#the one who suffers is maze

[teecupangel]

Just binge watched Lucifer on Netflix and now I present to you:

Desmond Miles survives 2012 (Desmond Miles Lives truthers, where ya at?), gets the hell outta dodge from the temple with new POE powers, and gets hired to work at Lux in LA. Meets his new boss and both of them are like, "!"

Lucifer instantly knows this boy is hella special because, damn does his soul reek of Isu Bullfuckery. (Headcanoned God and his Angels are sort of a rival interdimensional species to Isu, and God is the one who supposedly gave humans free will... idk I never paid attention to bible study anyway.)

Does the whole, "what do you desire?" schtick and Desmond, due to POE powers and Isu Bullshittery, wonders 'why the fuck is actual Satan here in LA?'

I imagine a platonic bromance relationship between these two. Y'know? 'Cause on the one hand we have the Reluctant Ruler of Hell and on the other hand the Reluctant Savior/Sacrificial Lamb of Humankind.

Lucifer could offer safety and protection from whoever Desmond is hiding from, while Des can be his bartender/bouncer/very much-needed BFF. And come on, I betcha good ole Lucy boy (and Maze) would absolutely enjoy dragging a couple a lot of Abstergo people Vidic down to Hell for multiple crimes against humanity(i.e. kidnapping and unethical human experimentation which results in mental instability.)

I’m all in for this idea. Desmond and Lucifer being bash brothers, yes please. Just imagine the chaos these two would get to because they're both morally dubious? XD

Also, just imagine how much faster Chloe would be finishing her cases with Desmond’s Eagle Vision? She would have two cheat codes with her this time.

Anyway, I’m going to focus on how we can integrate Lucifer into AC more in this one.

Before anything, just a sorta fun trivia: Lucifer has a little cameo in Crisis on Infinite Earths and he talks to John Constantine, implying they have some sort of history together. John Constantine is played by Matt Ryan who voiced and mocap’ed Edward Kenway XD

We will be keeping this contained to Lucifer though but you can totally add a John Constantine cameo and set it during the time Desmond is working in Lux (and you can totally add Desmond feeling some sort of longing and sorrow because John Constantine sounds and looks familiar to his Bleed of Haytham Kenway)

Alright, with that little trivia out of my system, let’s talk about how we can push Lucifer into AC canon.

(You might not have paid attention to bible study but my religion teacher was so boring he had to implement a rule that there should be no other notebook/books related to other subjects on our table during class because we kept doing other subjects when he’s lecturing us soooooo I was bored enough to read the bible he made us bring every class. I'm sure he'll be proud I'm using what I learned in his class for fic related things XD)

Let’s talk about God in Lucifer’s show. He’s obviously based on the Judeo-Christian God. Now, we have no confirmation if that said God does exist as an Isu in Assassin’s Creed BUT we do have a leeway we can use to make it easier to integrate the characters from Lucifer into Assassin’s Creed.

The Templar Order uses the phrase “May the Father of Understanding guide you”. Now, this is based on the Isu triad that pops up a bit.

The one we’re more familiar with is the Capitoline Triad where Tinia is known as the “Father of Understanding”.

However, there is an earlier iteration of this triad.

The Isus who created humans.

And the one to hold the title of ‘Father of Understanding’ during that time is Yaldabaoth.

From Wikipedia

Gnosticism presents a distinction between the highest, unknowable God, and the Demiurge, "creator" of the material universe.

Gnostic Christians considered the Hebrew God of the Old Testament as the evil, false god and creator of the material universe, and the Unknown God of the Gospel, the father of Jesus Christ and creator of the spiritual world, as the true, good God.

If we use the statements above and the fact that Yaldabaoth is considered one of the creators of mankind, we can set up God as another Isu scientist who had an alternate idea of a workforce but his idea was pushed aside and Yaldabaoth’s project with the other two Isu scientists moved forward.

God, in anger, created his ‘children’ together with the Goddess. And, to complete the triad, we’ll add Lilith as an Isu as well instead of Adam’s first wife. The three of them (although Lilith has a more advisory role to this entire thing and is actually working on her own workforce idea) created the ‘Angels’, trying to one-up all the data they could get from Yaldabaoth’s project to make them better than humans.

They are. Unfortunately, that meant they were also… shall we say… ‘freer’ than humans as well. God knew that the Isus would see them as defective and, not only that, many would find what they have done as some form of betrayal and being stripped of their rank and status would be the lightest sentence the Isu would give them. So God and Goddess kept the Angels a secret, and passed them off as human slaves while Lilith went her merry way and continued to work on her personal workforce.

And now we come to the whole ‘gave mankind freewill’.

So many like to point at Lucifer as being the serpent that gave Eve the forbidden fruit. Let’s use it. Lucifer, being one of God’s first children, takes an Apple of Eden and presented it to Eve who used it to start the Human-Isu war. Lucifer takes up arms to join the humans.

Things get super messy when they find out about the impending Solar Flare and God and Goddess decided to add their consciousness to a device called ‘Heaven’. (In this setup, Goddess!Charlotte would be like a more ‘questionable’ setup of an Isu consciousness overwriting a human’s consciousness). Their children (who did have the kind of body that would survive a solar flare and were more or less immortal) were tasked with guarding ‘Heaven’.

Except Lucifer who, as punishment for starting the whole Human-Isu war, was tasked to guard a device called ‘Hell’. He guarded it together with Lilith’s ‘children’, the demons.

What these two devices do will be a mystery but they are connected to the Gray in some way and to the Calculations. Perhaps it’s even the actual database of all the Calculations and, by that very definition, it housed all the knowledge, memories and emotions of every living thing in the world.

What defines them as a person.

What defines their soul.

And, from there, we can just integrate all Celestial things in the show as this entirely more advanced workforce’s ‘code words’. (And the devices are connected and that’s why God could boot the Goddess into hell)

By the time 2013 rolls around, Lucifer already owned Lux for a few years now and Desmond applies as a bartender as he’s had enough of all these Assassin-Templar BS to last him a lifetime. He saved the world, this is his damn retirement plan.

Lucifer sees him and goes ‘how interesting, an actual human-POE hybrid.’ while Desmond sees him and goes ‘why does he feel… familiar?’ because his Isu genes and POE-hybridness is giving him signals that Lucifer is definitely not human BUT he ain’t an Isu too.

He’s… Isu-adjacent.

Like Maze.

So Desmond continues to work there and Lucifer finds the perfect time to do the whole “what do you desire?” and Desmond’s POE-hybridness just kicked in.

We’ll make it in this fic that all the Apples are connected to one another and they have a ‘shared memory space’ so Desmond ‘remembers’ that this is the smug bastard who gave the Apple to Eve.

And, because of his limited knowledge of religion, he goes “Why the fuck is actual Satan here in LA?!”

(side note: some count Satan and Lucifer as two different beings but, in this case, we’ll just make Satan another name for Lucifer)

So now they both showed their hands. Lucifer just blatantly showed he wasn’t human and Desmond just showed he has Isu-related knowledge.

Cue an entire night of trying to get drunk while talking about what the fuck happened to them (with special mention to their daddy issues and the whole reluctant ruler of hell and the ‘more-or-less pushed into it’ savior/sacrifice)

At the end of their heart-to-heart, Desmond becomes Lucifer’s main confidant and slowly becomes his BFF. Lucifer uses his mojos to keep Desmond hidden from both Assassins and Templars.

Also… it’s not just Abstergo’s that in his shitlist. William Miles is there as well, that’s for damn sure.

Another subplot we can add is that Lucifer ‘asking’ Chloe to look into Abstergo just so he can, you know… ask them… what they desire?

Other unorganized notes:

What do we do with Juno? I set it to 2013 so Desmond dealt with Juno before peacing out to be a random bartender. Hey, if Ubisoft can do it in the comics, we can take out Juno with one paragraph… maybe even one sentence.

Desmond could see through Maze’s shapeshifting. Whenever he uses Eagle Vision, he sees Maze’s true form.

Actually, Desmond’s Eagle Vision has been powered up by his POE-hybridness that he sees EVERYONE’s true form. His only description of Lucifer’s form? “Bright as fuck.” (this also means Desmond knows Michael by 'sight')

Also, Amenadiel? He looovvveess Desmond’s Shirley Templars.

Lucifer’s deals? He has a connection to Hell and, because of that connection, he’s connected to the Calculations as well. In this case, any deal he makes impacts the Calculations slightly so the person making the deal would get what they want.

Also, this:

#desmond being bff with the devil #lucifer having an actually uncomplicated honest (platonic) relationship for once #the one who suffers is maze #a lot #assassin's creed #desmond miles #lucifer #lucifer netflix #lucifer morningstar #teecup writes/has a plot #fic idea: assassin's creed #ask and answer #i am still sad constantine didn’t get a 2nd season #liked matt ryan since criminal minds

[quodekash]

so shorter was in unmeasurable amounts of pain and begged ash to kill him, and ash obliged

it reminds me of something

page 250 babeyyyy

#if I had to suffer in this thought so do you #im almost certain there’s like no one who is also in both of these fandoms but maybe there is #i may have to suffer alone #but ive tried #(also sorry tommy but ash’s situation was objectively worse) #banana fish #banana fish anime #asheiji #banana fish shorter #shorter wong #maze runner #the maze runner #page 250 #newtmas #tmr #tmr newt #ash lynx #aslan jade callenreese

[littledreamling]

Sorry I couldn’t do my homework professor, I was languishing under the crushing weight of knowing that Destiny is burdened with the knowledge of everything that will happen until the end of Time, every decision, every birth, every death, and yet he cannot do anything to change it; he must wait and watch and live in the sweet agony of his own wretched foretelling coming to fruition

#in my emo destiny hours #listen death and dream can argue all they want about who has it worse but let’s not even bring destiny into this because he’d win hands down #i can’t even imagine the anguish he must suffer through having so much knowledge yet beingg unable to do anything with it #it is predetermined #it is inescapable #as much as he wishes to do so; he cannot alter that which is destined #in fact he’s the only Endless with absolutely no control over his function #he is simply destiny’s keeper and interpreter #he cannot change anything of which he has information #oftentimes he is the only one with enough information to be able to change anything and that’s exactly why he can’t #he is as bound to destiny as everyone else #his labyrinth always leads to the same place #everyone is trapped in the maze #and he is no exception #the sandman #the sandman comics #destiny of the endless #neil gaiman #sandman neil gaiman

[ojirocardigansniper]

ouguhhh just read the summary and article from this post about alexandre baril's work on suicidism (oppression of the suicidal) and the opening paragraph of the conclusion in the full article. thoughts. rotating

i was thinking about the. thick white gloves. while reading. remembered that one post about how csa being horrifically taboo to talk about compounds survivors' trauma and shame and went Maybe something similar re: suicidality and suicide... the suffering multiplied by the silence, the risk of dismissal or instant change in perception in anyone you tell... and even in 'mental health' spaces the perception that suicide as a topic is dangerous to talk about- that it could be triggering instantly and automatically- is like. i think there's some paternalism there and there's some shamefear and there's some oversimplification and there's the fact that it plays well into the existing well-taught impulse to avoid the discomforting. but like. this post also about how getting through suicidality is maybe only possible by considering the option thoroughly. i am just thinking. idk. yall know me yall know i think about this topic a lot

#chat #as someone who HAS mostly recovered from passive suicidality- mostly recognizes its suicidal intrusive thoughts as demands for life change- #im def one of the people who can be susceptible to recovery-only mindsets when like assisting or relating to suicidal people. so i need thi #me and one of our stranger sysmates (maze-body) were reading the article together and it kept standing against my reflexive questions + #discomforts because it understands suicidality as both an experiencer (in a weird way) and an already-dead thing; it could confidently- #dismiss my concerns as both fixable and less relevant than the experience and autonomy of the suicidal party. #its whole thing is being- not anti-recovery but like. unrecovered and incurable. which is a perspective we need to remember and have spoken #no matter how much harm reduction + barrier lowering + healing we go through. it as a frank eternality will still remain+need recognition. #its a weirdass way of coping with the inevitability of pain and suffering while not giving up on our locus of control but we're doing it ig #and i think theres a lot there you can relate 2 chronic/passive suicidality- just a companion no matter how much you make life worth living #whatever. anyway #suicide / #in case anyone has. tag blocking but not content blocking fsr

[blood-teeth]

E N T E R T H E L A B Y R I N T H

In the Labyrinth, they talk of gods.

They whisper between their fingers and sweeten their breath with the tales of titans of old who once stood so tall that a single breath would cause earth-tremors, their steps reshaping the ground trod beneath them. Their fingers were the tools that smoothed the mountains into points, shaped and carved the ridges and valleys in between. If you hike far enough, one woman claims, if you travel to a point where the oxygen is thin and your vision blacks, you can make out a partial print against the mountainside. You can run your own fingers along its length and still feel the titan’s warmth as if his palm were pressed right against yours.

The woman says, It is a thing of worship. It is a thing of devotion.

In the Labyrinth, they ask you to make you make your body anew before the King of the High Hills. They say that you are alive because you must suffer for the life and love of the Lord, that you must open your body and let him lick along your flesh so that he may taste the endlessness of his perpetual reign.

In the Labyrinth, there is no escape from his touch.

“You have a heavy burden upon you,” the headmaster was saying, teeth and eyes all a glitter under the amber cast candles. “I am not unsympathetic to the arduous path ahead of you—but please understand that this suffering must be experienced for the longevity of the king, for the beautiful life ahead of him. Only he is the one who can shed mortality and raise to the gods, because he is the only one strong enough, courageous enough, to count the cost of living forever. You must succeed where others have failed. You, this class, this is our last chance to mend what has been made broken. You must. You must.”

The Mouths of Elysium is a dark-academia fantasy created with Twine where your choices matter to the story. You live inside the Labyrinth, a maze that hates to become known with walls and paths that change every hour. The center of the Labyrinth sits a university that has been there since the beginning of time; its only purpose is to recruit students who can solve the puzzle of life, who can create an elixir that would allow the King of the High Hills to live past the length of forever. Failure means a fate worse than death.

You are one of those students.

Althea Callaghan - You know her in death. She has been the taste of rot against your tongue, the anger and hurt in your palms. You see the nice, beautiful lines of her teeth and become a creature of grief unfolding unto yourself. Debase yourself with the fervent want of her. Bend at your waist and beg for forgiveness.

You hate her. You want to watch her bleed. She feels the exact same about you, but what she doesn't know is that every waking moment of your life is dedicated to her.

The Princess/Prince - The forgotten child of the throne. The 405th child of His glorious reign. Divinity runs through their veins, the heir to so much power, but they will never see themselves rule the unforgiving landscape of the Labyrinth. Their fate is to die and be buried amongst the endless graves of their dead brothers and sisters. They must do this so the King may live forever.

A fully customizable MC including gender, appearance, and sexuality

A landscape of horror. A landscape that hates you and everyone who might try to understand it. Go beyond the walls and be witness to a reality worse than death

Key choices that will influence your game and experience. Will you succeed or fail?

