#part of me finds it very comforting that that infinite loop exists

[galwithalibrarycard]

…..his reward was saying goodbye. Who gave RTD the right to do this to me? *sobbing*

(Defensively adding, it’s not my fault I didn’t have easy access to Doctor Who until very recently ok I know I’m fourteen years late here)

[arachnitopia]

ANGELA AND MAI [other lobcorp] WAIFE

OMGG

ANGELA Sexuality Headcanon: demirom asexual pan!!

Gender Headcanon: she/they/it/he agender hehe

A ship I have with said character: angebinah has been growing on me a lot.. what if we were fucked up agender ppl and we found the most comfort in one another.

A BROTP I have with said character: this one is very difficult, so i think i have to go with binah yet again! they work well together both platonically and otherwise due to the eternity they both had to suffer. both binah and angela are right to be mad -- all of the sephirot are, but its these two who you're with at the very beginning and in the very end that are the most uncanny about it. rather than making passive-aggressive comments towards X like malkuth, or lamenting that having hope is a mistake like chesed, they both keep a calm disposition and exact a sort of "strange" self expression. binah is most known for their bluntness and its mysterious comments. meanwhile angela continues to say many of the same things over and over, coping by playing into this loop of nothingness he has suffered. as such, she and binah, with the most outer awareness, may find a bit of comfort in one another. perhaps their shared maturity will make the infinite expanse of time a bit more bearable.

A NOTP I have with said character: angelayin. should be a given considering i just went on this longwinded rant about how angela and everyone else has the right to be mad at ayin. and yet... :agony:

A random headcanon: i see a lot of jokes and things about how angela and carmen would have had a horrible rivalry with one another, but regardless of if theyd get along i think angela would have liked to meet carmen. especially by the time the player meets angela, where its ideals and opinions on the corporation - carmen's creation - have been so skewed by her own experiences. and i think that's a large part of angela as a whole, the fact that he never got to see first hand who inspired her existence. General Opinion over said character: angela is the pinnacle of "anti-villain" i think! she has every right to be angry and there's no denying that they have played a part in how the corporation's poisonous roots have spread, but in both lobotomy corporation and library of ruina it is angela who is the real catalyst of bittersweet closure. OVERALL. I LOVE ANGELA.!! they are a great example of anger and the desire to move forward coexisting and that is very important. UMUM BUT I RLLY DO LIKE ANGELA A LOT all these rants and things tend to be on the more serious/analytical side which makes my feelings drowned out but angela is genuinely one of my favorite ever characters it means the world to me hehehe.

GEBURA Sexuality Headcanon: demisexual lesbian

Gender Headcanon: she/it/mist transfem!!

A ship I have with said character: i think gebuhod have a very special relationship, especially as gebura grows as a person! from the beginning their interactions are far more mutually respectful, with gebura and hod both mutually being able to talk about one anothers thoughts and opinions in an intimate manner that most of the other sephirot don't really share with one another so early on. however gebura growing to see the strengths in mists peers is where i think the relationship manages to bloom. a lot of hod's story and values center around her desires to be loved and helpful and his decisions as a result. meanwhile, gebura values life so much that it is the emotional side that very belief that gets cast aside in favor of fighting against the abnormalities. gebuhod cater to one anothers feelings in a way that they serve to inspire growth in one another - by regaining real love both gebura and hod improve in the way they interact with others and with themselves and their own departments. in library of ruina especially, gebura is seen having fun and enjoying its time with mists peers who she has learned to accept and trust, while hod is seen in a new more confident and self-respecting light. these are things they both really, really needed.

A BROTP I have with said character: while gebuhod is definitely the peak of gebura showing love an acceptance towards those around, i think she and netzach are similarly very nicely intertwined in the way they interact. netzach is shown to be a bit more apologetic in his shortcomings towards gebura than most others, and in return gebura is a bit less harsh towards it. this small, rather unlikely air of mutual respect is a great example of both gebura seeing value in all life, but in mist once again being able to accept and trust its fellow sephirot. if gebura can get along with and see merit in netzach of all people, then she can do it with anyone.!!

A NOTP I have with said character: chesbura is??? i really appreciate the role they play in each others growth as chesed learns to relate to the hope and passion gebura displays while gebura learns to be more understanding and trusting of chesed and his decisions, but becoming good teammates is far from becoming a healthy relationship. i don't doubt that they value each other, but they have also both hurt each other. plus the way that its portrayed also always manages to defeat the purpose of both gebura and chesed as characters?? ermm??

A random headcanon: this is a little bit less of a hc and more of an observation?? but i really do think gebura is not hard to get along with when mist is shown mutual respect. and perhaps that's why she gets along with netzach more than one may think - netzach has a sort of self awareness that gebura values. gebura has so much conflict with chesed because he refuses to see mists views, and in turn that makes gebura less inclined to do the same for chesed. meanwhile, gebura has far better interactions with hod because they are mutually open with one another, etc. its a lack of fairness that makes gebura appear so jaded.

General Opinion over said character: GEBURA IS SO IMPORTANT ARRHGH. as much as i love all the middle sephirot i do think that it's gebura who has the most driven story and enjoyable interactions. there's always a reason and belief and passion behind its words and that means the world. SIMILAR TO ANGELA I LOOOVE GEBURA VV MUCH. HEHE

[iridecsense]

𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 - 𝘮.

⤷ summary: “You’re blue, I'm red, I wanna kiss your neck and make you purple all over.”

