#Stark Trading System

[pucksandpower]

Let the World Burn

Charles Leclerc x Ferrari driver!Reader

Summary: a brake failure sends Charles world spinning out of control

Warnings: crash, partial paralysis, brain injury, and plenty of angst (with a happy ending because I’m still me)

Based on this request

The paddock thrums with energy as you make your way to your car, adrenaline already coursing through your veins. Charles falls into step beside you, his presence as familiar and comforting as the roar of engines.

“Ready to show them how it’s done, mon amour?” His voice is a low rumble, eyes alight with competitive fire.

You grin, leaning in to press a swift kiss to his lips. “Always. You’ll be the one watching my rear wing this time.”

Charles laughs, the sound rich and warm. “We’ll see about that.” He squeezes your hand, calloused fingers intertwining with yours. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” The words carry the weight of a thousand unspoken promises, a vow as binding as the wedding bands you can’t yet wear.

All too soon, you’re parting ways, disappearing into the organized chaos of the garage. You slide into the snug confines of the cockpit, the car’s familiar lines an extension of your own body. A flurry of final checks, the high-pitched whine of the engine firing up, and then you’re rolling onto the grid, the tension crackling like static electricity.

The lights go out, and the world narrows to the scream of tires on tarmac, the high-pitched howl of the engine, and the razor-sharp focus that has carried you this far. You and Charles trade positions with every corner, locked in an exhilarating duel that has the crowd on its feet.

And then, without warning, your world fractures.

The pedal goes soft underfoot, your instincts screaming even before the telltale high-pitched whine cuts through the roar of the engine. You slam on the brakes, but the response is sickening— a bare fraction of the deceleration you need.

“Ricky?” Your voice is tight, the adrenaline surging as the implications crash over you in waves. “I’ve got a brake issue here. A big one.”

“Copy that.” Ricky’s tone is clipped, professional, even as your heart rabbits in your chest. “Okay, let’s try cycling the systems-”

You follow his instructions with mechanical precision, but the results are the same: negligible braking force, the car still hurtling forward at murderous speeds. A hairpin looms ahead, the barriers terrifyingly close, and you fight the wheel with everything you have, desperate to keep the bucking machine on track.

“Ricky, is this being broadcast?” The words tumble out in a breathless rush as the Turn looms closer, closer.

“Affirmative.” There’s a pause, the faintest tremor in Ricky’s voice. “It’s going out live.”

You exhale, a shuddering breath that shakes your entire frame. There’s only one person you need to reach now.

“Charles.” His name catches in your throat, thick with emotion. “If you’re listening to this-”

The tears come then, hot and blinding as you wrestle with the uncontrollable car. This can’t be how it ends, not like this, not when you’d imagined decades more by his side.

“In some other life, maybe we would have grown old together.” The words are torn from the depths of your soul, raw and wrenched free by the stark reality bearing down on you. “I wish I could have given you babies and watched our children grow up and lived a long life by your side like we always dreamed.”

Your vision blurs, the turn now a void of unforgiving concrete rushing up to meet you. You fight the wheel with everything you have, but there’s no stopping the inevitable now.

“You deserve every happiness, my love. If … if I don’t make it, please … please find someone else to love and cherish. Don't grieve forever. Be happy.” The brake pedal is useless under your foot, the barriers skimming past in a blur of terror. “Because you deserve all the love in this world and so much more.”

“I hope you’ll hear this,” you force out in a cracked whisper. "And I need you to know, my heart, that even if things end here … even if I don’t get to grow old with you … you have been the brightest light in my life these past five years. You made me happier than I ever dreamed. And I will never, ever stop loving you, Charles. Not in this life or the next. You are everything-”

The impact is a cosmic force, obliterating breath and thought and everything else in a blinding flare of darkness. But still, you cling to awareness, to the phantom thread of love that binds you to the one person who matters most.

“I’ll always-” The anguished vow catches, cut brutally short as oblivion rises to claim you. In those final heartbeats, a fleeting kaleidoscope of memories sparks behind your eyes: unmistakable laughter, stolen kisses, quiet moments wrapped in each other’s arms.

Five years of loving Charles, of being loved by him in a way you’d never dared dream possible.

It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.

But it was everything.

“I love-”

Then, nothing.

***

The world fragments around Charles as his gaze locks onto the shattered remains of the familiar red car. One heartbeat — an endless, merciless instant suspended in time — and then his instincts take over with the force of a tidal wave.

“No … no, no, no!” The anguished words rip from his throat as he wrenches the steering wheel, the shriek of tires on tarmac drowned out by the roar of his own pulse thundering in his ears.

The race, the championship, every ambition and dream that has driven him to this point — it all fades into insignificance as he tears down the pitlane, desperation clawing at his throat. “Y/N! Hold on!”

Flames lick hungrily at the twisted wreckage as he sprints towards the mangled chassis, heedless of the searing heat or the choking smoke that burns his lungs. There’s only one thought, one driving need that propels him forward: reach you, get you out, pull you back from the precipice that has opened up beneath his feet.

“Y/N!”

Your name rips from his lips, a hoarse plea swallowed up by the crackle of fire. He skids to a halt beside the wreckage, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the warped metal that has become your cage, your tomb. “Talk to me, mon cœur! I’m here!”

Coherent thought fractures, replaced by blind panic and the soul-deep terror of losing the one light that guides him through this life.

Your eyes are closed, features lax and far too still against the vivid crimson that stains your skin. Charles’ breath catches in his throat, a raw, animal sound clawing its way free as his trembling hands reach for you, desperate to find a flutter of life, a spark of the brilliant fire he knows blazes within you.

“No, no, no … please, stay with me!” He cups your cheek, fingers smearing crimson as they search in vain for a pulse. “I can’t … I can’t lose you!”

Hands grasp at him then, voices raised in shouts he can’t comprehend. He wrestles against the restraints, a feral need to reach you overriding all reason. “Get off me! She needs help!”

But the marshals are insistent, pushing him back with grim determination until he can only watch, helpless, as they douse the ravenous flames.

It feels like an eternity, each gasping breath torn from a soul being flayed apart piece by torturous piece. And then, finally, they move in, the screech of metal and the hiss of hydraulics barely registering over the roar in Charles’ ears.

You’re so still as they work, pale and frighteningly fragile amidst the tangle of debris. A thin rivulet of red trails from the corner of your lips, each sluggish drip a struck match against the powder keg of Charles’ sanity. He takes a shuddering step forward, then another, his world narrowing to the trembling rise and fall of your chest.

“Please … please, stay with me,” he rasps, fingers closing around the rigid lines of the barrier as if it’s the only tether holding him to reality.

A marshal’s hand on his chest, forceful but lacking the strength to halt the unstoppable forward momentum of a man staring into the abyss. “Back off! Let them work!”

But how can he stand back? How can he simply watch as your life’s flame gutters and fades before his eyes? The words climb his throat, tangling into desperate pleas and vows that he’ll burn the world to keep you here, to keep you safe.

Except, no words come. There’s only the taste of ashes on his tongue and the sight of you, broken and bloodied on the unforgiving grass.

The medics arrive in a whirlwind of crisp efficiency, barking terse orders and assessments that slice into Charles with each clipped syllable. He’s dimly aware of the confirmation that you still live, that there’s a chance — but it’s a flicker, fleeting in the face of the reality unfolding before him.

“What are her chances?” The question rasps out, little more than a graveled whisper as he strains against the restraining hands.

You need an airlift, treatment beyond what can be rendered here on this blood-stained stage. Charles knows it, can see the franticness in the medics’ eyes as they work, but the knowledge brings no comfort.

Only an agonizing cycle of seconds hand-cranked like a Medieval torture device, each one stripping another layer of sanity as he watches you slip away.

“Just hang on, mon amour. I’m here … I’m right here.” His voice cracks, breaking on a devastated keen as they load you onto the backboard.

The whine of rotor blades cuts through the static in his head, a cold metallic slice that raises the hairs on the back of his neck. He sucks in a breath, lungs burning with the effort as the helicopter circles in a raucous descent.

“Please, let me go with her!” He wrenches against the hands with renewed desperation.

They’re taking you away.

He tries to follow, legs turned to lead weights, only to be held back once more by the wall of marshals. There’s shouting, words and pleas and anguished vows all tangled into an incomprehensible madness. “No! Y/N!”

And then, you’re gone.

Lifted skyward in a cloud of downdraft, growing smaller and more indistinct until the sleek lines of the helicopter grow razor-thin before disappearing completely.

“No … no, no, no!” Charles’ legs buckle, sending him crashing to his knees in the scorched swath of earth where you were just lying. His hands fist in the grass, heedless of the crimson that stains his fingers, his palms, every inch of shredded skin and broken soul.

The world has ended. His universe has imploded.

And all he can do is kneel in the ashes and scream your name into the uncaring void.

***

The deafening roar of engines fades to a dull thrum as Charles staggers away from the wreckage, his world reduced to a kaleidoscope of fractured images and white noise. He doesn’t register the shouts, the hands grasping at his shoulders as he stumbles blindly towards the track’s perimeter.

Racing. Championships. It all feels like a cruel cosmic joke in the face of what he’s just witnessed.

A chain-link fence looms ahead, the flimsy barrier doing nothing to impede his forward momentum. Figures materialize on the other side — fans, their faces twisted in shock and concern—and then hands are reaching through, steadying him as he clambers over the top with a desperation bordering on madness.

He has to get to you. Nothing else matters.

The parking lot stretches out before him, a maze of gleaming supercars and sleek team transporters. His feet move without conscious thought, propelled by a single-minded determination to reach his haven, his sole remaining tether in this swiftly unraveling realm.

Except, when he arrives at his Ferrari, chest heaving with exertion and the first tendrils of panic starting to set in, the awful truth crashes over him like a tsunami.

No keys.

A choking sound tears from his throat, part sob and part anguished growl of frustration. He can’t break down here, not now, not when every fiber of his being screams at him to keep moving, to fight, to-

“Charles!”

The familiar voice cuts through the din, offering a lifeline just as the darkness threatens to swell and consume him utterly. Andrea skids to a halt beside him, chest heaving and face flushed from his own desperate sprint across the paddock.

In his outstretched hand, the keys dangle and glint in the harsh sunlight.

“I had a feeling,” the trainer pants, thrusting the keys towards Charles with a knowing look.

No other words are needed. Charles snatches them with a terse nod, every agonizing second weighing like an eternity as the engine roars to life beneath his expert touch.

His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel as he wrenches the car into gear, jaw clenched to keep the scream of agony caged behind his teeth. Andrea hardly has time to slam the door before they’re peeling out of the lot in a spray of gravel and burnt rubber.

Except, the awful truth rears its head once more as the speedometer climbs past ludicrous speeds, the blur of the Italian countryside offering no reprieve from the maelstrom tearing him apart from the inside.

“Shit!” Charles’ palm cracks against the steering wheel, knuckles screaming in protest. “Where did they take her?”

Of course Andrea knows what he’s asking. The performance coach doesn’t even hesitate, already dialing his phone with the same razor-sharp focus that has guided Charles through so many battles over the years. “Fred? It’s Andrea. Where did they take Y/N?”

The next few seconds stretch into an eternity, each rattling breath searing Charles’ lungs. The line must still be ringing because Charles can’t make out any other voice, just the muffled hum of the connection and Andrea’s terse breathing. He casts a sidelong glance, jaw clenched so tightly he can feel the tendons straining beneath his skin.

Then, a response — clipped and authoritative even through the tinny speakerphone crackle. “They’ve airlifted her to the trauma center in Milan. She’s still en route.”

No other words are needed. The Ferrari leaps forward with a howl, devouring the asphalt as Charles whites out every other thought, every scrap of sense and reason. All that exists is the burning need to reach you before the unthinkable becomes reality.

Highway signs whip by in a blur, red taillights and shrill horns little more than background noise as he tears down the roads, uncaring of speed limits or lane markers or any of the trifling rules governing the everyday world he’s left behind. Just an animalistic need propelling him forward, the destination the only thing that matters.

Get to her. Don’t be too late. Please, god, don’t let me be too late ...

And then, finally, the looming skyline of Milan rears into view.

Tires squeal in protest as Charles wrenches the steering wheel, the Ferrari fishtailing wildly before rocketing down the street towards the distinctive profile of the hospital. He doesn’t even bother looking for a proper spot, swinging the car up over the curb and leaving it stranded halfway on the sidewalk in a blatant obstruction.

But he doesn’t care. Can’t care about anything beyond reaching you.

The chaos of the emergency room hits them in a crashing wave of noise and activity, but Charles forges ahead undeterred. Shouts and rebuffs part around him like a river around a boulder, falling away as staff recognize the wild-eyed visage barreling towards them.

It’s Italy. It’s the Grand Prix. Of course they know his face, the name that every tifoso here would sell their soul to claim as a native son. A path opens before them, whispers and pointing fingers trailing in their wake.

“Leclerc!”

“Did you hear what happened?”

“Code Red from the Autodromo ..”

The words slice at Charles, both too loud and too indistinct to comprehend beyond the implication that you’re here, somewhere through these endless, claustrophobic hallways. A nurse in seafoam scrubs appears at his side, ushering them with brisk efficiency. He follows without a word, legs fueled by pure desperation as they weave deeper into the sprawling facility.

At last, they’re led into a waiting room, the nurse pivoting to face them with a carefully composed expression. “The patient was brought in approximately thirty minutes ago with severe trauma from the crash. She’s currently in surgery, but there are no further updates I can provide right now.”

Surgery.

The weight of that single word hits like a sledgehammer, sending Charles reeling until his back slams against the nearest wall. He sucks in a ragged gasp, fingers tangling in his sweat-damp curls as the magnitude of what’s unfolding threatens to drag him under completely.

There are voices, murmurs of concern as figures materialize from the edges of his frayed vision. Hands grasp at him, trying in vain to offer comfort or reassurance or something, anything to tether him to this reality that has become his waking nightmare.

But there is no solace to be found.

With a shudder that wracks his entire frame, Charles slides down the wall, knees tucking up in a pitiful facsimile of the bright-eyed young man who had stood on that sunbaked grid only hours ago. His head drops into his upraised palms, fingers tightening in his hair until the pain is the only thing anchoring him against the relentless maelstrom of grief and terror threatening to sweep him away.

The rest of the world falls away until all that remains is the hollow ache in his chest and the silent pleas to someone — anyone — tumbling through his mind on an endless refrain.

A hand rests on his shoulder, grounding him, and he registers Andrea’s presence beside him, the other man’s face drawn in anguish. Tears track down the trainer’s cheeks, glittering in the harsh fluorescent light.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of their mingled breaths, of a silent understanding too profound for words.

Neither speaks. There are no more words to be said, no prayers to voice beyond the torrent of desperate pleas echoing through their fractured psyches.

All that remains is to wait, and steel themselves against the soul-shattering eventuality awaiting them no matter which way the scales of existence tip.

So they wait. And Charles breaks.

***

The fluorescent lights hum a discordant drone, casting stark shadows that seem to leach the warmth from every surface. Charles stares unseeing at the scuffed linoleum tiles inches from his boots, the clinical smell of disinfectant burning his nostrils with each shallow breath.

Beside him, Andrea’s presence is a fixed point amidst the whirling currents of nurses, orderlies, and grim-faced family members that swirl through the waiting room. A bottle of water is pressed into Charles’ hand at some point, the plastic slick with condensation against his palm.

He doesn’t drink. Doesn’t move or speak or show any reaction to the flickering passage of time.

The flow of bodies ebbs and swells like the tide, more familiar faces appearing in scuttling clusters. First the Ferrari personnel, then other teams’ crew, and finally the drivers themselves, one by one. Gasps and muffled curses drift past as the scope of the situation sinks in. Whispers, a bitten-off sob from somewhere across the room.

Charles hears none of it.

He’s adrift in a sea of his own spiraling thoughts, each cresting wave dragging him deeper into the all-consuming torment. Memories mingle with fragments of overheard updates, snippets of frantic phone conversations from those trying to unravel the events of the race.

Blood, so much blood staining the grass, her lips, matting her hair in crimson streaks as she lay unmoving, unbreathing.

Internal bleeding, fractures, neural trauma.

Laughter muffled by the sheets, lazy mornings spent tangled in each other as the world continued its inexorable spin beyond their bedroom walls.

Code Red from the Autodromo ...

The last words she’d tried to force out, little more than a whispered breath over the roar of the racetrack: “I love-”

The purgatory crawls on, each sluggish second carved raw against his tattered nerves. Charles is vaguely aware of the others filtering in and out in shifts, some speaking to him in murmurs too soft to understand, others simply sitting in silence as the minutes bled together into hours.

Some indeterminable span of time later, a ripple works its way through the room, crystallizing into a gathered hush as figures in pale green scrubs appear. One steps forward — a man with graying hair and a craggy face lined by decades of triaging human lives.

The hush deepens to an utter stillness as every eye turns towards him, a held breath drawn taut to the breaking point. Charles lifts his head, forces his gaze to focus on the man’s lips as they part, the moment elongating like a length of rubber pulled to the edge of its tensile strength.

“The patient-” A pause as the surgeon’s eyes flick across the sea of apprehension before settling on Charles with deliberate weight. “-has been stabilized after undergoing extensive surgery to address the trauma sustained in the crash.”

A soft exhalation moves through the room, instinctive reactions barely bridled by the undercurrent of anxiety that keeps them taut, waiting.

“She suffered a severe brain bleed which resulted in significant swelling. In order to alleviate the pressure on her brain, we were forced to put her into a medically-induced coma.”

The words lance through Charles like jagged shards of ice, locking the breath in his lungs. Unconscious, unresponsive. Alive, but without any way of reaching out to reassure himself that the spark still flickers in those endlessly warm eyes. He swallows hard, the room swimming in and out of focus as the surgeon continues in a measured cadence.

“We’ve also had to repair multiple internal injuries and fractures, including her spine. The next forty-eight hours will be critical for monitoring her condition and responses.”

And there it is, the crux they’ve all been tensed in agonizing anticipation to receive. In two days, they’ll know if the fight — your fight — is over before it’s truly begun. The flip of a cosmic coin will determine whether Charles’ entire universe continues to spin … or falls into the black void opening up beneath his feet.

Peripherally, he’s aware of the questions starting, the anguished pleas for more details and reassurances as the others process the impassive surgeon’s words through their own lenses of experience. But Charles hears none of it, only the deafening rush of his own pulse echoing in his ears as the grains of sand in fate’s diabolical hourglass begin their insidious trek.

A blink, and the surgeon is gone, the rest of the somber scrub-clad figures dispersing back towards the swinging doors of the surgical ward. Just like that, they’re alone again, adrift in the limbo of both desperation and dread.

Charles sags, his tenuous grip on composure fracturing like a dam rupturing beneath the crushing weight of reality. A broken whimper rasps from deep within his chest, guttural and visceral and utterly devoid of anything resembling hope.

A hand finds his shoulder, grounding him enough to keep him tethered to the earth as the universe he knows compresses into the torturous rhythm of a mechanized ventilator breathing life into your battered form.

He can see you so clearly, even with his eyes screwed shut against the harsh fluorescents bleaching every surface to the same antiseptic pallor. Fragile, fighting, hooked up to the cold indifference of technology while it works to preserve what he knows to be the brightest, most brilliant soul ever breathed into existence.

The thought of those sparkling eyes, your eyes clouded with unresponsive stillness … it rips the last tattered shred of restraint from his unraveling core. A desolate wail tears free, strangled and raw and utterly devoid of resignation or peace.

He’s loved you for years, months, days, lifetimes — and still it will never be enough to prepare him for a world in which you don’t exist. A breath where he is forced to simply survive without the steady radiance of your presence illuminating every step along his path. Without living.

Andrea’s arms encircle him, a brotherly embrace that does little to quell the flood of anguish now pouring from him in heaving torrents. The others retreat with quiet steps, allowing themselves to fade into the shadows, mere ghosts slipping from the devastation of a man confronting the whispered dread that inhabits every driver’s subconscious.

A love and a life, both hanging suspended by whatever cosmic forces govern their fleeting existences.

You are his gravity, his sun, his guiding starlight.

If you burn out, his universe will go forever dark.

***

The antiseptic haze of the ICU feels like a vice around Charles’ chest as he follows the nurse down the sterile hallway. Each shuffling step is leaden, tinged with an unreality that weighs heavier with every closed door they pass.

Part of him doesn’t want to go through with this. Doesn’t want to face the reality that awaits on the other side of that threshold and shatter the tenuous equilibrium he’s managed to cling to since the moment everything disintegrated on the racetrack.

“She’s just through here.”

The nurse’s words are a wrench, jerking Charles from his reverie with a sobering lurch. Ahead, a nondescript door with a window barely cracked — the entrance to a realm he’s not sure his soul can withstand traversing.

“I’ll give you a few minutes.” Her voice has taken on that too-gentle lilt, the one that says she’s borne witness to too many lives fractured.

Charles nods automatically, not meeting her gaze as she retreats on soft-soled steps. Then it’s just him, alone in the dimly lit hallway with only the muffled noise of machines and murmured voices beyond the door to keep him tethered.

With a fortifying breath that does little to settle the jackhammer pounding in his chest, he grasps the handle and pushes through into your room.

And then … there you are.

