voice breaking with the rawness of his emotions. “Like I can just… sit here and enjoy each second, knowing it might be your last. That… that at any moment you could be gone.”

Aziraphale raises his cold hand, gently cupping Crowley’s chin, his fingers sending an icy shock through him. The touch is tender, almost too tender, and yet it leaves Crowley feeling more alone than ever. “If it comes to that, you’ll regret not making the most of the time we had,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice soft but filled with a quiet urgency, as though he’s begging Crowley to understand.

Crowley’s heart aches at the angel’s words, the raw pain in his chest spreading like wildfire. He stares into Aziraphale’s eyes, searching for the warmth he’s always known, but all he can see is that cold acceptance. The thought of losing him is like a jagged knife twisting in his soul. His voice is hoarse as he finally speaks, his words trembling with emotion. “Enjoy what, angel?” he whispers. “Living each moment terrified it might be the last? Knowing you could… disappear, just… just like that?”

His voice catches, and he swallows hard, fighting to keep himself together. The ache in his chest is unbearable, and yet it pales in comparison to the crushing fear that threatens to swallow him whole.

Aziraphale brushes his cool thumb over Crowley’s lower lip, the touch soft, almost tender, but it feels like a cruel reminder of everything they stand to lose. “That’s why you have to push those fears aside. Live in the moment.” He gives Crowley a sad smile, his gaze searching the demon’s face as though trying to piece together a way to make him understand. “I’m here right now. I don’t want you looking at me and already seeing a memory… while I’m still right here.”

Crowley’s heart aches at those words, a heavy, suffocating ache that feels like it might split him open. He closes his eyes, a fresh wave of tears threatening to break free, but he keeps them at bay. The thought of Aziraphale slipping away, of losing him before he’s even had the chance to truly *live* with him, is more than Crowley can bear.

“How am I supposed to do that, angel?” he whispers, his voice cracking with the weight of it all. “How can I just act like everything’s normal when I know it’s… it’s not?”

Aziraphale leans in, his lips pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, and then another, gentle and lingering, on his cheek. The kiss is cold—so painfully cold— the warmth of Aziraphale’s breath against his skin is the only warmth left in him. “Why?” Aziraphale asks softly, his voice almost a plea. “Why do you look at me here, right next to you, and already think I’m gone?”

Crowley’s eyes remain closed, but a fresh wave of emotion surges up from deep within him, breaking free in a burst of frustration. “Because I’m terrified!” he snaps, his voice a harsh rasp. “Because the thought of losing you… it’s unbearable. And I feel so… so helpless, knowing I can’t stop it.”

The words come crashing out of him, raw and unfiltered, and as soon as they’re spoken, he feels them settle in the air between them like a weight neither of them can escape. Aziraphale doesn’t pull away, doesn’t recoil from the outburst. Instead, he just stays there, his cool hand still cradling Crowley’s cheek, as though trying to hold him together even when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

Crowley opens his eyes, and the sight of Aziraphale, with his eyes wide and sad, feels like a cold slap. There’s anguish in his gaze, a raw, unrestrained dread clinging to every feature. His heart aches, and his words catch in his throat, the simple act of breathing becoming a struggle. “Seeing you like this—feeling how cold you are…” he begins, his voice shaking. He swallows hard, and when he speaks again, the words come out in a ragged whisper. “It’s like you’re already slipping away from me.”

Aziraphale steps back just slightly, and with the gentleness that only he can muster, he reaches up and wipes away Crowley’s tears with his cold fingertips, the chill of his touch cutting through the rawness of the moment. His eyes are tender but laced with sorrow. “You’re grieving me before I’m even gone, Crowley,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, almost too soft. “This is why I didn’t want you to know.”

The weight of Aziraphale’s words presses down on Crowley, settling deep into his chest like lead. His throat tightens, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak. Aziraphale’s voice drops to a whisper, laced with something deeper, a sadness that feels almost like resignation. “You’re looking at me, but you’re not really seeing me anymore, are you? In your mind, I’m already dead, aren't I?”

Crowley feels a sharp ache slice through him, a twisting pain that threatens to overwhelm him. He tries to form words, tries to push through the suffocating knot in his chest, but they come out cracked and broken. “I see you, angel. I do.” His voice falters, and his eyes begin to burn. “But I can’t forget that you’re… that you’re not well. That you’re not…” He trails off, his voice a mere breath, as if he’s afraid to even say the words.

He looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him—searching, searching through every inch of that familiar face, the one he’s known for over six thousand years. But now, those features seem different. Fragile. Temporary. Like they could vanish in a blink. Like they’ve never been more precious, and yet so delicate.

Aziraphale gently runs his fingers down Crowley’s jawline, as if touching him like he would one of his most treasured books—careful, reverential, and full of a quiet, unspoken sadness. “I may be the one who’s sick,” Aziraphale says softly, his thumb brushing over Crowley’s skin, “but you’re the one leaving me before I’m even gone.”

Crowley’s heart gives a painful lurch, the air catching in his chest. He fights to breathe, but it feels like there’s too much weight pressing on his lungs, too much hurt lodged in his ribs. “I can’t help it, all right?” he spits out, his voice cracking like shattered glass. He grips Aziraphale’s wrists, holding on like a lifeline, the coldness of the angel’s skin sinking deep into him, grounding him in the unbearable reality of it all. “Every time I look at you, it feels like I’m standing at the edge of an abyss, just waiting to fall.”

Aziraphale’s gaze drops to where Crowley’s hands are clenched around his wrists, his breathing shaky now, like he’s caught between something painful and something beyond his control. “Crowley…” His voice is hesitant, breaking in places, though his words are measured. “You can’t go on like this.” He pulls back, just enough that the space between them feels unbearably large. “You’re torturing yourself by staying with me. Every time you look at me, all you see is what’s coming—and that’s going to destroy you too. I won’t let you do that to yourself.”