ꕥ word count: 33.7k ꕥ pairing: credence barebone | fem!reader  ꕥ genre: fluff, angst, smut ꕥ rating: 18+ ꕥ warnings: mentions of physical and religious abuse, mild violence and angst ꕥ kinks: femdom, masturbation ꕥ author’s note:  Credence’s first time requested by anonymous. Experimenting a new writing style with this one, I hope you still like it! This is very soft, but also sinful. I always suggest using Interactive Fics extension on Google Chrome and Firefox when reading my fics. Enjoy. ;) ꕥ key: (y/n) - first name (l/n) - last name (e/c) - eye color (h/c) - hair color (s/c) - skin color

There are very few moments in life worth living for. Most things in life are mundane and repetitive. Humans aren’t as complex as they like to think. Humans are simple. Without realizing, it they put themselves into a routine. Eat, work, sleep, repeat. Eat, sleep, work, repeat. Eat, sleep, work, repeat.

Albert Einstein once said, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results.” And yet, most humans never fall into insanity. How is it humanity survives such a dreary existence? The answer itself is simple. It is because despite living simple, tedious, monotonous lives, they still have those few moments.

Credence wanted nothing more than to experience one of these moments. Life for Credence was human. It repeated on an infinite loop, no matter how much he prayed for it to stop. Unlike most people’s lives, Credence’s routine wasn’t something to accept comfortably. There was no eat, sleep, work, repeat for him. His day started with an unsavory meal. It was usually porridge or stale bread. Then he would go out and hand out his “mother’s” flyers while she ranted in the streets. After that, they’d return to the orphanage where he’d surely get beat for doing something wrong. After being denied dinner, he would return to his room and cry silently in his bed, trying to dream of a life better than the one he lived. Then repeat.

Today was supposed to be no different. Today, Credence would have to hand out flyers around Times Square until nightfall. He hated handing out flyers in Times Square. It was bright, loud, and crowded, and the rich people from The Eggs always came down to shop and attend the cinema.

Rich people are assholes.

For the most part, Credence was invisible amidst the hustle and bustle of the square. People were too busy chatting amongst themselves or rushing to the nearest store or restaurant to even bat an eye at him. He didn’t mind it. He welcomed invisibility with open arms. Being seen usually ended with new bruises and scars. That's what happens when you’re an outsider, and Credence was an outsider in every sense of the word. He was an outsider to the rich people that pushed past him on the sidewalk, an outsider to the orphanage, and an outsider to himself. 

So, the lowly outsider stood hunched over in the middle of the sidewalk next to a cinema. Above him was a large marquee lit up by five hundred flashing bulbous lights. Mobs of people dappered up in evening dresses and suits, tipping their fedoras and clutching their mink coats excitedly entered the theatre. Credence looked at the flyers in his hands. Mary Lou gave him three hundred flyers to give out, and he barely gave out thirty. Most of the ones he did manage to force into someone’s hand ended up on the ground not ten feet away from him. They couldn't even bother to find a trash can. He wouldn’t dare return home with such a disappointing turnout.

The sun had long since set. The roar of the night became corrupted with wealthy party-goers. The Square was alive with chatter and street music. The streets were filled with intoxicated drivers flashing their fancy topless automobiles and the pretty women that shouted inside them. It was rather scenic, and Credence often found himself staring longingly at all the people whose lives seemed much happier than his own. It was one of the few ways he could pass the time.

He would watch couples walk the street hand in hand, seemingly in love. The woman would occasionally point out something on display she fancied and sweetly coherence her partner to buy it for her—to which they always did. He would observe a gang of college gentlemen around his age hop from bar to bar, obnoxiously laughing and roughhousing in the streets, cat-calling passing dames. In his mind, he was one of them. He pretended he lived in a world where he wasn’t an orphan and grew up in a wealthy family. He would have a mother who loved him and a father who was proud of him. He would go to college and make friends with other boys. Maybe he’d fall in love with a girl along the way. Someone sweet to please the folks back home. Then it would be him parading down the streets with a pretty girl around his arms in Times Square, and some other poor guy would be miserable in his place.

As his eyes wandered the streets, watching the snippets of other people's lives and inserting himself in them, his eyes landed on her across the street. She stepped onto the sidewalk in front of a boutique. Her hair fell around her shoulders in waves, neatly placed under a velvet green beret. She had on a slim fitting wool coat with mink trim over a lace-covered silk dress that shined in the night’s light. When she began to walk, his eyes followed her down the street like magnets. The way she seemed to carry herself was unlike the others around her. She wasn’t pink with liquor, stumbling in her heels on the pavement. Each step she took was one of elegance and confidence. He couldn't look away.

“Hey, watch it, punk!”

Credence found himself shoved to his hands and knees on the ground, the flyers in his hands dispersing in the air around him. He winced in pain and looked up to see a man angrily peering down at him.

“Watch where you’re goin’, freak!” The man cursed at him.

Credence kept his head down. “I’m sorry, sir.”

The man sucked his teeth and purposely stepped on some flyers in front of him as he walked by, pressing them into the wet sidewalk. Only when he was sure the man had gone did he find it safe to move. He ignored the soreness in the palms of his hands and tried his best to salvage as many flyers as he could. Passersby couldn't have cared less about the papers they ripped and crumpled under their perfectly pointed shoes. He picked up what little there was left unscathed—about a hundred at least. He was lucky most of them were still stacked together. He went to collect the last salvageable stack across from him when another pair of (s/c) dainty hands reached for them.

Credence’s eyes landed on a pair of green pumps pointed at him. His eyes trailed up past long legs shielded from the cold by nude stockings, green silk, and tawny fur until they met painted red lips and glossy (e/c) eyes. Up close, she was much more captivating. He could now make out her soft, round features and see how her (h/c) curls perfectly framed her face. Her cheeks were dusted a lush red. Whether it was from the early winter chill, or a detail of her makeup was unknown. Either way, she was stunning. It took him longer than it should have for him to notice the flyers she was holding out for him to take.