Learn what it means to be forgiven. Learn what it means to suffer. Become devotion. Become loyalty. Make your body anew before the King of the High Hills

DEMO (updated 5/19/24)

#Interactive fiction #IF #the mouths of elysium #tmoe #if wip #wip #cyoa #works in progress #if intro #interactive fiction intro #twine #twine intro #twine wip #dark academia #fantasy #labyrinth #enter the labyrinth #intro #writeblr intro #writing community #itch.io #indie games #jesus i think i have enough tags

[inkskinned]

i know some of the poets outside of their books, like cameron awkward-rich; who was my seminar teacher for a semester in grad school. you know him, he wrote about keeping his hand on the walls of his stupid heart. he gave us a journal without lines in it, so the pages were all blank and naked. we had to write down 3 words every day, ruminations on our own lives.

in pink glitter pen, i watched my handwriting cramp and spill from pristine and well-meaning to the slant of someone deeply suffering. the words stopped being lyrical over the course of february. bad, it said. bad and bad and bad. each day carving out a little bit of marrow, the sparrow of my heart acting as roadkill. that winter i was only allowed to eat apples, like a horse. my ocd had decided i could only touch food if it was red. i was sleeping on the floor and a spider bit me.

i wanted him to be my thesis advisor, but it was covid the next year, and we never spoke again, and i'm worried that i embarrassed myself by asking him repeatedly. for my final project in his class, i wrote about my disability. i called myself a rat, fondly.

his most famous poem is titled Meditations in an Emergency. i didn't know it until three weeks after i had graduated from that university.

at one point, he sat me down after class just to discuss some of my work. it was a night class, and we were all a little drowsy. he blinked up at me. i think sometimes the way you see the world is a little bit alarming. i wonder about that, in hindsight. i wonder if all of us who are walking on thumbtacks always recognize when someone else's spine is the undulating form of a siren. i could see it in him and you can see it in me, if you're looking.

yesterday nat said some of this is worrying.

i told cameron i was fine and i told nat i was fine, but i think maybe all of us had learned a long time ago how to be fine the way a poem is fine - because it happens outside of you. it can be honest, the confession, but it cannot be spelled out across your ribs. we make our art so that the sorrow can hang, limbless, trembling on the fetid walls beside us.

you learn to turn the ugliness into some kind of work, because you must smash the entire human experience of your stupid bones and teeth and tongue into something, so that you have anything to show for it. otherwise, what is the fucking point. why were you suffering, if not to polish the runoff and say - the melancholy is the signature of my art. i took the splinters out of my gums and filed them down into a thesis. the thesis has been turned into a book which is getting published.

cameron, to my knowledge, still has not read it.

i hope he has found his way out of the maze. i hope you and i one day write our own lanterns. i hope we are able to find some kind of peace without viscera. without having to fight for it. i hope we are able to stumble without falling. i hope one day the sky is empty of vultures and we can cross the desert of our memories without starving.

in the meantime we get up and leave the circled shadow in the writing.

#writeblr #warm up #idk what this is

[pathsofoak]

Teresa "drowning in guilt" Agnes:

She saved lives anyway. She still owed the world some.

#I'm going to be working with her childhood here #it's a bit compatible with the Fever Code but I took some liberties to make it fit with the movies and also the arc I want to write #but the point is she thinks the 'lives' she speaks of are the ones lost on the Scorch and to a degree also in the Maze because #she feels really guilty about it #but really that idea is much older and goes all the way back to WCKD #who kind of gave her this mentality of 'you're immune so you have to share that even if it means you suffer greatly' sort of #like a little more subtle in the sense that she STILL hasn't noticed that one #so there is this bit of more deserved guilt she feels on one side but she punishes herself WAY out of proportion especially since #the Gladers have already figured that bit out and it's nothing like giving herself up to WCKD (sort of) #but she misreads this sort of survivor's guilt as guilt over her betrayal so she's just merciless to herself #I promise I'll start being nice to these characters soon

[vague-humanoid]

A few months after arriving, she said, she was raped by the man who wrote the letter of invitation that had gotten her out of the war zone.

“She was sleeping and he woke her up and roughly dragged her into his room,” says Olga Udovichenko, whom Svetlana later approached for help at the Volunteer Help Center for Refugees from Ukraine in Haifa. “She suffered deeply from both the war and the rape — but here she could barely get any assistance from the authorities. Instead of help she encountered a maze of bureaucracy and lost any motivation she had to hold the man to account and seek justice.”

The Russian invasion of Ukraine in February 2022 is estimated to have killed more than 40,000 civilians and displaced up to 30 million more. As the war surpasses 300 days, 17.7 million Ukrainians around the world need humanitarian help and protection, according to the United Nations.

Svetlana is one of over 47,000 Ukrainians — the vast majority of them women — who traveled to Israel since the start of the invasion but who are not eligible for citizenship under Israel’s Law of Return, according to Israel’s Welfare Ministry. Of these, only approximately 15,000 currently remain in Israel, with the rest having chosen to leave. Not a single Ukrainian fleeing the war has been accorded refugee status by Israel.

A Times of Israel investigation has documented cases of rape, sexual harassment, workplace exploitation and other abuses faced in Israel by these women, many of whom have had their homes destroyed and lost their livelihoods. At least one of the women’s lives ended in death by suicide.

Many of these abuses remain at best under the radar of the authorities or at worst willfully ignored, leaving the victims in a cycle of violence and poverty that only deepens the trauma they have endured to date. The perpetrators remain free to commit further crimes.

#rape cw #state sanctioned abuse #Israel

[irisintheafterglow]

One-Shots

Gojo Satoru

You Are In Love - "you're my best friend," and you knew what it was

...Ready For It? - knew he was a killer first time that I saw him

Hits Different - it hits different 'cause it's you (or, struggling in a situationship with gojo satoru)

Never Grow Up - meeting megumi for the first time

The Archer - all of my enemies started out friends, can he hold on to you?

invisible string - the first time megumi uses ten shadows

even in my worst times, you see the best in me - being the strongest has its downsides, but at least you're suffering with him

life's no fun without a good scare - you have the brilliant idea of playing hide and seek in a corn maze against the most powerful sorcerer in the world. should be fun, right?

it's all me, just don't go (meet me in the afterglow) - satoru is jealous but refuses to admit it.

every dead end street led you straight to me - former fuckboy gojo has some things to say at the top of a mountain

i hate accidents, except when we went from friends to this! - coworkers to lovers with a healthy amount of teenage eavesdropping

he's the death you chose (you're in terrible danger) - married life with husband!gojo means cleaning up bodies at 2am.

Geto Suguru

The Great War - somewhere in the haze, got a sense I'd been betrayed

Back to December - you gave him all your love and all he gave you was goodbye

say you'll remember me - you were destined to fail from the start, so why does it hurt so badly when he's gone?

dazzling haze, mysterious way about you, dear - need some fluff after reading all the angst above?

tell me that you love me, love me 'til my lips turn blue - being partnered with suguru on a mission takes an unexpected turn

what if all i need is you? - after failed attempts to find a date to a relative's birthday party, your best friend acts as your fake boyfriend.

Blurbs/Drabbles

the stakes are high, the water's rough, but this love is ours - holding satoru and letting him rest, even if it's only for a little bit

it took so long to know someone like you - he doesn't know who he is with you and it scares both of you

bad days and blanket burritos - good ol' satoru bf fluff

Imagines/HCs

And the touch of a hand lit the fuse

how gojo and geto react to their partner being obsessed with them (fluffy !!!)

Gojo Satoru

What, like it's hard? -> law student!gojo

general hcs

when he buys a motorcycle

I'm with the band -> rockstar!gojo

rockstar!gojo meet sexyy

the valentine's day show

quiet moments and teaching you guitar

awards show

Falling for you, on and off the ice -> hockey player!gojo

someone steals your usual rink slot

watching a game

living in winter, i am your summer - he's terrible at figure skating

Kachow -> professional racer!gojo

on the radio

smoke his ass! - pro racer!gojo needs some motivation after a newcomer to the track pisses him off

Geto Suguru

oops? - satoru finds out that you've been seeing his best friend

a quiet moment in the aquarium

napping with you :)

scare actor!suguru

Save a horse, ride a cowboy -> gunslinger!suguru

gunslinger!geto au

Theta Phi Fuckhead -> enemy frat!suguru

ancient grudge, new mutiny

move fast, keep quiet

half the things that haven't happened yet

Series Masterlists

End Game (volleyball captain!gojo x you) COMPLETED

Co-Parenting Megumi with Satoru COMPLETED

I Don't Wanna Live Forever (gojo x you during shibuya) COMPLETED

#irisintheafterglow masterlist

[thiscoldheart]

some details that i loved in la chimera (spoiler heavy) :

i posted this on twitter as well but i wanted to include it here too. i love this little moment here where italia rests her head on arthur's shoulder and for a brief moment, he's anchored to the present by that touch, but him being the orpheus that he is, just HAD to turn back and find himself gravitating towards the tombs, the past and his eurydice.

the fact that italia's name is literally italy in italian and by the end of the movie she creates a community of her own where she's looking out for those that are outcasted by society, in an abandoned train station named riparbella which literally means "to start again".

arthur's eye always being blocked by shadow throughout the movie until he sees the light at the very end

according to wiki, the goddess the statue is based on is cybele, goddess of nature, animals, wild places and represents the "creative and destructive force of nature." her phrygian name matar (mother) alludes to the fact that she was a "mediator between the boundaries of the known and unknown, the civilized and the wild, the worlds of the living and the dead." i love that this goddess' presence in the movie symbolizes arthur traversing between the living and the dead worlds and getting closer to beniamina. i love that by the end of the movie, the statue itself becomes unknown to human eyes and returns to the wild, far away from civilization, which is arguably the same fate that arthur meets as he dies.

the red string that's following arthur around is very reminiscent of the red string ariadne gives theseus to find his way through the maze. it's beautiful how this red string seems to appear only in his dreams at first but slowly starts crossing the boundaries of dreams and reality as the movie goes on until he is able to tug at it by the end and cross over into beniamina's world.

arthur, at the beginning of the movie, says "so it's you. my last woman's face." how cool is it that beniamina's face resembles cybele's?

arthur goes back to flora's house after being injured and her daughter finds him in the bathroom. spooked, she says "i thought it was a ghost" which arthur might as well be considering how he's essentially been a walking corpse this entire movie.

also a special shout out from the bottom of my heart to the sped up sequences, didn't even realize how badly i needed them until i saw them. the chaos in these sequences is everything to me. this is REAL cinema!

in general, one of the themes that i've come to love about this movie is how objects can have different meanings to everyone. an object like the bell arthur found was just "a thing that rings" whereas italia interprets it as a gift until she comes to realize it's been excavated from a grave. the statue was part of a shrine back when it was made, but to the tombaroli and the sellers, this is only a means to make more money. the train station started off as a place that symbolizes movement of people from the city to the countryside but has now become a home for the outcasts of society. the apotropaic phallus would've have warded off evil and bad luck back in the day, but is now used as a means of escape from the law. a simple red string is the literal lifeline for arthur as he tries to find his way back to his lover.

also want to give another shout out to the inclusion of the italian troubadours (our greek chorus) who beautifully spell out the tragedy of our protagonist and his gang.

speaking of music, i really liked this particular song italia was singing as she was practicing. the lyrics go "i'd like to explain to you, o god/ where my suffering lies/ but fate condemns me to weep/ to weep" and that's exactly when arthur finds her crying son. at least italia finds a way for her suffering to end by the end of the movie. maybe we can say the same about arthur too?

i'll probably add more as i keep rewatching the movie lol and make a thread of this on twitter too (x) thanks for sticking around and let me know what other cool details y'all noticed!

#la chimera #alice rohrwacher #josh o'connor #i clearly still have a LOT of thoughts about this movie #wasn't expecting this brainrot when i first watched it but here we are :))))

[asexualannoyance]

“[...] Like other movements within political Islam, the movement [Hamas] reflected a complex local reaction to the harsh realities of occupation, and a response to the disorientated paths offered by secular and socialist Palestinian forces in the past. Those with a more engaged analysis of this situation were well prepared for the Hamas triumph in the 2006 elections, unlike the Israeli, American, and European governments. It is ironic that it was the pundits and orientalists, not to mention Israeli politicians and chiefs of intelligence, who were taken by surprise by the election results more than anyone else. What particularly dumbfounded the great experts on Islam in Israel was the democratic nature of the victory. In their collective reading, fanatical Muslims were meant to be neither democratic nor popular. These same experts displayed a similar misunderstanding of the past. Ever since the rise of political Islam in Iran and in the Arab world, the community of experts in Israel had behaved as if the impossible was unfolding in front of their eyes. [...]

In 2009, Avner Cohen, who served in the Gaza Strip around the time Hamas began to gain power in the late 1980s, and was responsible for religious affairs in the occupied territories, told the Wall Street Journal, “the Hamas, to my great regret, is Israel’s creation.” Cohen explains how Israel helped the charity al-Mujama al-Islamiya (the “Islamic Society”), founded by Sheikh Ahmed Yassin in 1979, to become a powerful political movement, out of which the Hamas movement emerged in 1987. Sheikh Yassin, a crippled, semi-blind Islamic cleric, founded Hamas and was its spiritual leader until his assassination in 2004. He was originally approached by Israel with an offer of help and the promise of a license to expand. The Israelis hoped that, through his charity and educational work, this charismatic leader would counterbalance the power of the secular Fatah in the Gaza Strip and beyond. [...]

In 1993, Hamas became the main opposition to the Oslo Accord. While there was still support for Oslo, it saw a drop in its popularity; however, as Israel began to renege on almost all the pledges it had made during the negotiations, support for Hamas once again received a boost. Particularly important was Israel’s settlement policy and its excessive use of force against the civilian population in the territories. [...]

It also captured the hearts and minds of many Muslims (who make up the majority in the occupied territories) due [to] the failure of secular modernity to find solutions to the daily hardships of life under occupation. [...]

The new Israeli methods of oppression introduced during the Second Intifada—particularly the building of the wall, the roadblocks, and the targeted assassinations—further diminished the support for the Palestinian Authority and increased the popularity and prestige of Hamas. It would be fair to conclude, then, that successive Israeli governments did all they could to leave the Palestinians with no option but to trust, and vote for, the one group prepared to resist an occupation described by the renowned American author Michael Chabon as “the most grievous injustice I have seen in my life.” [...]

The obvious failure of the Palestinian groups and individuals who had come to prominence on the promise of negotiations with Israel clearly made it seem as if there were very few alternatives. In this situation the apparent success of the Islamic militant groups in driving the Israelis out of the Gaza Strip offered some hope. However, there is more to it than this. Hamas is now deeply embedded in Palestinian society thanks to its genuine attempts to alleviate the suffering of ordinary people by providing schooling, medicine, and welfare. No less important, Hamas’s position on the 1948 refugees’ right of return, unlike the PA’s stance, was clear and unambiguous. Hamas openly endorsed this right, while the PA sent out ambiguous messages, including a speech by Abu Mazen in which he rescinded his own right to return to his hometown of Safad. [...]”