Crowley’s chest tightens painfully as Aziraphale carefully, deliberately pulls his wrists free from his grasp. The loss of that contact—the absence of the only thing that’s felt real in this moment—almost knocks the air from him. Aziraphale takes another step back, and the space between them seems to stretch, pulling Crowley’s heart with it.

“You should go.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, but there’s no mistaking the finality in it. The words strike Crowley like a blow, the weight of them enough to shatter him entirely. Every instinct in him screams to hold on, to keep fighting, to do whatever it takes to stop this. But Aziraphale’s eyes—those kind, eternal eyes—hold his gaze, and for the first time in forever, Crowley isn’t sure whether he’s staring at the angel he’s loved for millennia, or the ghost of the man he’s losing.

Crowley stands frozen, his mind struggling to make sense of the situation, his heart beating erratically in his chest. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, can’t comprehend the words that just came out of Aziraphale’s mouth. The ground beneath him feels like it’s slipping away, pulling him into a void he doesn’t know how to escape from. His voice trembles as he whispers, barely managing to get the words out. “What..? You… you’re telling me to leave?”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to face him, but Crowley can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a thousand-pound stone. He swallows hard, his throat dry. “You can’t be serious. You’re asking me to leave you now, when you’re… when you’re like this?”

The silence between them is deafening, broken only by the sound of Aziraphale’s slow, measured breaths. Finally, Aziraphale stands, his posture stiff and fragile, as though each movement is costing him something precious. His heart is pounding in his chest, every beat a reminder of the pain he’s trying to keep buried. The sound of it echoes in Crowley’s mind like a ticking clock. He can see the anguish in Aziraphale’s eyes even without looking directly at him. “I can’t watch you tear yourself apart like this, Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly, his voice a little too controlled, too careful. “I can’t keep looking into your eyes and seeing you staring past me, into a future that hasn’t even happened yet.”

He walks toward the sink, taking Crowley’s empty mug and placing it with mechanical precision in the basin, as though it’s the only thing he has control over right now. “Go.”

Crowley stumbles, his body aching as he tries to steady himself, his legs weak, unsteady. He feels as though the floor is slipping out from beneath him. “No,” he says, his voice rough, desperate, and it cracks at the end like a dying breath. “No, angel. You can’t… you can’t tell me to leave. I can’t just walk away, knowing you might…”

His voice trails off, his chest tight with fear, with a dread that he can’t push away. “I won’t leave you, angel. I can’t.”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to him. His voice comes cold and distant, like an echo from a faraway place. “Why?” he asks, his eyes never leaving the sink, his voice as measured and distant as a thought long past. “Is it because you love me, or because you’re feeling guilty?”

Crowley feels the words hit him like a slap, the coldness of them sinking deep into his skin. His heart clenches painfully at the accusation, at the ice in Aziraphale’s tone.

“Both,” he admits, his voice cracking, rough with the weight of the truth. “Of course, both. I love you. I’m in love with you, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” He takes a step forward, though the space between them feels impossibly wide, like a chasm he could never cross. “Sitting here, absolutely powerless, is driving me fucking insane, Aziraphale.”

But Aziraphale doesn’t move. He remains still, picking up a dish towel and methodically drying the mug as if the act of cleaning is the only thing keeping him grounded. His voice, when it comes, is soft but unyielding. “Leave.” He dries the mug with a slow, deliberate motion. “If you truly love me, come back when you can look at me without seeing my True Form being destroyed. Come back when you can see me.”

Aziraphale turns then, his face streaked with tears, and Crowley’s chest constricts painfully at the sight. “The angel who’s still here,” Aziraphale says, his voice catching. “Not just an empty shell.”

Before Crowley can say a word, Aziraphale turns again, his movements precise, almost mechanical as he places the mug back in the cupboard. “But if you realize your reason for coming back is just fear and guilt—not love—then don’t return.” His voice remains steady, but there’s a subtle break, like a crack in glass, that Crowley can barely hear. Still, Aziraphale doesn’t look at him. He closes the cupboard door with a soft click, and the sound echoes in the stillness of the room.

Crowley stands there, his heart a tangled mess of emotions, his chest tight, suffocating. He wants to argue, to fight, to deny everything Aziraphale just said. He wants to scream, to tell him that this isn’t right, that he can’t leave him like this. But deep down, he knows Aziraphale is right—his love, tangled as it is with fear and guilt, isn’t enough to change the inevitable. He isn’t strong enough to fix what’s broken.

Aziraphale brushes past him then, moving toward the hall. For a brief moment, Crowley catches sight of the tears streaming down Aziraphale’s face, streaking down his cheeks, disappearing into the collar of his coat. The sight of it sends a knife of pain through Crowley’s chest. He wants to reach out, to pull Aziraphale close, to tell him that none of this is fair—that he can’t lose him—but his limbs feel as if they’re weighed down with lead. His heart is an anchor, pulling him deeper into the darkness of helplessness.

Aziraphale’s figure is distant, slipping away, and Crowley feels that cold void widening between them. And in that moment, despite every instinct screaming at him to reach out, to fight for them, he feels the weight of a loss that hasn’t even happened yet.

Crowley stands frozen in the middle of the kitchen, the weight of Aziraphale’s departure pressing down on him. He watches the angel’s retreating figure, each step a reminder of the growing chasm between them, an abyss he feels powerless to cross. The silence in the room is deafening, and every breath Crowley takes seems to echo louder in the emptiness

A faint metallic sound slices through the quiet, drawing Crowley’s attention downward. His eyes fall on the Bentley’s keys, lying innocently on the kitchen table. Aziraphale must have miracled them there—another sign of the angel’s quiet control, even in the midst of his own heartache. The keys glint in the dim light, a small, seemingly insignificant object that suddenly feels like everything.