Credence awkwardly stumbled to his feet, keeping his eyes trained on the tips of her shoes to avoid her gaze. Even in his slouched state, he towered over her, but somehow he still appeared small.

“I saw that.” Her warm voice filled his ears, catching him off guard.

He lifted his head to look at her once more. “What?”

The girl looked in the direction the man from earlier had left and frowned.  “The prick who knocked you over was half-seas over! He could barely tell his left foot from his right! If he had, he would have seen that it was his fault knocking you to the ground like that.”

Credence didn’t know what to say. That was the most anyone had ever said to him without spewing insults his way. Even more peculiar was that the strange girl talking to him was trying to defend him. His awkward speechlessness didn’t seem to phase her in the slightest. Instead, her targeted vexed expression relaxed into a warm smile.

She urged the flyers towards him once more. “Sorry about your papers. I don’t think there’s much left to save.”

He carefully took the papers from her hands, noting how perfectly manicured her nails were. “It’s okay... thank you.”

“No need to thank me. No sense in being praised for common decency, right?”

Credence found himself speechless. He wasn't sure how to respond to such a statement. It was definitely something he should be grateful for. Most people wouldn’t look twice at him struggling on the street, let alone go out of their way to help.

The girl spoke through his silence. “You don’t talk much, do you?” She chuckled.

He shamefully bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” she quickly assured him. “Sometimes, I think people talk too much. I don’t think people should say things they don’t need to, otherwise, words lose all valuable meaning. You know what I mean?”

He nodded slowly. “I think so.”

She seemed pleased with his answer, her smile growing ever so slightly. It wasn’t long before it was replaced with another frown. Unlike before, this wasn’t a frown of annoyance, but concern. Her brows turned upward and her red lips parted to let out a sharp gasp. She looked at him clearly for the first time, her eyes wandered over his slender form and taking in his appearance.

“Goodness! Aren’t you cold?” She asked, her voice laced with worry.

Credence shrugged half-heartedly. He was used to the cold by now. He only had a handful of clothes to begin with. He didn't have the luxury of having clothes that match the changing weather, he could only wear whatever clothes fit him from the donation pile. The warmest garment he obtained this winter was an old navy blue suit best designed for autumn’s chill, but useless against winter’s cold. She found it hard to believe he stayed in the cold for so long without freezing to death. Credence thought that was a bit of an exaggeration. It was a particularly cold November night, enough to keep the patches of ice and snow that had been shoveled to the gutters intact. With every shaky breath he took, a puff of white mist would follow. His nose and the tips of his ears were permanently colored red and, given his natural pale complexion, made him look rather sickly. But, he bore through it because he had experienced far worse.

Without warning, the girl took the liberty of placing her palms on the back of his hands. The gentle action was so alien, he flinched when he felt her warm skin.

“Your hands are like ice!” She gasped. “They’re two degrees short from falling off!”

It must have been true because the feeling of her hands was enough to send a fiery warmth throughout his body. Such affection was so foreign to him, he began to doubt it really happened. It wouldn't have been the first time his mind played tricks on him. Perhaps he was home in his bed, lucidly dreaming about a chance encounter with a pretty woman. In a moment, he would wake up, and the warm feeling of a woman’s touch would turn cold, and he’d find himself alone in his room again.

His theory was swiftly disproven when he felt her hands gently squeeze his. As if she had the brightest idea of the decade, the woman’s face lit up.

She took a step closer. “Say, why don’t I get you some tea to warm you up? There’s a coffee shop still open a few blocks away—I could drive you in my Ford!”

Credence blushed and swallowed. His eyes darted around nervously. “I’m not sure I should...” He mumbled.

“We can stand here in the streets like a couple of gulls if you’d like, but I’m not going to leave you out here to freeze, so you might as well say yes,” she smirked.

He wanted to say yes. But there was a voice inside him that warned him not to go. It was the same nagging tone Mary Lou barked in his ear. His mind spiraled, spewing scenarios of his adopted mother’s fury. He should be home by now. She never liked it when he returned home late. She would beat him again. She might even ice him—something she did when she was truly furious with him. The thought of it made his blood run cold.

“I-I can’t,” he stammered. “M-Mother is expecting me home—she’ll be wondering where I am.”

The woman’s once playful expression slowly faded. Her brows gathered at the center of her forehead and her smile faded. Credence was trembling and stuttering, helplessly trying to explain why he had to return home. His words slurred together into a tremulous speech. Passing pedestrians gave patronizing stares, actively avoiding the pair and whispering amongst themselves. The woman placed a comforting hand on Credence’s shoulder, silencing him almost immediately.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” She said softly. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to upset you by it.”

She looked him in his eyes and offered a kind smile. There was a skip of his heart. A strange feeling weighed in his chest he had never felt before.

“Why don’t I drive you?” She suggested. “That way you can be home twice as fast!”

Credence took a moment to think about it. He found it increasingly impossible to say no. Against his better judgment, he found himself wanting to extend their encounter, if even just for a minute. He had the smallest inference that if he said no, it would disappoint her. The thought of disappointing her was something he didn't want to do. He felt obligated to appease her. She had shown him a kindness that he may never get again. He thought he could at least keep her pleased.

“Okay,” he relented.

The girl grinned up at him and linked her arm around his. His cheeks grew warm, and he tucked his chin to his chest to hide his blush. Not that she would notice either way. She gingerly led him down the street, trying to engage him with small talk. He tried to listen, but he would get distracted whenever he felt her chest brush up against him. She was so close and so warm. Her touch burned through the thin material of his jacket and made his skin tingle. He could smell her perfume, like lavender and vanilla.