—Ten Myths About Israel by Ilan Pappé, Chapter 9: “The Gaza Mythologies”, the section titled “Hamas Is a Terrorist Organization”

#palestine #free palestine #gaza #hamas #quotes #this book is very good

[manicpixiefelix]

a long way down to the bottom of the river

{ One-Shot AU for head, heart, hand. }

Summary: In which Felix can't be talked around to forgiving Oliver, and you become one of Elspeth's last remnants of her children. (Or; in an alternate universe, canon happens and the reader is there to suffer through it with the rest of the Catton family.)

Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly NB Reader. FWB!Reader/Felix. Reader is from a well off family but has pretty much been adopted by the Cattons.

Warnings: SALTBURN-CANON ENDING; death, grief, murder, implied/referenced suicide, funerals, drinking, implied overdose, Oliver Quick being a bastard behind the scenes. You die at the end (heavily implied, not graphic). Angst without a happy ending.

A/N: 3604 words. had to write this to get it out of my head, im so emotional about the catton family i love them all very much. THIS IS NOT CANON TO head, heart, hand.

TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

----

Its Elspeth who finds him, who screams bloody murder in the mid-morning sun. The others are quick to join them, Venetia and Farleigh still sopping from searching the lake. Venetia collapses and Farleigh alongside her, and Sir James is quick to attend his son, denial on his strained voice. Oliver is next, slow moving as if in a haze, and finally, footsteps and shouts -

"What is it, is he -?" Your voice rings out, but Elspeth cuts you off sharply.

"Stop right there, pet." Voice surprisingly authoritative, you're still amongst the high walls of the maze, but can see the clearing open up ahead. However, you still obligingly stop.

"What's wrong, Elspeth, what's happened to-?"

But Elspeth is approaching you, the faintest glimmer of tears in her eyes. Something is terribly wrong, you note, as she wraps you up in the tightest hug you can remember.

"I don't," her voice trembles, barely audible, "want you to see this."

"No," you whisper as it begins to hit you.

"Darling-"

"No," you struggle, already feeling panic and dread well up inside of you. Elspeth tries to hold you tighter, quietly sobbing as she tries to keep you in her embrace, but you break free, running for the centre of the maze.

"Let me see my Felix!"

There are no words in the English language that will ever come close to describing the noise of absolute, distraught anguish that claws its way from your throat at the sight of Felix on the grass, unmoving.

Venetia sobs louder.

The minute you start to crumble, to fall, Oliver is by your side, holding you tight, holding you close. He's wearing Felix's robe, but it's a comfort in this moment. The sobs that escape you make your whole body ache, but you just don't understand how this could happen, how it all went so fucking wrong, how he looks so peaceful in the morning light.

Elspeth calls everyone away for lunch, voice forcibly level, but immediately you disagree.

"Don't make me leave him," you hear yourself say in a rush. For a long moment, Elspeth frowns at you, not angry, just concerned.

"Let his pet stay with him," Sir James says with a strained kind of fondness, "I think letting him have company is a good idea."

After a moment, Elspeth approaches you, takes you out of Oliver's arms, holds your face steady, and you try to repress your tears for the moment.

"Come right back when, well," she falters, just for a moment, "I'll have Duncan call the police -"

"I'll be good, I'll be good," bubbles from your lips as tears continue to trail down your cheeks. Softly, weakly, Elspeth smiles.

"I know you will be, pet, then you come right back inside for lunch with us, okay?"

"Yes," and you, desperate for this connection in this moment, call her something usually only ever used by Felix and Venetia, "mum." Elspeth's gaze softens, eyes suddenly glossy with new tears, and she quickly kisses your forehead.

"Good pet," and she lets you go, leading the way from the maze, and leaving you to finally, tragically approach the body of your best friend.

Like a distraught lover, a dog desperately waiting for a master who will never wake up, you take your place by Felix's side. He is perfect, looking like an angel, looking like he was sleeping; Sir James' reaction still breaks your heart when you think about it, if only because it makes too much sense for a parent in denial.

Everything is a blur, all pain and love and a childish desperation for this all to be a bad dream. When you talk to him, amid sniffles and hiccupping sobs, you don't even register what you're saying; for the first time in your life, Felix is cold to the touch. He's always run warm, this isn't right, this can't be real - when reality hits you again, it hits you hard, laying, curled up by his side, head on his chest. There's no steady rise and fall of his breathing, no warmth, no heartbeat that you know better than your own. Felix, perfect, angelic Felix, is not sleeping.

When the paramedics and police find you, gardener in tow to help them through the maze, you've lost your words. All you can do is sob, wracked with grief, by his side.

It's the gardener who manages to pull you away, a kindly, greying gentleman who's been working for the family for many years. He speaks softly and kindly when he tells you that Elspeth is waiting for you, that lunch is served.

Unlike the others, you've had no time to change, no time to clean yourself up. You are a mess, looking the way every single one of them feels.

There's a chair pulled up right next to Elspeth, way out of formation from the others, an plate of food sat there too. Somehow you know it's for you. When you sit, she gives you a tight, sad smile, and reaches out.

"Eat up, pet," she insists, giving your hand a squeeze when you take hers, "we've all got to keep up our strength." The mince and pie on the plate in front of you is cold. All you can do is cast a helpless gaze around the table to the others. Farleigh sits across from you, unable to look up, unable to touch his food, unable to move. Venetia is at the other end of the table, hand shaking on the wine bottle as she appears to contemplate pouring herself another glass; she looks distraught, looks a mess, god you wish you could go hug her. Oliver is observing you all, as he always does, desperately trying to cling to a sense of normalcy despite the way the air all around you seems to be rotting as you sat there.

And there's a gaping hole in the family, at the table, Felix's chair empty, and your regular one beside it. It means something. Means everything. Beneath the table, Elspeth has lowered your joined hands but hasn't let go. You can feel her trembling. With one hand she tries to eat her lunch with a fork, but Duncan interrupts with a request to close the curtains, to shield the family from witnessing Felix's body being taken away.

Still, everything goes to hell as those curtain bathe the room in red light. Despair is the sound of Farleigh sobbing and screaming and Venetia drinking wine until she's all but drowning in it, and Sir James casting Farleigh out after Oliver rats him out for the cocaine at last night's party. It's all set to the squeak of the gurney just outside, heavy with the weight of your best friend's body. Elspeth tries to act like she can't hear it, but her hand in yours is painfully tight, and she can't keep her food down in that moment.

The curtains open, the world is light again, and you still haven't touched your food.

"May I be excused?" You voice is weak as you turn to a still riled up Sir James. There's a tick in his jaw.

"No."

"Please, he's family."

"He's not coming back here, not now, not ever," there was no room for argument in his voice, but you persisted.

"Please let me say goodbye."

Sir James seems to soften, just for a moment, and he casts his gaze to his wife beside you. When you look to Elspeth, she does hesitate, her grip on your hand still tight, but she finally lets go with a dejected nod.

Immediately you're scrambling away, standing so fast from the table that your chair clatters to the ground in your haste, bolting from the room to find Farleigh.

In the foyer, waiting, Duncan standing guard over him a few feet away, Farleigh is sobbing into his hands. When you pull him into a hug, he crumples against you. There are no words in this moment, just a harmony of anguish and despair, the two of you on the pristine marble floor, holding each other for dear life.

There is no coming back from this. Your world has been irrevocably changed, has gotten a little smaller.

That night you curl up in Felix's bed, like you always do. Your world will never be the same.

"Can I come in?" Venetia sounds like she's been crying, and all you can do is nod. Curling up next to you, Venetia is the little spoon, whole body shaking with silent sobs as you hold her tightly. You join her, until your cries become audible, clinging together in your misery.

"Oh, my darlings," from the doorway you hear Elspeth, and immediately Venetia's crying becomes louder, gesturing like a child for her mother to join your all. Shuffling over, you let Elspeth settle herself in the middle, under the duvet, tears in her eyes as you both curl into the only show of genuine connection she's offered all day. Venetia begs her mother to make it stop, to tell her it isn't real, and all Elspeth can do is apologise.

"He's gone, mummy he's gone, how the fuck could this happen to us?!"

Elspeth has no answer.

All three of you sleep uneasily.

During the days that follow, lead up to Felix's funeral, Elspeth requests your company more and more, whilst Sir James seems to have decided that your input, as Felix's closest friend, was necessary for the funeral arrangements. It's taxing to accommodate them all and not break down. Thankfully, during the nights, Venetia doesn't seem to mind if you cry. The two of you take to sharing Felix's bed, like children having a sleep over, holding each other close for comfort, trying to talk when the pain of his absence isn't unbearable.

In between it all you try and make time for Oliver. He watches the way you're stretching yourself thin, always asks how you are, if you need a break or time to yourself. Time to yourself is the last thing you need, you tell him, and he can see the sadness in your smile.

On the day of the funeral, it is you and Sir James who give speeches. When the idea was suggested, you immediately tried to refute it, insisting that Elspeth or Venetia should be the ones to go up, but Venetia gives a sad smile and points out that you knew him better than she did. Elspeth knows she could never make it through even a sentence.

Still, Venetia comes up with you for support, her arm tucked in yours as you read through the carefully prepared documents. Farleigh's in the crowd with red-rimmed eyes; at least Sir James had the good grace to invite him, even if he wasn't allowed to attend the actual burial or wake.

Halfway through your speech, the paper gets blurry and tears cloud your vision and your voice gets stuck in your throat for a moment.

"It's okay," Venetia whispers, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, though she's crying too, "it's okay."

"Felix Catton," you decided to fold up your carefully prepared script, looking out at all attending, all who'd loved him, "was an irreplaceable bright light. Everything about him made the world want to bask in his warmth; I know everyone here knows what I'm talking about," taking a deep breath, looking around to see more than a few nodding heads in the crowd, "Fi was love, and joy, and spontaneity, and he refused to compromise himself for others," and you looked down, squeezing your eyes shut tightly as the ache in your chest began to overwhelm you, "he was unapologetically himself," another shaky breath in before admitting, "he was my whole world," trying to get past the lump in your throat, "and I'm going to miss him for the rest of my life."

It's Venetia who throws Felix's rock into the river, and your turn to support her, holding her tightly as she flinches away from the sound of the rock hitting the water. She cries in your arms until you all make your way back to Saltburn.

"Felix's darling," is what Elspeth has taken to calling you in the past few days. It's clunky to hear, and would be a mouthful to say, but you're not going to protest.

"Yes, mum?" It's what you've taken to calling Elspeth; she hasn't protested that either.

"Of course you're free to say no, but I-" desperately trying to keep up a brave face, it falters slightly when her voice catches, "I'd be very grateful for your company in one of our spare bedrooms. Nothing untoward -" she's quick to clarify, "like a sleepover, when you children were small. I'll get Duncan to bring some kind of snacks, perhaps a charcuterie board? And wine?" She gives a hopeful smile. Never in your life had you heard a request quite like this from Elspeth. But these aren't exactly usual circumstances; who were you to deny a grieving mother?

Elspeth tells you stories from Felix and Venetia's childhood from before you knew them, often with a hint of guilt that it was relayed to her by one of the maid, or footmen, or chefs, or gardeners. Still, it's comforting to you both to hear these stories on such a tragic night. The wine is immaculate and the cheese is, of course, award winning, and if Elspeth is crying quietly while she tries to sleep, holding you close like you're a child again, you don't say anything. There's tears in your eyes too.

But you can't get to sleep. When you see the sky turning pale behind the curtains you ease yourself out of her grip, exhausted in every way possible, as you head to the other side of the estate, back to a more familiar bed.

When you finally get back to Felix's room, you're hit by the overwhelming smell of blood. Dread and nausea wells up in your stomach, the scent growing stronger with each step you take towards the bathroom.

Blonde hair and a blood-filled bathtub. Razor blades and Venetia's blood on the tiles. You think you're going to be sick.

"Ven- Ven!" You're screaming at the top of your lungs, it's barely even dawn. You don't care if you wake Oliver in the next room, god there's horror in the idea that he'd slept just feet away without even knowing.

"Venetia!" You climb in the deep tub, bloody water splashing, overflowing as you pull the plug and try and sit her up higher, sit her mouth and nose out of the water. It's too late, logically you know this, but you're panicking - this can't be happening again. Oliver stumbles in, horror on his face, in his eyes, as he takes in the scene, and you beg him to fetch Duncan, to call and ambulance, sobbing through your adrenaline and fear.

You won't let her be seen in this state, you realise, so you pull her from the bath, wrap her up in a spare robe from her brother's closet, and you sit with her. Your back against the wall you sit her in between your legs, back firm against your chest, propped up, even as her head lolls to the side. All you can do is cry, whispering apologies into the damp ends of her hair, begging her forgiveness. Your pyjamas are soaked with her blood from the bathtub, but you can't even begin to care.

Elspeth becomes reluctant to let you go.

"Tell me about your adventures with them," she'd ask softly, sitting neatly and cross-legged in the spare bedroom next to the master bedroom where Sir James still spends his nights. Like her daughter before her, she's started requesting that you braid her hair after she's showered for the night. You always oblige her request.

She becomes anxious, it seems, without you around, as if afraid that you'll do something similar to Venetia. You are not yourself around her, you are a remnant of her children, but for the time being she gives you purpose, so you cave to her requests every time. All your clothes are moved into the spare bedroom, and in the quiet of night, Elspeth sounds so sad when she recounts that she stopped Felix and Venetia from crawling into her bed after a nightmare far earlier in their lives than she wishes she had. She always wakes up before you, and never talks about it during the day, but there's something in it for you too. Every night she kisses your forehead, and something aches in your chest at her quiet, loving words;

"I love you, my darling, I'm so proud of you." And you know you're not the child she so desperately wishes she was talking to. But you realise you needed to hear them anyways.

Oliver is still around, quiet, skulking, not quite sure what to do with himself. A lot of the time he joins yourself and Elspeth in whatever activity she had chosen; reading, art, strolling the grounds.

"Isn't he wonderful," Elspeth would say, fondness in her voice, "of course you and our darling Felix love him so, how beautiful he is." Elspeth held fast to you and Oliver, all she had left of her children, though in time it grew almost to the point of suffocation.

"It's because she's worried you'll do something drastic," Oliver tells you softly, the two of you sitting on Felix's balcony, looking out over the lake. Sir James and Elspeth are attending a gala, and Elspeth had been wringing her hands about not having you by her side for the night, but her husband had reminded her that this was the one gala you really couldn't attend, and ordered Duncan to always have you in line of sight.

"Like Venetia?" You'd asked, wine drunk and indulging in your night of freedom. Oliver is very quiet, but you know he's thinking the same thing. When you look over your shoulder, you see Duncan, stoic as ever, behind the glass doors, giving your conversation privacy but still always watching. You implore him to get another bottle of wine, and promise you won't make any rash or sudden moves. Oliver snorts into his own bottle, but Duncan seems less than impressed. Still, he obliges, and for a few moments you and Oliver are entirely alone.

"Is it like Farleigh?" Oliver finally asks, before shaking his head with a frown, back tracking, "no, forget I said -"

"Is what like Farleigh?" Intrigued and feeling indulgent, you lean your head against him, the two of you on the wicker sofa. For another few beats, Oliver is still quiet.

"Are they paying for you?" He murmurs, "is that why you stay?" You make a noncommittal noise in the back of your throat, shifting a little.