Crowley feels a wave of emotions crash over him, each one more overwhelming than the last: a searing anger, raw and unjust, directed at Aziraphale for pushing him away; a deep confusion, questioning everything that’s brought them to this point; a heart-wrenching hurt, knowing that Aziraphale is slipping away, piece by piece; and a sorrow so profound, it makes the air feel thicker, harder to breathe. But there’s one feeling that cuts through it all—a deep, hollow acceptance. He knows this is the way it ends. He knows he can’t stop it, no matter how much he wants to.

He picks up the keys, clutching them tightly in his hand, feeling their cool weight anchor him to the present. Without a second thought, he snaps his fingers, summoning the pair of shades from Aziraphale’s nightstand. He places them on his face, the familiar, dark lenses a mask he can hide behind. The world outside the shop suddenly feels sharper, colder, and yet somehow farther away. The door swings open with a heavy, final sound, and he steps outside into the crisp November air.

The cold cuts through him, biting at his skin, but he doesn’t feel it. He’s numb, each step feeling like it’s dragging him through quicksand. His mind is consumed with Aziraphale—his face, his words, the unspoken pain that lingers between them. But the more he thinks about it, the more it all becomes a blur. His mind is spinning, trapped in a vortex of grief and helplessness.

When he reaches the Bentley, his hands shake as he fumbles with the keys, his fingers betraying him, too unsteady to get the door open. He grits his teeth, frustration rising in him like a storm, but finally, the door clicks open. He slides into the driver’s seat, the familiar leather creaking under him, and the cold touch of the steering wheel does nothing to ground him. His fingers wrap around it, gripping it too tightly, as though trying to hold onto something that’s slipping through his fingers.

The engine rumbles to life, a low growl beneath him, but it feels distant, hollow. He pulls away from the curb, his foot heavy on the gas. The city stretches out before him, its lights blurring in the rearview mirror, but everything feels like a dream—too surreal to grasp, too far away to hold onto.

Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Crowley willingly lets them fall, his vision a mess of blurry streetlights and the endless dark of the road ahead. The tears come in waves—familiar, aching, unstoppable. There’s no destination. No plan. No reason for driving, except to escape the suffocating weight of what’s left unsaid, of what’s been broken beyond repair.

The city blurs past him, its sounds muffled and distant, as he drives aimlessly through the night, trying, and failing, to outrun the heavy, suffocating grief pressing down on him.

[afyrian]

my fingers for you sugawara koshi x gn!reader (fluff) m.list | wc: 1k | synopsis: you wrap presents together

    the windows reveal just how late it's gotten, your porch lights shining through into the dining room. the light amber color illuminates the presents sitting beside you. their boxes stacked high as you stare at the assortment of wrapping paper, unable to get started. pursing your lips, you finally grab a tan wrapping paper, a white plaid overlay giving it a nostalgic look.

  grabbing one of sugawara's present, a set of handmade mugs that are covered in paintings of different office supplies, you set the box on top of the wrapping paper. measuring it out, you grab a nearby pair of scissors and start the process. you let it drag across the roll until you reach the end and the piece is successfully on its own. 

  picking off a piece of tape with your finger and thumb, you tape down both sides of the box. taking in deep breath, you take another drink of coffee, trying to keep yourself awake. "hun, you coming to bed soon?" sugawara calls from the staircase, leaning against the railing with a hand rubbing his eyes.

  "not yet, just trying to wrap these presents since we've been so busy," you look back towards him, maneuvering the box so he can't see the store's name on the box. 

  he raises his eyebrows, pursing his lips. the two of you typically hate heading to bed alone, unable to sleep without the other by their side. walking down the rest of the stairs, he sits down beside you, crossing his legs in front of him while resting his hand on your thigh. pressing his forehead on your shoulder, he closes his eyes, "who's present are we wrapping now?"

  "well, i'm wrapping your present right now," you smile, folding down the sides and bring up a triangle of the paper to tape against the side of the box. 

  lifting his head, he looks towards the box, narrowing his eyes. "really?" sugawara peers towards the present, smiling maliciously as you turn the last unwrapped side away from him.

  there's a look in his eyes that makes you want to show him the present in that moment. that he could ask you for anything in the dead of night and you'd find a way to make it work. bringing your thumb up to your mouth, you bite at your nail, trying to hide your sleep-deprived smile. "give me that look again and you'll ruin the surprise," you turn back to the gift, quickly finishing the last side so that the glint in his eyes can't stop you.

  sugawara looks back to you, making sure you can see the gentle smile twitching on his lips. bringing his hands up to your cheeks, he gives you a short kiss, letting his thumbs rest upon your cheekbones. sighing into your lips, he leans back, "alright, i’ll stop now. care to show me which present is next?" 

  pointing to the top of the pile, you spot your brother’s present, a new science educational book that he’d been looking forward to. sugawara picks it up, not expecting the weight that comes with the book. “be careful, it feels like it’ll rip the wrapping paper,” he whispers, handing it off to you.

  “i have wrapped heavier gifts, so let the expert finish their craft,” you smile towards him, whispering as well, acting like you have some reason to be doing so.

  setting it down onto the wrapping paper, you start folding the sides up and over, pulling slightly under the weight. and almost like sugawara had the power of foresight, you can hear the sound of a clean rip. upon hearing that annoying noise, you can feel sugawara’s eyes on you. staring at the ground, you smile. “you have to look at me eventually, oh expert of wrapping paper.”

  “no i don’t,” you shrug your shoulders, biting your lip, “i can just tie a ribbon around the not-rip.”

  he brings his hands back up to your cheeks, tilting your head back to him. closing your eyes, you start to laugh under his touch, knowing that he’s waiting patiently for you to finally look at him. conceding, your eyes open up to look at him while biting your upper lip to stop any further laughter, “told you so.”

  “did you koshi? i don’t even remember talking about it…” you shake your head under his hands, nose crinkling as he rolls his eyes. 

  sugawara lowers his hands and motions back to the wrapping paper, watching as you fold it back up with as much love as you did with the last. he’s always enjoyed watching you wrap presents. watching your hands work their best to create a beautifully crafted gift, it’s always brought a smile to his face. 

  looking back to him, hand picking up a longer ribbon, your eyes staying on his. “would you mind?” you question, wrapping it around the underside of the box.