Pale and hauntingly still against the sterile sheets, a sickly garden of tubes and wires cocooning your form. There’s barely a rise and fall of your chest, just the robotic ebb and flow of life being pumped through the mask clamped across your face. Dark crescents of bruising mar the fragile skin beneath your eyes, blossoming in vivid shades of yellow and violet across your cheekbones.

You’re so devastatingly still. As if all your vibrant essence has retreated inward, abandoning your corporeal shell in favor of waging an unseen war to simply continue existing.

Charles sucks in a shuddering breath, fingers spasming against his thigh as the first hairline fractures split through the dam he’s erected around his emotions. Part of him wants to flee, to escape back into the blissful naivete of the world before this became his reality. Another part is rooted to the spot with magnetic inevitability, drawn in helpless orbit around your pale, unmoving form.

Slowly, one foot drags in front of the other, carrying him across the room to hover beside your bedside. The blanket of tubes and wires prevents him from seeing much beyond your face and the barest suggestion of a shoulder through the loose neckline of the hospital gown. He reaches out, fingertips trembling as he ghosts them over the exposed skin just above the jutting notch of your collarbone.

You’re so still. And so, so cold.

That’s what breaks him.

His knees hit the tile with a dull thud, unheeded tears already streaking down his cheeks by the time he presses his forehead to the mattress edge. One hand finds yours, enveloping it in a desperate grasp as his entire being crumbles inward like a spent force of nature.

“No, no, no ...” The words are a mantra intermingled with broken gasps as the dam ruptures completely and the anguish pours free in ragged waves. “This can’t … you can’t ...”

Coherent thought deserts him, spiraling into the endless dark of a life without you at his side. These last few days have been a mere fleeting taste of that desolate actuality, uncomprehending glimpses into a reality too obliterating to fully process.

A universe without your light? Your radiance and warmth suffusing his world with color and texture and meaning? It feels like a black hole has opened its maw inside of his chest, hungry to devour everything until nothing remains.

“Please ...”

The plea rasps out in a guttural whisper, little more than carbon scoring the back of his throat. Head bowed, he crushes his brow to your knuckles, each etchings of bone an anchor weight lashing him to this merciless reality.

“Come back to me ...”

The words splinter apart, shredded into woeful gasps as the dam of his fragile composure ruptures. Great, racking sobs claw their way free, tearing through him from the center of his hollow core.

“Take everything else.” The words fracture anew, dissolving into heaving sobs as another piece of his soul splinters away. “Take every trophy, every podium, every championship I will ever win ...”

His voice cracks, seizing in his throat as he drags in a ragged breath, leaning his brow harder against the bedside to ground himself in some last anchor of solidity. Anything to keep from shattering into a million irretrievable pieces as he pours out the final offering, the ultimate sacrifice any driver or athlete can make against the cruel cosmic joke of mortality.

“Take my career, my records ... everything racing has ever meant to me ...” His fingers spasm around yours, clinging on with everything he has left as the darkness closes in. “Just ... please, let her wake up. Let me have more than just these memories of her smile and her laugh and the way she makes everything brighter just by existing.”

The sobs come harder now, racking his frame with deep shudders as his voice dissolves into jagged keening. Tears scald rivulets down his cheeks and drip from his chin to patter against the utilitarian sheets in glimmering droplets. He cries for the unfairness of it all, for the loss that is so brutally imminent it’s already written into his very bones, for the gaping hole that is soon to hollow out his very existence.

Eventually, the racking sobs subside into muted whimpers, the storm ebbing into a quieter desolation as he clings to the thin lifeline of your hand still cradled in his own. A bitter laugh claws its way up his throat, raw and devoid of any trace of humor.

“You’d probably kick my ass if you could see me making deals with the devil like this.”

The silence is deafening, broken only by the measured hiss-pause-exhale of the machines mercilessly keeping that precious flicker of life from extinguishing completely. Another laugh escapes, rough and graveled with the weight of a million shattered pieces of himself littering the floor around him.

“You’ve always been the stronger one between us, haven’t you?”

He angles his head, pressing his lips to your knuckles in a lingering kiss as a fresh deluge of tears gather in his eyes. “So wake up, mon cœur. Wake up and show me how to keep going ...”

The whisper hangs in the air, suspended in the limbo of waiting and dread as the machines continue their indifferent monotony. Charles lingers there, forehead pressed to your palm as the minutes drag onward and the final flickers of day fade from the window.

He’s here. He’ll always be right here.

No matter how many nights and days and eternities that ceaseless tide must crash over him until your eyes open once more.

The quiet is shattered by a stifled gasp at the threshold, a swell of fresh emotion that causes Charles to lift his head, scrubbing futilely at his eyes with the back of his free hand. Two figures have appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the dimmer light of the hallway beyond.

Footsteps, two sets. Familiar yet not, like ghosts drifting through the periphery of a dream. He knows instinctively who has stepped into the claustrophobic bubble of vigil, but cannot summon the energy to turn, to confront them.

There’s only you. Only you, and this carcass of shattered promises and devastation that he’s been reduced to by the simple fact of your absence.

Until …

Motions in the corner of his vision, the slide of fabric and muted footfalls amidst the monotonous cadence of technology. Then, a pair of weathered hands — hands he recognizes like the veins pulsing with life beneath his own skin — come into view, cupping his bowed head in a cradle of reassurance and shared infinitudes of anguish.

Your parents’ voices carry in the wake of their touch, whispers ragged with the same bone-deep desolation bleeding from Charles’ shattered core. Indistinct murmurs of comfort, of empathy, of that level of understanding that only those poised on the precipice can ever understand.

He doesn’t resist as they draw him into the circle of their arms, enveloping him until their shared warmth banishes some of the chill snaking through his soul. Hot tears streak down his cheeks again, but these aren’t solitary, bitter shed of a man abandoned in the void of loss.

Their mingled anguish binds them together on this fevered plane of suffering, a communion of the damned begging with whatever beneficent forces might hear their pleas.

Please.

Please give them back the spark of light they all crave with every fiber of their beings.

Please, because this ...

This is no life. Not without you.

***

The fluorescent lights seem to dim with every passing hour, the edges of reality blurring together into an indistinct smear. Time has lost all meaning amidst the monotonous cycle of machines and muffled hospital ambiance swirling through your room.

Charles is adrift in a wakeful dream state, his world compressed into the miniscule shifts across your features. The steady beep of the heart monitor, the almost imperceptible rise and fall of your chest, the flutter of your eyelids as your mind navigates whatever ethereal paths separate you from him.

He hasn’t left your bedside. Not for food or rest or even the most basic of human needs. It’s all he can do to simply exist in this liminal space with you, unwilling to surrender a single breath or blink to the cruelty of a reality in which your presence doesn’t illuminate every crevice.

His thumb traces idle circles over your knuckles, the motion as robotic as the whoosh of the ventilator forcing air in and out of your lungs. Voices drift through from the hallway, clinical and detached. More tests and updates being murmured without context or depth of feeling.

None of it matters. The only metric capable of penetrating the fog enshrouding Charles is the ghost of sensation where his calloused fingers brush your skin.

He’s acutely attuned to the details of your condition at any given moment, no matter how inconsequential it may seem to the professionals at their stations monitoring labs and scans. A slight spike in temperature or blood pressure, the faintest twitching muscle or brow-furrow. All of it feels magnified a thousandfold as he clings to every indication, every little shift that might signal a turn for the better.

Or … for the worse

The thought skitters away the instant it surfaces, instinctively repressed by the force of Charles’ sheer desperation. He’s been here, motionless and steadfast, as the forty-eight hour milestone stretched into seventy-two, ninety-six, a hundred and twenty. With each passing day, the doctors grew more optimistic, more positive in their assessments as the swelling in your brain gradually abated.

Until this morning. The preliminary preparations to rouse you from the protective shroud of the medically induced coma began. Rounds of testing, consults from specialists, hushed asides between the scrub-clad personnel that Charles couldn’t parse beyond the undercurrent of anticipation that rippled through the ward.

Now they wait. He and the contingent of nurses and doctors hovering at stations like sentries guarding the gateway to the only world that matters. Watching, observing, as your eyelids begin to stir and the heart monitor’s pattern shifts just slightly from its metronomic rhythm.

Charles holds his breath, fingers tightening around yours as his gaze fixes on your face, the first pinpricks of awareness flickering there. Your eyelids flutter, brow furrowing as if straining against unseen barriers holding you back. Flashes of animation, of unvoiced struggle, play out in rapid succession and his world constricts into that singular point of reality unwinding.

Your fingers twitch, a spasmodic shudder, before settling into a steady movement in his grasp. The change in pressure is minute, featherweight, but it’s enough to electrify every nerve in Charles’ body. His head whips toward the observation window, breath sawing from his lungs.

“She’s waking up!”

It’s little more than a raw exhalation, the spark that ignites the room into urgent, yet controlled, flurries of activity. A nurse slips inside, tapping briskly at monitors and checking lines with an instinctive flow of motion. Charles barely registers her presence, his world distilled down to that singular point of lifeline linking him to you as the fog of unconsciousness finally begins to lift.

Your first inhale tugs at something primal within him, hauls the breath from his lungs even as unfettered joy spills through his chest. There’s movement beneath the fluttering of your eyelids, the rustle of lashes and tiny furrows creasing the delicate skin around your eyes. The seconds stretch out like an eternity until finally ...

They open.

Slitted and hazy, but undeniably open and aware. For an endless heartbeat, Charles is frozen, hands still wrapped around your fingers as afraid to move as a cave explorer plunged into impermeable black.

Then the world rushes in with all the chaos and color he’s been robbed of for far too long. A desperate sound tears itself free of his throat, as his body releases the suspended tension flooding from every pore. He sways forward, bracing his other hand on the mattress edge to keep from utterly crumpling at your very first flutter of life.

“Oh god ...” The fractured keen catches with a gasping sob. “Dieu merci, I thought I-”

But the words fracture, tumble away into lost coherence as you shift, throat bobbing with visible effort before the slurred shape of words escapes past chapped lips.

“C-can’t … f-feel ...”

Charles freezes, the world contracting back into stark lines and hyper-focused clarity. You’re struggling, the effort of speech clear across features still slack with the vestiges of your ordeal.

Panic claws its way up his throat, instinct sounding the call to seek help, to rally every force of medicine at their disposal toward solving this new, horrifying complication. He turns, mouth already open in a shout toward the observation window-

Only to find the room already flooding with personnel, summoned by some unseen alert the moment you stirred. Voices begin filtering through the dissonance clogging his senses — clipped, professional directives lancing through the feedback loop skipping inside his skull.

“Keep her calm-”

“... signs of paralysis ...”

“... damage to the motor cortex ...”

The final phrase lands like a weighted punch, sending Charles reeling back a half-step as the implications unspool into his consciousness. Your face twists in distress, breath sawing as the tube mask fogs with each panicked exhalation.

“I … n-no ...” You try to move, to shift position, but whatever spinal injury incurred in the wreck limits you to feeble twitches and whimpers.

Charles is at your side in an instant, features etched in silent agony as he brushes back the hair feathering across your forehead. His other hand finds yours, solid and grounding as he wills every iota of strength into the contact.

“Shhh, it’s alright. It’ll be alright, just stay calm.”

A cursory glance over his shoulder confirms a flurry of activity unfolding behind the glass as neurologists and specialists filter in. Tests will be run, evaluations and diagnostics to chart out whatever neural trauma has wrought such devastating effects upon your mobility.

In this moment, none of it matters beyond the trembling whimpers parting your lips and the glimmer of tears streaking your cheeks to dampen the pillow beneath your head. Charles wants nothing more than to gather you into his arms, to shield you from this fresh cruelty that has robbed you of yet another piece of your spirit.

Instead, he leans in close, cradling your face in his palm as you struggle to latch onto his presence amidst the waves of fear and distress no doubt crashing through your psyche.

“F-feel my … can’t ....” The disjointed words catch in racking sobs, your eyes squeezing shut against a torrent of emotion he recognizes all too well.

“I know, I know ...” The platitudes feel hollow, meaningless verbal gestures against the enormity of the situation closing its grip around them. But Charles speaks them regardless, murmuring soft reassurances against your anguish.

“Just focus on me, mon cœur. Only me.” His thumb swipes the moisture from your cheekbones, smearing tear tracks through the pallor there as his voice drops to a soft rasp. “You’re still here, still fighting ...”

Your eyes open at that, lashes spiked and heavy with more saline that slips free to streak down your temples. Those depths are oceans of heartache, roiling with a tempest of emotion that momentarily banishes every scrap of reason or logic from Charles’ mind.

All that matters is easing your suffering. Doing anything to lift the veil of anguish smothering the radiant light that marked your essence, that wondrous spark responsible for thawing every one of his defenses and opening a pathway to the heart he’d resigned himself to never sharing.

“I’m here and I’m not leaving. Not ever.” The words scorch themselves into his very soul as he presses his brow to yours. The antiseptic smells of your surroundings fade, the two of you cocooned in the intimate embrace of making your entire world his, if only for these fleeting seconds.

“We’ll get through this together,” he murmurs against your hairline, drinking in the simple euphoria of your closeness, of being able to impart even an inkling of comfort through his presence alone. “I promise.”

The words hang there for a suspended eternity, no response beyond the quiet hiccup of your breathing evening out the tiniest bit. A sliver of solace in the storm to cling to, no matter how tenuous.

Then the retinue of doctors and nurses sweeps in, their voices raised in directives and instructions. It shatters the moment, the outside world crashing back into their reality with all its cold indifference and clinical calculation.

Charles is ushered back, stumbling on legs turned to rubber as he watches you drag your reddened gaze from his, focusing inward as the onslaught of testing begins. He wants to refuse, to dig in his heels and remain steadfastly at your side through whatever fresh torments this throws your way.

But that defiance dies before it can form, snuffed out by the fragility written in the slump of your shoulders and the dull, haunted glaze muting your formerly vibrant spirit. All of his instincts scream at him to protect you, to rally against any external forces bent on inflicting more cruelty upon your already overburdened existence.

Instead, with a leaden heart and bile burning the back of his throat, Charles can only slip from the room and let the white coats encircle you with their machines and sterile indifference.

It’s a wait that lasts an eternity condensed into seconds, the rubber soles of his sneakers tracing grooves into the linoleum as he paces the hallway with increasing franticness. Snatches of conversation drift out from behind the closed door — clinical assessments devoid of context or feeling.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the door sweeps open and a group of personnel file out, scribbling notations and conversing in terse murmurs. One of them, a woman with cropped silver hair and piercing eyes, breaks off to approach Charles. Her expression is carefully neutral, devoid of any emotional tells.

“Mr. Leclerc.” It’s not a question, but an acknowledgment of who he is … and what is owed to him. “Your … partner has suffered extensive trauma to her spinal cord and central nervous system in the crash. The amount of nerve damage we’re detecting suggests paralysis of both lower extremities.”

The words shatter into coherent syllables and empty static all at once. Charles nods numbly, awaiting the verdict he can feel looming above them all.

“We can’t say with any certainty whether this condition is temporary or … permanent.” There’s a pause, the ghost of empathy flickering across her hawkish features before the professional mask reasserts itself. “Only time will tell if there’s any chance of full recovery once the other injuries have mended and treatment can begin in earnest.”

The finality hangs in the air for a stretched tautness of heartbeats, crystalline and utterly devoid of warmth. Charles forces himself to meet her gaze, to hold her clinical detachment within his own eyes as the world drifts further and further away.

“Okay.” It’s little more than a whisper, but it feels like tearing out his own throat to give voice to the thing that shatters his heart for you. “Can I … see her?”

A dip of the woman’s chin, a wordless assent as she steps aside to allow Charles to pass. He manages only a few weighted strides before halting, hand braced against the doorframe as he ghosts his gaze over your prostrate form.

You’re crying, quiet and bereft as the blankets rise and fall in time with your shuddering breaths. Something animal and feral keens low in Charles’ chest at the sight, every scrap of resolve threatening to unravel in the wake of your desolation.

Before he can think of second-guess the impulse, he crosses the space in two strides and drops to his knees beside the mattress. You startle at the sudden motion, eyelids fluttering in shock before recognition blazes through the emptiness shrouding your features. It’s Charles’ undoing.

“No, no … no tears.” His voice cracks like splintered glass, adrift on waves of his own withheld emotion. “You’re still here. You’re still with me, mon amour.”

He finds your hand with his own, fingers dwarfed in his calloused grip as he brings them to his brow. Outside, the doctors and specialists confer in low murmurs, their indifference too jagged to apply to the wounds here in this sanctuary where only you exist.

“You’ll be okay.” The promise burns itself into the verse he’s scribed on his heart, a vow etched in trails of moisture searing his cheeks. “No matter what it takes.”

His lips find your forehead, brushing against the clammy skin there as you sag towards him, drawn together by the gravity of an understanding too profound for the empty hallways and clinical trappings circling them. For this stolen breath, it’s simply you and him in all your wounded radiance.

“I almost lost you.” The confession rattles free, sent skyward on exhaled plumes that stir the fine baby hairs framing your brow. “And I’ll fight like hell to keep you beside me for as long as this life will allow.”

Your eyes find his, fractured mirrors reflecting all the heartache and dashed hopes ricocheting between you. But there’s something else there too.

Hope. Defiance. That unquenchable spark that first lured Charles toward you like a moth begging for the flame’s obliterating caress.

He’ll cling to that inner fire. Pour every ounce of his being into nurturing the smoldering coals until they flare again, banishing the darkness fate has chosen to drape them in at every turn. They’ll get through this, finding whatever reserves the cruelest pockets of despair have yet to strip away to sustain them.

Paralysis, brain damage, unthinkable trauma ...

None of it matters.

Not as long as you’re still drawing those precious, rasping breaths beside him.

Not as long as that beautifully battered heart beats on, refusing to surrender to the abyss.

“Je t’aime.” The oath clings to his lips, pressed against your temple as he holds you close. “Always and forever. No matter what.”

***

The sleek, modern lines of the therapy center bisect the Monegasque sky, all glass and steel rising toward the blue expanse. Charles pauses a moment as he strides across the courtyard, drawing in a steadying breath of the crisp early-winter air before continuing on toward the entrance.

The motion-triggered doors sweep open with a whisper, ushering him into the pristine lobby adorned with the fixtures of understated elegance. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in muted ambers and golds that warm the precision-engineered decor.

Charles crosses the space with economical purpose, gaze sweeping the sitting areas arranged with studied nonchalance until he pinpoints the familiar silhouette awaiting him. You’re positioned with your back angled toward him, the faint shudder of your shoulders visible as you shift position in the high-backed wheelchair.

For a heartbeat, the sight freezes him in place, the old swell of emotions threatening to spiral into rampant chaos until he can taste the acrid tang of panic curdling on his tongue.

Then the moment passes, brought up short by the instinctive reflex to compartmentalize that’s carried him through so many darknesses since the day his entire universe fragmented beyond repair. He shakes it off, squaring his shoulders as he resumes his trajectory, clearing the distance between you in a handful of strides.

You must sense his presence behind you because a tremor shivers across your frame a half-second before you begin to crane your neck towards the source of the approaching footfalls. Charles times his approach to intercept the motion, stepping neatly into your peripheral line of sight with a warm smile ghosting across his features.

“Mon amour.”

The endearment falls from his lips like silk across skin, the richly-textured syllables suffusing the air between you until it feels thick with emotion and the grounding sense of home. Of course, you react to the sound, lips already parting in anticipation of reply that has yet to fully manifest.

The struggle is still so pronounced, hewn into the furrows creasing your brow and the deliberate concentration sharpening the elegant lines of your profile as you wrestle with the disconnect between neural synapses and musculature. Each time Charles bears witness to these trials, it rekindles the enduring fury and heartache enough to steal the air from his lungs.

How cruel could fate be to hurt the brightest soul he’s ever known?

The questions circle endlessly, gnawing their way across his subconscious in a constant cycle of what-ifs and unvoiced anguish. So he clings to patience as your sole solace, willing every ounce of unspoken encouragement into the sliver of contact where his calloused fingers sit atop your knuckles.

“It’s-” The fragmented sound tugs his focus back to your profile in time to catch the flickering hint of frustration tightening the muscles along your jaw as the words elude their trajectory once more. He watches your chest rise and fall with the effort of measured breathing, sees the war being waged behind blown pupils as your nerves strive to reestablish an equilibrium so brutally ruptured by trauma.

And then … a breakthrough.

“I ...” Barely more than an exhale, shaped on the barest puff of air passing your lips. But the simple vowel ignites something beneath Charles’ breastbone, a frisson of hope and pride and a thousand other tangled emotions combining into unadulterated exhilaration.

“L-love ...” Another pause, infinitesimal in the grand cosmic span yet stretched endless as the consonants parse themselves into recognizable sounds. Your eyes find his, glimmering pinpricks of desperate adoration blazing through the sullen cloud of anguish that’s settled in their depths.

The final whisper crystallizes into the air with the reverent weight of an answered prayer, “... you.”

Charles is across the space in an instant, crashing to his knees before you with a breathless sound that parts his lips on a broken rasp. Trembling hands map along the delicate slopes of your cheeks, cradling your face as a single tear spills free to chart a glistening trail down his cheek.

“Oh god ...” The prayer shivers past his lips, half sob and half keening breath as he presses his brow to yours, drowning in your presence and surrounding himself with the singularity of your existence. “You did it. You said it ...”