"Is that what you think of me, Ollie?"

"I don't know," he admits, "no-one really talks about why you're here."

"I don't think anyone thought it mattered; I'm here because Felix is my best friend and the others don't mind me being here," you sit up, gesturing broadly out to the grounds with a wide smile and open hand, "I could be anything I want, anywhere I want, and I chose Saltburn." Sitting back down, you settle against him, and thank Duncan as he slithers back into your view with a fresh bottle of wine.

"Is that what you tell yourself?" Oliver sounds almost a little rueful as he says it, but all you can do is snort with laughter, unsurprised that he doesn't believe you.

"Do you think I wasn't allowed at this gala tonight because I was, what, too poor?" He doesn't exactly have an answer for you, so you continue on anyways, "Ollie, my parents were hosting it; they just hate being reminded that they have a kid." It's the way you have nothing, nothing, nothing that loves you other than these memories, these two broken parents, that makes you bark a humourless laugh, "funny, isn't it?" Your eyes start misting over, and you can't look at Oliver for your thoughts and the grief as it wells up inside of you, "how I got the family I always wanted," a wide, ugly smile stretches across your face as the tears begin to pour, as it really, truly hits you, "all it cost me was fucking everything else."

("You should have let them go to the gala," years later he will tell a comatose Elspeth, barely clinging to life as he watches over her and the machines keeping her breathing, "you should have known they'd do something drastic." He takes an inhale, faint smile quirking at the edge of his mouth as he considers, but can't bring himself to look at Elspeth during these moments of his confessional.

"You had everything you needed in them; the ghost of your selfish children calling their best friend home, haunting us all even when they were gone. I admit, I was selfish, you didn't need me. No," he reconsiders, shaking his head with a frown, "they were selfish; they could have had the world and yet they chose to haunt you, haunt us."

"They were cute with Felix though, weren't they? Best friend. Soulmate. Dog. Says he was their everything, and I think Felix thought that about them too. Always tangled up in each other, weren't they? Something very Romeo and Juliet about them; romantic," he tried not to give a wicked grin at the thought, "that they'd kill themselves the same way he'd died."

"You never did ask why I was so sure Farleigh still had cocaine in his room after the party.")

#saltburn x reader #felix catton x reader x oliver quick #felix catton x reader #saltburn imagine #felix catton imagine #oliver quick x reader #felix catton x y/n #felix catton x you #oliver quick x you #oliver quick imagine #oliver quick x y/n #felix catton x you x oliver quick #head heart hand fic #manic writer

[kii-nami]

GILDED DREAMS | SUNDAY

You do not protest the clear display of authority over the most minuscule of details. Maybe you don’t even care for things like that, maybe you even take pity on him for that fact. Whatever it is in the end, Sunday doesn’t know. Neither does he ask. Birds are born to foolishly oppose the safety of captivity, but some will walk into the cage willingly. For they believe it to be temporary. Sunday’s gloves are stained with your divine blood. Your name will be written in the holy scriptures by his own hand soon enough.

cw: 6.5k words; part one of two; fem!mc; nameless!mc; i'm not a hsr lore scholar; sunday get behind me i have a glock and nothing to lose except you;

To survive is to suffer. And crippled birds neither fly nor sing. All they are truly good for is to live a life of captivity. The only way to keep them safe is to build them a cage strong enough to protect them from all known predators. A prison of comfort, peaceful enough for them to forget their broken wings and settle down, with only sickeningly sweet scent of heaven in the air. Idyllic enough for it to become a dream.

Thus, Sunday dreams of eternal paradise in which no bird will ever get its wings clipped. In his gilded dreams, humanity’s life is free of misery. There is no survival of the fittest, for there is no weakness. There is no uncertainty, for there is no future. There is no suffering, for there is only Order. Or so the Dreammaster says.

And Ena the Order dreams of a paradise for everyone but Sunday, as he is a necessary sacrifice for the greater good of peace. One must be crucified for the sake of humanity, and Sunday is more than willing to become a martyr if it means he will finally obtain a cage big enough to contain anything and everything that could threaten his family. Or so the Dreammaster says.

To live is to dream. And you, Sunday decides, dream of nothing. For if you were, you would not have been roaming the halls of this maze. Yet Ena the Order sees none of your trespassing, and Sundays dares not to disturb Them with the news of someone so easily escaping their handmade heaven. Yet the ravens won’t stop screeching, the voices continue chanting. You do not belong here, so Sunday has no other choice but to take you out himself. That is the right thing to do. Or so the Dreammaster says. That is what he wants.

“Be not afraid.”

Your hand stops midair. The ribbons of your intricate sleeves keep swaying gently as your fingers tremble a mere inch away from the marble surface of the statue you were admiring. Then you shudder, dropping your arm limply at your side and finally look at him.

“Fear is the soul killer.” You agree easily, the light tremor of your voice betraying you by giving that very fear away. “I’ve been wandering these halls for hours, however. It is natural for me to expect the worst, Mister Sunday.”

You know him yet he remembers you not. So it must be your first time in Penacony, otherwise Sunday would have surely remembered someone like you. Someone who is capable of evading Order’s omniscience. It matters not, however. For he will guide you back to paradise with his own hand.

“I shall show you the way, then.” Sunday offers you his hand in an exercise of faithless chivalry. The white fabric of his gloves is yet to be stained with blood or soiled with the touch of the passing visitors he is forced to exchange pleasantries with. But soon it will be. He doesn't want it to. “If I may.”

“I would be eternally grateful.” You smile. “My family must be worried sick about me.”

There is nothing but kindness behind your voice and the light reflecting of your eyes can blind a sinner if they look at you. Sunday knows better than to trust the emptiness of words and fool’s gold of flattery for he is throwing those around on the daily. So when your palm presses gently against his own, he leads you to your untimely demise with no hesitation and all the remorse one could have, leaving you none the wiser to his true intentions.

Sunday half-expects to be stabbed in the back with some sort of a mythical dagger bestowed upon you by an Aeon who opposes the harmonious Order he is conducting under Ena’s blessing. He's waiting for you to try and snap his other wing right off his back to make sure he isn't even capable of dreaming of the skies. Yet nothing of the sort ever happens. It's a little unnerving, unsettling in a way that makes Sunday feel the phantom pains of things long lost. He wants to accuse you of treachery yet cannot. He wishes to call you a master of deception yet cannot.

Like a saint, you seem to trust him to help you find your way back. Akin to a sinner, it is him who rules over the silver of his tongue and the steel of his word.

Sunday knows he should dispose of you in the waters of the dream pool like he intended to do. That is what the Dreammaster would have wanted. Anything that is a threat to Ena the Order is a threat to his gilded dreams. And those who threaten the cage will inevitably draw a weapon against Robin. Yet he sees no ill intent in your eyes. Just concern for your family who you supposedly burdened with worry of your disappearance. And as it gradually dissolves with each step he takes to the exit of reality, a conflict in him grows stronger.

Standing at the crossroads, Sunday knows nothing. So when the time comes for you to fall back into heaven, he is there to catch you with a promise of never meeting again.

Too bad he never asked for your name. How miserable it is you never thought yourself important enough to give it to him unprompted.

Even in dreams people like Sunday are not exempt from suffering. To suffer is to survive. That is just the price you must pay for being tied to reality like a Charmony dove that has been chained to a metal ball and released into the wilderness. And Sunday may be the head of the Oak Family on paper signed with a bloodstained feather plucked from his own wing, yet he despises dealing with people from the IPC. All precious stone in only name and nothing else, Aventurine is positively infuriating.

In more ways than one.

“One of Astral Express girls disappeared from her room last night.” His smirk is full of poorly hidden mischief and something else that Sunday simply doesn’t care about. He may crave control over all that is his, yet he wishes not to claim someone like Aventurine as one of his own. “How perfectly aligned with your sister’s unfortunate death…”

The muscles of his back are strained. To dominate over his own desires is just as important as it is to rule over every single aspect of the dream that is this life. The gilded dream of Ena the Order must continue, and Sunday will not be the one to sabotage it. To dream is to live.

Sunday taps the railing, “Are you accusing me of kidnapping now?”

Soothing tone and relaxed posture, Sunday will continue his reign over the dominion of Control no matter what he feels or wants. There is no other way. Crippled birds neither fly nor sing, nor do they grow their missing wings back. And even if some foolish being deems them fit enough to recover, takes pity on them and nurses them back to health, domesticated birds will only use those hollow, mended bones of theirs to plummet right back to the ground.

“Just stating my observations.” Aventurine laughs, a noisy little snicker that pierces Sunday’s ears like a nail on the chalkboard. Then he waves dismissively, the lackluster wiggle of his fingers as he turns around to leave. Good riddance, if only eternal. “Good luck. Her Foxian friend is very fond of fried chicken. Me too, now that I think about it…”

Sunday remains standing on the balcony for another hour. There is no rush. He knows who it was that vanished without a trace, and he knows where to find you. But he cannot control someone like Aventurine so Sunday dares not making any irrational decisions. Unlike Aventurine himself, Sunday isn’t fond of gambling. Uncertainty is at the roots of all evil.

He leaves and goes about his business. A sinner to confess their wrongdoings to him; a passerby to shake hands with, a Masked Fool to dampen already soiled mood; a Nameless to throw him a passing glance of suspicion; Robin’s shadow that should not be there for now. If the vermin – a truly formidable man all things considered, yet simply infuriating – is watching, he will see nothing but a busy head of the Oak Family. If Aventurine has better things to do than to follow Sunday’s footsteps in a feat of uncharacteristic obsession, at least Sunday finished all his work for the day and could finally take a shallow breath of momentary relief.

The halls of the maze are empty as they should be, yet Sunday didn’t expect to find anyone there in the first place. You remain in the dining room, rooted next to a marble statue, fingertips barely grazing the cool stone. The ribbons are swaying side to side and the white of your clothes is stained with pinks, blues and purples right in the middle of your back. The colors bleed out from there and drip down the dress onto your skin.

“Be not afraid.”

“Fear is the soul killer.” Your trembling fingers falter and when you turn to face him, there is way more of those pinks and blues all over your heaving chest all the way from your neck. Sunday knows not of what happened and he dares not to ask; his harmonic tuning failed once, and he will not be deceived anymore. “Are you here to escort me back to the dreamscape again, Mister Sunday?”

Sunday swears that if Ena could see you, They too would be just as terrified as he is at that moment. “I’m afraid I do not follow, Miss.”

“Then I shall pretend I said nothing.” You shrug, Sunday’s outstretched hand is hovering in the air for you to take. You do. With no hesitation and all the faith of a religious fanatic, you once more let him guide you out of the painful reality and into a dream as if you didn’t just admit to fully comprehending this fact. “Please be mindful that I will wake up no matter what. Your gilded dream rejects me.”

Sunday stops in his tracks. His crippled wing is pressing uncomfortably to his side, smoothed over bone digging into his skin as a reminder that he cannot ever fly even if he was delusional enough to try to. Every breath is a labor of well-practiced habit and an effort of greatest heights. You’re patiently waiting for him to gather his control back into his tightly clenched fist, the one that is always pulled behind his back to the broken wing he could never repair.

The colors are still bleeding all over your dress as your chest rises and falls in odd intervals. You may have the patience of a saint, yet your fears all eat you alive. Fear is the soul killer. Or so you say. To suffer is to survive. To dream is to live. How can you live if you can never dream?

You furrow your eyebrows. The harmonic tuning has failed yet again. This time without even clouding your mind enough to put you to sleep. Yet your jittering palm keeps trembling in his hold as you exhale lightly, trying to shake off the vibrations of his halo. A delicate cross dangling from your neckless is staring back at Sunday with resentment that he only saves for the person who shot Robin and the Cancer of All Worlds which took away their mother and the scissors which clipped his wings so Sunday would never dare to escape. Or maybe it’s just his reflection looking back at him from the golden glow of the cross.

In retrospect, you did nothing wrong. You don’t even try to hide anything from him, laying your knowledge bare for Sunday to interpret however he wishes to. A sinner that has confessed to their wrongdoings is ought to be forgiven in the eyes of any deity. Yet has this so-called sin been committed in the first place? If you allowed him to baptize you not once but twice, fully comprehending it meant abandoning any uncertain future you humans seem to crave so much.

What is right and what is wrong? What is a virtue and what is a sin? What is an Order and what is a Doubt? Sunday knows not. But he needs to collect all his control and pour it into a cup for you to savor one way or another. If not a sinner, you are a saint. Ena the Order sees you not, so you must have been imprisoned by someone else already. And it is Sunday’s duty to free all of mankind of the shackles of turmoil and lead them to paradise.

For he cannot let you leave yet he cannot bring himself to kill you. Sunday can talk in riddles and try to manipulate your emotions all he wishes, yet you seem to reject the vibrations of Order without even trying. So how does one contain something they cannot control? How does a devout believer tempt a messenger of a foreign god?

“I cannot let you go.” Sunday’s voice is a little hoarse, he is not used to telling the truth. It most often than not leads to suffering, yet something tells him you will see right through him if he does lie. Maybe he has much less control than he initially thought. “You know too much.”

“All is fair, Mister Sunday.” It is not a response a sane woman should give. “However, may I be so bold to ask for a clean dress?”

But saints are all-forgiving, and ordinary people are not meant to understand their reasoning. For there is none. At least not with you. No reason and a heart pinned to your sleeve, bleeding color all over your skin. Sunday needs to know your name so he can search high and low for the Aeon who crucified you for Their own selfish whims.

“I shall pick the best one there is.” Sunday nods.

You do not protest the clear display of authority over the most minuscule of details. Maybe you don’t even care for things like that, maybe you even take pity on him for that fact. Whatever it is in the end, Sunday doesn’t know. Neither does he ask. Birds are born to foolishly oppose the safety of captivity, but some will walk into the cage willingly. For they believe it to be temporary.

Sunday’s gloves are stained with your divine blood.

Your name will be written in the holy scriptures by his own hand soon enough.

The dress is beautiful. And so is the next. And the one after that. And all the others that follow.

Ribbons and feathers. Intricate lace and weightless silks. Gold and diamonds. All never worn even once and kept neatly in the wardrobe of your bedroom. If your disapproving sigh is anything to go by, you don’t appreciate the excessive luxury, yet accept them just to hide them in your closet and put on the simplest of garments that he brought to you the day you entered the mansion.

Sunday cannot understand you, but differences are included in the natural Order of things. Reality is a lonely prison of misery, and Sunday returns there for he has no other place to belong to. Yet you seem to enjoy it as a long-awaited vacation. Way more than your family does it back in Penacony’s gilded dream.

Sunday doesn’t think your behavior is reasonable, yet he questions you not. You won’t give him the answer he is seeking, anyway. Your heart may be out there in the open, yet the pages of your thoughts are written with invisible ink and no amount of heat can paint them with life.

You have a habit of refusing things you deem unnecessary or excessive, your friendly exposition never wavering even under pressure of almost constant loneliness. Some days Sunday wonders what would happen if he doesn’t return here after all his tasks for the day are done, when Aventurine with his Nameless Foxian companion and her other nosy friends don’t breathe down his neck with accusatory air. He does not entertain such foolish thoughts; they would break his carefully crafted routine and Sunday is a being of habit. For habit is Order.

