Need an AU where because Joel wasn't home when the world went to hell, people got separated, and Sarah had to flee and somehow accidentally ended up with a very young nurse and her military friend who were actively getting the fuck out of town.
A world where Sarah lives, for however long, with Anna and Marlene and other fireflies (See Jerry, Manny's dad etc) until she accidentally reunites with Joel.
anon 😭😭😭😭 this rips my fucking heart out bro do u know how desperate joel and tommy would be?????? omg as a parent i definitely would stop at NOTHING to find my girl
also love the idea of sarah and ellie as sisters being raised by revolutionary lesbians anna and marlene???? i feel like the experience of taking care of sarah and raising her as her own daughter would COMPLETELY change marlene’s decision when it comes to anna’s baby and the cure, just as taking care of ellie changed something in joel. maybe anna doesn’t survive the bite/ellie’s birth and ellie still ends up immune??? what if she was raised with sarah protecting her as a big sister, hiding out with help from marlene???? and once they find out about the plan to kill ellie, marlene and sarah make a break for jackson????? and say fuck the fireflies themselves???? and marlene brings sarah back to jackson with ellie tow????
imagine the look on joel’s face when he sees sarah again, not only as a full-grown adult, alive, but hauling her own quasi-sister/daughter along right beside her. tommy would pass out
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can we read the murder lesbians short story
!!!!! YES omg its under the cut <33 a little over 1k words and is one of my first attempts at creative writing would love if anyone read or gave feedback soooo much okk here it is
"define, desire":
To the outsider, Anna’s attention is failing. She sits alone at one of the library’s hexagonal tables, has turned the page maybe once in the past hour. What the outsider doesn’t understand, is that Anna's attention is an arrow with a string, sharp and resolute point embedded in its mark. It’s not her fault, really, how can she be expected to focus on East of Eden when God’s favorite angel is typing in her peripheral. Mari is wearing thin, silver framed glasses today, enlarging her already lamb-like eyes.
Five months ago Anna’s mother passed, leaving her the pale yellow-painted estate and an ever-unsatisfied well wedged deep in her stomach, unrelenting thing. September was rain waving hello, through windows on slow train rides from Anna’s Brooklyn apartment to the quiet and innocuous woods of Seneca Falls. Her intention was never to stay, this was promptly ruined on a notably gray September Sunday: Anna subjected to tediously returning her late mother’s stack of overdue romance novels. Upon first glance, she mistook Mari for actual, inhuman art. It’s nice that the library is investing in the fine arts, she thought. Oh, oh but then the beauty blinked itself alive, flesh and blood, Pygmalion and Galatea. Silver-blonde hair ending at the dip of visible hip bones, her front strands framing those fucking doe eyes. When reading The Argonautica, she thought Jason's men stupid for being unable to resist the sirens’ call. She sympathizes with them now. Mari is desire personified, something sicker than yearning. Flesh and blood cannot look like that. Anna moved to Seneca Falls the following week.
Anna is not insane. She and Mari are friends. It began with books (Anna often watches Mari’s desk then purchases her current read from the local bookstore). Sometimes they’ll discuss art (Anna’s favorite pieces may, on common occasions, feature fair maidens with notably defined anatomy). Recently, they’ve been frequenting local events (she’s canceled three appointments now to attend said events with Mari). The two of them, in fact, went to the loveliest gallery opening last month and shared a slice of blackberry lemon-crème cake. Mari fed Anna a bite with her fork: a doubly bittersweet, indirect kiss. Mari mentioned a craving for it two days ago, red lips in a distracting, horrifying pout. So Anna, in a normal, nonchalant way, called the gallery with the intent of purchasing an entire cake. Tragically, she failed to locate the baker. The gallery was lucky enough however, to have a copy for allergy concerns, which was faxed over. Mari gifted her a kiss on the cheek for it yesterday: a bullet to rational thinking. And so, here is Anna, thinking about warm lips and delicate wrists and flushed skin as Steinbeck’s open pages collect dust.
˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊
Mari has never been more beautiful than in Anna’s late-mother’s kitchen. It’s not the kitchen really, with its outdated black and white tiled backsplash, nor even the setting sun’s orange light placing a halo atop her head. It’s Mari suggesting they bake the cake together, Anna’s kitchen is bigger anyway, it’ll be nice, she had said. Suggested so casually, as if not filling Anna’s mind with sickly craving, sugarcoated daydreams.
The cake is cooling now, on the silver rack beside the knife block. They’re making frosting. It’s difficult for Anna to pay much care to anything besides the smear of buttercream on Mari’s forearm. She thinks of placing her mouth on it, saccharine skin. Mari smiles, full face, and it's then Anna realizes she’s been talking.
“Sorry—missed that,” Anna says.
“Oh I just said the photo on your fridge, it’s nice,” Mari replies.
Mari is referring to a photo of her mother—loose brown curls and stress lines around the eyes, her smile is strained only slightly, it’s almost indiscernible. Anna is seated next to her, same strained smile but significantly less disguised.
“Oh, thanks. That’s my mom, we took it over there.” Anna nods towards the blue velvet couch in the living room where they had then posed for the hired photographer.
“Cute. You look like her.” Mari says.
Soon the conversation moves to the new Margaret Atwood they’re both ‘coincidentally’ reading. The butter churns, loud and repetitive, like a third voice interrupting the discussion. Mari snacks on spare blackberries as they wait, her hands match Persephone’s, all stained red.
˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊
It’s horrific, two toppling layers, collapsing under the weight of undoubtedly too much lemon buttercream; blackberries lazily clinging to swirled dollops. There’s a sheen to it, moonlight on the melting fat of the frosting.
“It’s beautiful,” Anna quips. Mari laughs, taking a knife out of the block, eager to taste.
“It’s a scale model of the fucking leaning tower of pizza—” Mari says.
“You’re beautiful.” Anna interrupts, unable to help herself. Oh, she’s ruined it now. This was supposed to be a quiet, careful seduction—waves ebbing at rocks so slowly that the rock never realizes when exactly, it goes under. A sea stack.
Mari’s eyes go big and pleased. She smiles, impossibly, wider.
Oh fuck, oh, oh fuck, Anna thinks. Does she know? Shit. Anna is sick, sick with want, poisoned by something carnal and consuming.
“You’re lovely,” Mari says, as if it’s simple.
She’s close, now, the warmth of her skin corporeal. The red nail polish of Mari’s fingers meets the cotton of Anna’s shirt. Anna gently claps her wrist, takes the knife out of her hand, a tentative touch. The whole thing is lovely really: the delicate press of bone against skin, Mari’s breath, soft against hers, and Anna’s knife, deep in Mari’s guts.
Desire: “to strongly wish for or want (something),” this “something” is undefined. Romance perhaps, sex, money, love, or, in Anna’s case, violence, flavored with sacrilege. When Anna first realized that Mari was not in fact, sterile art, she was overcome with desire to kill something that is holy and also alive. Mari is screaming, an angel’s chorus. Prey eyes thick with tears, the confusion of a calf raised by a butcher. Her blood is blackberry juice against buttercream, pouring out from the mouth, catching on the veins of her throat, pooling in her clavicle, then trickling back into the original wound in the stomach. Collapsing, strings cut, she fades into a beautiful lifelessness, ars longa vita brevis. Unrelenting hunger satisfied, Mari lies on the floor— Millais’ Ophelia. Anna is ecstatic, a bit in awe. She thinks herself a sort of artist, the corpse on the floor her undying masterpiece. High on ultimate hedonism, Anna notices blood splattered on the cake. She takes the frosting on her finger, metallic, sour, and too-sweet, it’s quite good. A shame, Anna thinks, that she never got to try a slice.
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