He trails off, lost to the beautifully battered rhythm of your exhales gusting across his features. This close, you’re all he sees, all he needs to survive this moment of solace among the anguished trials you’ve endured to forge this path back toward him. With painstaking care, he leans in to dust trembling kisses across your brow, your temples, the feathered crescents of your eyelashes as they flutter shut beneath the reverent onslaught.

Until finally, his lips find yours in a searing confession of worship — no urgency or fire, just two souls colliding into the singularity that first kindled their union. Charles slants his mouth across your own, breathing you in deeply until his senses are awash in the familiar scent of your skin and the dizzying tranquility of becoming something so much more than the sum of fragmented parts.

It both is and isn’t a kiss, just the barest brush of sensitive flesh and shared breath. Yet all of Charles’ fortitude strains against the tidal surge of emotion crashing through his bones … devotion and heartache, fervent pride and the nauseating chaser of reality.

Because even as you persevere, rising like a phoenix from each trial along this endless road toward recovery, he knows the path ahead remains strewn with obstacles and shadowed pockets into which the darkness always lurks.

When he finally tears himself away, it’s with another shuddering breath and two crystalline trails of moisture etched into the hollows beneath his eyes. He drinks in your features with the starving desperation of one lost to the merciless desert of life, maps every nuanced shift of line and breath and expression to catalog the miracles unfolding before him.

“You incredible, impossible thing ...” The endearment slips free on a choked laugh, more for his sake than any lack of comprehension on your part. Even after everything, Charles knows you understand the timbre and shape of his words as deeply as if they were your own thoughts.

But before he can bask in the fleeting warmth of this tiny victory, you’re drawing him back in. Delicate fingertips brushing the moisture from his cheekbones as you struggle to translate thought into sound once more.

“This … isn’t ...” A pregnant pause, brow furrowing with the strain before the rest comes in a tumbling rush. “What you wanted. For us.”

The words land like craters against Charles’ ribs, disjointed bombs stripping away the last threads of cheerfulness with each syllable. He stills, mouth parting on a protest that never materializes as you forge onward in the wake of his stunned silence.

“Y-you gave up ...” Another tiny hesitation, your chest rising and falling as you suck in a fortifying breath, “... everything.”

A fresh sheen of moisture wells in your eyes, slick with too many fractured hopes and dreams to ever assemble into coherent utterances. Still, Charles recognizes each shred of meaning, every whispered subtext behind the fragments you offer up as if stilling him for the inevitable strike to come.

Except this time, the blow he expects never arrives. Instead, you lean in, fingertips trailing lightly across the sharp angles of his jaw as the rest of the thought emerges with painstaking care.

“It’s … okay. To find someone ...” Your voice cracks, throat bobbing against the torrent of naked vulnerability suffusing each word. “... new.”

For an endless instant, the world spins on its axis, that single, shattered confession shearing through all of Charles’ deeply-ingrained instincts and defenses. This is the thing he’s dreaded since the first moment fate’s vicious hand tore the very fabric of your radiance into parts — the inevitability of you shouldering the blame for what has unfolded.

Unacceptable.

Unthinkable.

His hands are on you again before he consciously wills them to move, palms cradling your face like he’s the one in constant danger of crumbling into a billion undone pieces. It’s both anchor and lifeline as he pulls you flush against him, mouth trembling for purchase against the rush of sentiment crashing through his veins.

“Never.” The oath has never felt so feather-light yet absolute all at once. He rasps it out like a scrap of prayer, the shape of the sound rippling through the air between them.

“This life? You are everything I want.” The words feel torn from some primal place he had thought cauterized in the aftermath of all that has transpired between them. But still, Charles lays himself bare in their wake, baring every shred of anguish and love and reverence bleeding from his heart.

“Not the career or the glory or any other pursuit I might have thrown myself toward ...” He drags in a ragged inhale, feeling your quivering breaths ghosting across his lips like a light breeze stoked from embers. “Just you, mon cœur. All of you — from your brilliant mind to your determined spirit.”

His thumb traces the supple curve of your cheekbone, rough calluses snagging lightly against satin-smooth skin as his voice skips toward a halting rasp.

“I don’t know what the future holds.” This final mortal truth lingers in the thrall of hushed vulnerability shrouding them. “But I’m not leaving this existence without you by my side through every second of it. Not willingly.”

In the suspended heartbeats that follow, Charles watches the onslaught of emotion crest through the otherworldly depths of your eyes. He swallows hard, aching to fend off whatever final resistance lingers behind those storm-tossed features. Except his throat has grown too thick, too clogged with unshed tears to give voice to the hundreds upon thousands of fractured promises unspooling toward each other.

So he kisses you instead — harder this time, with the desperate exhilaration of a drowning man breaking surface to taste the first gasps of oxygen-rich air. He pours himself into the connection, igniting the spark that first smoldered between you years and lifetimes ago until his entire being resonates with the radiant warmth.

When at last he drags himself back, it’s with a swipe of his thumb to brush away the shimmering track of tears he’s unwittingly drawn to your cheek. “I love you,” he rumbles, the sound resonating from the depths of his core to embed in the very foundations of his soul. “Nothing else matters.”

And as if summoned by nothing more than the simmering weight of his epiphanies, you offer up one final exhalation shimmering with promise and budding hope.

“Race.” A broken sound, little more than a whispered caress against the tide of all that has gone unsaid. “Win for … f-for us.”

Charles’ lips part, trembling with too many half-born replies in that stretched moment of realization.

You’re right. Of course you’re right, focused as always upon rekindling the vibrant sparks threatening to gutter beneath his gaze. It’s yet more proof of why he resolved to kneel before you and bind his existence to your own — from now until the last glimmers of twilight.

He curls a hand behind your neck, prizing this beautiful connection above all the momentary triumphs and thrills his boyhood dreams ever convinced him to pursue. Red-painted carbon and shrieking downshifts, roars of acclaim and champagne spilled as if raining down from the heavens … none of it could ever hope to fill the sacred spaces you’ve already occupied with your quiet strength and luminous resilience.

“For you,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, leaving goosebumps in its wake along the exposed column of your throat. “And only for you, mon ange. I’ll make the world itself hold its breath if that’s what you need.”

He seals the promise with a final brush of his mouth, lingering until every ounce of the sacred vow sears itself into your skin and memory alike.

By the time he draws back to drink in your features one more time, there’s a spark flickering through the storm clouds rimming your gaze. A dazzling flicker in the instant before it flares into something inextinguishable, something potent enough to blind out every shadow threatening to swallow him whole.

It sears through him like a lightning strike, melting every ounce of resolve into something more precious than any trophy or accolade his profession could ever bestow.

A vow you return with a simple promise. “I’ll be your ...” Your voice falters. But your eyes blaze with the words, with that same inevitable fire that forged those first fateful sparks between your souls, “... biggest fan.”

***

The grand hall seems to hum with the collective intake of a thousand bated breaths as Charles turns to face the gathering. Sunlight streams through towering windows in cascading sheets of amber warmth, gilding everything in honeyed refractions that lend an ethereal glow to the floral arrangements and pristine altar dominating the space.

He sucks in a steadying breath of his own, rolling his shoulders beneath the crisp lines of his tailored tuxedo. Anticipation thrums through every fiber of his being, vibrating in synchrony with the symphony of tremulous breaths rippling through their assembled friends and loved ones.

This moment has been too long in manifesting, too brutally tested by the cruelties of fate to be anything but utterly perfect in execution.

Behind him, the faint rustle of his groomsmen shifting into place provides the barest murmur of ambient sound. Joris, Andrea, Pierre, Arthur, and Lorenzo — all united by the gravity of this singular instance reshaping the trajectory of Charles’ existence. He chances the briefest glance over his shoulder, meeting their steadying nods of encouragement with a fleeting ghost of a smile.

It anchors him, draws together those final errant threads of composure in time for the first swell of the processional to filter through the sprawling chamber. The gentle symphony of strings and woven harmonies crashes over Charles in a physical caress, setting his nerves alight with anticipation as every eye tracks toward the grand archway dominating the far end of the hall.

He doesn’t immediately register the diminutive figure emerging in a sweep of ivory chiffon and pale lace. Only after the sharp inhalation of breath fluttering through the assembled does his gaze lock onto your silhouette, resplendent even through the sheer flutter of the veil haloing your shoulders.

He expects the wheelchair, the familiar sleek metallic lines and measured rolls ushering you towards him. Expects the sight that’s become so achingly you, even as it never fails to tighten every muscle in his body with the urge to shelter you in his arms from every cruelty the merciless universe has seen fit to inflict.

Except … there is no chair.

The shuddering breath that leaves his lips might as well have been torn from the depths of his very essence in that suspended heartbeat of dawning realization.

You’re walking.

With slow, tiny strides, flanked on either side by bridesmaids in burnished golds — but not supported or aided in any functional sense of the movements.

No, these halting footfalls are all your own. A monumental effort of sheer force of will and gritty determination honed across months of exhaustive perseverance through some of the darkest shadows ever spanning your shared existences.

Each trembling step, every inch traveled across that endless-seeming expanse of polished marble floor, is both defiant proof of your resilience and a blazing triumph over pain and hardship and loss echoed ten thousandfold.

Charles cannot breathe. Can barely remain upright as his entire world both manifests and dissolves around this singular progression unfolding before him in strangled increments. Others have begun to weep in earnest, muffled sobs billowing through the gathered assembly like ripples across a pond’s placid surface.

He’s vaguely aware of his groomsmen shifting behind him, of shocked gasps ghosting across their stunned features as they grasp the significance of what’s unfolding before their eyes. Andrea’s palm finds the small of Charles’ back, steadying his frame against the sudden influx of vertigo and exhilaration threatening to collapse his consciousness.

Because all that exists in this shuddering span of fractured instants is you. Nothing more, nothing less than the endless radiance of your soul as you stride toward him.

Toward your destiny.

Toward the culmination of all the strength and beauty and determination he’s revered with every ounce of his being since the first time he met you.

He’s crying in earnest now, can feel the streaking trails of moisture searing molten paths down his cheeks to dampen the crisp cotton stretched across his chest. Yet the tears hardly register as anything more than a bodily necessity to expel the rising tsunami of l elation cresting inside his core.

You’re within arm’s reach now, only a handful of quavering paces separating your joined paths. Charles’ hands tremble where they hang at his sides, fingers spasming around the desperation to move, to reach, to hold you against him and pour every ounce of adoration into you.

Willpower alone is what roots him in place, keeps him tethered until every shift and flex of muscle is committed to memory. Until your forward momentum carries you into his gravitational embrace in a sweeping collision of souls reunited.

He feels your hands first, slightly clammy where they land against his shoulders and chest in search of purchase. Then the subtlest hint of perfume, that floral-tinged elixir unique only to the slope of your neck and the crown of your hair when he dips to brush his lips across your brow in reverence.

The dam breaks and Charles crumples inward, folding himself around your form with only the vaguest cognition of the groomsmen forming a sheltering web around you both as he sinks to his knees in a thunderous impact of boneless limbs.

Words either fail him or escape articulation as the only sounds to pass his lips become a stream of fevered, jumbled endearments and throaty praises poured directly against the fevered warmth of your skin. His hands map every trembling plane in frantic sweeps, nails skirting intricate embroidery and dewy satin as each heated exhale shudders harsh against your neck, your cheeks, your brow ...

“Mon cœur ...” The title is prayer and confession, ground out from the friction of his entire belief system being forged anew around you. “You incredible thing ... dieu, look at you ...”

He silences the reflexive protests before they can rise by slanting his mouth across yours. There’s nothing carnal or profane in the gesture, simply the coming together of two souls.

You taste of elation and salt, of budding promise and fond tenacity. Of incandescent joy and the shredded velvet of nights spent paralleling the loneliest infinities as your fingers clutched each other like dual magnets anchored across the universe’s expanse.

“So strong … my warrior … perfect ...” The muted words ghost over your trembling form. Somewhere distant, a chorus of cheers and applause has erupted beyond the bubble forming around you.

But none of it truly registers, not when compared to this shattering merging of everything either of you has struggled and strained and wept to reach.

Nothing else matters in the sweeping catharsis cascading around you both. Not the hoarse prayers still shuddering past his lips, or the moisture from your own lashes streaking down his cheeks in silence.

It’s only when the dizzying euphoria begins to ebb that Charles slowly drags his gaze upwards to find yours — those beautiful depths drowning in reverence and bliss mirroring his own. The spark flickering there banishes all shadows in an instant, forging incandescence enough for a lifetime no matter what fresh trials fate might see fit to test your devotion.

He drinks you in, committing the flawless canvas of your features to permanence before reaching up to brush trembling fingertips across the sheer lace obscuring your radiance. The sweep of fabric pools around your shoulders and Charles finds himself very nearly undone again by the sight of your unveiled beauty.

“So ...” He swallows hard, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw as words fail him for a what feels like an eternity. “... beautiful. Like the first dawn cutting through the blackest oblivion.”

A tremulous smile sweeps across your lips, the ghost of a promise he absorbs with every pore as you lean into the reverent sweep of his touch. He could stay like this forever, knees grinding against the ornate tile. Anything to capture how eternal he feels right here with you.

Charles drags in a rallying breath, forcing his widened gaze from yours just long enough to call his groomsmen to attention with a look. They rally behind him, steadying him as he rises on legs turned bowstring-taut with adrenaline.

And then, with every eye once more centered upon you two, Charles bends at the waist and sweeps you into his embrace, cradling your trembling frame against his chest with the paradoxical delicacy and unyielding reverence that lives so unbridled within his very bones. Your breath catches audibly, a soft hitch of sound that adorns the sacred silence as he turns away from the guests.

The officiant’s features are flushed and lined, rimed with moisture that glistens unabashedly as he gathers himself to proceed.

“Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc and Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N,” he begins. “You have been called here as an acknowledgment of the next chapter in your lives together ...”

The ceremony begins, the words spilling forth as you tuck your cheek against Charles’ thundering pulse, fingers curling into the lapel of his tuxedo in a white-knuckled embrace. He lives in the rise and fall of your mingling breaths, in the warmth of your form pressed seamlessly against the shelter of his body as you bear witness to the eternal scripture neither of you could have fathomed even existing upon first crossing paths.

Then, the officiant turns his attention towards Charles, chin dipped in grave deference. “You may recite your vows.”

The command punches through him, sawing the breath from his lungs in a ragged exhalation that shivers across your crown. He swallows hard, blinks back the fresh deluge of tears that threatens to escape his faltering restraint. But when he opens his mouth, the words spill out like they were always meant to.

“I have dreamed of you since before the first moments of my existence.” The syllables echo across the hall, spiraling forth to caress every rapt attendee in their wake. “Of a love conceived in the heart of a collapsing star and given breath in our adjoined forms to shine forth into the darkness.”

His lips brush your hairline, absorbing the scent of your fragrance and feeling the thrumming rhythm of life radiating from your temples. Here, cocooned in the intimate heart of their unity, the world holds its breath along with the gathered witnesses.

“Nothing could have prepared my soul to be scoured by your brilliance, your resilience … let alone knitted together from the fraying remnants when our path shattered across the cruel stones of fate.” A tremulous inhale, steadying as his gaze flicks across the faces assembled before you — a sweep encompassing every expression of empathy and shared joy piercing back at him.

“Yet here we stand, mon amour ...” The endearment spills forth like rich velvet, textured and avowed as his mouth finds the top of your head once more, the taste of reverence sweet on his tongue. “United into something sacred, something woven from those endless nights clinging to each other across the desolate chasm that could so easily have swallowed us whole.”

He savors the simple elation of your response, of knowing his words resonate through every quivering fiber with the promise of finally reaching what you’ve been steadily ascending to all along.

So he breathes you in once more, chasing the familiar scent of your skin until his very lungs burn with the delight of your proximity. The depths of his gaze find yours again, irises rimmed in the faintest remnants dampness as one final promise takes shape.

“I will love you to the final molecule ...” Quieter now, a molten rasp uttered into the hollow between your brows as fingertips sift through the intricate sweeps of your tresses. “I will walk beside you through each breath and season, every triumph and shadow that marks this existence as uniquely ours. With all that I am, all that lingers when the inconsequential has stripped from my shell — I am yours. Until the last spark is extinguished from this universe and beyond.”

The promise hangs in the reverent stillness as he takes his first full breath after, filling his lungs with the ozone and wildflowers commingling from your respective scents until his senses reel. Only then does he draw back enough to drink in the sight before him — the ethereal swaths of your veil now skirting the contours of your features, the downy lashes beaded with moisture, the trembling swell of your lips as the first stuttered shapes of sound begin forming upon them.

Your reciprocation is a hushed, halting stream of sounds that carry all the solemn gravity of prayers finally granted voice. Each syllable pitches forward, low and overflowing with the fevered weight of their reverence until they resonate through Charles’ bei by like physical sensations trailing electricity along his nerves.

“In the beginning, there was nothing,” you breathe, fingers flexing restlessly against the solid plate of his chest as you struggle to channel the turbulent swell of emotion cascading through every aspect of your existence. “An endless and lightless oblivion that should have terrified me ...”

A faint smile blooms across Charles’ features as he watches the story of a lifetime together play out in miniature across your expression.

“Yet it didn’t.” The syllables part on a whisper of revelation, a new wave of tears flickering in the gleam of your eyes as you find his gaze. “Because I knew you even then.”

[uluthrek]

au in which robert, the starks and the lannisters play monopoly instead of going hunting and pushing each other‘s kids from towers.

tyrion implements a tax system to make things more interesting and fights cersei over the cat for a solid ten minutes.

around thirty minutes into the game, catelyn realizes that she has free will and stops paying taxes.

arya and sansa haggle over new york avenue, which ends up being bought by theon. this causes the two to completely cast aside their differences, ally and subsequently start doing everything in their power to make theon‘s life hell.

theon himself is quite severely stoned the entire time throughout.

ned enters horrendous debt pretty much immediately and, after two hours of being financially sucked dry by both cersei and his tax evader of a wife, decides to just place his figurine in jail and never leave.

jon, playing the dog, controls the railroads and makes jaime, playing the ship, go completely broke within minutes. being beaten by a bastard and officially the first to lose the game makes jaime so mad he spends the rest of the evening perched on the family‘s ancestral armchair eating flaming hot cheetos and stifling sobs.

cersei is holding onto her last two dollars and her one house in atlantic avenue like a maniac and evades taxes like it‘s an olympic sport. she claims ownership of kentucky avenue on the grounds that red is her house‘s color at least twice. after three hours, she‘s consumed enough vintage red to kill a large mammal and keeps quoting the art of war. fascinatingly enough, she never goes completely broke.

robert, just as broke and drunk as his wife but not nearly as ferocious, proposes marriage for tax advantages to bran, who is in possession of the boardwalk and lets him dangle on his proposition for two rounds before accepting and feeling like a benevolent god.

sansa sees this and immediately proposes to arya, who accepts, only for them to be sued by their mother for public indecency („you‘re siblings, jesus christ!“). arya argues that this is just a game and that one could argue that robert‘s and bran‘s marital alliance is just as if not even more inappropriate, considering that bran is seven and robert thirtyseven. sansa countersues her mother for tax evasion, who promises she‘ll drop her lawsuit if her daughters let her keep hoarding perverse amounts of wealth. „love wins!“ arya says, which causes jaime, still perched on the armchair but now eating old nan‘s home made whiskey truffles, to hysterically sob. cersei stares him down.

robb, in a rare moment of almost prophetic foresight, excuses himself one hour in and goes on a very, VERY long walk with grey wind.

tyrion, whose tax system has spectacularly backfired in his face, proposes marriage to catelyn, jon and cersei in rapid succession, who all turn him down. „i wish i was the monster you think i am. i wish i had enough poison for the whole pack of you. i would gladly give my life to watch you all swallow it.“ he screams before he leaves the table.

at that, joffrey, who has refused to participate and instead sits on the couch playing doom on his nintendo ds, starts hysterically laughing. tyrion turns on his heel and awards his nephew with the bitchslap of the century. this causes cersei to completely abandon the game and chase after him with a broom. catelyn makes sure that everyone is distracted by the lannister antics and then reaches across the table and bags cersei‘s money and properties.

with a heavy heart, myrcella trades arya and sansa one of her limited edition bayala schleich unicorns for park place.

at this point, the game is between the tycoons that are catelyn and jon, the bran-robert alliance, the arya-sansa-alliance, and ned, who is still in jail and watching ice hockey on his phone under the table. that is when catelyn hears rickon gagging and discovers that he, in the absence of tyrion, the self declared bank manager, has managed to eat all bank notes from the box.

rickon gets his stomach pumped, cersei and tyrion have both been arrested, theon is still stoned, arya, sansa and myrcella have wandered off to go play schleich horses, and jon remains at the table, alone, content, and quietly considering himself the winner.