And so, against his better judgment of clipped feathers, Sunday returns. To your palace of a bedroom, with three light knocks and a little apology for intrusion. You are rarely there, so he is forced to look for you just as he is searching for the Aeon responsible for your fate. And when he does find you, all Order crumbles.

To live is to suffer. Your suffering is intricately woven into your every breath.

On Mondays you prepare a special dinner. It’s just you and him and a lonely candle on a little table on your balcony. The stars are dripping the color of your blood, the wine in your glass is untouched and you never eat more than could fit in a teacup. A life of such modesty is far too unfamiliar for the bird who was brought up in a cage of golden bars and silver spoons, yet Sunday doesn’t mind. He’s got other, more important things to worry about. For if the Dreammaster finds out about you, he will wish to dispose of you. And Sunday may have already sinned for the betterment of humanity, yet he isn’t sure if he is capable of turning saints into martyrs just yet.

“Won’t it be easier to just kill me?” You constantly disarm him with your questions. Some days Sunday isn’t quick enough to even imagine drawing a weapon to protect his mingled self.

“No.” Sunday answers a bit too quickly for his liking. “I mean you no harm, Miss [Name].”

On Tuesdays you clean. The mansion is spotless for it is empty, and there is nothing, but a thin coat of dust gathered around on the bookshelves of his study. You busy yourself with it even if you are told not to bother with such things. Sunday wishes to treat you as a guest despite the circumstances. All people were born equal and pretending that you are anything less than he is would going against what he stands for. His gilded dreams are not built on bigotry or injustice, only harmonious Order of happiness.

Your presence in the room is that of a dove on a branch behind a glass dome. All hollow bones and disarray of feathers, Sunday cannot ignore you even if it is what the Order would have wanted. Yet what the Order cannot see, that is all for Sunday to keep for himself; to hide under his pillow so it won’t ever be taken away from him by any collapsing dreams.

“Do you think me a madman?” He asks.

You laugh and shake your head in amused disagreement. Sunday wishes he could steal your laughter straight from your vocal cords to fill in the holes in his wings with it. He cannot. Yet would you let him if he asked with the utmost honesty? Only time will tell.

You are a willing participant of all and any conversations, despite allowing him to talk most of the time. You listen and ask questions, give your own opinion in bite size pieces that never overshadow his voice. His dreams are grand, and his plans are fragile, yet for all that is worth you take him seriously. A noble man with a heart which bleeds for everyone but himself, you call him. A kind person with good intentions which will pave his downfall for him, you say easily. A caring brother, who will always put his family first even if it is bound to strain the thin red thread that connects them to each other, you smile wistfully.

“A flightless bird which longs for the sky. That is what you are to me, Mister Sunday.”

His soul aches. All bruised and mattered. Sunday would rather you simply called him mad.

On Wednesdays you tend to the garden. Flowers are blooming here no matter the season. Even in reality Penacony is still a dream, albeit not dusted with a thin layer of gold and illusions. You move around the sea of color like a ghost, the white of your dress stained with soil and a twinge of misery.

You don’t think Sunday is mad and you understand his dream of peace, yet you never condone his drastic approach to things. The dreams in which you hold happiness in the palms of your hands simply do not exist. That is what you say to him, picking two stray peonies from the bush and handing one of them to him with the tenderness of a torn-up heart. The other gets its petals plucked one by one with a gentle touch of your fingers, and the pain of the missing parts of him grows with each one getting lost in the green of the grass underneath your feet.

No wishes ever come true in a gilded cage so people will always seek reality, no matter how painful it may be. Sunday thinks his wishes can only ever be fulfilled by a dream in which nobody will suffer anymore. There is simply no such a thing that cannot be obtained by a paradise he wishes to create for everyone with Ena’s holy rule. And you – the misguided messenger of a foreign god, a martyr for a cause which you don’t stand for – you also deserve your wishes granted to you. For everyone is born equal.

“What do you dream of, Miss [Name]?” Sunday wonders, watching you longingly collect every single petal from the grass, mend them together with the hues of pinks and purples and then tear the peony back into pieces.

“I dream of living.”

You look up at him with misty eyes, clouded with yearning and unshed tears. The colors float around your head like a halo. Maybe one of these days Sunday will finally find an answer in those scattered petals.

Thursdays you watch the stars. Time flies as the stars keep shooting from the sky like fallen angels, and you simply observe as they crash and burn. Your fingers twitch as if you wish to catch all of them, yet you ask for nothing.

Sunday comes, his back hunched by the growing weight of endless responsibilities and troubles. Yet when he leaves with his shoulders less tense and buzzing static in his chest, to return to his life of sacrifice that is necessary for the good of all mankind, he never forgets to ask what you wish for. Silence is the only answer Sunday receives, and the gentle sway of the ribbons in a summer breeze tells him he will regret ever asking this question when you finally deem it appropriate to indulge him.

The stars glow bright when you’re out here in the garden. Caged birds keep singing their woeful tunes. Thread and needle in your hands, you’re mending the hem of your dress, still refusing to wear any of those more extravagant ones. Your nightgown is not made for the outside and you shiver. The night isn’t getting any warmer, yet you ask for nothing. To live is to suffer, yet what is life if you only ever knew of torment.

A jacket he places on your shoulders does little, and whatever selfish wishes Sunday has must be drowned in the sea of shooting stars. For they will not be accepted. There is no place for them in this reality in which he lays his mortal body on a stone and holds the nails which he will get crucified with in his own two hands. Yet if the Dreammaster were here, he would have shared Sunday’s vision of the gilded dream that he is bending and breaking to his will just to make enough space in it for you as well. A paradise in which you stay here by his side forever as the messenger for him and no one else.

“I wish for nothing, Mister Sunday.”

Sunday knows it to be a lie. You whisper your true wish with the last breath you take before falling into restless, golden slumber. He will break this world in half to grant it to you, even if it calls for eternity of loneliness. A twitch of a broken wing, you’re almost weightless in his arms. Sunday does not understand why just yet. But he will.

On Fridays you play the violin. For once it’s his fingers that are stained with color. Sunday is staring at the canvas, hues and tones blending together with shadows and highlights to create a heavenly image of absolute divinity. He thinks it belongs to a chapel right where he gets down on his knees to confess his wrongdoings and pray for forgiveness, yet Sunday knows even existence of such a thought in and of itself is a mortal sin.

The melody is full of sorrow and the birds which you released from the cages are all perched on the pews of the chapel where you put them. They cannot fly, so they cannot escape and meet their end in horrifying loneliness. For now, you are here to catch them if they were to fall, so they can only sing along to the miserable tune of a violin in your hands.

“To live is to suffer. We must make peace with this suffering.” You put the instrument back in its case and lock all the birds back in their respective cages.

They do not resist, so Sunday is convinced you are implying that they’ve made peace with their suffering just like the two of you accepted yours. Yet when Sunday washes the pinks and purples of his fingers, he cannot help but think you are wrong. To live is to dream. And to dream is to slumber in eternal paradise, where no suffering can ever touch you.

The portrait he’s made of you will never do your beauty justice, but no icon could ever depict the true holiness of a saint. He will succeed eventually. You will have all the time in the world in his eternal paradise.

On Saturdays you dance. In a world less cruel, the one Sunday will create in the name of Ena, Robin is there to support your performance with the soothing voice of a Charmony dove. She is not, for you and him are stuck in miserable world where no wishes ever come true.

You would have been one of Penacony’s brightest stars, if only you weren’t chained to reality by those who do not deserve you. A twirl, the wind picks up your ribbons as you move gracefully to the melody of a tearful piano. And in a moment of fleeting weakness, Sunday asks about your shackles. And with a sway of your swan song, you share the tale of Istanai the Repudiation.

The Aeon who claimed you at birth and refused to let go even after They forsook your people, and you abandoned Their rusted prison. They are still following you around even after all those years even if They don’t want you. They make no sense for They reject all of it, along with anything else that They have ever touched. Even Their own children, the natural Order of things, any wishes or dreams; They abdicate everything and nothing, for that is the Path that They oversee. It is the Path you were born into and that is also the Path that you abandoned to pursue eternal Trailblaze.

“To live is to suffer. For you can keep nothing. Cannot wish to hold anything.” And then you admit, heat radiating off you in waves, “And I am only useful to this world for as long as I keep Their gaze on me.”

Sunday thinks you are wrong. Yet then the clock strikes midnight, and it marks the Seventh day. And on Sundays, you weep.

With your knees on the cold floor and hands pressed close to your heart, you keep praying in a tongue he cannot comprehend. The words fall from your lips hastily and desperately, as you beg for forgiveness in a language he does not know. Yet the things that Sunday does understand, all relate to the Aeon who stole your will and clipped your wings, chaining you to reality where the weak only get weaker and the strong keep getting stronger.

That is not the Path one should walk on, the loneliness of martyrdom for someone else’s sake is not a burden that should be bestowed upon someone but instead a choice one makes willingly. And you chose not your fate, yet suffer the consequences, nonetheless.

Maybe, Sunday muses kneeling next to you for a prayer. Maybe something simple like a dream is not enough. If They refuse to let you go yet condemn you for keeping them, Sunday can create something bigger than a gilded dream of illusion. Maybe a real paradise will be just enough to steal you away to a life that is worth living.

Your hand gently wipes a tear away from his cheek before it can fall and stain the floor of the chapel. It lingers on your fingers with deep red. One glove, then another. You are as warm as he imagined in the dreams he cannot keep, for he is the lamb of Ena and he is ready to be slaughtered if it means people like you – or Robin, or their dear mother – won’t ever cry anymore. The skin of your palm is smooth against his lips. It’s all Sunday can ever allow himself to have, and that is all that he will ever keep.

“You must leave tomorrow, Miss [Name].” He says, hands grasping your own.

A tear falls. This time it feels like you are weeping for him and him alone.

Maybe being a messenger of the Order is not the end for harmony of happiness, and somewhere in the realm of gods there is a spot for his own ideals as well. The Dreammaker may not understand or approve, yet when Sunday ascends to greatness of true holiness, on his first day he will free you from suffering. And on the seventh, there will be nothing but peace. For his gaze will never abandon you.

Sunday can promise on his blood on your hands.

And as it always is, crippled birds neither fly nor sing. They fall. Shooting stars and collapsing dreams, all Order has been forsaken as gravity pulls Sunday closer to his inevitable demise. His flesh and blood clings to him like the ideals he cannot ever atone for, yet in his noble pursuit of eternal happiness a sliver of selfish desire for comfort remains. So he lets Robin linger yet dares not to soil the purity of her embrace with the dullness of his touch.

A cage will always rust and corrode with time, falling apart at the seams. Gilded dreams are not meant to last forever. Nothing is truly eternal except for humanity’s striving to move forward into that useless future full of self-inflicted misery.

Robin’s breathless voice mutters something that is instantly lost in the wind and she pulls him closer. If Sunday were a better brother, a better man, a better person, he would have stopped all galaxies and frozen this moment just to let his sister descend this condensed and polluted air of his crumbling paradise like a stairway to heaven. He isn’t any of those things. So, he doesn’t even try. No miracle will happen if he does. A bird missing its wing will never catch flight right before hitting the ground.

And Sunday is nothing more than a crippled Charmony dove – a dying raven, truly – destined to roam the cage of his gilded dreams forever, for stepping outside signifies the end of Order and the beginning of Suffering. And he isn’t ready to die yet. He wasn’t ready.

To live is to suffer. To dream is to survive. With no cages and no birds in sight, Sunday accepts the inevitable.

“It is in human nature to reject usurpers, Mister Sunday.” Weightlessness of your voice envelopes all in bright light of heavenly warmth.

A feather. A ribbon. A silken touch of divinity confined in a painfully human vessel. If Sunday didn’t know any better, he would have thought he met face to face with some foreign man’s Goddess. Sunday knows better, however. So he closes his eyes and lets Istanai the Repudiation touch him. There are no rules he wouldn’t break to ensure Robin’s survival. And yet…

“I told you to leave.” Sunday is not used to repeating himself twice. His fingers tremble as he watches Robin take your hand and walk down the ladder he thought to be impossible.

“And as a human that I am, I rejected your order.” You smile. The light in your eyes is made of purest of diamonds and it keeps burning with holy fire. Sunday was foolish to think you would listen to reason and not your bleeding heart. “It seems we don’t have much time, so let me heal your wounds as I celebrate that my naïve soul has won for once.”

Robin, as all free-spirited birds are, is a creature of curiosity. She tilts her head and finds comfort on one of the floating ribbons, swaying on it like a swing. There’s a little ruffle to the feathers of her wings, yet she minds it not, opting to watch the two of you instead. Your eyes may be glowing, yet the sturdiness of your will is starting to wear off. Sunday isn’t sure whether it’s his silence that is making you doubt your decisions, Robin’s dedicated stare or your own thinning convictions. His guess is as good as any, but the most logical answer will always be him.

Your forced companionship has come to its inevitable end. Yet just like the day you two met, Sunday is at the crossroads yet again.

“Robin first.”

There are no protests, just gentle swaying of ribbons, a warm glow of pale pinks and purples, and Robin’s hushed voice humming a tune. She looks livelier, well rested, the shadows under her eyes dissolve under the shimmer of divine rejection. Your hands are hovering over hers, almost grazing the skin yet never daring touching it. As if you too, thought yourself undeserving. It made no sense, yet Sunday had no right to question the natural Order of things. Istanai the Repudiation refused to give Their children up, even if They abandoned them first in pursuit of eternal rejection.

A song stops. A couple of grateful words fall from Robin’s rosy lips. You nod politely, a smile returning to your face with a bit more brightness. You offer him a place to sit, a fleeting glance cast over your shoulder. Sunday has half a mind to follow in your footsteps and refuse, yet he does not. He is tired, wasted efforts and unyielding dreams quivering under the weight of reality, all he truly wishes for is to collapse for good. With his missing wing and shuttered principles. How long has it been since he took a proper breath?

Sunday takes a seat. Like a holy dove that you are, you hover near him from your own heavenly branch. Never touching and always lingering, yet the heat of your skin burns him just like divine flame would scorch a sinner. The light under your fingertips rejects his wounds and exiles his exhaustion, it bends his will and breaks his bones. And if letting go or Order meant keeping you by his side for the rest of his life – however long it may be – then Sunday wouldn’t mind a life of sin of a different kind. And if you were to cross this distance and touch him, he would ask you to stay. Yet you don’t.

To live is to survive. To dream is to suffer. Your mind is somewhere far away, and the ache of his bones makes Sunday feel like he is being reborn. From a dying raven to a Charmony dove with all his wings intact, capable of flying on his own.

“So it is true that your kind cannot be manipulated.”

You shiver. Sunday’s back is throbbing. There’s not a person here but a cat. Cursing you with a heavy gaze of his eyes.

“It’s not nice to sneak up on people like that, Mister Elio.” You chastise him gently, pulling away from Sunday and taking all your holiness away. It is only the sheer power of self-control that allows him to not reach out to tug you back into him so your sunlight can burn him alive. Such earthly desires matter not if you two are soon to separate and never meet again.