  “my fingers are always here for you,” sugawara looks back towards you, resting his finger on where the ribbon intersects, crossing so you can create a little bow.

  tying a small bow into the ribbon, he removes his finger. moving his hand to the small of your back, his eyes stay on your face as you curl the ends of the bow strings. a smile curls into his lips, gaze unable to break from the soft light that bounces off of your face. not even the unbreakable stare you have and your tongue sticking out of your mouth in concentration can defer his love.

  “thank you, koshi, you’re making this process much more enjoyable.”

  “anything for you darling,” he leans forward, kissing your cheek before grabbing the next present for you. it’s one that’s in a mysterious cardboard box, immediately intriguing sugawara and his sticky fingers.

  pulling away at the side, you catch his suspicious behavior, grabbing the box from his hands. “that’s your other present, so leave it alone or i’m returning it,” you set it down on a new wrapping paper roll, the red and green trees making a beautiful mix, “and don’t you dare try to look at me with those gorgeous eyes again.”

gen. taglist (open): @eggyrocks @causenessus @applepi25 @softpia @bakery-anon

@nekozaki @nnnyxie @kameyyy @nectardaddy (i had to tag you)

[authenticbunni]

My highlights from “Power of the subconscious mind”

These highlights are from a book made in 1963 By Joseph Murphy, Who taught this around the us, and has given regular people that had little idea about it result of their manifestations, if this gets enough notes then I’ll make another part with the success stories from the book. The words in green are my own, for you to further understand or Apply it to modern day manifestation

Never use the terms, "I can't afford it" or "I can't do this." Your subconscious mind takes you at your word and sees to it that you do not have the money or the ability to do what you want to do. Affirm, "I can do all things through the power of my subconscious mind."

Still the wheels of your mind, relax, let go, and quietly affirm: "My subconscious knows the answer. It is responding to me now. I give thanks because I know the infinite intelligence of my subconscious knows all things and is revealing the perfect answer to me now. My real conviction is now setting free the majesty and glory of my subconscious mind. I rejoice that it is so."

Whether the object of your faith (religion) is real or false, you will get results. Your subconscious mind responds to the thought in your mind. Look upon faith as a thought in your mind, and that will suffice (be enough or adequate).

I wanted to know his method, so I asked him why he re-peated the words prior to sleep (SATS). Here is his reply, "The kinetic action of the subconscious mind continues throughout your sleep-time period. Hence, give the subconscious mind something good to work on as you drop off into slumber." This was a very wise answer. In thinking of harmony and perfect health, he never mentioned his trouble by name.

Apply the power of prayer therapy (This can be an affirmation/vaunt too) in your life. Choose a certain plan, idea, or mental picture. Mentally and emotionally unite with that idea, and as you remain faithful to your mental attitude, your prayer will be answered.

Power goes into our word according to the feeling and faith behind it. When we realize the power that moves the world is moving on our behalf and is backing up our word, our confidence and assurance grow. You do not try and add power to power; therefore, there must be no mental striving, coercion, force, or mental wrestling (basically desperation, I would explain it but it’s too much, you sorta kinda have to read the book to get it :/).

To affirm is to state that it is so, and as you maintain this attitude of mind as true, regardless of all evidence to the contrary, you will receive an answer to your prayer.

Similarly, your subconscious mind is the master mechanic, the all-wise one, who knows ways and means of healing any or-gan of your body, as well as your affairs. Decree health, and your subconscious will establish it, but relaxation is the key. "Easy does it." Do not be concerned with details and means, but know the end result. Get the feel of the happy solution to your problem whether it is health, finances, or employment (these were like the big concerns in the mid 1900s, you can replace these with your desires). Remember how you felt after you had recovered from a severe state of illness (replace that with your desire). Bear in mind that your feeling is the touchstone of all subconscious demonstration. Your new idea must be felt subjectively in a finished state, not the future, but as coming about now.

using your subconscious mind you infer no opponent, you use no will power. You imagine the end and the freedom state. You will find your intellect trying to get in the way, but persist in maintaining a simple, childlike, miracle-making faith. Picture yourself without the ailment (this means like illness, but you don’t have to worry abt this word) or problem. Imagine the emotional accompaniment of the freedom state you crave. Cut out all red tape (hard stuff or complex manifesting routine/self concept) from the process. The simple way is the best.

Do not weaken your prayer by saying, "I wish I might be healed." "I hope so." Your feeling about the work to be done is "the boss." Harmony is yours. Know that health is yours. Be-come intelligent by becoming a vehicle for the infinite healing power of the subconscious mind. Pass on the idea of health to your subconscious mind to the point of conviction; then relax. Get yourself off your hands. Say to the condition and circum-stance, "This, too, shall pass." Through relaxation you impress your subconscious mind enabling the kinetic energy behind the idea to take over and bring it into concrete realization.

[now-you-sound-like-a-jedi]

Avar Kriss/Elzar Mann

Post- The Fallen Star, epilogue, hurt/comfort, angst, grief/mourning, unfortunately mostly canon compliant.

In the aftermath of the Starlight Beacon crash, the survivors have no choice but to carry on as best they can. The remaining Jedi attempt to mitigate the damage on Eiram's surface. Avar Kriss and Elzar Mann find comfort in one another as they try to process their grief. Lina Soh faces the collapse of her greatest ambitions. And Vernestra Rwoh learns who Starlight took with it when it crashed.

Excerpt:

Avar sat down on the edge of the bed. Stood up again. Folded her clothes. Folded them again. Walked to the window. Turned away from the view of the sea where Starlight lay. 

Kriff, she couldn’t stay here. The silence was deafening, the loneliness overwhelming. She slipped her boots on, grabbed her cloak, and stepped out into the corridor. The only destination she had in her mind was not a place, but a person. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know exactly where in the building she was going: the Force guided her steps, a siren’s song calling her to the ocean’s edge. 