[branwinged]

what do you think about the argument that the incest and dragons make the targaryens so much worse compared to the other houses that the comparisons between them are basically useless?

i will address the incest first, but i'm not interested in any argument arising from disgust. disgust has no moral value and should not be the basis for any ethical/political positions. incest is often predicated on abuse which is the material reason for why it's bad.

so, the argument is that targaryen incestuous marriage is innately more harmful than your average westerosi non-incestuous marriage. the strongest point in favour of this is: when your in-laws are also your natal family, there is no possible recourse for the bride in the event of abuse. i agree with this, maybe ned and brandon would've aided lyanna against robert, but that's one isolated (hypothetical) example. this is not the reality of many women in the main series. not for cersei and not for lysa. in fact, i don't think there is a single instance where the bride's family moves to interfere with a lawful marriage. the martells couldn't do much when rhaegar humiliated elia at harrenhal and then again when he disappeared with lyanna. hoster did nothing when catelyn's new husband returned from the war with his bastard son and shamed her with his decision to raise jon at winterfell. one can hold up margaery as the exception to this, olenna seemed certain that loras would've been outraged enough on her behalf to immediately kill joffrey and to avoid this eventuality they poisoned him beforehand. which was good for her, but why was margaery in such a position to begin with? because she was used as a commodity by her family in their political maneuvering, first with renly and then again with joffrey/tommen. and understand that the tyrells' chief worry here was loras becoming a kingslayer, any concern for margaery's prospective abuse was still secondary.

and this is why the argument doesn't work for me. because within the culture of westeros all women are a commodity, valued entirely for their reproductive capabilities, exchanged by men to maintain the male line. this is the very basis of patriarchy. which is why the real evil here is the institution of marriage. yes, we've established that targaryen women are trapped within their endogamous marriages, but noblewomen in exogamous marriages also have very little hope for recourse. they don't have anywhere to go but pray for their family's aid (which happens rarely or never, as i've pointed out) or their husband's death. this is not me going to bat for incest, just that there really is no significant material difference between targaryen incestous marriages and other westerosi marriages. but to speak of the former as a unique kind of evil, one has to tacitly go to bat for normal westerosi marriages. and that obscures what the text is communicating. the targaryens are not an abberation. westerosi society as a whole is built on gendered violence perpetuating systems of gendered oppression. rarely is anyone not brutalising their daughters. the targaryens do it by keeping daughters within the family structure for consolidating dragon power and the other houses do it by trading their daughters for political power. both cases involve using young girls to bolster male power. and as i've said before, intergenerational violence is an overarching series theme.

now, the dragons. and inevitably this notion of 'valyrian supremacy'. incendiary take, but i don't think it's a useful concept. the targaryens are obsessed with their bloodline, but it's not a fundamentally different type of obsession than that of the starks, the lannisters, or the baratheons etc. they all believe in the inherent superiority of their bloodlines, it's impossible not to when their inheritance is dependent on a continuous line of ancestry which they can trace back to remote times. yeah, then what of the doctrine. the doctrine of exceptionalism is actually doing something else. the doctrine is in-universe propaganda. (most) these people aren't simply egomaniacs with delusions of grandeur, they're shrewd political actors. this is a conscious play to deify themselves in the eyes of their subjects, as royalty is wont to do. there is historical precedent for this with the ptolemies whose sibling marriages were equated with that of zeus and hera and isis and osiris. grrm is very interested in exploring power structures and how they derive their legitimacy. giving his crown family dragons (and then taking them away) is a fantasy extension of that pursuit. see, "dragons are fire made flesh and fire is power". this is a world where the kings are in possession of terrible magic which they claim is their divine mandate.

grrm is using the targaryens to investigate the realities of kingship in his fantasy world, not to make a didactic point about this one noble house being the enemy. as the crown family they must be narratively distinguished from the rest, this he does by introducing the dragons, and as a result of that the incest. both simply heighten the violence already present within feudal power structures. devastating war campaigns for the benefit of the nobility have always existed, the dragons just make it possible to spread that devastation on a more massive scale. the dragons in itself aren't the problem. if that was true, dany—the last targaryen wouldn't have had her entire arc based around recontextualising them as a means of liberation. the power which previously served the authority of kings, now serving the dispossessed.

[georgiapeach30513]

Two Good Reasons, Part 4

Summary: it is time

Pairings: Andy Barber X Reader

Rating: mature

Warnings:  language, sweet Ransom, difficulties with divorce, Scott, difficult conversations, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 8.1K

Previous

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

“Ransom,” the man rolls his eyes as Andy walks into his office foyer. Ransom was trying to talk to you, well, you are trying to talk to him about his messages from when he was in court. Of course your annoying boyfriend or whatever he is would come in and interrupt. “I need to speak to your office manager,” you playfully snort, while Ransom’s face falls flat. His eyes narrow at Andy. “Please.”

“I don’t want this to become a habit,” he tells Andy more than you. You aren’t the problem. Andy’s distraction and wandering eyes are the problem. “In fact, I never saw you venture this way much at all unless we needed to discuss a case. And now, you can’t stay away from my part of the office building.”

“It seems a fair trade off since I, the district attorney, come to your office for meetings. If you’d prefer, we can start conducting the meetings on the other side of the building.”

“Five minutes.”

“Ten.”

“Eight,” Ransom counters before Andy gives a nod, and holds out his hand for you. Leave it to Andy to start inserting himself now. You follow him down the long hallway before he’s dragging you into his suite, and on back to his office. His office is more your typical lawyers office, while Ransom’s is immaculate and more ornate. Stark difference between the two best friends, or as they call it, colleagues.

Andy pulls you in for an embrace, in lieu of a kiss. His thick arms wrap around you so tight, and you sink into him. It had been a particularly rough night. Night’s before your babies go to Scott’s for the weekend often are. It’s a pure terror and worry about what could happen, especially given the last time.

“You seem tense,” he says as he pulls back. “Your messages indicate that as well.”

“You’re almost too observant, you know that?” It was his job to be observant, but you aren’t one of his cases.

“And you’re avoiding my question.”

“It wasn’t a question, Andrew, that was a statement,” he sighs, pulling you back into him. Andy starts swaying the two of you to nonexistent music. Resting his face in the crook of your neck. He inhales your sweet scent deeply. If only things concerning Scott weren’t stressful, you could fully enjoy this moment.

“You can trust me to tell me,” he ends his words with a quick kiss on your sensitive skin. This is Andy, you could trust him. He’s not just any man, he’s your Andy. You just fear he’s going to try to fix everything, and unfortunately you didn’t see this being fixed.

“It was a rough night,” he hums, letting you know he is listening, but wants more. “It’s Scott’s weekend, and every time it’s his weekend, I’m left wondering how present he’s going to be. If his stupid bimbo will be there. Will they go against my wishes and she brings her damn cat around my baby? Will he come back home to me, and I have to go through his breathing treatments again? I fear that his apartment isn’t as safe for him. That cat is just one allergy, but what if my baby eats something, and Scott or Taylor don’t react fast enough?”

Your breath is so ragged as you cling to him. When was the last time you had someone just be there? Even if Andy couldn’t fix anything, just having that support is comforting. Scott was there, but was he ever there just for you? Andy doesn’t have to say anything, there’s nothing he can do. But him just being there means everything. Just to have a support system in what feels like years is a relief. Realizing you didn’t have that when you and Scott were together makes you feel stupid. You stayed, and you didn’t have this.

“Doe, I’m sorry,” he doesn’t have to be sorry, but there is a tone in his voice that shows you how sincere he is. “Tell me what you want me to do, and I will.”

“Could we just go to your place?”

“Your place is closer to Scott’s though, isn’t it?” It is. But…, “Wouldn’t it be better to be at your place in case of an emergency? We could get there faster?” True, but you didn’t want him to know that you didn’t sleep in your room. You didn’t care if Andy stayed at your house all weekend, but the embarrassment is already hitting that he’s going to see you avoid going into that room.

“You’re right,” of course he’s right, but your feelings aren’t wrong. They were right, too. Too soon your phone vibrates, and it’s probably Ransom telling you that eight minutes is up, and yes, you know. But you needed this moment, and little talk. Grabbing your phone, you answer it quickly, “Hello?!”

“Mrs. Huffman,” you hate that name with a passion, “Umm, I’m calling because it appears that someone forgot to pick up the kids.”

“What?” Anger laces through your one word question. Today is your late day working. Because you said you could. And Scott forgets the kids?

“Yeah, I know you said that it was Mr. Huffman’s day to get them this morning, but he’s not answering his phone,” you glance up at Andy who is looking at you with so much concern. “Can…”

“I’ll be right there,” she thanks you before you hang up the phone. “Scott didn’t pick up the kids. But…”

“Just bring them back here,” he’s joking. He’s got to be joking. “Listen, it’s Friday, Ransom doesn’t have any cases, and neither do I. We give that to the second ADA. Afterwards if Scott still hasn’t reached out, we’ll go take them to get dinner, and soft play. Audrey seems very concerned with that.”

“Andy…”

“Come on, let’s tell Ransom. You gotta get the kids,” obviously you had to get them. It’s bringing them back here that’s got you a bit paranoid. “It’ll be fine. They’ll be fine. We’ve got a fridge stocked with snacks. While you’re gone I’ll put any snack that Suede is allergic to up in a basket, and out of reach of him. And don’t you dare ask why I’m being nice. You need it. Go on, run and get the kids, I’ll let Ransom know what’s up.”

Standing on your tiptoes, you give him a chaste kiss in thanks before going to get your things, while Andy goes back to Ransom’s part of the office building. His friend and colleague glares at him. “I send you off with my office manager, and you return solo.”

“Scott forgot to pick up the kids,” Ransom groans, “She’s going to get them.”

“Today was her late day.”

“And she’s bringing them back here,” another groan. “Would you quit being so dramatic? They’re good kids. You won’t even notice them.”

“You’re getting involved,” Andy’s mouth curls up into a smile. “I told you not to get involved. This is the very opposite of not getting involved, Andy.”

“What was she supposed to do? He didn’t get her kids, they have to be picked up, it has to be her.”

“That’s not what I mean at all. I would have let her go, I’m not a monster,” he takes a slow calculated breath as he stares at Andy, “She’s the one, hmm? The one that got away. The one that made you never truly connect to other women? The reason that Penny or Melanie or whoever never worked out. You’re doing whatever you have to to make sure that she doesn’t get away again?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Ransom gives Andy one of his famous eye rolls. “I’m not a child. I know her, she knows me. So yeah, things are moving fast-ish. No, we haven’t slept together again. She needs friends. Her family isn’t anywhere near here, and even if she wanted to leave, she has this divorce,” Andy makes it sounds so much simpler than it is. Or maybe it’s because it is exactly this simple.

“Okay, Romeo. I’m just saying. She’s bringing them back here?” Andy smiles, nodding. He has to fix the snacks, and make sure everything is safe for Suede. “I don’t do kids.”

“Send them to my office if you have to,” Ransom was all bark, and no bite. He had no doubt that everything would be fine. And you wouldn’t be put in a bind. Yet, another thing you can add to your growing list of why Scott didn’t deserve full custody of your children.

Andy leans into Ransom’s waiting area, smiling to himself as you hold a slowly drifting asleep Suede in your lap. His face squished up against your chest while you type, and Audrey colors something on the floor. Laying on her belly with her tongue sticking out, and her knees kicking around. Andy clears his throat, and Audrey looks up at him with the biggest grin, “Andy! I wanted to see you.”

She leaves her coloring book behind as she jumps up from the floor and walks over to him, and Suede’s eyes burst open, “Na Na! Peas?” You can’t hide how happy you are for their excitement. Suede wiggles out of your arms, and Andy picks both kids up, and you gulp. Scott never quite gave you the tingling millions of butterflies in your belly just to see him hold onto your kids.

You aren’t sure how something can be both wholesome and sexy all at the same time. But the way his thick arms flex as he holds them has you feeling things, and the way he smiles at them has those butterfly wings flapping aggressively in your belly. Moments like these are so sweet and simple, and mean the world to you.

The way he gives each one attention, and not just your talkative girl. Asking them how their day was, and listening intently to every nonsensical word, and um that comes out of your baby boy’s mouth. He isn’t even looking at you for approval, he’s just being a normal father figure to them kids. This is how greetings with them after their day should be. When Audrey tries to interrupt, he tells her to wait her turn, looking at you to make sure it’s okay to correct her behavior and you nod. You hope that this isn’t an act, and you don’t feel it is. It’s natural.

How is it that a man that had no biological ties to these children can appreciate them more than their father? Scott wasn’t a terrible husband, when it was just the two of you. But his lack of involvement as a father was laughable. You were the woman, you were the one that took care of the house, and the children. All you wanted was a partner. Staring at Andy now makes you realize how wrong you chose, and just how long you made excuses for Scott.

“Andy,” Audrey finally gets his attention when Suede finishes. “If daddy doesn’t pick us up tonight, can you go eat with us? Mommy said we can eat at the pizza place, and and and go to soft play.”

Andy smiles. He starts to answer, but is distracted by a chubby little hand laying flat on his beard, and he turns to look at Suede, “Chess, pease,” you turn around quickly. You promised yourself that you’d never let your children see your emotions, but your chest fills with so much warmth and love. Feeling everything all at once. Suede only touched two people’s cheeks like that, and both you and Audrey are present. It’s like he has chosen another comfort.

You were told it could be a way for him to show comfortability and vulnerability, but he never did that with his dad. He never stayed in his dad’s arms for more than a few minutes before he was trying to reach towards you. Visiting Scott was the hardest on Suede. “Doe?”

“I’ve got to take something to Ransom. I’ll be back,” you grab some stupid piece of paper, and retreat from this. Trying to work through the emotions. On one hand you are a bit jealous that Suede found comfort in someone that isn’t you. On the other hand he had a man in his life that he trusts, and it is Andy. Your Andy.

“I need a snack.”

“Chess!”

“How does broccoli and ranch sound?” Audrey curls her lip, and Suede shakes his head no. “Well, I have you to know, that Sloane went and brought you back some safe food. And even apples.”

“Mmm, Appies!”

“With sun butter?” Andy nods, carrying the two of them to the break room. He looks back at you, and your back is still turned to him, still looking at a blank piece of paper, still bothered by something that transpired, and he can’t think of what. However, the kids were hungry, and they had to eat. He’ll come back and ask you about this later.

“Come on, it’s snack time, and then,” he lowers his voice, making it only audible for just Audrey and Suede, “I hear there’s a book about a little French girl in Sloane’s desk, you should ask her for it,” Audrey covers her mouth with her hand, giggling while she looks at Suede.

They sound so happy. You didn’t ask or beg Andy to spend time with them, he came to see them. He made sure that the unsafe foods were away from Suede. He was telling them secrets about the office. If you didn’t already have feelings for Andy that bordered on love — you’d have them now. You hated to admit that you still harbored feelings for him, but you did. And moments like these just made that blossom and get bigger until parts of you that felt so alone and hopeless, now feel like there was light at the end of the tunnel.

There was a hope that not only did your children not have to suffer, but you didn’t either. The feeling is like a hug. Simple, warm, loving, comforting, and the best thing in the world. It’s what a family should be, and should feel. Everyday is a new realization that you didn’t have these moments with your family.

“What are you doing?” Ransom asks, attempting to walk out of the door. “I don’t do tears.”

“It’s nothing.”

He blows out an exasperated puff of air. “Nothing doesn’t make you look so — weepy,” his voice is so flat, seemingly disinterested. “But if I can offer you some advice, you should trust him,” you furrow your brows as you look at him. There’s this part of you that doesn’t want to interrupt Andy and the kids, but you want to watch them. “He’s always wanted a family, and from the sounds of it, you’re the only woman he wanted it with. He doesn’t want to fuck it up, so he won’t. So let your walls down, and enjoy the moments. You’re used to his stubbornness and protectiveness, so…”

His voice trails off. He didn’t need to finish the sentence. So he won’t change. So there’s his flaw. So you’ll have to continue to deal with it. So now there’s little people for him to protect. “Oh, and Ray agreed to take your case,” that gets your attention. You straighten up. Ray would make a huge difference for you. Scott even mentioned Ray a few times during your marriage. “So…I don’t know, go make sure Barber isn’t poisoning the allergic one.”

That’s about as soft as you are going to get with Ransom, and you know it. But a quick little break to make sure ‘the allergic one’ is not being fed something he shouldn’t have, would not hurt. Ransom meant well, and you’re so thankful for him. But not as thankful as Audrey jumping up and down at Andy’s feet, while he holds Suede, squinting as he reads the ingredients on the back of a box.

“It’s a safe food,” you answer softly, and he lowers the packet of fruit snacks to Audrey. Suede gives him a little pout, but Andy is quick to grab his own pack, and open it for him.

“Go ask Sloane for her book,” he tells the two of them before they run off, and you immediately circle your arms around his waist. You couldn’t help a hug, and a quick peck to his lips, “What’s this for?”

“For being you,” his lips turn up in a smile, and he reminds you of the way he looked when he was younger. There were more freckles that dotted over his nose, and more wrinkles around his eyes. He is thicker in the best way, a luscious full beard, but the best parts of him are still the same. “I’m serious. You’re amazing with them, and I thank you for learning.”

“You gave Sloane a list of safe foods, didn’t you?” Nodding you stand on your tippy toes for another too quick kiss. Seeing him reading the back of that box was oddly sexy. You don’t regret not telling him that Sloane made a quick trip to the store, and you need to pay her for that. You could look at this man reading the ingredients daily because it was…breathtaking. The older you get, the more things of attractiveness changes. This wasn’t one you saw happening until it did.

“No word from Scott?”

“No. I’m sure he’s in court or something. I get used to not relying on him,” Andy searches your face, contemplating how to respond to that. You shouldn’t have to be used to it. That shouldn’t be normal. “It’s fine.”

“How often was it just you and the kids waiting on him?” You shrug. You didn’t want this conversation. You didn’t want to dwell in the past. Didn’t want to think of how much you let things slide with Scott because you felt you needed to make your marriage work, and he was still the one that stepped out on your family.

“I should really make sure the kids are okay,” if Andy could wrap you in a tight cocoon and make you see what you deserved, he would. He wants you to see your value to his life because to him you and the kids were not a burden. You know you’re a good mom, but did you know you are a good partner?

“I’m going to guess we’ll have the kids for dinner though,” we. He loves hearing you say we, especially when they’re involved. If he could fully take Scott out of the equation, he would. Not only did he not deserve them, or your kindness, Andy didn’t mind having them always around.

He definitely didn’t mind people making comments about what a beautiful family he had. Or even that his son looked just like him, and how he’s so good with them. He didn’t want to correct them. People never questioned it because that’s exactly what you were becoming. He knows he should slow down, and not get too attached or ahead of himself. Not growing up with a father himself, he’s always craved a son where he could be the dad that he wanted.

He sighs, it would only be a matter of time before Scott completely lost interest. Men like him only wanted to use the kids as a weapon for you. He was using custody as a way for you to worry. Asserting his dominance wherever he could. Prick. He’s an asshole. He just hopes that Scott sees who has been spending time with his kids, and just how happy they are, and their mama.

—

Ransom slumps down into his chair, hands reaching towards a file on his desk when he hears tittering, and he bends at his waist to look under his desk, “What are you doing down there?”

Audrey giggles, popping another fruit chew in her mouth, and then a third hand points at the book that’s in her lap. Suede peeks his body around his sister’s smiling up at the man, “I’m not doing a very good job at reading. There’s lots of words.”

“Chess.”

Ransom smiles, nodding his head, “You like to play chess?”

“No no, that um — that’s how he says yes. He says it a lot. It’s easy for him. Tell him Suedey.”

“Chess,” his hand presses over his mouth and he giggles, having to sit up and hold his tummy with how much he is laughing. They are cute kids, even if Ransom doesn’t do kids.

“See, mister. He loves it. Do you think you can read this book for us,” the barely visible smile on Ransom’s face fades, and his head slightly shakes no, “I can’t read, and my mommy is working, and,” she crawls out from under the desk, laying the book on the shiny wood of Ransom’s ostentatious desk.

“Do you think mommy can take us to Paris one day?” Audrey places a hand under the desk, helping her brother up, and Suede places two arms up to Ransom. “He wants you to hold him. You can say no,” Ransom takes a moment to ponder before lifting the toddler up into his lap, but Audrey stands beside him, opening up the book to the first page.

“It has a lot of words,” her finger drags under the words, and Ransom stares at her curiously. Even though she is tiny, you can see her squinting, and sounding out a few of the letters. Reminds him of his childhood, a boy too young, forced to be above children his age academically. “Would Andy take us to Paris with mommy?”

How is he even supposed to answer that? He could put a bug in Andy’s ear that she wants to go to Paris. He could ask Andy to take her to a French restaurant, but he can’t possibly say that he would take them and their mom. “Do you like Andy?”

“Chess.”

“Uh huh. Mommy smiles when he’s around,” the little girl turns to look at Ransom, and he’s shocked by how much she looks like you, especially in the eyes. The exact shape, and even the different flecks of colors. “Is Andy like Taylor is to daddy?”

“I don’t know what that means,” he turns his head to see the little boy smiling at him. He lifts his chunky little hand, and slightly touches his cheek before moving it back down to his lap and giggles at Ransom. “What do you mean by your question?”

“I think Andy wants to kiss mommy,” it is a simple enough sentence that holds a lot more weight than she realizes. Ransom smiles, shrugging at her. “She didn’t smile with daddy like she does with Andy,” Audrey turns to look at Ransom, smiling at him, and then her brother. “I like him, too. But can you read this?” Her little chubby finger taps on the book a bit aggressively, “I’m sorry, booky. Please, Ansom?”

“Ransom.”

“I said that.”

“Ann!” Suede throws both arms in the hair, and giggles. “Ann!”

“Is he always like this?” Audrey covers her hand with her mouth, giggling again, and she nods. “Fine. Let’s read the Paris book,” he clears his throat, making both kids giggle once more. “In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines, lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.”