Such an alluring scent it was. It smelled familiar and sweet in its flowery nature. It reminded him of the transition from spring to summer, when the flowers became the most vibrant and fruit ripened to perfect sweetness. He wished he could smell it every day. It would be a refreshing change from the stench of mildew and boiled cabbage he often smelled. He wondered if she always smelled so sweet.

“So, what’s with the pamphlets? Are you a part of that Second Salemers organization?” she asked, pulling him out of his fantasies. He looked down at her and saw her looking up at him expectedly. He couldn’t help but grow hot with embarrassment.

“Y-yes,” he answered.

“Really? So, you believe in witches?” She teasingly wiggled her fingers in his face.

"My mother does,” He answered.

“How interesting,” she thought aloud. “I can’t say that I believe in witches, but if they do exist I wouldn’t mind.”

“You wouldn’t?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I mean, they’re human like us, right? People tend to demonize things they don’t understand. Just because they’re different doesn't mean we have to fear or prosecute them. I think we should embrace each other’s differences and learn to appreciate them, rather than forcing everyone to assimilate to one idea of normalcy. If we do that, then no one would be unique. We’d all be the same.”

He listened closely as she spoke. He was absolutely fascinated by her. It was rather profound, the way she thought. Most people would disagree with her sentiments, especially his mother. The world Credence knew was built on a system of separation. A system that separated classes, races, sexes, and the able-bodied—a system he was a victim to. Never once had he met someone who desired to rid of it just as much as he did, and he certainly didn’t expect to hear such scrutiny from someone who seemed to benefit from it.

When she finished her societal criticism, she stopped in her tracks and craned her neck up to face Credence.

“Excuse my rambling,” she flushed. “I talk nonsense when I go deep in thought. Don’t mind me, I probably sound crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Credence spoke up. “I wish everyone thought the way you think.”

Their eyes locked in a moment of tenderness. His bold sentiments were enough to make her heart skip a beat; unbeknownst to him. Their intimate trance was broken when a passing car flashed its blinding lights in their eyes, causing the girl to release her grip around Credence’s arm. The loss of contact made his arm feel too light; as if someone had taken a piece of his arm away.

The girl let out a sheepish chuckle. “Well, this is it,” she said as she walked over to the luxurious motor car parked on the side of the street. Luxurious seemed like an insult of a descriptor for the magnificent opulence of the machine. The streetlight illuminated the pearl-colored metal that matched the white-rimmed tires. Gold embellishments lined the rim. Tawny leather seats contrasted the exterior and matched the fabric roof. It was something Credence had only seen in advertisements.

“She’s a bit much, right?”

Credence hadn’t realized how apparent the astonishment written on his face was. He expected the girl to laugh at him, but the girl didn’t find joy in his culture shock. She was nervous, as if she were ashamed of her possession, like he had just discovered her most shameful secret.

“She was a gift from my father,” she felt the need to explain. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful or anything, I truly am. It’s just that I would never have bought something so ritzy for myself.”

“I like it,” said Credence.

His words seemed to relax her otherwise tense demeanor. “I’m glad you do,” she smiled as she opened the door. He watched her slide into the driver's seat. He approached the machine cautiously, eyeing the foreign object skeptically. The girl watched him closely, an amused smirk curling her lips.

“You’ve never ridden in a car before, have you?” She asked. Credence shook his head.

“I promise there’s nothing to worry about,” she chuckled. “I happen to be an excellent driver. My father wouldn’t have given me one so expensive if I wasn’t.”

This was true. Such a beautiful car wouldn’t be gifted to someone who would evidently wreck it. The girl pats the empty passenger seat invitingly, urging him to get inside.

Credence slid into the passenger seat, the cool leather seeping through the thin fabric of his suit, sending shivers down his spine.

“Here.” The girl reached in the back seat of the car and pulled out a large grey blanket. “The car will get warmer as we drive, but this should be good for now.”

Credence placed his papers on his lap and reached for the blanket.

“Wait,” she stopped him, a small frown appearing on her features. “You’re bleeding.”

Credence followed her stare to his left hand. He turned his palm upward to find the healing wounds on his palms had reopened. He didn’t notice the sting of the cuts before, but now his hand burned with the slightest movement. He couldn’t help but feel exposed. He hated his hands. They were ugly. Permanently blemished with raised scars that formed from healing and reopening and healing and reopening at contact with his mother's belt. It was unsightly. He shied away from her, mortified. She must’ve found them just as repulsive.

But the girl didn’t seem phased by his calloused and scarred hands at all. She didn’t hesitate to reach inside her breast pocket and pull out a pink handkerchief to wrap around Credence’s hand. Again he could feel her warmth. Her soft hands caressed his skin, pulling him closer. She handled him gently, delicately folding and wrapping the silk fabric around his cuts. She glanced at him as she did so, only to find him avoiding her gaze with his chin tucked into his shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered as she tended to him.

“You’re sorry?” She let out a breathy chuckle. “And what are you sorry for, exactly?”

“I-I don’t know,” he stammered. “For making you drive me home. For ruining your handkerchief,” he said.

The girl sighed as she tightened the cloth around his hand and tied it into a bow to keep it in place. “Bunny, you’re not making me do anything. I insisted, remember?” She reminded him. Credence felt the entirety of his face grow hot. He turned to face her again, only to be met with the same (e/c) eyes and kind smile she had before. His heart felt as though it were beating a mile a minute.

“And don’t worry about my handkerchief,” she adds. “I have dozens of them. They’re more for looks anyway, I never use them.”