(Continued under the cut)

Her knuckles had barely brushed the surface of the door when it opened to reveal Elzar on the other side. He did not look surprised to see her there. He didn’t look dressed either.

Anything Avar had been going to say vanished from her mind. Instead, she looked him up and down. ‘Do you often answer the door shirtless?’ she asked.

Elzar grinned, and for a moment he looked like himself again. ‘Only when I know it’s you on the other side.’ His expression sobered somewhat. ‘Are you okay?’

If it had been anyone else, Avar would have lied. But he wasn’t anyone else, he was Elzar Mann - the one person who knew her better than the rest of the galaxy combined.

‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘Can I…’ She trailed off, then swallowed hard. ‘I can’t be by myself tonight.’

Elzar said nothing. He just stepped aside to let her in. 

[galateaunloved]

#from what i understood from the. books i read about it. is that it's more like a legal process#like instead of 'fighting' youre supposed to be able to understand and debate for or against a given rule#and be able to interpret or adapt them for the current time. and you aren't responsible for ones that arent relevant or possible for you - aquaticanthrobotic

Mostly yes and (slightly) no. Yes, halacha is a legal process. Yes, it isn't technically "fighting," it's a legal discussion. This is why I always put "fighting" in quotes in my post, and even hesitate to call it arguing. It's debate. It's discussion. There is no connotation of malice of one side for the other here, and yes you are supposed to interpret or adapt them.

How you interpret or adapt them depends on your sect. The strictness to which you adhere to this laws also depends on your sect. So while "you aren't responsible for ones that aren't relevant" (also yes, and that's something goyim inherently do not seem to get which is not everything is for everyone and its not malicious, etc, not the point of this particular comment but I could talk more about this too), that's also very sect dependant. More orthodox sects tend to consider halacha to be... well, halacha. These are rules you must follow, albeit not all of these rules come from the talmud (since, like you said, many aren't relevant anymore, unless you own an ox and have a fence between you and your goat owning neighbor) as many come from more recent sources: aka, your local rabbi, but to say "not possible" or "aren't relevant" are also specific keywords that are used when separating orthodoxy from conservative, reform, and other sects.

Relevancy and possibility are determined by those communities. For a conservative Jew, for example, they might take a stance on relevance and possibility saying that in nideh a woman having to check herself three times for spotting was because ancient Jewish women weren't on Birth Control, and therefore, did not have their hormones monitored like ours are today, so it is unnecessary to check for the end of your period if you are on birth control; whereas, an ultra orthodox Jew would disagree, even if they were on Birth Control because you are still able to spot even after your pills change. A reform Jew might say that nideh all together is an ancient institution no longer supported by a liberated society where women should be protected from being sexually touched by their husbands regardless of bodily function, and so none of the ritualistic aspects of nideh are necessary and any its not like there's a mikveh anywhere near where you live (if that is the case, which is rare in western society, they're usually just not advertised, then an Orthodox person would say that if you're going to live there then you need to build one). So like I said in a very long-winded way, that claim is relative to your community.

The concept of 'fighting god" itself comes from Yitzhack and the angel and Choni haMagel generally (in less religious or goyiche spaces). Ironically the Choni haMagel story isn't as well known expect for a fun throwaway, simplfied "hey isnt this myth so funny haha" that happens to many cultures when they encounter outsiders. But I have seen people use it when talking about the idea.

But those stories are usually significantly simplified and reiterated through an irreverent lens, which was specifically what I was referencing here and I think was also partially what you caught on to. For many Jews, this is not a unique crazy story of fighting god, but representative of a huge history and culture of, essentially, legal and spiritual (because all things are mixed in talmudic Judaism) discussion. Why did Yitzchak fight Esav's Angel? How could Choni haMagel have demanded that Hashem bring rain? Why did Avraham tell Hashem that he could not destroy Sodom and Gemmorah because of the good people there? Because disagreement isn't inherently irreverence in Judaism. The angel was just doing his job, and Yitzchak did not think it was rightous. Hashem told Choni haMagel that only because he was Choni haMagel that Hashem would listen, because he was a tzadik. Hashem promised Avraham to spare Sodom and Gemorrah if there were a thousand good people, and when he could not find those thousand, he promised it for a hundred, and then ten, and then one, all because Avraham loved Hashem and loved the people of the world, and he was there to remind Hashem of mercy and of the ability in every person to become better every second of their lives. It's because, and only because, they loved Hashem and His thought that they disagreed with Him. It is because Hashem loved them back that he listened, and encouraged his children to build courts and judges and the Sanhedren so they could continue to discuss His commandments and adapt and improve upon them until their word became "as if Hashem's."

It is because of that, when a vote happened in the Sanhedren over the oven of achnai, that even though the Sanhedren's ruling wasn't "true" according to Hashem's intentions, that Hashem told Reb Yehoshua "נצחוני ב��ניי" (Nitzchuni baenai). "My children have bested me," but also "my children have eternalized me." They have argued their cases well and voted using the systems of government I approve of and helped set into place, because they love me. They have discussed the status of this question because they love me. They have voted, and whether or not it was the choice I would have made, they still engaged in the holy process of lawmaking exactly as I intended and with love. And for that I love them back, for that I am proud, and for that they have made given my name honor.

So go learn something with a chavruta today and rejoice, because Hashem is proud of you.

That post about "girls loving patterns and dissection of media" that has thousands of notes only goes to prove the antisemetism on tumblr and in other fandom spaces. Dissection of media (no matter how much I disagree with your stupid ass headcanon) is a basis of fandom, and for those same people to turn "jews fight god" into something irreverant is so antisemetic.