“Ran,” opening the door, you stop abruptly, and all three of them look up at you. “Oh, I was wondering where you two were. Come on, we should leave Ransom alone,” all three pout. Even Ransom, confusing you immensely. He told you he didn’t do kids. He didn’t hate them, but didn’t want to be around them. And now he’s reading to them with Suede and his sticky fingers in his lap.

“They're fine. Maybe bring some popcorn in here or something?” Audrey shakes her head no. “Why not?”

“We’ll choke,” she deadpans. “Those scratchy things in the middle. Andy buys us the puffy ones, so we don’t have to worry about choking.”

“Does he? That Andy sure does try to make life easier,” clearing your throat, Ransom looks up at you smiling. “We’re reading about the Paris girl. I think Audrey and Suede deserve macarons.”

“Suede can’t. There’s eggs,” Audrey beat you to it. She is his little keeper, and so protective of him. You are sure she keeps Scott in line with him, even if it isn’t her job. “Mommy, did daddy call?” You shake your head no, thinking she’s going to be sad. “Oh yay! So Andy is taking us to pizza and soft play for sure?”

“We’ll see. Read your Paris girl book. It won’t be long until it’s leaving time. And behave. You want me to leave the door open, Ransom?” He shakes his head, and shoos you out the door. You did not see this happening. Ransom said he didn’t care much for kids, and here he is being all sweet and loving with yours. You wouldn’t tell him, but it suited him, even if it was just as the fun uncle that could give them back at the end of the day.

Even though Scott brought you out here away from your friends and family, you feel the need to give him a quick and silent thank you. It brought you to Andy, and now it appears you are growing an inner circle. People to rely on. People you can trust with your kids. People that don’t look at them like a burden. People that cared. What felt like your world had ended, just ensured a new start that you needed.

“Suede,” your little boy quickly sits down in his seat, offering a sweet smile to Andy. He had already been told once not to stand up in the seat. Andy’s voice is soft, but stern enough that Suede knows he needs to keep his bottom in the seat. “Thank you.”

“Chess,” he holds up his hand out for Andy who fists bumps him in return. Blinking his eyes hard at him before smiling up at you. Leaning in for a hug.

“Was your dinner good, buddy?”

“Chess,” Andy questioned you with the pizza at first, until you told him about this place that was very accommodating for Suede’s allergies. Suede turns to look at Andy, but his eyes go upwards instead. A moment of unease flashes in his eyes, and he leans into your body, “Mama, no.”

Following his eyesight, you catch Scott freeze, seeing the back of Andy’s head, and Audrey sitting beside him. He never looks like he's in a good mood, but now he’s completely unsavory. “What’s going on?”

“Daddy,” Audrey looks at you, and then up at Andy, her happy face now looking sad. “Uhh, Andy is taking us to soft play.”

“Daddy is really tired, and they’re closed. I need to talk with you outside,” he gives a point towards you. Of course he needs to talk to you. Showing up unannounced, and Andy is with you. His nostrils flare a moment with the impending anger that’s lighting up his face. Talk really means he wants to berate you.

“It’s not closed, we saw it. Andy said…”

“Audrey,” while he doesn’t yell, his voice raises, and you grit your teeth. Friday night, and they were looking forward to fun. Leave it to Scott to be a disappointment. Again. Wiping your hands on your napkin, you grab up Suede, handing him over to Andy.

“What the hell are you doing?” Scott turns to look at you as Andy pulls Suede out of your arms. It is becoming harder and harder not to want to scream at him, especially when he uses foul language in front of the children.

“You wanted to talk to me. So Andy can stay with the kids,” the man that has spent every single evening with you and the kids, stares up at you. His free hand rubs up your thigh, and he offers a sad smile, “I’ll be right back,” and his eyes move over to Scott, nodding his hey.

Oh he’s angry. Not nearly as angry as you are for his five hour late pickup. Didn’t even tell you he was coming, just showed up. You can see how angry he is as you follow him to the parking lot. You don’t like to compare the two, but Andy would never deny fun for the kids. He had a long tiring day as well.

You’re barely out of the restaurant when Scott rounds towards you, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Feeding our children dinner since you were late.”

“I was working, and you know exactly what I mean,” you blink slowly. If he wants to say something, he can, but you won’t be offering up any information. “Fucking Andy Barber? The damn DA, is this some competition,” you scoff, there was never a competition. “And you left our kids with him.”

“So you wanted them to hear you talk like this to me?” Scott sighs. You knew he wouldn’t answer the question. You’re always the one that is wrong, while he’s always the one that is wronged in some way. “What do you want to talk about?”

“You sure did move on fast?” You laugh at him, shaking your head as you turn to walk back inside. The audacity. He was moving on and the two of you were very much together. You didn’t have a say in the matter when he was laying underneath the damn babysitter. “Did you ever love me?”

“You were the one that cheated, Scott. You came home early, so you could fuck our babysitter in our bed. Did you even think about me? Or about how our daughter would feel? Suede is too young to understand, but Audrey knows you left her mom to be with the babysitter. Love was never our strong suit though, was it?” The stronger your love for Andy grows, the more you realized Scott and you had been going through the motions. Was there ever any love?

Rolling your eyes, you turn away from him. If this is the only conversation he wants to have, it’s useless. You’re doing nothing wrong. You hadn’t even slept with Andy since that first night. And even if you did, you two were legally separated and going through a divorce. “Suede could be older and still wouldn’t understand.”

“What did you say?” don’t turn around, and don’t look at him. He makes you sick.

“You heard me,” no, you’re not quite you did.

“And what do you mean by that?”

“He’s never going to be as advanced as Audrey,” if it wouldn’t hurt your case for custody, you’d claw his eyes out. If he wants to blame you for the marriage failing, you don't care, but to say one damn thing about your child is another thing. “You coddle him.”

“I hate you,” always your fault. Suede’s ‘delays’ as Scott called them, will forever be your fault. He was supposed to be his ‘boy’ and now he looks at your son like he’s a mistake. A failure. And he’s two.

“Feeling’s mutual, sweetheart. Now let me get my kids from your dildo.”

“Why are you so mean to him? Why do you put so much pressure on your son? He’s a baby.”

“No, he’s not,” you have to look at him now. You need to understand why he can’t just be happy with who Suede is, instead of trying to make him who he wants him to be.

“He just turned two. He is a baby. He wears diapers, his vocabulary is improving, but he is a baby. If you — if you don’t want him why do you insist on full custody? Why do you rip him out of my arms, crying, if you don’t want him? You don’t even like him. I’m not even sure you like Audrey. This a damn power grab, you’re using my babies as a weapon to hurt me. Just leave him with me and…”

“Go on, say it. Andy. Is he enjoying the bed that I fucked that baby boy in you in? You want to act like he’s so fucking grand. Sloppy damn seconds,” you take a deep breath in, wondering how he views you as sloppy seconds but not himself. Or even if Taylor is someone’s sloppy seconds. Pig. “Just trying to replace me because I left you. You even went after a goddamn lawyer,” of course he’d hit you with low blows, and as much as it infuriates you, it hurts more how he is with your baby.

“Answer the questions. You’re changing the subject, and I’m talking about our son. If you don’t want my baby, and he’s so difficult with his allergies, and his separation anxiety, then leave him with his mom!”

“You created a monster! Taylor can’t even deal with him most of the time because all he says is ‘chess’ or ‘my mama at’. Separation anxiety? No, you baby the boy, and made him rely on you so you think it’ll give you a leg to stand on with custody. Audrey was never that difficult, hell she was potty trained at his age. She’s starting to read now. And he’s…”

“He’s a fucking baby, Scott! Just let him stay with me, please!” You’re not above begging when it comes to your children, especially if Scott is getting them when he’s angry.

“No. Because if he stays with you then Audrey — you know how she is with her brother. They don’t like to be separated,” it’s always about the easy child. His pride and joy. The one he whispered to her about how she would become a lawyer someday. Another thing that annoyed you, pressure on a four year old. “They both are coming with me, as per our agreement. So let me get my kids.”

“Can you at least take them to the soft play, and trampolines for thirty minutes?”

“What is the damn deal with soft play? That’s all they ever want to do.”

“Because they’re kids, and they have fun! They want to play with their dad, is that such a wrong thing?” You turn into the restaurant, watching Andy calmly talk to your world. Such a beautiful picture in contrast to what their parents are doing outside. Suede lifts his chubby little hand, and holds it against Andy’s cheek, petting his beard. He waits until Andy smiles at him before pulling it away, and he snuggles into his chest. That was a father’s love. Not whatever the hell Scott is doing.

Despite what Scott wants to imply, there’s nothing wrong with Suede. His learning is delayed compared to Audrey’s, but from his doctors to his teachers, he is just a normal little boy. There’s a sadness that wraps around you knowing that Suede has more comfort with Andy than his own father. A man he’s known his whole life is nothing compared to the man that he barely knows.

“Does Andy play with them?” you look at Scott, and for the first time in a long time, there’s a sadness in his eyes, but it flares back into his competitive composure. If he is so concerned with Andy and the kids, he’s the only one that can fix it. It wasn’t Andy’s problem.

“We both do,” you answer solemnly before opening the door to the restaurant. You aren’t going to listen to him bully you or speak ill of his son anymore. You want him to suffer with the reality that his son is already replacing him with a man that is paying attention to him. You and Andy hadn’t been doing, whatever this is, long, and already Suede treated him like his father.

“Come on,” you try to smile as you reach for Suede. “It’s time to go to daddy’s house.”

“Mama, no,” this is the part that breaks you every time. Hearing him beg you not to make him go to his dad’s grinds your soul in half. You hate thinking that he may blame you, may think you’ve abandoned him. So instead, you just don’t look into his eyes.

“Audrey, grab your coloring sheet if you want to,” she reaches for her sheet as you grab up Suede, and she and Andy scoot out of the booth. Andy has never been part of a switch between you and Scott. It’s also why you preferred he picked them up from daycare. The extra hours with you made things difficult for them to leave. It’s him leaving you that seems to be the issue.

“Mama, no,” you can’t even meet his eyes as he touches your cheek. You know Scott didn’t hurt Suede. You also know he didn’t enjoy him or appreciate him, and with Audrey it is nonstop pressure to read, and write, and whatever thing he felt like she needed to be ahead for. Audrey has to be the best academically, and judging by the earlier conversation, he has no faith in Suede.

“Mama, pease!” He sniffles, cuddling into your chest, and you kiss on top of his head. Bit by bit part of your heart crumbles. The part that you gave your children, and it’s every other weekend. Audrey grabs Andy’s hand as you walk back outside. Getting an eye roll from Scott as soon as he sees Andy with his prized possession. His daughter. “Mama, no,” the first sign of his cries, broken words. “Me tay.”

“It’s stay, Suede. And you can’t stay because it’s my weekend,” Suede screams as Scott pulls at his body. Trying to take him from you. “Suede, enough!” He pulls harder, and his voice reaches a screeching high, shattering that part of your heart as his body shivers from anguish.

“Mommy will get you Sunday.”

“You’re only making this worse,” you hate him, and it has nothing to do with what he did to you, it���s what he’s doing to your children. “Suede, you’re fine,” you bite your tongue, holding back your own tears as he kicks. Thrashing around while Scott buckles him in, and one name on his lips. Mama. Over and over it tugs at your heart. Your baby needs you, and you can’t comfort him without causing more of a scene.

It’s one of the hardest things that you have to do. Ignoring him because it can get worse. You kneel down in front of Audrey, and she jumps into your arms giving you the biggest hug, “Will you make sure that Suedey is okay when you get in the car?”

“Yes, mommy. I’m sorry.”

“Baby, it’s okay. I’ll see you Sunday before supper, okay?” Audrey nods before she walks to her side of the car, getting in her seat herself, but Scott goes to buckle her. She extends a hand over to her crying brother, and more pieces of your heart break.

“Can you text or call and let me know when he calms down?”

“Yeah,” Scott answers shortly, closing Audrey’s door before he goes to the driver’s side. “Guess we can’t go to soft play with a baby that won’t stop crying,” bastard. Blaming Scott’s mistakes on Suede.

“I’ll take them Sunday,” Scott glares at Andy, and you are just numb. The teachers told you that while Suede was sad when his dad picked him up, there was no crying. You hate him for making you hear this. “Doe, let’s go.”

You’re not a person that wants to get even very often, but if you could make him feel like you did right now, you would. And if it is the fact that Andy already said he’d take them out Sunday after pickup that makes Scott hurt, so be it. It kills you to hear his muffled cries still. The fact that he had a good day, and evening, only for it to end with him in so much turmoil only hurts worse. You give a silent prayer that he can soothe himself soon. Scott never liked long crying sessions. He wasn’t patient enough to handle it.

“Your place or mine?”

“I don’t care as long as you hold me,” he opens up your car door, and you jump in, finally letting your tears cascade over your cheeks. You’re thankful you thought to leave Andy’s car at the house because you wouldn’t be able to drive right now. Everything in your body aches. Your his mother, and you couldn’t hold him until his tears stop. He is crying for you, and you have to walk away from him.

“He’s so mean to my baby. I don’t know if he hates him or if he’s ashamed of him,” you suck in a ragged breath, trying to calm your tears. “Suede’s always had health issues. He was born too early, it was a difficult pregnancy, his allergies were caught before he was a year old, now they’re talking about his vision, but he’s just a baby. And he’s usually so happy and full of light, but I think Suede knows that Scott doesn’t love him like he loves Audrey. Why are my kids the ones that have to suffer?”

“Audrey soothes Suede, but she’s a baby herself. She shouldn’t have to. They don’t have fun with their dad. And I don’t know how I could have been so wrong in a father for them. I just — I don’t care about me anymore, I just want them to be okay, and I fear that Suede is just forgotten there. A mistake,” god you hate reliving that day. That moment when that asshole murmured he was a mistake.

“What?” Andy’s voice is so hard. It’s a dangerous timbre.

“He said that Suede was a mistake,” you rest your head on the back of the seat. “It was that day that whatever I felt towards Scott was completely erased. I hated him and it took four words for me to hate him. My kids aren’t mistakes. They’re my everything, and if I have to feel this gut wrenching pain, so they don’t have to, I don’t care anymore. I’ll deal with Scott, but that — that is so hard to deal with, and it makes me feel so small every time because I can’t fix it.”

His hands grip onto the steering wheel too tight. His eyes staring out onto the road before taking a deep breath. He removes a hand, and places it on your thigh. You don’t smile, but you pick up his hand and hold it with both of yours. Weaving your delicate fingers in his, while your right hand clings to his so tightly. He didn’t have to say anything, but you know he’s offering to be your strength.

“I’m tired of this constant fight, and this constant fear that my baby is going to be forgotten, and neglected, and do you know what happens to unattended children? They get into things. Certain things he can get into could kill him,” your breath stutters in your throat. “I don’t think that they let them use the phone to call me as much as they want. It’s just another way to separate us. I call every day. Multiple times a day. Scott maybe calls every other day..”

Lifting up his hand, he kisses over your knuckles. “I just wish I could talk to them before bed, so I knew that they were going to sleep without tears in their eyes,” he kisses your knuckles again as you pull into the driveway. Another long weekend, but this time you didn’t have to spend it alone. Even a little bit of a distraction will help.

“Thank you,” your voice is so hoarse as Andy gets out of the car. He opens your door, undoes your buckle, and lifts you up into his arms. Letting you koala around him as he carries you into the house. It’s the most comforting gesture. Days like this walking is difficult, and he takes that responsibility from you. His comfort couldn’t change anything, but it can give you comfort and support when you just want to stare at nothing.

“I want you in something comfortable in five minutes, and then we’re going to be lazy on the couch the rest of the evening. Audrey told me she was sad because she wanted a slumber party with me, you, Suede, and Ann,” he smirks as you lift your head off his shoulder. Of course he’d get a kick out of Audrey asking him to spend the night.

“Ann?”

“I think that’s what they’ve decided to call Ransom. Go on. Get comfy. I’m just wearing sweatpants, and a t-shirt,” perfect clothes to cuddle him in. Your eyes get heavy just thinking about it. Drop offs like that are draining, and you want to sleep until you get to see them again.

“Old and worn in?”

“It’s the only way to wear it. Go on,” reluctantly you walk away from him. Opening up your bedroom door, and freeze. It’s the same time every time. That stupid blonde girl with her hands firmly on your husband’s chest while her body sucks him into her. No condom. You thought you had been seeing things, but he confirmed it. No condom. And lucky for him, he didn’t transfer anything to you.

So many things you couldn’t forgive him for. He is selfish. He’s disgusting. And you hate him. You hate that he’s the one that is in your kids’ life, and you don’t even know if there will ever be a time that you don’t hate him. You sigh as those thick arms wrap around your waist, and you lean your head back on his shoulder.

“It’s where you caught them,” Andy doesn’t ask, but you nod your head. You hate coming into this room. Everything about it reminds you of that day. He lit candles. There was soft music. And he was staring up at her like she was a goddess. His hands gripped her hips so tightly. Did he ever look at you liked that?

Andy’s lips pepper kisses down your jaw. “When was the last time you slept in here?”

“The night before it happened,” he lets you go. Starting to pull off the clothes from the day. His fingers glide over your skin like the strokes of a paintbrush. Getting you completely naked before he bends down, and pulls out his shirt from the day, and slips it on you.

“Grab you some panties, or don’t,” there’s something so solid in his voice as he walks over to the bed, and yanks off the duvet. Tossing pillows to the side of it. Ripping at every linen that you split tears on as you made the bed one last time. Ending with a pile of bedding, and then he grunts, pulling the mattress off to the side.

“We’re going bed shopping this weekend,” you gasp as you look at him. “Either we get you a new fucking bed, or we buy a house. What do you want to do?”

Kiss him. Make love with him. Why was getting rid of the bed so simple? That makes perfect sense to remove the bed. “Andy, I…”

“I already told you I was going to marry you. And when I do, I won’t be living in this house. But temporarily I need you to sleep in a bed. So, are we going bed shopping or buying a house this weekend?”

“Bed.”

“There’s my girl,” he grins, and you take a few steps to close the gap between you. Wrapping yourself into his warmth. “When you can’t do that anymore, I will be there. I hated that, and I can’t imagine what you’re going through. He’s a callous man, but he won’t win. I may only be a step dad to them, but,” he stutters. Pulling you even closer to him. “I love them, just like I love you. I will fight for both of you, and I understand court order. So I have to be productive where I can. And this is where I start, making sure you get good sleep.”

“Thank you,” you whimper, and he lets you melt into him. Soaking up his scent, and his strength. You needed him, not as another parent, but him. Just to be with you. “I love you, too.”

You let all those walls tumble down because you can’t continue to keep them up. You are one person, and you’re tired of fighting, and this isn’t a fight that was worth it. Why can you not love Andy? Why should you not just let him in, and trust him the way that you did Scott? Because being strong for your kids was making your other walls weaker. Instead of putting up boundaries from Andy, you want him inside your walls as added protection.

“We’ll buy a bed,” you laugh. It’s silly, but it’s freeing. Freeing to admit to yourself and to Andy you love him. You want him, and you don’t have to pretend anymore.

“And a dog.”

“No.”

“There’s dogs that detect allergies.”

“No.”

“Fine, when we buy us a house that we both, and the kids adore, and it has extra space just in case,” you look up at him and how adorable he is with his hope. You couldn’t have kids, but you wish you could give Andy at least one biological child. “We’ll buy a house. After the divorce. Deal?”

“You got a deal.”

Next

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai

@smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989

@pandaxnienke @kmm-fluv @rogersbarber @theinheriteddutchess @buckybarnesisdaddy

[typhlonectes]

There are more than 1,000 varieties of banana, and we eat one of them. Here’s why that’s absurd...

The lack of diversity could mean the fruit’s extinction. It offers a stark warning of what could happen to other key foods.

Most people don’t question why every banana they’ve ever eaten looks and tastes pretty much the same. Most of us will never try a blue java from Indonesia with its soft, unctuous texture and flavour of vanilla ice-cream, or the Chinese banana that is so aromatic it’s been given the name go san heong, meaning “you can smell it from the next mountain”. The demand for low-cost, high-yielding varieties has resulted in vast monocultures of just one type of globally traded banana, and this is true of many other crops as well. Homogeneity in the food system is a risky strategy, because it reduces our ability to adapt in a rapidly changing world...

Read more: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2024/mar/22/1000-varieties-banana-lack-of-diversity-extinction

[bookshelfdreams]

Hey I like a lot of the takes you have regarding the pirate show so I wanted to ask for your opinion on smth that's been bothering me for a while:

I have a deep seated dislike for Hamilton. Twinkifying the fucking founding fathers, romanticizing slave abusers and overall villainizing the wrong people while others (Hamilton at the front naturally) gets sung at. Speaking of singing - I really hate it. Shipping (i want to repeat) the founding fathers, the blatant white washing bla bla bla. Anyway those are all known problems and better people have said it smarter before and that isn't really my point

It's the fact that a friend of mine recently brought up that Ofmd pretty much is the same and I shouldn't scream so loud in my glass house. Inaccurate historically speaking, the blatant ignoring of the slave owning that the real Stede and Edward did and so on and so forth. Minus the singing perhaps if we ignore Frenchies and Izzys

So. Does it make me a hypocrite to like ofmd so much but despise the mere mention of Hamilton? It's a thing I'm really stressed about lately and that kind of ruined my joy about finally getting season 2. I would love to hear your opinion. or that of your followers for that matter.