The cat – Elio – huffs, unamused by your demeanor. You pay it no mind, your ribbons dissolve into thin air until only two remain. Neither do you answer Elio’s question. Simply gather your holy blood with your own two hands and let it all spill yet again through the stigmata on your palms.

“May heavens be kind enough to let our paths to cross again, Mister Sunday.”

His bones keep aching. The restless feathers of his wings flutter even if he wills them to stop. He can surrender his halo to you and despite it being all that is truly his to own in this life, it would never be enough. Deities require giving up all mortal possessions before devoted worship could be possible and what else can he offer to you if not himself?

Sunday has no time to ponder that question. He doesn’t even have the time to say goodbye to you properly. As gilded dreams are not meant to last forever, and this one too is taken away from him by something he cannot control.

“[Name]!” Himeko seems inhumanly comforted to see you safe, pulling you in a tight hug. And considering she wholeheartedly supported the young Foxian woman threatening to pluck his wings naked for taking you hostage, it is only logical for her to do so.

A brooding man – Dan Heng, if Sunday’s memory doesn’t fail him – stands awkwardly a little behind the two of you, while the aforementioned Foxian lady and her eccentric pink haired friend share a collective sigh of relief. You hesitantly pull away and take a hurried step forward, ushering them away before they can notice anything – anyone – else. You are far too kind for your own good and someone ought to exploit it eventually. At least it won’t be someone like him. It is far out of reach of Sunday’s capabilities to shackle a bird born of paradise.

The cat laughs. Sunday hates cats. You cannot cage them, yet they can snap your wings even if you are perfectly fit to fly on your own.

And so, the cat does.

Sunday’s bones are still aching even when he shakes hands with Kafka. Such is the nature of growing pains. A lot of misery is in Order.

#sunday x reader #hsr x reader #hsr imagines #honkai star rail x reader #sunday imagines #honkai star rail imagines

[nomoreusername]

Maze Runner Masterlist (1)

Thomas

Breathe

When your fear of losing Minho forever causes a panic attack Thomas helps you calm down.

The Best Greenie

When a new Greenie comes up you realize this one might be worth keeping around.

Good Night

You and Thomas have never seen eye to eye, but one shared night in the pit may change that.

Beautiful Moments

After you fall asleep on Thomas's shoulder he's thankful that life is still full of beautiful moments.

Jealous Boy

After becoming close with Aris, Thomas's jealousy finally shows up.

Distance Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

After getting to see when you were separated in WCKD Thomas realizes how he actually feels.

Newt

Letter From Heaven

Mute

As someone who struggles with selective mutism, you are surprised when Newt still more than wants to know you.

Sorry I Almost Shot You

When Newt and the group end up in the Safe Haven, they get quite a surprise and a weird start to a friendship.

Attention

When you and Newt end up in the pit together, you do everything you can to get him to notice you.

It's Not Goodbye

After finding out you're not immune, you are ready to get rid of yourself only to be caught by Newt.

Daisy's

You'll never forget the boy you love, even after he dies.

My Glue

When your brother is killed in the maze Newt is still by your side to support you.

Helpful

After spending all day with Newt you say something that proves you may return his feelings.

Bless You

After crawling through the vents you end up meeting a cute British boy.

Stars

After a long day, you take Newt stargazing.

In My Heart

When survivors guilt hits you extra hard one night Newt comforts you.

Next Time Then

After standing up up for Newt, he visits you in the slammer.

Denial

After you don't come out of the Maze Newt keeps telling himself that you're coming back.

Minho

The Perfect Loss

After years of being in competition with Minho, one loss changes everything about it.

Faith

After everyone keeps doubting your abilities, Minho is right there to defend you.

Better

When Minho realizes you're struggling with an eating disorder he encourages you to get help.

Different Sides

After Thomas comes to the Glade and everyone picks sides you and Minho discover how different you actually are.

Just a Pretty Face (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4)

After years of trying to be better than the other, one dare from Minho himself shows the reason behind it all.

Irresistible

When Minho goes to check on you while you're sleeping, you say something that lets him know the feelings are mutual.

Consequences

After you get stung, Minho feels responsible for not saving you.

Helping Hands

After realizing you won't tell Minho your feelings Newt lends a helping hand.

Gally

Good Liar

When someone thinks you're Gally's girlfriend, you cover up the truth with jokes.

Dibs

When Gally asks why you never greet the Greenie's you talk about what it's like being the only girl.

The First Tears (Part 1, Part 2)

After an argument with Gally leads to a breakup, you both have to decide between vulnerability and each other, or walls and false strength.

Captain Gally (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4)

As Gally and your rivalry continues he does something that changes it.

Hidden Burns

As you think you're hiding your problems fine Gally quickly proves otherwise

Alone

When you storm out after an argument, Gally figures out just how truthful your words are.

Care For You

After Gally doubts how much you really care about him, you say something in your sleep that shows the truth.

Aris

Nightmares

When you suffer with more nightmares you go to Aris for comfort.

Interesting Things To Say

After escaping the Glade, you end up meeting a boy the exact opposite of you.

Camp Buddy

When you meet Aris at summer camp, you end up as more than friends.

Worth a Shot

After all your friends know your feelings for Aris, they help set you two up.

Come Back To Me

After realizing you could lose Aris, you tell him how to feel.

A Stone and Bruises

When Aris walks in on you hurting yourself he cleans you up and comforts you.

An Introverts Dreamboy

After Aris helps you come up with a plan to avoid people, you realize how you feel.

Scars

Even though you do everything to hide what WCKD used to do to you, Aris finds out and comforts you.

Bird Boy

After someone tries to use your special nickname for Aris you shut them down.

Two Hearts

Despite being with you it's clear Aris has someone else on his mind.

It's Always Been You

When a new group arrives at WCKD Aris's behavior is definitely off when one of them starts flirting with you.

A Letter Never Sent

Aris writes a letter to tell you how he feels before something could happen to you.

What You Deserve (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3)

After the betrayal with Teresa Aris spills darker secrets than you could have imagined.

Unspoken Rules

Out in the Scorch, the new guy learns the unspoken rules of friendship

Well Played

After the betrayal you turn the tables around to show what that word really means.

Not So Invisible

After thinking his constant hate for Valentine's Day would never show up you do one small thing that changes his entire perspective.

Pretty Things (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5)

A drunken kiss with Aris will either lead to a ruined friendship or something more.

A Few More Seconds (Part 1, Part 2)

When Aris sees you with another guy's jacket you end up having to search for him to find out what he's avoiding you.

The Bare Minimum

As other girls keep giving Aris a rough time you do everything you can to comfort him.

Fluff Alphabet

Teresa

Not My Choice

The more she thinks about what she has to do, the more Teresa wishes she was allowed another choice.

Never a Burden

After you feel ashamed for needing help sleeping, Teresa promises you could never be a burden.

The Girl In a Coma

After spending years in the Glade as the only girl another one finally comes up.

The L Word

When Frypan points out how you're acting towards Thomas and Teresa, you accidentally mention a certain word.

One Sided Love

After Minho insists you and Teresa are in love, you see how one-sided the feeling is.

Let Her Go (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4)

When she sees you after years of being separated old feelings arise for both of you.

Brenda

Good For Her

You and Brenda are getting serious but don't know how to tell Jorge.

Excuses

After realizing you're in love with your best friend you try to avoid Brenda at all costs.

Don't Touch Her

After almost losing Brenda to the Flare you realize how deep your feelings run.

Things We Won't Admit

When a new group keeps teasing Brenda and you about being together, you both deny the feelings she knows may be there.

Sonya

My Sunshine

After Sonya gets captured by WCKD you stop at nothing to get your sunshine back.

Home

While Sonya is finding herself missing her old home you're right there to support her, no matter what that means.

Real

After Sonya comforts you about your doubts you fall asleep on her lap.

Love Makes Us Impulsive

When you start a fight because someone insulted Sonya she makes you think about why.

Harriet

Forgotten

Just as everything is finally going right with Harriet you stumble upon a secret that destroys everything.

"Friends"

While sitting with Aris and Sonya by the bonfire, they point that you and Harriet do not seem like just friends.

Sleep Tight

After you can't sleep, Harriet finds out a little more than she bargained for when she helps out.

Special

Harriet admits that she's stressed being a leader, along with one other thing.

Ivy Trio (All Platonic)

Puppy

After finding a puppy in the Scorch Thomas, Minho, and Newt try to convince you to keep it.

Story Time

After you can't go to sleep in Scorch the Ivy Trio and you share stories.

Preferences

What They'd Be Like Drunk

Drunk Texts

How They Go Christmas Shopping

What They'd Get You For Christmas

Their Favorite Place To Kiss You

Their Favorite Color On You

2nd List

Masterlist 2

Ship Masterlist

#thomas x reader #newt x reader #minho x y/n #gally x reader #aris x reader #teresa x reader #brenda x reader #sonya x reader #harriet x reader #tmr preferences #the maze runner #tmr #one shot #masterlist #tmr headcanons #thomas tmr #newt tmr #minho tmr #gally tmr #aris tmr #teresa tmr #brenda tmr #sonya tmr #harriet tmr

[wingedblooms]

Elain Archeron, member of The Tortured Poets Department

i’m hearing voices like a madman - so high school

i’m seeing visions / am I bad or mad or wise? - guilty as sin?

you can mark my words that I said it first / in a mourning warning, no one heard - cassandra

and for a fortnight there, we were forever - fortnight

leaving me bereft and reeling / my beloved ghost and me / sitting in a tree / d-y-i-n-g - how did it end?

i saw in my mind fairy lights through the mist - so long, london

i cry a lot, but I am so productive, it's an art - i can do it with a broken heart

but my bare hands paved their paths / you don't get to tell me about "sad" - who’s afraid of little old me?

so I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street / crash the party like a record scratch as I scream / "who's afraid of little old me?" / you should be - who’s afraid of little old me?

i hate it here so I will go to secret gardens in my mind - i hate it here

one slip and fallin' back into the hedge maze […] i keep recalling things we never did - guilty as sin?

these fatal fantasies / giving way to labored breath, takin' all of me / we’ve already done it in my head / if it's make-believe / why does it feel like a vow we'll both uphold somehow? - guilty as sin?

wise men once said / "one bad seed kills the garden" / "one less temptress, one less dagger to sharpen" / locked me up in towers / but I'd visit in your dreams / and they tried to warn you about me - the albatross

a rose by any other name is a scandal / cautions issued, he stood - the albatross

i spied the catch in your breath - i look in people’s windows

what if I roll the stone away? / they’re gonna crucify me anyway / what if the way you hold me is actually what's holy? - guilty as sin?

"stay away from her" / the saboteurs protested too much - but daddy i love him

crashin' into him tonight, he's a paradox - guilty as sin?

it’s happenin' again / how did it end? / i can't pretend like I understand - how did it end?

this cage was once just fine / am I allowed to cry? / i dream of crackin' locks - guilty as sin?

thought I caught lightning in a bottle / oh, but it's gone again […] please / i’ve been on my knees / change the prophecy / don't want money / just someone who wants my company / let it once be me - the prophecy

cards on thе table / mine play out like fools in a fablе […] poison blood from the wound of the pricked hand / oh, still I dream of him - the prophecy

lilac short skirt, the one that fits me like skin […] and I'll tell you one thing, honey / i can tell when somebody still wants me, come clean - imgonnagetyouback

i, i hear thе whispers in your eyes / i’ll make you wanna think twice / you'll find that you were never not mine / (you’re mine) - imgonnagetyouback

'cause the sign on your heart / said it's still reserved for me / honestly, who are we to fight thе alchemy? - the alchemy

i'll tell you something right now / i’d rather burn my whole life down […] i'll tell you something 'bout my good name / it’s mine alone to disgrace / i don't cater to all these vipers dressed in empath's clothing - but daddy i love him

if long-suffering propriety is what they want from me / they don't know how you've haunted me so stunningly / i choose you and me religiously - guilty as sin?

#elain archeron #member of the tortured poets department #elriel #ttpd lyrics #elain 🤝 taylor swift #the tortured poets department

[eddiemunsons80sbaby]

Never Say Never

Chapter 2

Pairing: SingleDad!StevexReader

Summary: You are a 32 year old single mother, raising your seven year old son on your own. After being widowed at 30 and going out on awful dates with disgusting men for the past month, you have decided that you're giving up. You already had your great love. One person can't possibly get lucky enough to have two in their lifetime. But then your son starts playing baseball and the coach might just change your mind about that.

No posting schedule.

18+ only for eventual smut

Word Count: 7.3K

1

“It seems to be just a case of the common cold,” you told the worried mother. “Dr. Wilson said she just needs rest and to make sure she drinks lots of fluids. She should be back to herself within a few days.”

“Thanks. I know I’m probably being silly rushing her in here but she kept waking up last night, crying, and I’m all alone. I’ve just been exhausted having to do everything on my own. It’s been so hard. And with her not feeling well, neither of us have gotten much sleep the last few days. My husband’s in the Air Force and he’s currently deployed and we don’t know when he’s going to get to come back home and my parents live three hundred miles away.”

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Let the feeling come. Acknowledge the feeling and then move forward. You closed your eyes for a moment, centering yourself, not letting this one burrow too far in before you forced it back. Maybe you weren't supposed to push them away but sometimes it was necessary. Like now. You couldn’t be the nurse who assured the nervous mother if you were busy trying to find three things to look at, smell, and move. It wasn’t reassuring to have your medical professional falling apart in front of you.

Pressing your index finger to your thumb, you allowed yourself to feel the sensation, to know you were here. You weren't back there. No one was waiting on the other side of the door to give you the news that would send a wrecking ball through the middle of your life, destroying and altering it forever. You were strong. You were handling it. You were moving forward. Opening your eyes, you put on your best smile. 

“Of course. I can’t imagine how challenging that must be for you.” Actually, you could, but this was not the time or place to share your own story. This was the time to be an empathetic ear, to listen to your patient. It was not the time to unpack your own trauma or make this about yourself. “Please, no need to apologize. You call us whenever you need to. It’s always better to be safe than sorry.”

The mother thanked you, lifting her three year old into her arms. You directed her which way to go. Parents often got a bit turned around in this place, the hallways like a maze to the various exam rooms, like a figure eight. This practice was a thriving one, one that kept you very busy, your days packed with back-to-back appointments. But you preferred it that way. It made your days go faster. 

After you finished college with your Bachelor’s of Science in nursing, you had immediately gotten a job at the local hospital. You'd loved it. The hours were long and you were exhausted all the time but it had been fast-paced and so rewarding. However, it had also been heartbreaking as some children who came into the hospital were there to stay and would never again leave. They would never get tucked into their own bed again, never run through their own backyard again, never sit on the floor of their living room on a Saturday morning eating cereal while watching cartoons again. The job had not just been physically exhausting but mentally and emotionally exhausting as well. 

After you'd found out you were expecting Eli, Justin had suggested that maybe you needed something a bit more predictable. It would be hard for you to work twelve hour shifts with a baby at home. It would be even harder to watch children suffer, watch parents in the darkest moments of their lives, when you had a little one at home. You weren't sure how you could face that kind of heartbreak and then go home to your own child, hoping it never happened to you.