For Jews, discussion is holy. God did not create loopholes so we can "haha gotcha!" Him. He did it for his "children to best" him. Discussion of laws and following said laws are intrinsticly linked if you believe discussion is an act of religion. If you believe that it is holy to learn, ask questions, and grow. To follow your conceptions. This is Judaism. Starlightomatic (iirc) made a post years ago about how uncomfortable they were with people who encountered Judaism through tumblr acting as if all Judaism is was "fighting god," and how it was important to note that many Jews actually enjoyed engaging in halacha. The fandomization of "judaism is the religion that fights god" and the antisemetism culturally inherent in goyiche societies turned Judaism on tumblr into the "leftist religion" of radical rejection instead of what Judaism is. "Fighting god" (which is a simplification (*cough cough* fandomization) of a much more complicated biblical story) should not be through defiance. It is joyous. Hashem gave us free will and thought, and we find the patterns and connections that He left for us among his commandments to find and build.

"My children have bested me," does not mean that we beat god derogatorily. It is Hashem, our parent, seeing how far we've come in Their ways and the pride, nachat, of seeing your children succeed.

[mishy-mashy]

Got my hands on a Ultra Analysis BNHA book from a library

Some points I liked (I focused more on 1B since they don't get a lot of attention)

1B once had a Tetsutetsu BBQ. They heated him up and cooked food on him. He proceeds to ruin it when he declares his sweat is the salt to their food

Yui is canonically the prettiest first-year

Mineta has no sex appeal at all, but he thinks being a hero will make him lucky

Class B does respect Monoma. He's sharp-minded, witty, and has a way with words

Monoma sometimes wanders into 1A's dorm just to throw down a mean speech, and heads back to 1B

Juzo probably isn't helping Monoma's confrontations with 1A, since he just always asks him why he can't say it to their faces whenever Monoma complains about them

Shiozaki tries to be polite even in a fight

Pony hosts anime parties, so 1B knows a lot about anime. Vice-versa, they teach her Japanese, and everything nasty is Monoma's fault

Tokage was a gyaru

Tsuburuaba, Kaibara, and Kuroiro get worked up whenever they talk about girls

Manga likes Kenranzaki

Awase's family runs a small factory. He also restrains Monoma whenever Kendo isn't available

1B likes hearing Rin say "Aiyah", so he does it for them

Kamakiri is obsessed with cutting into things

Class B's play was really successful

Tamaki is scared of Kirishima's energy

1C was planning a send-off party for Shinsou for his upcoming hero transfer. They didn't doubt he would make it, ever since the Sports Festival

Shishikura (meatball Shiketsu boy) might've chosen Shiketsu because he likes the uniform's hat

Nakagame and Yo are dating

Tsuyu's family gets to spend a lot of time together now, since their parents' busy jobs have calmed down

Tsubasa (devil wing kid in Midoriya's memories) suspiciously lost touch with Midoriya and Bakugo in middle school (his Wiki page confirms Garaki - his grandfather - turned him into a Nomu)

Torino likes goofy gags. This rubs off on All Might (ex. when Midoriya thought he died when Torino fell with ketchup. People don't know whether to laugh or be concerned)

Nighteye has yellow streaks in his hair as a homage to All Might

Nezu likes worming into tight, dark places, so he likes Aizawa's scarf. They went into detail, describing why Nezu likes it, such as material to crawling in, etc.

Recovery Girl has to travel around Japan regularly to help people with her Quirk (as in, she uses her Quirk to help them. Healing Quirks are SO rare)

Hojo, Tabe, and Sestuno are kept in the same jail, so at least they're not separated

[yujeong]

Me being totally normal: I can surely figure out what page he's at if I stare at it for too long

Also me, staring at it for too long: Wait...is he reading....the foreword...? I can't believe it took me this long to realize Vegas is reading the first page here. It might not even be the foreword, it might be info about the author, it's so funny. But don't worry, the good news is that he's actually reading the book in this scene:

which, of course, you can make the claim that beforehand, he was not in a good mental state (Vegas? not being mentally well? No fucking way right?) so he was trying to distract himself from whatever the fuck the whole thing he's doing at the safehouse is, but after him and Pete talk and bond and all of that good stuff, his mind can focus and actually read the damn book. Sidenote Because I'm a bit insane and very committed in finding things to obsess over with my hyperfixations, I estimated the possible percentage of the book he might be currently at, then went to the appropriate page and found this line there: "He felt very gay and light-headed, and quite forty years younger, as he walked to the door."

I swear to God, it was there, and I laughed so hard they must have heard me over in Thailand.

[northern-passage]

i've been thinking a lot about the word "representation" and what it means and how it's changed over the last few years, particularly when it comes to the writing/publishing landscape but also in movies and tv shows… and i really don't like it anymore. to be clear, of course i think it's important to have diversity in your work, i'm not saying i hate the concept of representation. but i do really dislike the way it's used now, and i really just hate the word itself

in a broader sense it's just become a marketing tool. i'm not impressed by any publisher or author who just describes their book by listing all of the minorities/identities the characters represent as if that should be enough. it feels very gross, very exploitative and disingenuous. it also really bothers me because it's always marginalized identities- which i understand Why, but it feels very othering to me (and again. Very exploitative as an advertisement). you would never list out "cishet able-bodied white man" as a character description to pat yourself on the back over. so why do it to everyone else? why insinuate that one is the "default" and the other one is "special"? (and when i say this i'm mainly talking about advertisements/marketing. i understand why people would specify about characters in descriptions with the plot, but i don't like to see an ad that's just "this book has gay people!" with nothing else)

which then leads me to my other point, which is that a lot of people treat "representation" as if it's "too hard." like "oh i don't know enough to write about that, i don't have that experience, etc" which is a fair way to feel! however… it's weird that people only say this about writing trans characters or characters of color. i'm writing a story right now with a character who is really into motorcycles. i personally do not know that much about motorcycles, so i researched what parts are what & what different kinds of models there are & what basic bike care looks like. i guarantee Most people will have to google something at some point in their writing process. so what's the problem? it also, again, feels very othering when authors treat certain groups of people as "impossible" to write, "too hard" to understand. they are just.. people. you write them as a person. and then you figure out the rest later.

and i think part of the refusal or fear to write something outside of your experience is because of the way representation is treated as So Special. these characters are So Special that they aren't allowed to be anything other than "representation." they're Not allowed to be characters with complex emotions and interesting motivations, they have to just be Trans or Gay or Disabled or whatever. they're not allowed to be people. which means, at the end of the day, we loop right back around to where we were at the start….

there is bad representation. there are depictions of certain marginalized people that are harmful and that are damaging, i'm not trying to minimize that or argue against it at all, in fact we should all be mindful of that while writing and reading. but i also think it's possible to swing too far in the opposite direction as well and put certain groups of people on a pedestal and not allow them to do anything at all but be Perfect Representation, if that makes sense.