Thank you 😊

oh thank YOU because I do feel that this is an interesting thing to examine and we do not talk about it enough.

I have never seen Hamilton, or listened to the songs (except some snippets). I have never been involved in the fandom. I really, really can't speak to what the musical itself did wrong and right. But I will say this: There was a reason it got as popular and received the critical acclaim that it did. I can't speak to how it addresses the systemic injustice baked into the USA from the very beginning, and I do have a suspicion that it glosses over a lot of uncomfortable truths. But I also feel it is important that we divorce the source material from the fandom it spawns because ultimately, Miranda isn't responsible for Hatsune Miku Binder Jefferson, or the whole hivliving debacle.

Just as David Jenkins isn't responsible for the handwaving of slavery in fanworks, or the great Izzy Hands Debate, or whitewashing in fanart, or shitty, racist headcanons of the characters of colour, or whatever deranged scandal is yet to come to light. This is true for all fandoms; criticizing fandom dynamics is a very different conversation from criticizing the canon.

Let's focus on the canon here, though, because defending the fandom is pointless, and not something I want to do. Curate your experience.

The first thing to say is: If you like ofmd but don't like Hamilton, that's not hypocritical at all, that's first and foremost a matter of taste. Things are good when we like them and bad when we don't. We don't have to find objective reasons for it.

If the fact that the historical Stede Bonnet was a slaveowner, and the historical Blackbeard also participated in the slave trade, are dealbreakers for someone, that's valid. People have every right to be uncomfortable with that. The conversation could end at this point, if we want it to (I don't because I love to hear myself talk).

If we look at the historical figures a little closer the first stark difference is the cultural context in which they exist. The founding fathers seem to be extremely mythologized in the american consciousness but also, are understood to be real historical people. The founding myth is fundamental to the way in which the USA perceives itself (that is, as a beacon of freedom and democracy), and it's pretty hard to reconcile that with the bloodshed and human misery it was founded on. It's uncomfortable; and it's not just an American problem. Every western nation/former colonial power has quite literal corpses in their closets they'd rather not talk about (just so you don't think I'm getting on a high horse about the famed Erinnerungskultur here; go ask a german person about Lothar von Trotha and what he did to the Nama and Herero to receive a blank stare). The difference is, that the founding fathers are too prominent and too important to just not talk about, so instead, they are sanitized to a degree that can be straight up historical revisionism.

That's not Miranda's fault. Nor is it the fault of any one particular piece of historical fiction, biography, documentary, or what have you. But it is the context in which Hamilton exists and, from what I understand, a culture to which it contributes. Especially since it's based on a biography of the real Alexander Hamilton, and (again, to my understanding) claims to tell a more or less accurate story.

Pirates, on the other hand, are perceived completely differently. They are mythologized, but not for ideological reasons, not as state-building propaganda. Pirates are more like folk heroes; cultural icons (near) completely divorced from whatever historical figure once lived. They are "real" in the sense that they are based on real people, but engaging with them, from the start, has a layer of removal from reality that engaging with figures like the founding fathers hasn't. Blackbeard is from a saga. George Washington is from history.

ofmd, specifically, makes clear at every turn that what we are told is a fictional story that has very little to do with any real events. It's openly anachronistic, it has absurd internal logic. Life-threatening injuries are walked off. There's actual magic. Dinghies are treated like spawn points in a video game. Everything, from the costumes to the vernacular to the story beats, tells the audience that none of this is real.

You wouldn't accuse, idk, A Knight's Tale, or Mel Brooks's Men In Tights of whitewashing history. I feel like ofmd plays in a similar league; it's a comedy very vaguely based on history, and it makes sure the audience knows we are not about to be told anything true. If you watch ofmd, you know this isn't about the real, historical Stede Bonnet or Edward Teach.

So. Let's examine the actual story, yes? The story that is told here is anticolonialist, antiracist, and challenges oppressive power structures as much as is possible for a production like this. It addresses these things and condemns them, both explicitly and in its underlying message. (I'm not gonna explain all of this, enough ink has been spilled about it by people smarter than me)

I do not know what Hamilton is about at its core. I know Our Flag Means Death is about authenticity in the face of the whole world telling you there's something wrong with you. It's about resisting dehumanization and reclaiming your personhood. It's about love, in a radical, system-destroying way, about breaking the cycle of abuse, about healing, and finding joy.

Yes, the real historical figures it's based on were all horrible people. Again, if that's a dealbreaker, that's fine. I'm not trying to convince anyone who is deeply uncomfortable with that fact; it's perfectly understandable.

However, for me, personally, the story as a whole is so far removed from reality, and so firm in its message, that I feel this is forgivable.

(Oh, and a lat aside, I also feel like likening ofmd to Hamilton seldom seems to come from a place of genuine criticism. Often it seems to be more along the lines of "Hamilton is cringe, and if I say ofmd=Hamilton ppl will be too embarrassed to defend it" which yk. feels kinda disingenuous to me.)

[cozage]

Made for Two

A/N: This might be the last part of Made for Two?? Idk let me know what you guys think (you are allowed to send me feedback or requests for more of this fic only right now)

Characters: gn reader x Sanji

Cw: usual angst, some slightly possessive themes and fighting going on

Total word count: 5.5k

Part One | Masterlist

Dance for Two

The first thing you noticed was the heat. It was stifling, and you threw your covers off of you to get some relief. A stark contrast to the bone chilling cold you felt last night.

A body stirred beside you, and you looked over to find Sanji rubbing sleep from his eyes. He sat up, still half asleep, and his eyes scanned your room. 

Sanji’s voice was groggy when he spoke. “We must’ve left the winter climate last night. Franky needs to get the heating and cooling system fixed soon.” 

Your eyes were trying to look anywhere but at the man next to you. He must’ve gotten hot in the night and thrown his shirt off. He appeared unfazed by his current position, but you were painfully aware of the lack of clothing he had around his torso at the moment. 

You had seen Sanji shirtless several times, and you had never thought twice about it. But you had been with Zoro then. And Sanji hadn’t been in your bed. He had never been so close.

Now though, you were trying your best to ignore that fact and how much it was affecting you in this moment. 

“Are you hungry?” Sanji asked, and your eyes finally looked over at him. 

You nod, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact with him, even though you desperately wanted to let your eyes linger downward over his body. 

He smiled, unaware of your thoughts, and got up from the bed, heading towards the door. “Let’s both change into something more comfortable with the weather, and I’ll be back to get you.” 

He left you alone, and you sat there for a few moments trying to process it all. He had been so casual about the whole encounter, it made you wonder if you were missing something. But you couldn’t think of anything, so you decided to push it to the side for now. You got up, trading your sweatshirt and pants for a tanktop and shorts. 

You opened your door to find that Sanji had also opted for a casual shirt and shorts as well. As you left the cabin area, you found the sun had also just started its day, and you stood to watch its brilliant colors paint the sky. Even though the sun wasn’t fully up yet, the humidity was high and the heat was sweltering. At least it wasn’t just your room that was stuffy, but it was the whole damn ocean. 

“It’s going to be a boiling day,” you noted, looking at the horizon. 

“Not a good day for macaron making,” Sanji said, frowning. 

“What do you mean?” 

Sanji walked over to the railing and leaned against it, watching the sunrise. You followed suit, standing next to him. 

“Macarons need a very specific atmosphere in order to cook. If the temperature or humidity is too high or too low, they won’t set right. It’s all about finding the perfect middle.” He smiled at you, shrugging at the unfortunate event. “We’ll have to find something else to do today.”

You smiled politely, but your mind was racing. You hadn’t expected Sanji to actually make desserts with you, or even hang out with you at all. You thought about how you had spent the last four days, and how you were just planning to do it again. The only person you really wanted to be around right now was Sanji, and a small piece of you was afraid he’d get sick of you if you stuck around for too long. 

“Any ideas?” You kept your eyes on the horizon, watching the sky and sea begin to come alive with color. 

“Whatever you want.” His voice was so kind and welcoming, you wanted to believe him.

It was responses like that when you were reminded just how different Sanji and Zoro were. Zoro would simply grunt at your requests to spend time together, offering to let you be his spotter while he trained. Zoro was silent and dark, but Sanji was the combination of a million colors and emotions. Zoro was unreadable, but Sanji was always speaking his mind. If Zoro was the night, then Sanji was the sun, bringing the dawn of a new day.

Sanji must’ve noticed you lost in thought, but he let you sit with them while you watched the sunrise in silence. When the sky of pinks and reds melted away and turned into the soft blue you were familiar with, you bumped against him. It looked like he was lost in thoughts of his own, and you wanted to bring him back to the present. 

“Breakfast?” you asked, smiling up at him. He beamed back and offered you his arm, leading you to the kitchen. 

“Are you hungry for anything in particular?” He asks, pulling a chair out for you to sit in. 

You hum, thinking for a moment. “A yogurt parfait?” 

He grins and nods, heading over to the fridge to gather the ingredients. “Fruit? Granola?”

“Both please! And honey too, if we have it.”

“If we have it,” Sanji scoffs. “You mock me as a chef. Of course we have it!”

You giggle at his upset, and watch him quickly whip up two parfaits with mixed berries and granola. He drizzles honey on them both, and walks over to the table to place them both down. 

You take a bite, and delightful flavors fill your mouth. “Do you know when we’re supposed to reach another island?” 

“Why? Is something wrong?” He asked, glancing between you and the parfait in a concerned manner.

“No, no,” you reassure him. “The food is delicious! I was just thinking how nice it’ll be to get off the ship and go do something, you know?”

“Ah, I see.” His body relaxes back, relieved it wasn’t anything serious. “I hope it's a warm island.”

“Me too,” you say dreamily. “Heat like this is only enjoyable when you’re at the beach.”

Sanji looks at you, a shocked expression on his face. “You like the beach?”

You nod, taking another spoonful of yogurt. “Love it,” you say in between bites. “Those islands where nobody else lives, and it’s just a small little beach and a jungle are the best.”

Sanji nodded, still watching you with intrigue. “What do you like about it?”

“Beach volleyball, laying in the sun,” you take another bite of your breakfast. “Oh! And I love your barbeque days, especially when you barbeque the fresh fruit we find on the island and when we fish and cook it over the fire!”

Sanji couldn’t remember you doing any of those things in his recent memories, but he didn’t comment on that. Most of the time you sat in the shade with Zoro and kept to yourselves. Sanji prided himself in being in tune with the crew’s likes and dislikes, but he would’ve put money on you hating the beach days that you just described. 

“Maybe we’ll get lucky, then,” Sanji said hopefully. “And we’ll find a beach nearby.”

Unfortunately, Nami later reported that luck was against you. There wasn’t another island for at least another two days. 

You sighed and walked up to the library, trying to ignore the blasting music radiating from the crow’s nest. 

“Got any recommendations?” You asked Robin, who was sitting at the desk. 

“Oh! Y/N,” Robin said, sounding surprised to see you. “A book?”

“Yeah,” you sighed. “Not much else to do on a day like today, you know?”

She chuckled lightly, and picked a book out of a pile. “This is a pretty good one. I’d read it again.”

You reach out and grab the book from her. It was romance, but Robin recommended it, so you decided to give it a shot. “Thanks!” You turned around and left the way you came, bounding back down to the kitchen to rejoin Sanji. Now that you had something of your own to do, you wanted to keep Sanji some silent company while he worked. 

The morning came and went, you sitting at the table engrossed in your book while Sanji cooked breakfast for the crew in shifts as they woke up. Every time someone came through the door, you looked up and smiled at them. You tried to ignore the look of surprise that flashed across each person’s face when they saw you, but you understood why. You had to admit you were dreading having to see Zoro after your last breakfast encounter, and it was bold of you to sit somewhere you knew he would eventually end up. You weren’t even sure why you were sitting in a place where you were sure to see him, but you didn’t feel as scared with Sanji nearby.

But you never had to worry about it, because Zoro never showed up for breakfast. 

When the last member had come and gone from the kitchen, Sanji started cleaning up, and you got up to start helping him. 

“Nope!” Sanji says, grabbing your hands as you reach for some dishes. 

You groan. Sanji was so chivalrous, sometimes it was annoying. “Please let me help, Sanji. Then we can both enjoy our free time.”

Sanji shakes his head to refuse your help again, and you know you won’t win this battle. Him letting you help last night was an outlier situation, and it would probably never happen again. You returned to your seat and reopened your book. 

“Why don’t you go lay out on the deck? Get some sun.” Sanji offered, starting to scrub at the dishes. 

“No thanks,” you say, finding your spot where you left off. “I prefer being with you.”

Your cheeks redden at the sentence that slipped out of your mouth, and you can see him freeze in the corner of your eye. He opened his mouth to say something but no words came out, so he shut it and turned back to the dishes. 

You couldn’t focus on your book after that. You tried, but your eyes kept drifting over to Sanji, watching him at the sink. Your eyes lingered on him, completely in his own world while he cleaned. 

Nami barged into the kitchen, interrupting your thought process. Thankfully she was too frustrated to notice your eyes on the cook. 

“It’s going to rain!” She huffed, collapsing into the booth across from you. 

“Really?” you asked, looking at the window. “Where’s it coming from?”

“Starboard bow. Probably about 20 minutes from now.”

You didn’t see anything, but you knew Nami wasn’t wrong about these things. “How long will it last?”

Nami groaned, flopping backwards onto the seat. “All day! And Chopper and Franky just got the pool set up! It’s not fair!”

You laugh at that and close your book, standing to your feet. “I think I’m going to go watch the storm roll in. Want to come?”

Nami rolled her eyes. “And be reminded of my ruined sunny day? No thanks.”

You exit out of the kitchen, throwing one last look at Sanji before you leave. You catch his eye, and he smiles at you. Your heart skips a beat involuntarily. 

You can’t stop the question before it’s out. “Come join me when you’re done, Sanji?”

“Of course.”

You walked onto the deck, and looked towards the starboard bow, like Nami had said. There were clouds gathering in the horizon, and you assumed that would turn into a storm, so you walked over and leaned against the railing to watch. 

A shadow cast over you. “Super great to see you out and about, kiddo!”

You turned to find Franky, and you smiled at him. “Hey Franky. How have you been?”

“I'm not going to lie, pretty busy.” He leaned against the railing next to you. “Between the heating and cooling issues and other projects, I’ve got my hands full. But how are you?”

“Okay,” you said. It was the typical response you gave, and every time you said it, it started to feel a little more true. 

“Super!” Franky yelled, patting you on the back just a tad too hard. “Listen I gotta run, but I’m glad you’re doing good. If you ever need to get your hands dirty and your mind clear, come let me know, okay?”

You laugh lightly and nod at his offer. “Thanks Franky. That means a lot.”

“Anytime!” And then you’re alone again. 

You notice a lot more standing on the deck by yourself. You can hear Chopper’s and Luffy’s shouts and splashes from their makeshift pool, and the soft bass of the music from the crow’s nest is mostly overshadowed by Brook’s violin. It’s lively, but there’s comfort in it all. You don’t feel as alone, listening to the sounds of your crew. But you still feel tense, like something is missing. 

The soft clicking of shoes on wood melts the tension away, and you glance in the direction of the sound to find eyes as blue as the sky. 

“Hey,” you say, a smile forming on your lips as you see him. 

He mirrors your grin, and comes to stand next to you, looking out over the horizon. The clouds in the distance have grown closer and darker, and you can feel the excitement growing in your stomach. 

“Do you like storms?” Sanji asks, looking out at the clouds. 

“I love them.” Your eyes stay on the storm. You can start to see sheets of rain pouring across the ocean, getting closer by the second. “There’s something comforting about them. It’s like they cleanse everything and give it a fresh start.”

Sanji lights a cigarette next to you and takes a long inhale, and then blows it out. “A fresh start, huh? I like that.”

“Do you like them?”

He shrugged. “I normally don’t mind them, but the really bad ones remind me of when I was a kid and got stranded on a desert island. It’s usually fine, but they always give me a bit of anxiety.”

In a move of boldness, you lean over and rest your head on his shoulder. At first you can feel him stiffen and you think you’ve misinterpreted the situation, but then he relaxes and you do too. 

You watch the rain grow closer, slowly lessening the visibility by the rain. 

“You ready?” you ask, watching the rain approach at a fast pace. 

“You sure you want to be outside for this?” Sanji said, looking at you with a bit of weariness. 

You felt a big raindrop hit your arm, and soon after hundreds joined it in coating your skin with water. The sound of rain smacking against the wood becomes deafening, pierced only by the slight cries of Chopper and the gleeful shouts of Luffy, who both rush inside. You breathe out a sigh of relief, letting the rain wash away your pain and sorrow. 

You pull away from Sanji and spin in a circle with your eyes closed, swaying lightly in the breeze by yourself. You feel a hand grab yours, and you open your eyes to see Sanji trying to speak to you, but you can’t hear any words over the rain. 

You lean in close to him and yell as loud as you can. “What?” 

“Will you dance with me?” He shouts back, and you wrap your arms around his neck.

His arms wrap around your waist, and you lay your head on his chest. You all stand there for a long while, just swaying in each other's arms. Finally the rain starts to lighten up a tad, and you can hear a song being played on the violin. You both turn to look, and you find Brook under the tree, serenading you into a dance. 

Sanji picks up the pace a bit to match the tempo and readjusts your grip so you are doing more of a ballroom waltz than simple swaying. You’re a bit clumsy on your feet, but Sanji leads you confidently, spinning and dipping you with perfect elegance. The whole thing made you feel equally silly and giddy. 

“I didn’t know you could dance!” You shout over the music and the rain. 

“I’m not very good at most of them,” he admits. “But I like the dances that are made for two.”

“Not very good?” You scoff. “Sanji, you’re amazing!”

“Well, I-” A bolt of lightning strikes near the ship, and you yelp in surprise. You can feel Sanji’s grip tighten on you for a moment as he looks around. 

“That's enough of that!” Brook yells, running to the door of the interior of the ship. 

“Hey!” Nami opened a door to scream at the two of you. “The storm’s getting bad! Get inside!”

You pull Sanji along with you, laughing as you dance to the door. You all dance down the hallway to the aquarium, stopping occasionally for Sanji to dip or spin you around. The music is long gone, but neither of you seem to notice. 

You dance a lap around the aquarium, leaving a trail of dripping water as you go. You’re about to make a second lap around when you slip on a puddle, and Sanji catches you before you face plant onto the floor. 

“I’m going to go get us some towels,” he said, looking at you and then the floor. “And…maybe a mop.”

You giggle at that, still high with adrenaline and giddiness from dancing in the rain. “Hurry back, okay?”

He bows as he exits through the door, and you find yourself staring at it after he’s gone, waiting for him to come back. 

“Didn’t know the cook fancied sloppy seconds.” 

The dark voice came from behind you in the aquarium, causing your breath to catch in your throat. Your hands clenched into fists, but you refused to give Zoro the satisfaction of answering him. Answering him would just lead to an argument, which is exactly what he wanted. You stayed there, facing away from him and staring at the door, willing Sanji to come back. 

“Tell me, Y/N,” the swordsman said your name like poison, and you flinched at the sharpness of his words. “Why do you think that man is being so nice to you?”

You hear Zoro get up, the sound of his boots echoing throughout the aquarium as he approaches you. The hair on your neck tingled, but you attributed that to the cold rain instead of the man behind you. You bit your lip to keep yourself from crying, eyes still glued to the door. Sanji would be back any second, and you wouldn’t be alone.

“I can tell you why,” he whispered in your ear, and you flinched again at his sudden closeness.

He walked around to face you, staring at you in the eyes. It was hard to look at him. There were so many conflicted emotions you held connected to his face. But you refused to be the one to break eye contact, and you could feel the daggers he was staring into your soul. 

“It’s because that love cook wants to fuck you.”

He was just saying it to get you to react in some way. You were certain. You stared back at him, doing your best to show no emotion. You must’ve been successful, because he pressed further. 

“I figured you’d be dumb enough to fall for it, of course,” he said with a devilish smirk on his face. His voice was low and threatening, like a predator who was about to pounce on his prey. 

“But you couldn’t even wait until we arrived at the next island before you hopped on his dick, could you?”

Zoro was cruel and manipulative. You knew that, which is why you were so mad that it worked. You could feel tears welling up in your eyes, and you tried desperately to blink them away. 

“It’s not like that,” you say, shaking your head. You can feel tears leak out onto your cheeks. 

Zoro laughed at you, and all you want to do is run away and hide. “It is like that, and that's why you’re crying. ‘My love,’” he mocks Sanji. “‘Anything for you!’”

He returns back to his usual, harsh voice and leans in close to you. He’s so close that you can smell the sake on his breath when he speaks. 

“More like anything for what’s in your pants.”

Your hand connects with his face before you realize what you’re doing, and a loud, sharp sound echoes through the room. Both of you stand there staring at each other, stunned for a moment. You can’t believe you got a hit on Roronoa Zoro, and you wonder if he was too busy taunting you to see it coming or if he let you slap him on purpose to start an argument. 

“Get. Out.” you growl, pushing on his chest. He doesn’t budge. He’s just standing and staring at you, one side of his face starting to grow red. 

“Get out!” you shriek, pushing his chest, and then resorting to punching it when that doesn’t work. “I’m not doing this anymore, Zoro! I’m done! Get out!” 