Still, you wouldn’t have given it up if it weren’t for Justin being in the military. With his job, he would often be gone for months at a time, leaving you alone. It hadn’t been a problem before but with your parents living across the country and his parents more than three hours away, you were limited when it came to help. So, you'd applied to the new local pediatrician's office, delighted when you got a call that same week, inviting you in for an interview. 

You'd been there ever since, watching as Dr. Wilson’s practice grew. He was young, just a bit older than you, and new to the job but his warm demeanor and empathetic ear quickly had every mom in town bringing their child to him. It probably didn’t hurt that he was pretty damn good looking too. 

“Hey Rita, I’m going to take my lunch if I don’t have any more patients for a bit,” you told your receptionist as you placed the child’s file into the cabinet. 

“That’s fine. Your next appointment isn’t for an hour so you’re good. I’ll have Sarah handle anything that pops up while you’re out.”

“Thanks.”

You grabbed your lunch bag from the fridge and made your way out of the office, heading for the pond. When it was nice out, you always chose to eat your lunch out here, a little escape from the fluorescent lights and germs of the office. Finding a bench, you sat down, pulling out your bologna sandwich. It wasn’t your usual choice but it had simply felt easier to make two this morning instead of trying to come up with something else for yourself. 

You pulled out your phone, dialing the number of the one person you'd been desperate to talk to after the events of yesterday. Janice was a photographer. She did great business and had multiple clients who came back to her again and again for family portraits, baby pictures, and senior photos. She worked from home, which also meant her hours were flexible and she was almost always available to take your calls. Sure enough, your best friend picked up after two rings. 

“Are you sitting under your tree?”

You laughed, “How did you know?”

“Because it’s your lunchtime and that’s what you always do when the sun is shining. Are the geese around?”

“Yep. The five little babies are swimming with mom and dad. They’re so cute. Little brown fluffballs that look so soft and sweet. I just want to cuddle them.”

“I wouldn’t try it. Geese can be nasty.”

“You don’t have to tell me. Remember when Eli was two and he wanted to feed them and those two geese hissed and opened their wings wide when he got too close. We didn’t know they had a nest right there. I know they were just protecting their babies but that scared the shit out of me.”

“Well, Eli’s your baby. Of course you were scared,” Janice laughed. “Oh my god. That poor kid. He won’t go anywhere near them now. It cemented itself into his brain and gave him a complex. He’ll probably hate those feathered fiends for the rest of his life. So, how was his first baseball practice? Did he love it? Matt can’t wait to talk to him about it.”

“He did. He talked my ear off the whole way home. His best friend is on his team and his coach is the kid’s dad. He loves him and said he was so nice and fun. He’s really patient with the kids. When Eli missed the ball for the third time, he was so upset with himself. The coach was so sweet, giving him some pointers, and assuring him he could do it.”

“Oh…okay, hold on. Wait a minute. Why do you sound like that when you’re talking about his coach?”

“Like what?” you demanded. 

“Like you did in high school when you used to talk about Josh.”

“What? No I don’t.”

“Yeah you do! You’re all gushy. You sound like a Disney princess about to break into song among the forest animals who are going to help you clean your home about the guy you just met in the woods.”

You snorted, “Oh please. No I don’t. I’m just glad that his coach is so kind since Eli is new at this.”

“Uh-huh…so, this coach isn’t cute?”

“I mean, yeah, he is…objectively speaking, most women would say he was very attractive.”

“Most women, huh? And what about you?”

“Yes, okay? Yes, I think he’s very attractive. Anyone with eyes would see that he is good-looking. You should have heard the moms at practice going on about his ass. Married moms basically saying they would cheat on their husbands for this guy. I swear, the housewives club is scary. But it’s just…he’s just Eli’s coach. His son is coming over to our house later today to play with Eli.”

Steve was attractive. Hell, he was possibly the most attractive man you'd ever laid eyes on and that made the guilt just twist in your stomach even harder. Justin had been the love of your life. How could you be so turned around by some guy you barely even knew? You'd spoken for all of three minutes. You didn’t know anything about him besides the fact that he coached kids baseball. 

“Oh, is he now?”

“Janice, stop. Eli and Jeremiah have become best friends this year and Eli asked forever ago if he could come over and I completely forgot about it and it never happened. He asked again yesterday so I promised him I would set it up. That’s all it is.”

“And is his dad coming over to play too?”

You groaned, your hand coming to y our forehead, “Do you have to say it like that? And no he’s not. He has a work meeting. So, I’m kind of helping him out, I guess, but not really because I was going to invite the kid over anyway.”

“So, he’s just dropping him off and picking him up?”

“Well, he may have offered to grab a pizza on his way back to thank me for watching his kid. Which is completely unnecessary because I asked for him to come over before he ever told me about his meeting. I wouldn’t even have known I was babysitting for him if he wouldn’t have told me about it. I never would have expected him to hang around while our kids hung out.”

“Hmm, so you’re going to be having dinner with him, then?”

“And our kids,” you reminded her. 

Janice had this all wrong. Of course she did. He was just being friendly. Your kids were friends and they wanted to spend time together. He’d said it himself, you were helping him out of a bind with childcare issues. That was all. He was just being nice and buying everybody dinner. Your sons were going to be there. It wasn’t like it was a date. 

“Still. You know, I said maybe you could find a hot, single dad at practice and look at you, finding one on the first go! He is single, right?”

“I think so. He said his best friend was busy and he had no one else to watch Jeremiah. That would make me think the mom isn’t in the picture but I honestly have no idea. We barely talked because he had to start the practice.”

“Well, you should have plenty of time to talk tonight and get clarification on his status.”

“I don’t need clarification on his status. I told you, I’m done with all of that. I had Justin. There is no way I will ever find anything that can begin to compare with what we had.”

“You definitely won’t if you just throw in the towel. Come on, Aly. Would it really be so bad to just talk to him a bit? I’m not saying you have to jump his bones tonight. I mean, probably wouldn’t hurt. You haven’t been laid in two years, my friend. Your vagina could use some airing out. Clear all the cobwebs that have settled, you know?”

“Jesus, you are so foul,” you sighed, catching sight of a young family heading into the office. The dad had a little boy on his shoulders. He said something to the mom and she grinned, leaning up onto her toes to kiss him. The sight sent familiar pangs of the loss of what could have been, what should have been, through you. 

“Maybe but you know I’m right. Anyway, if you’re going to be such a prude, then just talk to him. Be his friend. If your kids like each other that much, chances are this won’t be the only time you’re around each other. And then who knows?”

“Yeah…who knows…” you sighed, thinking you did know. The universe was never going to let you get that lucky twice. Something had to be wrong with this guy.

___________________________________________________________

You folded the towel from the dryer as you watched Jeremiah and Eli race around the backyard, dressed up in Eli’s superhero costumes. Your son had an entire bin of them. He was obsessed. Comic books and action figures covered the shelves in his bedroom. Eli had always loved superheroes but Matt, who was a self-proclaimed, very proud nerd, had gotten him into comics. Most of the items Eli now had came from Matt himself, stuff he’d kept since he was a kid.

You'd survived the drop-off, being cordial and friendly without giving off any signals that you were interested in anything more. At least, you thought you were. It was hard to concentrate when that man looked so damn good, standing there in gray slacks and a yellow sweater. When his cologne hit your olfactory nerves, a woodsy scent of sandalwood and pine, you had gripped the door frame, fighting back the swoon that was quickly coming on. But no, you were sure you kept things professional, just two parents in the midst of an exchange for a playdate. 

Besides, you weren't even sure you were interested in anything more. You didn’t even know how to do more at this point. It had been so long since you'd spent real time with any man that wasn’t Justin or Matt. And even if Janice kept pushing you to move on, even if it had been two years, you weren't sure you were ready. 

And you weren't sure if Eli would be ready. His therapist said he was doing well. He had adjusted as best as you could expect a child who’d lost his father to adjust. But did that mean he was ready to see his mom with a new guy? Was it fair to bring someone new into his life that could just disappear? What if you started something with someone and it ended badly and he lost another male figure and his best friend at the same time? Would he be so well adjusted then? He had settled into their routine, him and you against the world. You weren't sure you could change that on him. 

He’d only been five when it happened but you had made sure that he’d never forgotten his daddy. A picture of him and Justin sat on his nightstand by his bed. It was one of your favorites, taken at the pumpkin farm when Eli was four. He held a giant pumpkin, looking so proud, when really Justin was holding the bottom of it for him, both of them beaming their matching smiles. 

The two of you talked about him often, you sharing stories with him of you and Justin and him and Justin. Reminded him how much his daddy had loved him. You couldn’t allow him to forget. You couldn’t do that to Justin whose smile could have lit up the entire planet the first time he laid eyes on his son. 

“Mommy! We’re hungry!” Eli yelled as he and Jeremiah came racing in the back door. 

You glanced over at the clock, “Well, Jeremiah’s dad is bringing pizza and he should be here any minute. Do you think Superman and Batman can wait just a few minutes to eat?”

Eli groaned, dramatically tumbling down to the floor, “But fighting crime and saving the world is hard work. It makes us so hungry, mommy.”

“Okay…how about you two have some strawberries?” you offered, thinking it wouldn’t be too filling and it would get something good in their system before they loaded up on carbs and cheese. 

“Strawberries!” Jeremiah’s eyes lit up. “They’re my favorite fruit. Daddy takes me strawberry picking every single year and we get a ton. My daddy makes strawberry jam and it’s so good on my toast.” His eyes went wide, shooting over to Eli. “Hey! I’ll ask my dad if you guys can come this year! It’s super fun. They have goats, cows, chickens, and ponies that you can ride!”

“Can we mommy?” Eli asked, turning those sweet blue eyes up at you. 

“I…uh…I mean, strawberry picking around here isn’t for another month or so. But, maybe, I guess? I mean, if Eli’s daddy wants to take you too, that would be fine.”

“You can come too!” Jeremiah told you. “They have other stuff there like fancy soaps and stuff that they make. My mommy used to like those.”

“Oh, well, maybe…” you muttered as you busied yourself with getting out the strawberries. You ran them under water before working at slicing them onto a plate for the boys to share. 

His mommy used to like those? So, she’d been around during his life, obviously. Enough for him to remember going strawberry picking with them. Unless, like Eli, he was repeating stories his dad had shared with him.  Where was she now? Had she left? Had she died? You couldn’t very well ask a little boy. What if she had passed? You couldn’t bring up that pain for him. 

“Did we ever go strawberry picking with daddy?” asked Eli as the boys sat down at the table, the plate of strawberries between them.

You swallowed, “No. We didn’t go strawberry picking but we used to go to the apple orchard every fall and daddy would put you up on his shoulders so you could get the apples. And we always went to the pumpkin farm too.”

“We still do that!”

“Yes we do,” you smiled as you washed your hands. You worked so hard to keep the traditions that you and Justin started alive. It was another way for you to remind your son how incredible the five short years he had with his dad was. You looked up when there was a knock at the door, drying your hands on a kitchen towel. “I bet that’s Jeremiah’s daddy with the pizza.”

Smoothing your hands over your hair, you inhaled deeply, reminding yourself that this was just two parents whose kids had become best friends getting to know each other. No pressure. No reason to be nervous. You were simply trying to be good parents. 

Grabbing onto the door, you swung it open, only to feel like the entire world had turned upside down at the sight of Steve. There he stood in those slacks and that yellow sweater that looked so damn good on him. Not many people could pull off yellow but boy, he could. His right arm was raised, two pizza boxes balancing on his hand and a smile that could have outshone the sun on his face. 

“Pizza, as promised,” he announced. 

Gathering yourself, you returned his smile, “The boys will be very relieved. Superman and Batman have been battling the forces of evil all afternoon and they are wasting away to nothing.”

Steve’s cheeks hollowed out as he released a long, audible breath, “Can’t have that. How will they ever keep the city safe if we don’t recharge them with greasy pizza? But seriously, I hope he was good for you.”

“He was great,” you assured him. “Seriously.”

“Good. Thanks again. You were a real lifesaver.”

“No problem. I…”

“Daddy! Where’s the pizza!?” came Jeremiah’s whine from the kitchen, loud and impatient. 

“Sorry. It’s right here.” Steve grinned, tossing you a wink that had you dazed, before making his way into the kitchen, plopping the boxes down in the middle of the table. “We can’t have Superman and Batman losing their strength. Have to keep them fed so they can keep the city safe. Are we currently in Gotham or Metropolis?”

“Daddy,” Jeremiah sighed, looking exasperated with his father. “Everyone knows both of those places are based on New York City. Then we can be there together.”

“Oh, sorry,” snorted Steve, sharing an amused look with you. “I am not as well versed in superhero lore as you.”

“I know. Uncle Dusty knows way more than you.”

“Of course he does because Uncle Dusty is so much cooler than your boring, old dad.” Steve rolled his eyes, pulling out the chair next to Jeremiah and having a seat. 

“You have a brother?” you asked as you stretched your arm up to retrieve the plastic paper plate holders from the top shelf. Turning, your breath caught in your throat. Steve’s eyes were watching you, focused on your midsection, right where your sweater had ridden up when you'd reached for the plates. He quickly looked down at his son as you cleared your throat and set the holders and plates on the table. 

“Uhh…no. I mean, not really,” he laughed. “Dustin isn’t actually my brother. I used to babysit him actually. I helped him out one day. There were some older kids picking on him and his friends at the park and I stepped in. Anyway, he went home and told his mom about this cool teenager and she tracked me down and asked if I’d be interested in babysitting. I think she really just wanted him to have a guy in his life. His dad died when he was young and he was an only child. Anyway, he was ten and I was sixteen and he just latched on like a leech and stuck. So…” He balanced his elbows on the table, hands facing up. “I guess he’s mine now. Him and Jere, here, are really close. Jere is into all the nerdy stuff that Dustin likes so Dustin is like his hero.”

“Uncle Dusty is amazing! He taught me how to make a homemade rocket,” Jeremiah told you, his smile so like his dad’s. 

But his eyes were different, a beautiful blue like the color of the ocean on a sunny day. And his nose was rounded, a cute little button, the complete opposite of Steve’s which was longer and pointed, almost Romanesque. He must have gotten those features from his mom, which left you wondering where she was again. 

“Yeah, and you almost burned the garage down. That thing singed the walls. I had to pull out the fire extinguisher,” Steve reminded his son, grabbing plates and placing them into the holders. 

Eli’s eyes went wide, “You almost started a fire?”

“Only a little one but you should have seen the rocket. It zoomed around the garage and then flew out and went bang! It was so cool.”

“Yeah, real cool,” Steve rolled his eyes. 

“Daddy, did you get just cheese?” asked Jeremiah as Steve moved to open one of the boxes.

“Of course, kid. Do you think I’m new here?” He reached over, ruffling his son’s hair, causing Jeremiah to giggle and that familiar pain, the pain that reminded you of everything your son was missing out on, tightened around you once again. Steve looked up at you. “I got one cheese and one pepperoni. I figured those were safe bets since I don’t know what either of you like. Hope that’s okay?”