[-teresaofthefaintsmile]

From the outline:

"Five central characters will make it through all three volumes, however, growing from children to adults and changing the world and themselves in the process. In a sense, my trilogy is almost a generational saga, telling the life stories of these five characters, three men and two women. The key five players are Tyrion Lannister, Daenerys Targaryen, and three of the children of Winterfell, Arya, Bran, and the bastard Jon Snow."

So in 1993 he didn't have the initial idea of ​​killing off characters he considered part of the 5 keys until the last book. I've seen a lot of talk about this, but I've always been inclined to believe that they survive despite everything because he said make it through. Some will be happier than others, some will have more bittersweet endings. But that doesn't mean he doesn't think about killing off other main characters with POVS. And he continues to follow these beats. The biggest variations happen with the secondary characters, after all he is a gardener. The story vastly expanded more than imagined. To the point where it has an excessive number of POVs. 

Here are some quotes about the characters and arcs and overall story: 

Has there been a character that you have given a reprieve to, or maybe deviated from the path you originally were going to send them on? If so, whom?

No, not really. In some cases, the chronologies have diverged from what I originally intended, but the overall character arcs remain the same. "I think with Song of Ice and Fire, I'm pretty well hitting all the beats as I originally envisioned them. I haven't taken too many detours."

George: I have always known the broad strokes of the characters since 1991. [Said in the Balticon Report from 2016, SSM] Who is the most major character you’ve changed your mind about your plans for?

I don’t want to reveal what I’ve planned for some of these characters, but I’m pretty well on track with most of the major characters. It’s minor characters like Bronn that assume greater importance

Q: How different is the plot from what he originally envisioned? GRRM: Not different - just more of it. It has grown in complexity, but he likes it that way because it feels real to him. - SSM 2010

Yeah. I didn’t know at first, in ‘91 — I didn’t know quite what I had yet. I didn’t even know whether it was a novel or a novella, or something, at first. So I sort of found that out. But by the summer of ‘91, you know, it just came to me out of nowhere, and I started writing it and following where it led. But by the end of that summer I knew I had a big series. Initially, I thought it was a trilogy, but it’s grown beyond that. But the size is different, and I’ve introduced some other elements to the books, but it’s still the same characters, the ‘91 characters.

Do you have an ending already in mind?

I have and have had since the beginning, yeah, in broad strokes. You know, I know the fates of all the major characters but not necessarily the fates of many of the minor characters. And things do change, sometimes, as you approach the finish line. You come up with a better idea or a twist you hadn’t thought of when you start. So I leave it open that I may change a few things when I get to the last book. But for the most part, yeah, I know how it’s going to end.

Do you know the ending?

I know the ending in broad strokes. I don’t know every little twist and turn that will get me there, and I don’t know the ending of every secondary character. But the ending and the main characters, yeah.

Tyrion/Arya/Jon > Ramsay/Farya/Jon. The deadly rivalry aspect got switched to Jon and Ramsay. It just doesn't have the romantic element, but it serves the narrative purpose of propelling Jon forward. To be fair, we have no idea how much was discarded from the outline until the books are all out. And as he himself confirmed, he continues to follow many of these beats. They may alternate in details, but they will arrive at the same place. He notably dislikes outlines, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have them, even the affc/adwd ones leaked. He also created new characters to fulfill narrative functions. Meraa takes on the role of Bran's protector instead of Arya. But there's nothing stopping Arya from also having that role in the future or going beyond the wall. Many of the characters marked for death in the outline died. Cat was always supposed to die and be reborn, whether imbued with ice or fire magic. Tyrion would be betrayed by his family and switch sides. While other characters were expanded when they became POVS characters. Aspects of Jaime from the outline went to Cersei and so on.

I'm not saying that the outline is the most relevant piece of paper in the saga. However, there is a grain of truth and many themes there that were recycled, used and molded into new narratives. The outline implies R + L = J and Bran King, for example.

Some others quotes: 

"I think you need to have some hope...we all yearn for happy endings in a sense. Myself, I’m attracted to the bittersweet ending. People ask me how Game of Thrones is gonna end, and I’m not gonna tell them … but I always say to expect something bittersweet in the end," he said. "You can't just fulfill a quest and then pretend life is perfect."

"I’ve said before that the tone of the ending that I’m going for is bittersweet. I mean, it’s no secret that Tolkien has been a huge influence on me, and I love the way he ended ’Lord of the Rings.’ It ends with victory, but it’s a bittersweet victory. Frodo is never whole again, and he goes away to the Undying Lands, and the other people live their lives. And the scouring of the Shire —brilliant piece of work, which I didn’t understand when I was 13 years old: ’Why is this here? The story’s over?’ But every time I read it I understand the brilliance of that segment more and more. All I can say is that’s the kind of tone I will be aiming for. Whether I achieve it or not, that will be up to people like you and my readers to judge."

"We all yearn for happy endings in a sense. Myself, I’m attracted to the bittersweet ending. People ask me how Game of Thrones is gonna end, and I’m not gonna tell them … but I always say to expect something bittersweet in the end, like [J.R.R. Tolkien]. I think Tolkien did this brilliantly."