You see his facial expression change slightly, and he steps out of range from your swings. But you step toward him, trying to push him toward the door. He stumbled backwards for a moment, not expecting you to continue your assault, before he regained his footing. 

“That cook doesn’t love you,” he spat out.

“I never asked him to!” You scream back. 

You had given him what he wanted. You had fought back. You push him again, trying to get him away from you. But he’s expecting it this time, and he grabs your wrists and pulls you close to him. His face is only centimeters away from yours, and you curse your heart for fluttering in your chest.

“Calm down,” he whispered, his eyes fixated on your lips. 

You knew what was coming. This was the duality of Roronoa Zoro. Screaming matches one moment, tender and caring the next. He loved to get you riled up one second just so he could calm you down the next.

And you almost fell for it again. Almost. But as his head dipped down to meet yours, you thought of the cold dark nights alone in your room, his hostile glares and comments from the day before. You thought of the warm string of lights that were now illuminating the once dark space, the sunrise and dancing. 

His lips met yours for only a second before you pulled away from him and shoved your palms hard into his chest, pushing him away from you. 

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to get the taste of him off your lips. You let out a shaky breath and glared at him. 

You hated him, and you hated how inferior he made you feel. But you really hated that a small part of you wanted to curl back into him and let him hold you, like nothing happened.

“I said get out.” You put all of your anger and hatred into your words, willing yourself to stand your ground. 

He stared at you, half bewildered and half amused. This was uncharted territory for him. Normally you fell back into his touch, desperate and eager for more of his love. But today, you stood there with defiance in your eyes. 

“You’ll see.” He chuckled lightly to himself. “He’s gotten you wrapped around his finger now, but you’ll see, darling,” he raised his pitch to imitate Sanji on the last word.  “He’ll get bored of you, and he’ll leave you, and you’ll be alone again. And nobody will come to save you this time.”

Satisfied with having the last word, Zoro turned on his heels and walked out the door. 

Once the door slammed shut behind him, you fell to your knees. Your hands flew up to your mouth to stifle a sob. 

Sanji wasn’t manipulative like Zoro. He was kind, and sweet, and he made you your favorite meal even when you had barely ever spoken to him just to see you smile. He wasn’t doing all of this just to get laid, was he?

Your mind drifted back to yesterday morning, at breakfast with Nami. 

“I heard he didn’t go back to the boys cabin last night. You’ve been around Sanji almost as long as I have, and you really think its-”

Even the navigator seemed to think Sanji had an ultimatum for his kindness. Your heart ached at the thought of you being used like that, and you clutched at your chest in pain. You didn’t know what to do or who to believe. You wanted to run away, restart the day, or just go back to when you and Zoro first broke up and beg for his forgiveness. Everything was so much more complicated now that you had Sanji beside you. 

“Sorry I took so long! It took me a while to find the-” You hear things clatter to the floor and the click of Sanji shoes rushing over to you. 

“What happened?” He asked, kneeling down next to you. He hand presses against your forehead and you pull away from him, still covering your eyes. “Are you sick? Do I need to go get Chopper?”

“Just leave me alone,” you sob. “I just want to be alone.”

“It’s okay, my love. Talk-” 

You’re reminded of Zoro and how he mocked Sanji, and rage flares up in you. “Go away!” you scream, tears thick in your voice. “Get out!”

Sanji sighs, and you hear him stand to his feet. You hear him start to walk away from you, and your heart constricts. You know you told him to go, but you don’t want him to. And you’re too cowardly to beg him to stay now. 

You can hear him reach the far side of the room, and he pauses for a moment, then he begins walking back to you. You start wiping your eyes, and you feel a soft cloth wrap around your shoulders. Your eyes open to find his sky blue eyes staring back at you, holding a towel around you. 

He looks at you nervously, like he’s waiting for you to scream again. But you just sit there, wrapped in a towel. The only sound is the occasional drip of water from your clothes. 

“Please don’t leave me,” you whisper to him, your voice breaking. 

“I won’t, I won’t,” he coos, trying to soothe you. He wipes the tears from your cheeks and pushes the hair away from your face, keeping his eyes on you the whole time. 

“I hate him.” You can’t bring yourself to say Zoro’s name, but Sanji knows what you mean. 

“Did you see him?” He asks, looking around the room.

You nod, tears starting to form in your eyes again. 

“What did he say?” Sanji’s voice is calm, but you can feel the anger radiating from his body. 

You just shake your head, not wanting to respond. You lean forward, pressing your head against his rain-soaked shirt. He lets you rest there, stroking your wet hair absentmindedly while you work to steady your breathing. You inhale the familiar smell of cigarette smoke and slowly calm down, finding yourself drifting off to sleep. 

You’re not sure how much time has passed when your eyes reopen, but you’re in your room, wrapped in blankets. You can still hear the rain falling outside, and you sit up to assess yourself and your surroundings. You’re still in wet clothes, and you quickly strip them and replace them with new ones. Your fairy lights are on, but there’s no other indication of someone in your room.

You exit your room into the main cabin area, and head towards the deck, but raised voices stop you before you leave. You stand near the door, listening. 

“I don’t give a damn about your feelings!” Sanji’s voice yells from outside, muffled by the rain still falling.

“No shit!” Zoro screamed back. “You’re so far up Y/N’s ass you can’t see anything else!”

“You don’t know anything about me, mosshead, so stay out of it!”

“I know you took what wasn’t yours, cook.” Zoro’s voice turns into a growl, and you struggle to hear his words. “Y/N belongs to me.”

Sanji chuckled at the swordsman’s words. “Y/N doesn’t belong to anyone, idiot.” You hear his shoes coming closer to the door, until he stops on the other side. “The fact that you don’t get that proves you don’t know anything at all.”

“I know more about Y/N than you’ll ever know,” Zoro shot back, and you could feel a knot forming in your stomach. “You can’t compete. I know the best positions to make-”

“Piss off!” Sanji yelled, slamming into the swinging door in front of you wide open. His mouth falls open when he sees your figure in front of him, and the lit cigarette falls from his lips. 

You turn on your heels and dart back to your room, but Sanji’s quick to follow you. 

“Y/N-” He trails after you into your room. 

You spun around to face him, glaring at him. “Why are you being nice to me?” you demand. 

He froze, confused at your sudden hostility. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re out there defending me, making me food, being so nice to me…why?!”

“Because,” Sanji hesitates, his eyes scanning the room nervously. “Because I…”

It didn’t add up, Sanji never took any special interest in you before. He was always kind and cordial, bringing you food and making your favorite snack. And he just treated you better because he wanted to piss Zoro off. But now you were broken up, and there was no reason to keep up the act after you and Zoro broke up. Unless what Zoro said was true. 

You’re sure you’ve got him. Sanji can’t lie to you. So you ask him point blank. “Are you just trying to fuck me?”

“What?” He takes a step back, alarmed with your bluntness. “What are you even saying?”

“Just answer the question!” You don’t care if he thinks you’re crazy. Maybe you are.  

Sanji clicked his tongue and pulled out a cigarette. “That swordsman is in your head,” he said, putting it to his lips. 

You resist the urge to grab him and shake him. You knew he was avoiding giving an answer. 

“So you are,” you say, your voice trembling. “You’re just doing this for-”

“You love to watch the sunrise,” Sanji said, rushing to cut you off. “The sunsets too, but you only did that with mosshead, so it’s painful to see it now. You like barbequed fruit and rainstorms and you don’t really enjoy romance novels but you’ll read them if Robin recommends them. You prefer the quiet moments and the soft, fluffy desserts and you love your crewmates.”

Sanji paused for a moment and stepped forward, reaching for your hands to hold. You let him take them, and he interlocks his fingers with yours. You watch his hands, intertwined with yours, and you like how nicely they fit together. You feel calmer now, all of the anger inside of you suddenly feels small and unimportant. 

“I’m doing all of this because I think you deserve it. You deserve to be treated well. You deserve to have someone who lays with you while you sleep. Who watches the sunsets with you. Who dances in the rain. I just want you to feel important, okay? So if you’re not feeling that way, tell me and I promise I’ll find a different way to show my love for you”

“Your love…” you swallow the lump caught in your throat. “For me?”

His cheeks turn red, and you can see his nervous energy reach a new level. He fidgets with your fingers, and you can feel his hands start to get clammy. He doesn’t speak for a while, and your eyes glance up to his, but he’s watching your hands as well. 

“Sanji?” you prompt, peering up at him through your lashes. 

“It’s nothing,” he whispered, and he pulled you closer to him. His face is only centimeters away from yours, and you can feel your heart fluttering in your chest.

You thought you knew what was coming, and you tensed in suspense, ready to pull away at any moment. 

“Do you want to dance?” he said, the smell of tobacco rolling off his tongue with each word. 

You nod in response and lean against his chest. You both gently sway to a beat that doesn’t exist, and you can’t help but feel more at peace now than you ever have in your entire life. 

[racefortheironthrone]

In a world where Robb Stark wins his war and manages to consolidate his realm, with the 7K being no more, lets assume he also annexes the northern crownlands too, what kind of council or burocracy would he establish to govern and how much of your economic development plans could he reasonably carry out in his lifetime and how could he unify his 2 realms economy into a cohesive unit?

In a Stark victory scenario, I think annexing the northern Crownlands would be an overstretch and something of a distraction from more important tasks (like bringing the Iron Islands and the Vale into his sphere of influence so that he can govern a geographically, economically, and politically coherent kingdom/coalition of northern Westeros).

To quote King Robb:

"Duskendale, on the narrow sea? Why would they go to Duskendale?" He'd shook his head, bewildered. "A third of my foot, lost for Duskendale?"

What matters in a brand-new Kingdom of the North is things like whether Gulltown accepts silver coins minted in White Harbor with Robb's face on them as valid payment for debts and taxes, or whether the Ironborn agree to keep their reaving south of Ironman's Bay, or whether the Stark navy can keep the Trident open all the way to the Bay of Crabs so that the Riverlands can keep trading directly with Braavos.

I did some back-reading through various economic development posts to see what I'd said in the past about the tricky scenario of how one balances the interests of multiple kingdoms in pursuing economic development. One of the things I'm noticing is that there are some reforms where there is real issues with competition/duplication of efforts (a Kingdom of the North can probably only support one Bank, one canal scheme, one sub-treasury system, one purchasing/marketing cooperative, etc.), some reforms where individual kingdoms can pursue their own goals but where there would be an issue about how the king balances the rewards he's doling out between the kingdoms (do you put your marginal dragon into winter schools and greenhouses for the North or church schools for the Riverlands or roads for the Vale?), and some where every kingdom can pitch in in a common effort (if there's going to be one sub-treasury plan, you're going to need a network of granaries along waterways from the Last River down to the Trident, the same information about how to improve agricultural productivity can be shared between the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale basically for free, etc).

That being said, one of the major political challenges of the Kingdom of the North was always going to be how you balance the interests of the component kingdoms and make everyone feel like the central government is giving them a fair deal and being attentive to their interests - and as you say, forging them into a cohesive economy would go a long way into doing that. So for example, one priority should be in working out reciprocity in trade between the newly-chartered cities. It certainly helps that a bunch of them (White Harbor, Gulltown, Maidenpool, Lord Harroway's Town, Saltpans) are along the same coast of the Narrow Sea or just upriver from the Narrow Sea, which makes close trade links more likely. However, you're going to want to make formal legal arrangements that, when it comes to port fees and staple fees and warehousing fees and the like, all of the North's cities agree to set them as low as possible for other Northern cities (if not an outright zollverein), and that burgher rights are transferrable between cities and that city ordinances will be honored by other cities, and so on.

In terms of "council or burocracy would he establish to govern," Robb was already taking a decent first step to bolster Lord Paramount Edmure Tully by appointing Brynden the Blackfish as Warden of the Southern Marches.

As I've written before, issuing city charters would be a crucial element of governing the Riverlands effectively. Giving Maidenpool, Lord Harroway's Town, Stoney Sept, Fairmarket, and Seagard a combination of economic and political self-governance would paradoxically allow King Robb to project royal authority more effectively - especially when it comes to generating revenue and manpower and enforcement of economic regulations.

[fatehbaz]

A devastating rail crash that left almost 300 people dead has refocused international attention on the importance of railways in the lives of Indians.

Indeed, to many Western observers, images of men and women crammed into overcrowded cars serve as a metaphor for modern India. Take, for example, a report by German newspaper Der Spiegel on India’s population surpassing China’s. Published just weeks before the accident in Odisha province on June 2, the now much-criticized cartoon depicted a shabby Indian train crammed with passengers rushing past a streamlined Chinese train with only two people in it.

Where does this enduring image in the West of Indian railways – and of India – come from? As a scholar of Indian history and author of 2015 book “Tracks of Change: Railways and Everyday Life in Colonial India,” I believe the answers lie in the gigantic infrastructure projects of the 19th century – forged at the intersection of colonial dictates and capitalist demands.

---

A carrier of freight, not people

Railways remain the backbone of passenger traffic in India, transporting some 23 million people daily. In the pre-pandemic 2018-19 financial year, 7.7 billion passenger journeys in India. [...] Yet, when first planned in the 1840s, India’s railways were intended to primarily transport freight and livestock, not people. Indians were thought unlikely to become railway passengers by directors of the English East India Co., a merchant monopoly that gradually annexed and administered large parts of India under U.K. crown control. [...] However, early colonial railway policy was driven by pervasive Orientalist imaginings of a people rendered immobile by poverty, living in isolated villages [...]. The trope interlocked with colonial thinking that railways would foster greater industrialization which in turn would further a capitalist economy. They also aligned with the practical needs of a colonial trading monopoly which needed raw materials for English industries, such as cotton, to be moved swiftly and efficiently from India’s interiors to port towns [...].

---

Despite the doubters, the new Indian railways attracted an increasing number of passengers. The half-million passengers recorded in 1854 when tracks became operational increased to 26 million in 1875. By 1900, annual passenger figures stood at 175 million and then almost trebled to 520 million by 1919-20. By the time of the partition of India in 1947 it had risen to more than 1 billion passenger journeys annually. Indeed, images of overcrowded trains came to epitomize the upheaval of partition, with the rail system used to carry swaths of uprooted peoples across the soon-to-be Pakistan-India border. Third-class passengers, overwhelmingly Indians, comprised almost 90% of this traffic. These escalating figures did not, however, generate a lowering of fares. Nor did they result in any substantial improvements in the conditions of [...] travel. [...]

---

The generally British railway managers seemed disinclined to remedy systematic overcrowding, which included transporting passengers in wagons meant for livestock. Rather, they insisted that such overcrowding was caused by the peculiar habits and inclinations of Indian passengers: their alleged [...] inclination to follow one another “like sheep” into crowded carriages. These attributes were soon rendered into a more public narrative, especially among Western mindsets. Journalist H. Sutherland Stark, writing for the industry publication Indian State Railways Magazine in 1929, stated that though “unversed” in railway administration and traffic control, he knew railway facilities were not the problem. Rather, Indian passengers lacked the mental preparedness, “self-possession” and “method” necessary to travel like “sane human beings.” Stark suggested passenger education as a solution to the perceived problem, making railway travel a tool for “self-composure and mass orderliness.” [...]

---

More than a century later, this depiction endures, though, ironically, it now serves as a foil to understanding contemporary India. In a piece published in The New York Times on March 12, 2005, the author lauded the then-new Delhi metro, emphasizing that it had “none of the chaotic squalor of hawkers and beggars that characterizes mainline railroads in India, nor do desperate travelers hang from the sides of the trains.” As the debate rages on whether safety has taken a back seat to “glossy modernization projects” in India – early analyses suggest signaling failure might have caused June 2, 2023, accident – railways continue to represent India’s history.

In the heyday of empire, they were deemed the technology through which Britain would drag India into capitalist modernity. In 1947, they became a leitmotif for the trauma of the partition that accompanied the independence of India and Pakistan. As the coverage of Odisha accident reminds us, it continues to be a metaphor in the West for evaluating contemporary India.

---

Headline, image, caption, and all text above by: Ritika Prasa. “Overcrowded trains serve as metaphor for India in Western eyes -- but they are a relic of colonialism and capitalism.” The Conversation. 9 June 2023. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[destiel-wings]

I was reading this thread on twitter and it made me think about how Sam humanizes the monsters and sees more in shades of grey, whereas Dean, especially in the early seasons, has more of a soldier mentality, which is John's. He can't afford to see grey as Sam does, he was taught that monster = bad, and that needs to be true to justify the horror of "killing things". He can't consider the possibility that mosnters might be victims or might be anything other than bad, because otherwise his whole beliefs system would crumble. And what they did (killing them) would be wrong. And (maybe even) worse, JOHN would be wrong. BAD even, for teaching their kids to do so.

So i think it's even more interesting that the one who does see the world in shades of grey is Sam, the rebellious child, and the black sheep of the family. The one with demon blood, who embodies the key (for Dean too) to understand that monsters aren't always evil, and morality isn't always black and white, which is something that s2 starts to delve into, with John leaving Dean the burden to kill Sam if it becomes necessary.

Dean's choice at the end of the season is the stark opposite, not only does he save him instead of killing him, he trades his own life, paying with an eternity in hell, just to bring him back.

And this marks a big point for Dean in terms of understanding morality and making up his own choices on what HE believes is right and wrong, despite what John taught him. He starts making his own choices, seeing the world in more shades of grey, and following his own heart.

[this-is-krikkit]

Hii! If you're taking prompts then can you plz do some levihan on this:

'I've been born in the wrong timeline and the wrong gender!'

'And you realized that after sixteen years?'

hello! you're the first anon i don't feel i have to apologize to for taking too long to reply to a prompt lmao, hope you'll enjoy this!

of swords and crushes (1.4k words)

tags: levihan, modern AU (coffee shop AU if you squint), game of thrones references but you don't need to be a big fan to get em, GOT-typical violence mentioned

divider source

“I’m telling you, I was born in the wrong timeline and the wrong sex!” Hange exclaims, trading their branded apron for their civilian coat and giving a last minute check to the coffee shop for any obvious task they might have forgotten.

Levi clicks his tongue at them, not for the first time that day, and gestures for them to leave out the front door with him.

“And you only realized that after sixteen years, while watching a blockbuster series about sword fights and magic?”

“Yes! No? I don’t know, I just know I want to be a knight!” they whine, using the tone they know their coworker can hardly stand.

“You want to be a knight, or you want to do one of them?”

“Levi! How dare you put your dirty thoughts into my pure and innocent mind!”

“I may not watch that shit show myself, shitty glasses, but I’ve seen enough screen caps and memes to know no one innocent watches it. Not with those casting choices anyway.”

Hange’s glasses reflect the setting sun and hide their eyes even as they grin devilishly at him, and he groans at his own slip up.

“Oh, you’ve seen enough screen caps to have an opinion then? Tell me, which one strikes your fancy, Neat Freak? The sadist bastard who tortures people into becoming his slaves, or the annoyingly rich golden boy who had three kids with his own sister?”

He just stares at them for a minute, then shakes his head as he locks the front door.

“I swear this show gets worse every time I hear about it,” he mumbles under his breath. “Either way, the one I like best has green eyes, and I think his father was in Lord of The Rings or something?”

“Oh… You mean, Robb Stark?”

Levi glares their way, because how the fuck would he know, again? But Hange, as always immune to his stink eye, just pulls their phone out and hands it over after a quick search.

“Here, is that him? Oh my God, you’re blushing, it’s totally him!” they squeal before Levi can even confirm it with words.

“Shut up and help me pull this down,” he requests, gesturing to the iron shutter they have to secure before leaving. “He is cute,” he still feels the need to argue defensively as Hange complies.

They chuckle and bump their shoulder to his when they squat down to help him with the heavy padlock that secures the system in place.

“He is,” they agree with a reassuring smile, before letting a sigh out. “Shame that he dies in season three though.”

“What? I thought he was, like, the main character!”

“Well, he is, until, you know... he gets his throat slit at his cousin’s wedding, right after he sees his pregnant wife getting stabbed straight into her belly.”

Levi picks up his jaw from the floor and turns to face his coworker, waiting to see if there’s any chance they could be trying to pull one on him —they don’t usually have a strong enough poker face to actually trick him, but they’ve surprised him before in the year they’ve been sharing shifts on this shitty part time job.

“She dies too, of course! Along with everyone who was with them then,” Hange adds right away, like that’s somehow reassuring.

“Why the fuck do you watch this shit, Four Eyes?” he asks, genuinely confused about it all.

“Ah, sorry, I know you’re weird about this stuff. We can talk about something else if you want,” they offer with a sheepish smile, scratching the back of their neck in discomfort.

“I’m not weird about it,” Levi corrects, dismissing their concern with a wave of his hand, “and it’s fine to discuss. I just don’t like violence for the sake of violence, or for shock value. Feels lazy to me.”

“That’s not all there is to it!”

He gives them a pointed glance, and Hange has the decency to blush a little.

“Okay, it’s probably a big part of it… But the plot does justify it most of the time so far, and some characters are really interesting and fun to try to figure out, I think you’d enjoy it! Besides, the fighting scenes are so badass, Levi!”

They launch into a mock choreography of what he can only assume is one of those scenes, and Levi doesn’t bother holding back a chuckle as he walks alongside them. He ignores the puzzled looks from people who pass them by, throwing a glare or two whenever someone dares to stare for too long with judging eyes.