Credence nodded and silently thanked her. She gave his hand another squeeze before leaning back in her seat and starting the car. The car made a sound like a lion and roared to life. The seats trembled beneath them, and the headlights lit the road ahead. When the car jerked into drive, Credence felt uneasy. She drove the car well, and he suspected that she was driving at a slower rate for his benefit, but the feeling of the car moving made his stomach churn with excitement and fear. He walked everywhere he went. He’d taken the subway once before when he was younger, but somehow this was different. He fidgeted in his seat, finding anything to distract himself from the tight feeling in his stomach. His eyes fixated on his hands, brushing his fingers against the smooth fabric of the handkerchief. It was colorfully embroidered with flowers and lacey patterns. He followed the design with his eyes until they came upon two scripted letters embroidered in gold on the corner that wasn’t tied into a knot.

“Are these your initials?” He asked to distract himself with small talk.

The girl gasped dramatically. “I never introduced myself, did I? How rude of me! I’m practically a stranger and here I am driving you around Manhattan without giving you a proper introduction.”

The girl took one hand off the wheel and held it out in front of him. “My name’s (y/n) (l/n).”

Credence took her hand and shook it lightly. “I’m Credence. Credence Barebone.”

“Credence. What an odd name. I like it,” she grinned before pulling her hand back. “So, where am I taking you, Credence?”

He told her he lived in the old chapel on Pike Street. She fell flustered while trying to explain she didn’t know exactly where that was. Credence then told her she was going the right way, and if she kept going straight, he would tell her when to turn. While they drove, she did her best to get to know Credence. He answered every question she asked with a short and vague response. She didn’t ask him many questions to begin with. She mostly talked about herself or the people she knew, like her family and friends. Almost everything reminded her of them.

He figured she did it to make him feel more comfortable. He didn’t mind. He enjoyed hearing her talk. While driving, she saw a dress in a boutique and mentioned that her friend, Darla, would love to have a dress just like it. When they passed a tea shop, it reminded of her mother, who only drank earl grey tea; which, to her, is the most boring of teas. On the sidewalk, there was a stray cat running into an alleyway. She told him how much she wanted a pet cat as a child, but she couldn’t get one because her father was allergic.

He couldn’t help but be enthralled by her. The more she talked, the more relaxed he became. He stole glances at her when she wasn’t looking. Watching her lips move as she talked, outlining the bridge of her nose and the curve of her cheek. He had been staring so intently he hadn’t even realized she’d asked him a question.

“Credence?” Her voice filled his ears.

“Yes?” He answered.

“I asked if I turn here.”

Credence turned to look out the window and saw that they had stopped at the corner of Pike Street. It was a quiet neighborhood filled with old apartments that had dim windows and unfriendly doors. Sticking out like a tabby cat among tigers was the Church of the Second Salemers. A rickety thing dwarfed by the buildings that surrounded it. Credence’s heart sank. If only the ride was a little longer.

“I can get out here,” he told her.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

Her lips twitched into a bittersweet smile. “Alright,” she simpered. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

“It was nice meeting you too,” He said truthfully.

There was a beat of silence. The two sat awkwardly, not really knowing how to say goodbye. Credence stared at his hands in his lap and began to untie the handkerchief.

“Keep it,” she stopped him before he could. “To remember me by.”

Would this really be the last time? He knew that she meant nothing by it, but hoped he didn't have to remember her. He wanted to see her again. He didn’t want it to end.

He gripped the cloth tightly in his hand. “Thank you.”

He reluctantly opened the car door and stepped onto the slushy street, closing the door behind him. She waved at him through the window, to which he returned in a less enthusiastic manner. He took a step back onto the sidewalk and watched as she drove down the street until she disappeared around the corner.

“Goodbye... (y/n),” he whispered.

It had been weeks since Credence’s chance encounter, and ever since his mind was consumed with thoughts and fantasies of (y/n) (l/n). Everything reminded him of her. The melting snow on the ground, the smell of flowers that mimicked her perfume when he passed the floristry, passing women in mink coats and tea shops; they all emulated her.

He often thought about how different things would have been if he did what he wanted that night. Would she be with him now had he gone to the café when she’d offered? Would she have liked to know him? Would she have enjoyed his company? The more he thought about it, the more he wished he’d taken the risk—his mother be damned.

Now all he had were memories and theories of what could have been. Though, fantasizing became his new favorite pass time. Reminiscing about her was one of the only things that gave light to his otherwise dark, mundane life. Like right now, he was thinking of what it would be like to make her laugh while scooping porridge into bowls for the orphans to eat.

He thought her laugh would sound feathery and jovial; the kind of laugh that makes you want to smile and laugh with her.

“You’re smiling.”

Credence was pulled from his thoughts by his sister, Chastity. He looked to the side and saw her smirking into the pot. “What?”

“It’s not just today,��� she says. “You’ve been... different lately. Happier, I think. Always smiling to yourself. Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Did you meet someone or something?” She persisted.

Credence scoffed. “How could I have met someone?” He refuted.

Chastity she glimpsed at Credence skeptically. “I guess not,” she hummed, much to his relief.

“Doesn’t explain why you’re blushing, though,” she smirked.

Credence’s cheeks burst into flames as he attempted to sputter an explanation. Chastity giggled to herself, finding amusement in teasing him.

“What’s going on, children?”

The sickeningly sweet voice was enough to raise the hair on the back of their necks and shudder their hearts. They turned around, craning their necks up to the banister. Mary Lou Barebone towered over them just as menacingly as she could in her own prim and proper way.

“Nothing, mother,” Chastity answered for them. “Credence was just telling me a joke.”

“This is no time to be joking,” she scolded. “We have a very important meeting today with Father Blackwell, and I will not allow distractions. We can't lose focus. This is our chance to spread our message to the church— to the city! You should be preparing, not laughing.”

“I’m sorry, mother,” Credence apologized.

“Don’t let it happen again,” she warned, before sauntering away.