Considering how often he talks about the ending of LOTR I think he genuinely thinks along the same lines. Some will rebuild their lives, others will find peace, but not necessarily be super happy. It's true that Grrm subverts many expectations, but he also enjoys and plays with various tropes. As I said, Fevre Dream got a bittersweet ending too.

GRRM wanted to subvert the usual tropes

Remember GRRM started out his series with the intention of writing something that didn't follow the typical tropes and conventions of previous works. GRRM wanted to subvert the usual tropes like the secret hidden 'prince who was promised' perhaps by having that person be illegitimate - Jon fulfills some prophecy by blood, but not through a legal marriage, he is the 'hero' but not the true 'king' at least by rights of succession.

GRRM will not pull a book out of a dark ancient library that gives us all the answers to the past that make everything easy for our characters, or have a weird political marriage between 'siblings / cousins' be what is needed to unite a kingdom (how? everything is fractured, the land decimated, why would the people care about a political marriages in the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse?)

Remember GRRM promised or forewarned a bittersweet ending, not all the mains or favorites will survive or have a typical happy ending, and I'm assuming that is especially true for the tortured and much suffering 'hero' - at least that is my gut feeling. To me the two most prominent characters Tyrion and Jon are also the two most likely to die by the end - at least one if not both, driven there by circumstances: blinded by love, rage, or perhaps a noble sacrifice.

Tyrion is already blinded by his hatred and rage, will his better nature win out or will he continue to feed his hatred until his end? GRRM had Jon suffer 'death' and gave us clues that resurrections can happen, but they also alter a person, no matter how Jon manages to remain intact after resurrection, he will not come back the same, there will be notable changes, otherwise why do it in the first place? (the show did this very poorly!)

If they survive they will be much altered, as in not the most well adjusted people, lots of trauma to deal with, to take on the role of the clear-sighted leader needed to rebuild a nation and inspire/lead its people. They maybe able to help and/or advise, but I don't see them as the main leader on top. Both have really been through the most changes physically and mentally and you know it will only get harder and worse by the end, GRRM isn't don't with them yet.

As much as the Stark kids have suffered, I still get a feeling of hope and sense of future with them, they are working hard for some kind of future in mind, they are young and being tested and learning how to be resilient people. They don't know of the larger dealing happening in the world yet, only bits and pieces, but it does feel like GRRM is preparing them to deal with it when their time comes and they finally have full agency to do something. Not sure all will work out, but I just can't see any of them dying or coming to harm by the end of the series. I don't feel any of them have had 'big' player moments yet, so I find it harder to sense a future for them beyond what others speculate on and most of it feels wishful.

As for Dany, she started out subjugated, but quickly found her power and has exerted that power within the story. She is by far the most powerful POV in terms of making changes in the world with large consequences. She means well, but things do not always go well or as she expected. She is learning, but also doing at the same time which makes the outcomes all the more complicated as it affects so many people, and not all of it is welcome change. Dany brings hope, but she also bring chaos, Dany makes friends, but she also makes lots of enemies...

I go back and forth on Dany's ending, mainly because of GRRM trope subversions and with Dany it could go either way. GRRM is building her up for something good and great, but whether she survives or is acknowledged for it? That would be bitter sweet indeed, but also in character for her - well meaning and doing something for the greater good, but often misunderstood or politically attacked by her enemies so that only a few close to her know of her true noble intentions and sacrifices. I want her to live, but I could also see her dying or being killed. She is a symbol and and icon and that is an attractive target for people like Varys or even Cottington, could go either way... I just acknowledge the possibilities.

[unionizedwizard]

poisoned book investigation update: i reached the part of queen margot that deals with the poisoned book and this only made me more convinced that this is indeed. what happened. back in 2010. because 1) i know my mother well and therefore know she would kin catherine de' medici (yes yes i know. i know. what can i say. she's insane. it's a family tradition) 2) in the novel, the book was poisoned by catherine herself (she conceived and carried out both the scheme and the execution herself), and meant to kill her political enemy and son-in-law (but ended up poisoning (and killing) her own son). the exact method of course would be unsuitable for my own mother to imitate as it is the exact same method used in the name of the rose (possibly where umberto eco got the inspiration from, actually?), therefore as i mentioned earlier impossible to recreate with the kind of paper my copy of the three musketeers was printed on. but. yeah. not that i had many doubts at this point anymore but this is really. convincing evidence. psychologically speaking.

like for the. catherine de' medici kin part:

my mother always loved her as a historical figure. we did visit a lot of historical castles and museums and all when i was a kid and she always had a marked preference for 1) the renaissance era and history 2) the medici family 3) catherine de' medici specifically. she admired her cunning and force of spirit and ambition and influence. #1 girlboss supporter (she did not support the. you know. religious massacres tho. she didn't think catherine was a great figure to emulate or whatever. but she admired her nonetheless)

as i've mentioned before, my mother has always been a wannabe italian. she's especially fond of the italian renaissance and in particular florence and its history. in the novel the fact catherine de' medici is florentine is a key part of her characterization

physically there seems to be a similarity? dumas doesn't actually describe his characters' appearance much, but from the few elements we get, it seems to fit (= pale, grey(?) eyes with a cold and cunning look, short and stout but pretty, white hands (that she takes great care of), short and stout (fat?) stature in general, blonde hair, small lips, imposing presence that makes other people immediately fall in line & scares them (she was very proud of that)). it's not much but knowing her she would jump to conclusions and want to really. Be Like Her

sorry i know how this sounds i KNOW you don't have to believe me but i swear this is all true. inherited insanity and all that. the true Drow Ass Family

[justalittlebluetiefling]

I do think the hardest part about actually writing a whole novel for the first time is having to constantly remind myself that first drafts are allowed to suck. They are not meant to be perfect. They're allowed to be filled with half thoughts where you need to go back later because you can't figure out what you need to fix until there are words on a page. Like, allowing myself to feel like I am bad at something and still continuing to push might be the biggest way I've grown in my entire life.

[rubiatinctorum]

only five more chapters left to edit, i BETTER have them done in the next 24hrs