“I love cheese too!” Eli told him eagerly, grinning over at Steve. “And mommy usually gets bacon and pineapple for herself but she likes all pizza. Pizza is our favorite food. We have it every Friday and watch a movie.”

“Pineapple on pizza?” Steve questioned skeptically, that beautiful nose crinkling. 

“Hey, don’t knock it until you try it,” you teased with a laugh, pouring milk for the kids. “My husb…” You paused, swallowing hard before taking the seat between Steve and Eli. But why shouldn’t you talk about Justin? Steve had to know Eli didn’t arrive by immaculate conception. “My husband thought I was crazy too. He was more of a pepperoni and green onions kind of guy. But my roommate in college is the one who got me into it. She ordered it one night and I was skeptical too but the combination of sweet and savory is delicious.”

“I think I’ll just have to take your word on that one,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Fruit on pizza.” He looked over at the boys, one of those long, thick fingers swirling around by his ear. “Can you believe that? She’s nuts.”

Eli giggled as Steve plopped a piece of cheese on his plate, “My mommy can be crazy. Sometimes we do backward dinner.”

Steve’s lips pursed, head tilted, “Backward dinner? What’s that?”

“It’s where we have dessert first. So, we’ll have hot fudge sundaes and then we’ll have chicken nuggets and vegetables. It’s my favorite kind of dinner because I don’t have to eat all my vegetables before I get my dessert.”

“Oh, that does sound like a good deal because dessert is the best part of the meal,” Steve agreed with a nod. 

“I mean, it’s only done sometimes as a special treat.” You didn’t know why you felt the need to justify yourself but you did. “I do make sure he eats healthy.”

Steve laughed, “I’m sure you do. Sometimes Jere Bear and I like to have ice cream for dinner, don’t we?”

“Yeah! My daddy used to work at Scoops Ahoy and they have the best ice cream! I always get a banana split and daddy gets the U.S.S. Butterscotch.”

“Mmm, the U.S.S. Butterscotch is my favorite,” you grinned. “Eli always gets the hot fudge sundae.”

“With extra fudge!” he added. 

“Obviously,” Steve scoffed. “You can never have too much fudge.”

“So, how long ago was this when you worked at Scoops Ahoy?” you asked, picturing him in their little sailor outfit. You couldn’t deny that it gave you a little thrill of pleasure.

“Oh god, it’s been years now. I worked there right out of high school. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and when I couldn’t even get into community college, my father forced me to get a job. Said I needed to know what it was like to earn a working man’s wage.” He snorted harshly, leaving you with the impression that his relationship with his father wasn’t a particularly good one. “Anyway, I worked there for a couple years. That’s actually how I met my best friend, Robin.”

“And I assume you did figure out what you wanted to do with your life since you had a work meeting tonight?”

Steve took a large bite of his pizza, the slice folded up in his hand, “I’m a project manager for a construction company.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that job. What exactly do you do?”

“I oversee the building process, make sure everything is completed on time and within budget. I work with the architects and the engineers to develop plans, establish timelines for different phases to be complete, and calculate what labor and materials are going to cost. That’s what my meeting was about tonight actually. We just got a contract for a new subdivision they’re putting in off of Cherry. It’s a big job. We’re thinking it’s going to take about two years.”

“Wow, that’s a long time.”

“Not really when you consider we’re building around sixty new houses. It’s a good thing really, means my team will have plenty of work to do for a while. Steady income, you know? Nothing’s worse than having to lay someone off, knowing you’re possibly making their life impossible.”

“What’s laying off?” asked Eli. 

“Well, when we don’t have enough work to do, then we don’t have the money to pay people. So, I have to tell them that we’re letting them go for a while. It’s not really getting fired because you hope you can call them back when there’s more work. They can apply to get money from the government but it’s not nearly as much as they make when they’re working. That can make it hard for them to feed their families and pay their bills.”

“That seems mean,” Eli commented. “Why do you do it?”

“I don’t want to do it. But when the money’s not there, we have no way to pay them. It happens a lot in the wintertime because there’s not as much building when the weather’s bad. That’s why this job is such a good thing because it will be steady work for the next two winters. I won’t have to worry and neither will my guys.”

“Well, that’s good. Did you have to go to school for that or like a trade school?” you inquired. 

“No college. I don’t think I was ever made for college. I struggled through high school. Of course, that could have been because I was interested in everything else but high school. That’s why I’m so glad my kiddo here got his mom’s brains. She was an overachiever, still is. I actually started just like my guys, doing the construction part. I got interested in how the job runs and wound up getting my certification. And about four years ago, they promoted me to project manager.”

So Mom definitely wasn’t gone but then why did he need a babysitter? Maybe she was busy too? Or maybe she lived out of town and they shared custody? And this was none of your business. Why were you so interested in what the situation was with mom? 

“Wow, that’s amazing. You must have really impressed them then. Going to college isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, anyway. I’ve told Eli, it all depends on what you want to do with your life. Some jobs don’t require college and they’re just as important. I mean, you build homes. You provide a space for families to start their lives and make memories. I think that’s pretty important work.”

A flush rose up along his neck, bright red against the yellow of his sweater. A small smile curved his lips as he tapped the table before looking up at you. The boys had long given up on your conversation, deeply entrenched in one of their own about the latest episode of X-men: Evolution. 

“I mean, you work in a pediatrician’s office, right? You help sick kids. I think that might be just a bit more important than what I do. But thanks. What do you do in the office, anyway? Are you the doctor?”

You laughed, “No. That was far more schooling than I was interested in doing. I’m a nurse but honestly, we know just as much as they do. Experience is way more educational than sitting in some class, listening to someone talk about stuff. Sometimes, I think we might know more than the doctors do. But Dr. Wilson is great to work with. He’s not one of those guys that talks down to his nurses or acts like he’s superior because he’s got that M.D. after his name. I worked with plenty of misogynist ego-driven jerks when I worked at the hospital. They act like they’re royalty or something. Dr. Wilson actually trusts us and values our input. He makes us feel like a part of a team instead of a dictatorship.”

The conversation flowed easily, the boys jumping in here and there, all four of you laughing and smiling as you enjoyed your pizza. You could not deny the feeling of rightness in this moment, this moment that was everything you had ever wanted for your son. It was a picture perfect moment in time, this little dinner at your kitchen table full of warmth and laughter. 

And no, you weren't insane. It wasn’t that you were looking at this as a family or that you were jumping ten steps ahead of just this pleasant evening. It was just nice to have a full table, to have it not be just you and Eli, to watch your son enjoying himself. He loved when Matt and Janice came for dinner but this was different. He had his best friend with him, the two boys sending each other into hysterics every thirty seconds.

For just this moment, this little slice of time, the weight had been lifted from your shoulders. The constant guilt that you weren't enough, that you could never be enough for your son. You could never be all of the things that he needed you to be. For just this moment, you thought maybe you didn’t have to be if you could surround him with people who provided everything he needed. 

“Alright, kiddo, we should probably get heading home so you can take a shower before bed,” Steve announced around seven thirty, pushing back from the table and standing up. He gathered the paper plates, tossing them in the trash. “Did you want help cleaning up before we head out?”

You waved your hand dismissively, “Oh no. That’s not necessary. Just a quick wipe down of the holders and popping the cups in the dishwasher. It will only take a couple minutes.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, seriously. No big deal. Besides, you bought the dinner so the least I can do is the clean up.”

“Yes, but I brought the dinner to thank you for watching my kid.”

 “Please. I offered to take him and having Jeremiah here saved me from having to wear the Superman cape and run around with Eli all evening. It was nice to just be an average human instead of a superhero tonight.”

“You’re a nurse,” Steve said with a soft smile, leaning into you, causing your heart to skip a beat. “Pretty sure you’re a superhero all the time.”

“Daddy, can Eli come to our house this weekend? Please? He really wants to meet Miles.”

“Miles?” you asked.

“It’s his dog!” Eli told you excitedly. “He wears capes too! Jeremiah said he can be my sidekick, Robin.”

"Which is silly because that's my Aunt Robin's name," Jeremiah added, "but the cape doesn't fit her so good so she's usually Catwoman because it's a mask and a tail."

Steve laughed, “Sure kid. He can come over. If it’s okay with his mom.”

“Fine with me,” you shrugged. Seeing the joy on your son’s face to get to spend time with his friend was all the reason you needed to readily agree. It definitely did not have to do with having the chance to see his dad again. No. That didn’t factor in at all.

“Okay, well, how about this?” Steve knelt down to his son’s level. “We’ve got baseball practice on Saturday until two. Why don’t we all go get ice cream afterward and then Jeremiah and his mom can come meet Miles afterward?”

“All of us?” you questioned, wondering if you'd heard him correctly.

He rose, head tilting forward, those eyes as warm as a chocolate chip cookie coming right out of the oven, and just as delicious. “Why not? I mean, if you have something else to do…”

“No. No, I don’t. I mean, that would be nice. We haven’t gotten ice cream yet since they opened. And I love dogs. Who doesn’t love dogs? Crazy people, right? So obviously meeting your dog would be fun. I just…I mean…yeah, okay.”

He appeared amused with you once again and you wished you could just pull the foot out of your mouth. It appeared to be permanently wedged there whenever he was around. 

“Good. Maybe we can even have a sleepover.” Your breath caught as his mouth dropped open, eyes going wide, one of those hands running nervously through his hair, sweeping it to the side. “I mean the boys. The boys could have a sleepover. At my house. If you’re okay with that?”

Had he meant what you thought he meant? Had that just been an innocent mistake or was he as attracted to you as you were to him? Trying to let your son hang out with his friend was proving to be far more complicated than you thought it would be when you'd approached him on the baseball field. 

“Yeah.” You weren't sure why. You hadn’t even let Eli stay the night anywhere before but there was just something about Steve that you trusted. “Eli would love that, honestly.”

“You’re gonna sleep at my house!” Jeremiah yelled, grabbing Eli’s hands, the two boys jumping around the kitchen. 

“Obviously, they’re both okay with it,” Steve chuckled, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “So, we’ll see you Saturday at practice?”

“Yeah. Saturday.”

You said your goodbyes, the boys both still screeching, talking about how it was only two more sleeps until their sleepover. Steve gave you one last smile and a little finger wave before turning and taking his son’s hand, leading him to his Ford Explorer that was parked just behind your Prius. 

“Mommy, are you and Jeremiah’s dad friends now too?”

“Kind of, I guess,” you shrugged.

“Cool because if you’re friends and want to play with each other all the time then me and Eli can play with each other all the time too!”

You gripped the door, closing it slowly behind you. Your son had no idea the implications of what he’d just said but you definitely did. Your entire body was vibrating with the implications of what he’d just said.

___________________________________________________________

“Daddy, when Eli spends the night can we make a fort like the one we made that one time where it was the whole living room? Remember? And we put up the Christmas lights inside and we put in our sleeping bags and pillows.”

Steve blinked, glancing up at his son in the rearview mirror. He’d completely missed everything that his kid had just said. The boy had been rambling from the moment they’d gotten in the car and he was having trouble focusing, his thoughts completely focused on the last hour of his day. 

You had been consuming all of his brain space since you'd approached him yesterday on the baseball field. Yeah, you were gorgeous. He’d noticed that instantly. Who wouldn’t? But there was something else about you, something that wouldn’t let his brain rest, something that kept poking at him, telling him to do something about these feelings you were stirring up inside him. 

And it had been so long since he’d had anything stirring inside of him. After him and Nancy had split four years ago, Steve had jumped right into another relationship. He struggled with being alone. According to Robin, it was his dysfunctional childhood. The little boy inside of him who never got the love he needed from his parents, constantly seeking it out in someone else. 

According to Robin, that was why he’d married Nancy even though the two of them had been all wrong for each other. He clung to the first solid thing that had come along and refused to see any of the millions of little signs that it wasn’t working. Of course, that was according to Robin, his best friend who thought she knew more about the internal workings of his mind than he did.

He’d dated Stacy for a year, convinced himself that she was the one, told Robin he was thinking of proposing and his obnoxious friend had slapped him upside the head. To be fair, he probably needed a good jarring, something to knock some sense into him. Marrying Stacy would have led to him being twice divorced. She had been even worse for him than Nancy. 

Not that there was anything wrong with Nance. No, she was amazing. She was smart, beautiful, kind, and an absolutely wonderful mother. Neither of them had ever cheated or hurt the other. They simply just weren’t a good fit. It seemed so obvious now when he could see how well her and Jonathan slid together, like two puzzle pieces locking into place perfectly. 

He’d dated a few other women after Stacy, most recently Janet, a single mother that he met at the park last summer. They’d made it about four months before he saw it was going nowhere. She was clingy, pushing for them to move in together, and it was in that moment that he realized he could not see a future with her. The idea of waking up next to her every day was exhausting. He’d ended it and she had not taken it well, calling him every name in the book, very loudly, in the middle of the restaurant he’d taken her to to try to soften the blow.

Steve didn’t lack for options. It felt like the moms of this town were throwing themselves at him constantly, some of them not even single. But none of them fit. None of them made him feel that thing, that thing that Robin said was like the Big Bang, everything exploding and then rearranging into this perfect arrangement. She kept telling him it was called falling in love, not forcing in love. He needed to stop trying to make it happen and just let it come to him. Yeah, well, that was easy for her to see, the girl who’d found the right person in high school.

Was that what he was doing right now? Was he just trying to force something to be what he wanted? Your kids were friends. You'd approached him because you wanted to set up a time for your sons to be able to play. It could be that simple. You might not even be interested in him or in anything. 

He knew your husband had died. Jere had told him that Eli’s dad was in heaven. But he didn’t know how and he didn’t know how long ago. Maybe you were still freshly grieving. You'd definitely struggled when you were talking about him tonight. If you were still in the midst of your grief, the last thing you needed was some guy trying to push you to go out with him sometime. 

No, he probably needed to just take a step back. Cool it off. Yeah, you were beautiful and you seemed far more real than most of the women in this town who were interested in him. But if he tried to force something that wasn’t there, he wouldn’t be the only one to suffer. Jere would too because he would inevitably lose his best friend when things went south. He couldn’t do that to him. 

“Daddy, are you even listening to me?” Jeremiah huffed from the backseat, breaking through Steve’s thoughts. 

“I’m sorry buddy. What did you say?”

“I said can we make a big fort when Eli comes with the lights and our sleeping bags and stuff?”

“Oh yeah. Of course, bud. We can definitely do that. You want to make some s’mores too?”

“Yeah! And can we have popcorn and watch the new Scooby Doo movie too?”

“Absolutely!” Steve replied, grinning in the mirror. “And I can grill some hamburgers and hot dogs. We’ll make it the best sleepover ever, kid.”

His son’s smile stretched from ear to ear, reminding Steve why he very much needed to focus on his son’s happiness instead of his loneliness. No, he didn’t need to jump into another relationship with some woman he’d just met. He was just seeing things he wanted to see, trying to rearrange the pieces into the image he was so desperate for.

“Is Eli's mommy gonna sleepover too? Our fort will be big enough.”

“Uh, no buddy,” Steve answered. “She’s gonna come over and see Miles but she’s not staying.”

“Why not? Don’t you want a friend, daddy?”

Yeah, he did. More than his son could possibly know.

Chapter 3

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