Even in her absence, Credence couldn’t find the will to relax the rest of the morning. The threat of her looming presence was far too great. After the orphans had finished their meal and left, Chastity washed all the dishes while he cleaned the dining hall. Once they finished their menial tasks, Modesty came downstairs to tell them Mary Lou wanted them to hurry and dress in their best attire for Father Blackwell.

Father Blackwell was the priest of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He was the most famous priest in New York City and the priest of the mayor. Mary Lou was very anxious to present her case to him. According to her, once Father Blackwell hears her pleas and shares it with the church, the city would finally begin to take her seriously and put a stop to the heresy festering right under their noses.

So she believed.

It was Sunday. Today they would attend a mid-day service and attempt to get counsel with the priest. Though, Credence doubted Father Blackwell would even see them. As he got dressed, he looked himself over in the mirror. His ‘best’ attire was a dark plum suit so dark it looked black if you weren't paying attention. It made his already pale skin look even fairer and darkened the color of his raven hair and russet eyes. It was the only suit that fit him perfectly and had few blemishes. He’d probably look like a proper gentleman if his mahogany shoes weren't so terribly worn due to them being the only pair he owned.  

He took the matching hat off his dresser and put it on. Hidden underneath it was the pink handkerchief. He took the piece of fabric in his hands and held it up to his nose. It smelled like her. Remnants of her perfume still lingered between its stitches. He was grateful she allowed him to keep her handkerchief. He felt foolish for ever trying to part with it. It was the only proof he had that she existed; that their brief night encounter had truly happened.

“What are you doing?”

Credence instinctively hid the cloth behind his back, turning around to see Mary Lou standing in his doorway.

“I was straightening my tie,” he says, his voice wavering slightly.

Mary Lou looked him over for a moment, trying to find something out of place. “Come now,” she orders, having found no reason to torment the boy. “We’re leaving.”

She walked away. The sound of her heavy footsteps thumping down the stairs was Credence’s signal to breathe again. He pulled the handkerchief from his back and folded it neatly before hiding it underneath his pillow.

On their way to the cathedral, Mary Lou gave each of them a stack of flyers. She wanted them to hand out flyers to the congregation once the service ended while she talked with Father Blackwell. If there was one thing about Mary Lou, she was passionate and determined. When she set her sights on something, she will do everything in her power to execute it. She’d been planning this meeting for weeks. She readied herself in the only way she knew how: through constant prayer and tedious preparation. In a way, Credence was thankful for it. When Mary Lou became enlightened on an alternative approach, she was far too busy focusing on it to bother him. It was one of the few windows of relative freedom he had, and they came once in a blue moon. This meeting could mark the end, or the beginning, of this liberation.

Sitting in the pews during service, he could hardly concentrate. St. Patrick’s was a magnificent building, an authentic replica of the renaissance with its high, arched ceiling, stone engravings, and vibrant stained glass windows. It was the epitome of class and beauty. So, naturally, it would be the one church favorited by the high society. Wealthy families filled the better half of the sanctuary. While Credence and his family sat in the back with the rest of the commoners, they filled the front pews with tailored suits, mink coats, and Sunday hats. As Father Blackwell preached to the congregation, Credence searched the pews for a familiar face.

He knew his chances of seeing her were low, but he couldn't help but hope one of those Sunday hats would turn around and reveal those sparkling (e/c) eyes. His leg shook nervously, his eyes darting from one aisle of pews to another. It only stopped when a firm hand tightly gripped his thigh.

“Pay attention,” Mary Lou whispered, malice laced in her tone.

Credence swallowed, his body tensing immediately, afraid of even moving an inch in her presence. He turned his attention from the pews to the altar. Father Blackwell was standing in front of his pedestal, reading a scripture.

“We are living in a godless time,” He said. “Satan parades in the streets, preying on our sons and daughters! When the night comes, our children leave and venture into the streets. The devil and his minions tell them to wear promiscuous evening attire, commit sodomy, and fornication! Tempting them into Speakeasies to drink the Devil’s urine and feast on the bodies of Lilith’s daughters! Our city has become the devil’s playground. There is no God out there. Only sin.”

Flashes of her face imprinted in his mind. Credence frowned and tried to push it from his thoughts, but he couldn’t. His thoughts became consumed by her. As Father Blackwell spoke, he began to envision things he knew he shouldn’t.

“‘The body is not meant for sexual immorality, but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body.’” Father Blackwell reads. “Don’t you see? It isn’t ‘fashion’ or ‘modernity’. The devil has infested the media to infect our minds. He wants to taint our bodies to further stray us from God. ‘Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body’... and therefore, is a sin against God.”

His cheeks burned, and he prayed nobody would notice. He’d never thought of her like this before. Yet, somehow, the sermon unlocked one of his most shameful desires. He imagined the feeling of her warm body pressed against his. He reminisced about the feel of her soft skin. He pictured the curves of her lips, chest, and hips. He wondered how they would feel on his lips. Would they be just as soft?

“Brothers and Sisters, we must rid ourselves of all sin. Protect your children, for the devil, has his eyes set on them. The greatest sin against God is the polluting of our holy bodies. We must practice modesty and chastity. Only then can we be saved... Let us pray."

The congregation bowed their heads and listened as Father Blackwell lead the closing prayer.

The priest’s words echoed in the back of his mind. Even as he and his sisters handed flyers to those exiting the church, his mind would drift back to the sermon. Mary Lou had left him and his sisters to talk with Father Blackwell. He watched as she walked down the aisle to meet him at the altar. Father Blackwell was already conversing with a member of the church, a stocky man wearing a cream-colored suit and matching hat.