“How do you have so much energy after the shift you just pulled on top of a day in class, for fuck's sake? I really feel like I’m the older one here sometimes.”

And alright, Levi does have another, early and demanding job to go to while other kids his age are in school, which might explain his own state of tiredness. But Hange truly is something else, stamina-wise.

“That’s because you’re an old soul, Levi, whereas I’m brand new and enthusiastic about what the world has to offer! And about swords!”

“Yeah, right. Why don’t you sign up to fencing lessons and get it out of your system for good?”

“Sure, let me give up this side job I only took for the fun of it, ask my imaginary butler to fetch my thousand dollars allowance from my billionaire parents and I’ll do just that!”

He bites the inside of his cheek to prevent his smile from stretching too wide, even though he knows Hange will be able to tell they got him with that one anyway.

“Point taken,” he gives in.

The walk back to their subway station is silent, a little less comfortable than usual when they’re both painfully aware that Hange’s now thinking about their own financial issues —the unfortunate reason they even took this job and met Levi in the first place.

He looks around the industrial neighborhood they’re walking, and spots two long rusty metal pipes hanging out from a bin nearby. In a fit of renewed energy he didn’t suspect he could have, he rushes over there, grabs them —heavier than they look, but he knows they can both handle it— and throws one at Hange’s feet.

“Here you go, Sir Hange Zoë,” he declares, feeling absolutely ridiculous as he stands in what he hopes looks like a sword fighting position —he sure hopes Hange will give him a break, it’s not like he has a wide frame of reference for this. “Fight me.”

They chortle, the sound immediately brightening the mood —and Levi’s day.

“You don’t have to do this, Levi. You were right, it’s kind of childish.”

He frowns and charges, hitting their shin lightly with his shabby weapon. Hange’s eyebrows shoot up on their forehead, and he can tell they’re slowly giving in.

“Levi! You can’t attack a defenseless maiden, that’s not gentleman-y at all!”

“You’re not a maiden, dumbass. And who said I’m a gentleman?”

Next time he lunges, they block the blow thanks to their own pipe and send him stumbling back —with a force that would surprise anyone else considering how lanky they look in their baggy clothes, and a fire in their eyes that would no doubt freak them out too. Levi, however, has known for months now that the tall nerdy weirdo look is only a mask hiding a fierce, passionate kid who might just be the strongest person he’s ever met —in more ways than one.

Sadly, they’re also much more —how did they put it again? Oh, right— enthusiastic about the whole fighting thing than he’d foreseen, and he soon finds himself having an actual hard time holding them off. One of their well placed hits shatters the pipe he was holding in his hold, and he thanks his lucky star that the combat has to end as he puts both hands up.

“Alright, I yield! You’re right, Four Eyes, you would have made a great knight.”

“Thank you!” they reply with a wink and a graceless curtsy.

Hange throws their pipe back into the trash can, before holding out their hand to ask for the some of the hand gel Levi’s already rubbing on his palms. He throws them a disapproving look, more for show than anything else, and gives them some —really, he’s kind of excited that they’re finally getting some of his neat freak habits, as they always call them.

“So, I won, right?” they ask him when they start walking again.

“Tch, I guess you did,” he grants them, not up to point out how questionable that statement is when really, breaking your opponent’s weapon has to be against the rules, right?

“Then my prize is... that you have to watch the next season with me!”

He spends the rest of the walk and the three subway stations they share trying to get out of that commitment.

(He fails.)

[writingquestionsanswered]

Defining Terminology via POV

Anonymous asked: How do you make sure the reader understands a culture-specific term they are most likely unfamiliar with if describing it in the narrative itself makes no sense from the narrator’s point of view? I’m writing an alternative medieval era story with a culture based heavily on Nordic kingdoms of that period. It comes with certain cultural terms like ergi, which encompasses several implications at once, all relevant to the story dynamics and important for the protagonist's view of himself. Only one implication would be explicitly clear due to context, but the others wouldn't be without knowledge of Nordic medieval law. The story is third-person limited, so defining the term in text makes as much sense as me randomly explaining to myself what a radio is. I'm at a loss as to how to go about this and am tempted to just add notations at the bottom of the page.

(Ask edited for length...)

Here's the reality... read anything in first-person or third-person limited POV, and you'll find all sorts of defining and explaining that wouldn't actually be going on inside that person's head...

For example, take this excerpt from A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin, told from the third-person limited POV of one of the main characters, Catelyn Stark:

Of all the rooms in Winterfell's Great Keep, Catelyn's bedchambers were the hottest. She seldom had to light a fire. The castle had been built over natural hot springs, and the scalding waters rushed through its walls and chambers like blood through a man's body, driving the chill from the stone halls, filling the glass gardens with a moist warmth, keeping the earth from freezing. Open pools smoked day and night in a dozen small courtyards. That was a little thing, in summer, in winter, it was the difference between life and death.

Catelyn Stark has just walked into her bedchamber. In real life, she would probably just be thinking about how hot the room is. She probably wouldn't be thinking about the hot springs, how they heat the castle, or how they create steaming pools in different courtyards. And she certainly wouldn't be thinking about how essential that is in winter when her primary concern is that her bedroom is currently hot.

Here's another example from The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, told from the first-person POV of the protagonist, Katniss Everdeen:

On the way home, we swing by the Hob, the black market that operates in an abandoned warehouse that once held coal. When they came up with a more efficient system that transported the coal directly from the mines to the trains, the Hob gradually took over the space. Most businesses are closed by this time on reaping day, but the black market's still fairly busy.

Katniss Everdeen has arrived at the Hob, which she's been too a million times before. In real life, she wouldn't be thinking about how the building used to be a coal warehouse, or about how the warehouse was no longer used after they found a more efficient system for transporting the coal from the mines to the trains. None of this is going through her mind when she's only there to trade some hunting goods.

So, my point is, yes, in real life, it would be weird for you to walk into a room to turn on a radio, and then mentally explain to yourself what a radio is and how it works, but fiction isn't real life. It's a story told through text on a page, and as such, you sometimes have to do things for clarity's sake that wouldn't make sense in real life. And, when you're talking about something that has deep personal meaning (like ergi to your character), it actually does make a little more sense for them to be thinking about that meaning (as opposed to thinking to yourself about what a radio is, for example). But... if you really feel strongly that defining or explaining something in your character's thoughts feels off, there are alternatives:

1 - Have them explain it to a character who doesn't know about it.

2 - Have your character overhear it being explained from one character to another.

3 - Have your character read a document or something that explains it.

4 - Find a middle ground between explanation (telling) and contextual action (showing) to define the thing.

5 - Have the character think back to when they first learned about the thing, maybe remembering someone explaining it to them, or what their first experience with it was.

I hope that helps!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[pencil-peach]

G Witch Onscreen Text: Prologue

I'm going to try my best to transcribe all of the (relatively important) text that appears on monitors and screens throughout the show, and talk about what they mean. Because they put WAY too much work into them just for them to be completely ignored. And also because I can.

More Under the Cut awooo awooOOooooOOOooo

TEXT: CONFIRM THRALL >>> LP-03

Not very important, clarifying communication is active between THRALL (Control) and LP-03 (Lfrith Prototype 03)

TEXT: PMET LINK REGRESSION TEST. INTERCONNECT

Device and Program Supporting Selection for Control Test

STATUS: READY

Just a Pre-Test status screen to make clear it's ready for the Permet Link Test

TEXT: GUND FORMAT [DISCONNECT] ERROR PHASE

Here we see the error message that's displayed when the Layer 33 Callback Test fails.

TEXT: PRESS BRIEFING: MS INVESTIGATION COMMITTEE OFFICIALS WARN ABOUT GUND FORMAT INTERPLANETRAY NEWS NETWORK

Here we see the news station (INN) reporting on the ongoing investigation by the Mobile Suit Investigation Committee into Ochs Earth and the Gund Format.

TEXT: (Top Left) SPACEFLIGHT OSTEOPENIA

(Bottom Left) MICROGRAVITY MUSCLE ATROPHY

(Top Right) SPACELIFE-ASSOCIATED NEURO-OCULAR SYNDROME

(Bottom Right) EQUILIBRIUM DISTURBANCE

(Middle) IMPAIRED SPATIAL ABILITY

(Bottom) HEALTH THREATS FROM COSMIC RAYS

This is a graph showing the various health risks humans suffer from prolonged exposure to cosmic rays in space, which is one of the issues the GUND Format was originally created to solve.

TEXT: BIOINFO INTERACTION SCORE per Second

DATA STORM OCCURENCE MAXIMUM: 4.89888 BACKFLOW: 187.69

WARNING: DATA STORM could damage GUND linker.

This graph is displayed when the reporter is speaking about the appearance of physical damage to GUND pilots emerging as a problem. It's difficult to tell exactly what this graph means, but I'll give my best deduction:

The graph is measuring the amount of interaction a pilot is currently having with a data storm, measured in seconds. The higher the Interaction Score, the greater a pilots exposure to the data storm. Thresholds of exposure are called "Stages" (as seen in the second image.) Based on the coloring, the higher the current stage of exposure, the more danger a pilot is in.

TEXT: WHAT ISSUE DO YOU WANT POLICY MAKERS TO SPEND TIME DISCUSSING?

(Left)

[Earthian Issue] Yes Poverty Reduction 95% Fair Trade 89% Educational Gap 89% Taxes 85% Employment 83% (Right)

[Spacian Issue] Yes Defense/Security 98% Free Competition 92% Infrastructure 90% Energy 87% Welfare 86%

I actually really really like this graph because of the stark difference between Earthian and Spacian issues. The issue of Gundams and defense doesn't even break the top 5 of what Earthians NEED policy makers to discuss. It's even more depressing when you realize the prologue is set 21 years before the main story, and not only have these problems not been addressed, they've actually gotten worse for the Earthians.

TEXT: HAPPY BIRTHDAY

It's Eri's BIrthday :3

There's zero way to deduce what the text on the whiteboard or the laptop in this picture could mean, but I really love this picture of Cardo and Elnora, so you should just look at it anyway.

TEXT: INSTALLATION COMPLETED C03_DISCONNECT TIMER

What this means is hard to pinpoint exactly, but presumably this person is working for Delling, and has uploaded a file into the main server of Folkvangr that will disconnect it from the network, so that there will be no way for anyone in the institute to call for help once the massacre begins.

TEXT: CONFIRM YOUR INTERNAL PMET SYSTEMS LINKED DEVICE AND PROGRAM FOR SUPPORTING SELECTION FOR CONTROL TEST

Just the screen that appears when Eri is linked to Lfrith. Presumably this screen appears for anyone who links to it.

TEXT: NO SIGNAL Code: CO4 CONNECTION IS LOST.

The Disconnect Timer we saw installed onto the Folkvangr server has just gone off.

TEXT: GUND FORMAT INTERCONNECT

ERICHT SAMAYA LAYER 34

The scene where Elnora sees that Ericht has not only gotten a callback from Layer 33, but has gone even further.

What I really like about this scene (and maybe I'm reading too much into it,) but look at the way the text is formatted on the screen. It's distinctly different than how it was when Elnora was trying to get a callback from Layer 33, specifically because, for some reason, it's displaying Eri's name. It didn't display Elnora's name earlier in the episode, and so the only way that makes sense is if, when Eri was talking to Lfrith and introduced herself by name,

It was listening.

(You can even see this during this shot. The display on screen is reacting to her voice)

Bonus: We can't see what the display on Nadim's Lfrith is saying when he goes permet score four cause he's currently having his brains melted out of his skull, but I'm gonna assume it says something along the lines of "You are currently having your brains melted out of your skull."

That's all for the prologue ! This will probably take me a long time to finish. But eh, I'll have fun with it.

Click here to move on to Episode 1! >>

Click here to go to the Masterpost!

[mariacallous]

ODESA, Ukraine—In his office overlooking Odesa’s Pivdennyi Port on the Black Sea, Viktor Berestenko smiled contentedly at the half-dozen large international cargo ships just beyond the harbor. “It’s as beautiful as your first kiss,” said the grinning president of the Association of International Freight Forwarders of Ukraine. Speaking to Foreign Policy in late March Berestenko was only too happy to inform me that Ukraine’s three free ports—all in and around Odesa—are operating 24/7, and that the country’s grain exports are back to prewar levels.

The restoration of Black Sea trade is a major breakthrough for Ukraine, in stark contrast to the losses it has endured this year on the eastern fronts. In the Black Sea theater, Ukraine has pulled off the unthinkable: beating back the esteemed Russian Navy even though it has next to no naval force of its own.

From the tiny swath of coastline around Odesa, Ukraine has stymied Moscow’s attempt to landlock and hobble its economy by rendering it unable to market its voluminous agricultural exports. In the spring of 2022, the Russian military barricaded Ukraine’s Black Sea ports and brought exports to a standstill. This forced Ukraine to shift to land routes to market its goods and caused worldwide grain prices to spike, which raised concerns about famine in the Middle East and Africa. Today, Russia still occupies 16 Ukrainian ports. But the Black Sea front looks more hopeful for Ukraine than at any time since the war’s onset more than two years ago.

The Ukrainian fleet lost 80 percent of its vessels after the Russian occupation of Crimea in 2014. But, relying a combination of missile systems and unmanned drone boats guided by advanced GPS and cameras, Ukraine’s armed forces claim to have crippled a third of Russia’s Black Sea fleet. They have also upended the Russian supply lines that serve thousands of troops in the occupied areas of southern Ukraine.

On March 24, Ukraine landed another blow, reportedly using U.K.- or French-made air-to-surface missiles, taking out two large Russian landing ships and other infrastructure near the occupied Crimean port city of Sevastopol. Russia’s fleet has suffered such a drubbing that it prompted the firing of its top admiral, Nikolai Yevmenov, in mid-March. Today, Russia’s remaining ships are in docked in berths along the far side of the Crimean Peninsula, out of sight but not entirely out of Ukraine’s reach.

“Russia wanted to turn the Black Sea into a big Russian lake. But Ukraine reversed it,” said Volodymyr Dubovyk, the director of the Center for International Studies at the Odesa Mechnikov National University. “Russian ships today don’t venture into the northwest of the Black Sea.”

This cover has enabled Ukraine to improvise a sea corridor that begins in Odesa and hugs the safe shores of NATO members Romania, Bulgaria, and Turkey as ships travel southwest en route to the Bosphorus Strait, through which most Black Sea trade passes. Exploiting a bumper crop, Ukraine is now exporting as much grain—corn, wheat, and barley—as it did before the war, as well as other goods, and has opened its Odesan ports for nighttime business to handle yet more. Prior to the war, Ukraine traded more grain than the entire European Union and supplied half of the globally traded sunflower oil, as well as iron ore and fertilizer, according to Bloomberg.

“This is enormously important for Ukraine’s economy, for the Odesa region, and for our future,” said Sergey Yakubovskiy, an economist at Odesa National University. “We have to do everything to keep this route open and reliable.”

Ukraine’s asymmetric Black Sea strategy relies ever more upon Ukraine-made drone boats—known as uncrewed surface vessels (USVs)—that speed across the water beneath Russian radar carrying up to 800 kilograms (1,760 pounds) of explosives. These projectiles have sunk or disabled some of the 24 lost Russian warships, evidence that Ukraine’s domestic arms production has been stepped up and is increasingly consequential in the absence of anticipated U.S. and European assistance. According to the Guardian, there are currently 200 drone manufacturing companies in Ukraine, some of them bankrolled by crowdfunding campaigns. In December 2023, they delivered 50 times as many robotic explosives as in the entire year of 2022, according to Ukraine’s Ministry of Digital Transformation.

Ukraine’s strategy is to maintain its presence in the Black Sea with the prospect of soon acquiring the longer-range missiles that it needs to hit Crimea itself and Russia proper beyond it, Dubovyk said. For Ukraine, he explained, the pressing issue is what comes next. “Crimea is in play, and if Ukraine can put more pressure on Russia there, it can make the occupation untenable. It would change the war’s logic if Russia couldn’t supply the eastern fronts from Crimea,” he said.

Russia’s response has been to target Odesa’s ports, energy infrastructure, and housing blocks with ballistic missiles. Seldom does a day pass without air raid sirens in the port city, which send its residents scrambling into their cellars. In March alone, Russian attacks killed 32 civilians.

One would think that the new coastal sea route would obviate Ukraine’s need to access EU markets via land, namely through Central Europe, and thus ameliorate the friction it has caused between the Central Europeans and Ukraine. Following Russia’s invasion, the EU allowed Ukraine tariff-free access to its markets, which had the effect of undermining the Visegrad Group states’ own grain trade and prompting farmers to take to the streets in anger, above all in Poland. Now, logically, trade could revert to its previous routes and the injurious tiff come to an end.

Not so quickly, explained Yakubovskiy, the economist. He pointed out that Ukraine’s new sea corridor is a temporary and unsanctioned byway, possible now only as a result of Russia’s naval weakness and an informal agreement between Russia and Ukraine not to target civilian shipping. It could end at any moment, he said.

As for Russia, it is not likely to improve its Black Sea positions soon. This is because Turkey controls the Bosphorus and Dardanelles straits, and Ankara has chosen to adhere to the letter of the 1936 Montreux Convention, which prohibits the passage of warships through the straights into the Black Sea in a time of war. Russia thus has no way of getting reinforcements to its ports.

The upshot of Russia’s retreat from Black Sea waters and Turkey’s control of the straits has put Ankara in the driver’s seat. Whether Ukraine maintains its new trade route thus depends, to some extent, on Turkey.

In the past, Ankara has shown itself deft at using leverage to promote its own interests, whatever they may be. It could turn Viktor Berestenko’s bliss into a short-lived fling.

[foxqueen-katarian]

So I had a dream that CR announced a new TTRPG system that was a cross between like Crusader Kings and Game of Thrones, where each player was a small country/principality and the game revolved around political alliances and trade, and their were mechanics for expanding your royal family and territory, and it looked really fun.

AND THEY ANNOUNCED A BETA TEST PLAYTHROUGH WHERE THE PLAYERS WERE PLAYING AS DIFFERENT MAGOCRACIES FROM THE AGE OF ARCANUM.

They had Brennan as Aeor, Aabria as Avalir, Liam as Zemniaz, and Marisha as Cathmoira/the Gua’Drashari. Spencer Starke was GMing

And I’m so mad it wasn’t real. I want it to be real.

[beardedmrbean]

China is facing the prospect of further G7 sanctions.

The G7 has accused it of helping arm Russia against Ukraine.

Balancing its support for Russia with its European trading ties is becoming tricky for China.

NATO Secretary General Jens Stoltenberg this week warned China it faces a stark choice if it continues backing Russia's Ukraine invasion.

"Publicly, President Xi has tried to create the impression that he's taking a back seat in this conflict to avoid sanctions and keep trade flowing," Stoltenberg said.

"But the reality is that China's fueling the largest armed conflict in Europe since World War II.

"At the same time, it wants to maintain good relations with the West.

"Well, Beijing cannot have it both ways. At some point, and unless China changes course, allies need to impose a cost."

A tough stance

The remarks are part of a tough new stance from the US and its allies over China's alleged provision of crucial dual-use goods to Russia to fuel the Kremlin's war machine.

The US believes China has supplied Russia with equipment such as chips and integrated circuits, which can be used to produce weapons. In response, China has said it is not a party to the Ukraine war and that there should be no interference with trade between China and Russia.

At the G7 summit last weekend, the leaders unambiguously signaled their growing frustration with China in a joint statement. "China's ongoing support for Russia's defense industrial base is enabling Russia to maintain its illegal war in Ukraine and has significant and broad-based security implications," said the leaders of some of the world's biggest advanced economies.

It came days after the European Commission told Chinese carmakers that it would provisionally apply duties of up to 38% on imported Chinese electric vehicles from next month.

And in April and May, the US imposed new sanctions on Chinese banks and companies it accused of supplying goods and services for the Russian military.

Xi's balancing act

Analysts say that China is performing a balancing act. It is backing the Russian invasion to dent US global power while also seeking to maintain the trading ties with Europe its economy depends on.

The US has long been pushing its European allies to adopt a tougher stance toward Beijing similar to its own.

But they have hesitated until now. Many retain close economic ties with China, with the European economic giant Germany long dependent on China's manufacturing might for products such as cars and electronic devices.

But at the G7 there were signs that might be about to change, and Europe's leaders are becoming increasingly exasperated with China.

In the statement, members said they were willing to punish Beijing further for its support of Russia.

"We will continue taking measures against actors in China and third countries that materially support Russia's war machine, including financial institutions, consistent with our legal systems," they said.

China-Europe tensions increase

It's not just China's support for Russia that appears to be focusing European minds on the potential threat it poses.

In recent months, authorities in Germany and the UK have arrested people accused of spying for China, and the European Union has accused Beijing of flooding markets with cheap electronic cars.

China has sought to exploit divisions in Europe, with Xi visiting Hungary and Serbia in May, just after visiting France's President Emanuel Macron. Both have taken a critical stance towards Ukraine and appear keen to do more business with China, in defiance of EU policy. And China also seems keen to drive a wedge between European countries and the US.

But China's attempts to sustain its balancing act appear to be getting more difficult to sustain.

A person familiar with G7 talks told the Financial Times: "The era of naivety towards Beijing is definitely gone now and China is to blame for that, honestly."