She nearly approached him before another man stopped her. Credence recognized him as Deacon Ripley. Deacon Ripley was as galling as his face would suggest. His face was pointed and far too wrinkled for his age. Deacon Ripley had a habit of sticking his unusually large nose into other people’s business. He reminded Credence of a sewer rat, just as unsightly and full of shit.

He couldn’t make out what was being said, but from the looks of it, Deacon Ripley was reprimanding Mary Lou. Mary Lou did her best to get Father Blackwell’s attention, but he and the mustachioed gentleman ignored her calls. Mary Lou was never really one to lose her composure, but in her desperation, she attempted to divert Deacon from obstructing her access to Father Blackwell. She rushed to the altar, calling Father Blackwell. She began stating her case, catching the attention of those still left in the church.  

“There are evil forces at work, Father!” She shouted. “Heretics walk freely amongst us, doing the devil's work!”

Deacon Ripley came behind Mary Lou. “Pay no mind to her, Father Blackwell, she speaks fabrications.”

“This is not fiction, Father, I can assure you,” she says. “I have seen them with my own eyes. The devil’s concubine.”

“What is this you speak of?” Father Blackwell demands.

“Witches, Father. There are witches here in New York, working right under our noses—”

“I told you, Father, she’s insane,” Deacon Ripley cuts in.

“I am not crazy,” Mary Lou snarks. “And if we don’t stop them now, there will be hell to pay!”

“Enough, Ms. Barebone,” says Father Blackwell. “I will hear no more of these fairytales. Please, have decency.”

Father Blackwell turned to the gentleman and guided him to a back door where they disappeared from the sanctuary. Mary Lou, still determined to be heard, began shouting after them, preaching her testimony of witches infiltrating New York. This resulted in her being handled by a few clergymen and escorted off the premises. People whispered and gossiped as the Barebones walked by. It wasn’t hard to tell Mary Lou was humiliated. She put on a brave face, clenching her jaw and holding her head high. She grabbed Modesty by the hand and walked away. Credence and Chastity followed close behind with their heads down.  

It had been about a week since the church incident. Mary Lou hadn’t left her room since. The only one to see her was Modesty. Mary Lou always had a soft spot for the younger sibling. In any other circumstance, Credence would have taken such behavior as a blessing. Whatever wrath Mary Lou was feeling wasn’t being directed at him. But the looming threat of her presence left him little to no space to relax.

Credence was helping Chastity make pamphlets in the dining hall when the sound of Mary Lou’s door opening and closing halted their process. Small footsteps trotted down the stairs and into the hall.

“Credence,” Modesty called. Credence stood from his seat and walked to Modesty, who handed him a stack of flyers once he was close enough. “Mother wants you to pass out these flyers around town. She said not to come back until they’re all gone.”

Credence took the flyers in his hands and reluctantly walked to the door. It was snowing today. It wasn’t cold enough for it to stick, but it was cold nonetheless. He already wore his warmest clothes, which happened to be an old navy sweater vest, grey wool suit jacket, and matching trousers. He threw on a grey fedora and ventured into the streets.

He didn’t mind handing out flyers. Anything to get out of that awful place was enough for him. It was just about noon when he left. He thought it best to head towards the inner city. It was Saturday, so there were sure to be people bustling in and out of shops today. It usually wasn’t a long walk, Credence was used to walking long distances. However, the nipping cold slowed his pace a bit.

In the first hour, he spent walking around midtown and passing flyers around the park. Handing out flyers in winter rarely yields any results. People are far too cold and miserable to bother pulling their hands from their pockets to grab a piece of paper. After a very unsuccessful hour, he migrated further north, closer to Times Square.

“Credence?”

Credence stopped in his tracks, his heart jumping wildly in his chest. He slowly turned around to where the voice had come from. There, in all her grace, was the last person he expected to see. He could see her even more clearly than the last night he saw her. This time, she wore a large, white fur coat that stopped at her ankles and a matching fur hat. In her gloved hands, she carried a small beaded purse that glittered when light reflected off it.  In the day’s light, her skin radiantly glowed, much like her purse. Her eyes seemed bigger than what he remembered, mimicking that of a doll’s. They were enhanced by the brown eyeshadow that darkened her lids and the mascara that elongated her lashes. Today, her lips were raspberry pink instead of the deep red he remembered. Snowflakes nestled in the nooks of her curled (h/c) hair, making her appear even more angelic.

“Mi-Miss (l/n)?”

He hadn’t a moment to process her appearance before she rushed into his arms, catching him by surprise. She threw her arms around his neck and rested her chin on his broad shoulder. His hands instinctively gravitated to her waist, holding her steady as she stood on the tips of her toes. She felt lush in his arms, the heat from her body sent warmth spreading throughout his center. The expanse of his neck and cheeks blossomed into a dusty shade of rose. His mind raced as he tried to collect his thoughts. He was almost sure she could feel the rapid beating of his chest.

If she did, she didn’t seem to mind. She held onto him, squealing excitedly. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you!” She said between giggles. “I was hoping you’d be here!”

Credence raised his brows, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You... You were hoping?” he repeated.

She pulled away, falling back on her heels to look him in the eye. Her hands still held onto his arms. “Well, I wasn’t sure if I’d see you,” she says. “But every time I come down, I hope I do.”

“You visit often?” He asked.

“As much as I can,” she admits. “I live in Kings Point. Do you know where that is?”

He nodded. Kings Point was a village up North by the bay in an area commonly referred to as West Egg. Many wealthy families live there in their ritzy mansions, throwing parties, boating, and golfing.

“Yes, well, I can only visit on weekends. Mainly with friends. But, lately, I’ve made a habit of coming down on my own, since I met you.”

She had said it so casually he thought she must’ve not realized how it sounded. Had she been purposely coming to the city, hoping to cross paths again? A small smile formed on his lips.

Her hands slipped from his arms and returned to her side, much to his disappointment.

Just then, a man behind her coughed, drawing their attention. (y/n) looked back and gasped. “Oh! I’m sorry, Eddy. How rude of me! I completely forgot to introduce you.”

She stepped back to the man’s side. “Eddy, this is my friend Credence Barebone. I met him a few weeks ago in Town Square. Credence, this is Edmund Tully.”

Credence and the man made eye contact. The man, Edmund, was tall; even taller than him. He was built, with wide shoulders to match his thick neck and strong, clean-shaven jawline. His rectangular face was undeniably handsome, with strong, straight features Credence had only seen before on statues and hooded green eyes. His blond hair was almost completely hidden underneath his grey newsboy hat that matched the tailored grey suit he wore underneath a thick, black, fur-lined ulster.

Credence was already intimidated by the man. He was older, around his late twenties. If it wasn’t his overall overwhelming appearance that intimidated him, then it was definitely the pointed glower directed at him. (y/n) didn’t notice it. Her eyes were focused on him.

“It’s nice to meet you,” said Credence, bravely offering his hand.

Edmund looked down at Credence’s outstretched hand. “Yes, and you as well,” he said indifferently, reluctantly taking his hand and forcing a smile. (y/n)’s brows wrinkled slightly at the interaction as she looked between the two men.

When they stopped shaking hands, Edmund turned to (y/n). It was almost comical how drastically his expression changed when he looked at her. His face softened and his phony, tight-lipped smile became genuine.

“(y/n), darling, I’m afraid I have to go now,” He said.

“So soon?” She asked.

“Yes, actually. Your brother and I have a meeting with your father and Mr. Finnegan around lunch,” he explains.

“Oh, I see,” she hums in understanding. “Well, you better get going.”

“You’re right, I must.” He took a step closer to her. “It was lovely running into you today, (y/n).”

Credence watched as he bent down and placed a large hand on her waist. She too reached around to wrap your arm around his torso. He watched as the man kissed her right cheek before moving to kiss the other. This didn’t phase her at all. Instead, she smiled as if it happened all the time. Credence felt looked away, upset by the display. Why did he feel upset?

The two pulled apart, and Edmund began to walk away. “I’ll tell your brother you said hello, shall I?” He yelled.

“Yes! And tell him that mother wants him home by ten o’clock tonight!” (y/n) responded as she waved goodbye.

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Credence spoke up.

(y/n) looked back to face Credence. “I have two older brothers, actually,” she told him. “Aaron and Channing. Eddy is Aaron’s friend. They met at Oxford University. He and my brother both work for my father now, so he’s around often. He can be a bit... overbearing sometimes, but he means well.”

“And your other brother?”

“Channing is only a year older than me, so he’s twenty. He’s my best friend,” she revealed. “He isn’t here, though—in New York, I mean. He’s currently studying abroad in Japan.”

“Japan?”

“Crazy, isn’t it? Between you and me, I think he’s only there to follow this Japanese girl he met. And I don’t blame him! I met her before and she’s very beautiful, sweet too! Though, I do miss him a lot. Sometimes I wonder if I should have gone with him when I had the chance.”

Credence looked down at his feet as he listened. For some reason, the thought saddened him. Did she miss her brother so much that she would end up leaving for Japan one day? Would he never see her again? Would she miss him if she did? He didn’t want her to go. He wanted her to stay so they could keep meeting like this. So he could see her face and have her smile at him so kindly, like she always did. Her brother might miss her, but he needed her.

Credence felt so selfish for thinking such things. How could he possibly think he deserved her time? If he told her what he truly thought, how would she react?

As if she could read his thoughts, (y/n) took a step closer to him. He picked his head up to face her and saw that she was smiling up at him.

“But, if I had done that, then I wouldn’t have met you,” she says.

Just as quickly as his deprecating thoughts had come, they left once her words reached his ears. Credence could only stare at her in disbelief.

“And he sends me letters every month, so, I guess it's all right,” she chuckled. “So, how have you been?” She asked, bringing him out of his daze.

“I...I’ve been well,” he says.

“I’m glad,” she smiles. Her eyes travel down his form. A small crease forms in the middle of her brows as she tilts her head to the side. “You still haven’t gotten yourself a coat, I see.”

Credence looked down at his clothes as though he had forgotten what he had on. “No, I haven’t.”

She cocked her head to the side and furrowed her brows. “I suppose I could just buy you one.”

Credence shook his head, not wanting to inconvenience her for a second time. “You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“I wasn’t really asking,” she said.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Really.”

She stared at him for a moment, squinting her eyes slightly. “Fine, then.” She began unbuttoning her coat. Credence watched her, confused by the sudden action.

“W-What are you doing?” He asked.

“If you won't let me buy you a coat, then I won't wear one either,” she says simply.

Credence furrowed his brows. “But you’ll be cold.”

She scoffed. “And you’re not?”

Credence was rendered speechless. A small smirk curled on her painted lips. “Either you let me buy you a coat, or I won’t wear one at all. I can’t walk with you knowing you’re freezing and I’m perfectly comfortable.”

She was impossible. No matter what he says, she would always find a way to make him give in.

“O-Okay,” he concedes.

(y/n) grinned brightly, fixing her coat back over her shoulders and hooking her arm around his as she had once before.

“This will be fun!” She beamed.

She led him back in the direction she had come while eagerly telling him about the boutique she knew would have the best selection for him. He increasingly became more comfortable in her presence. He even properly engaged in conversation, much to her delight. And whenever she smiled up at him, he found himself smiling too.

The boutique wasn’t far—about three blocks away to be exact. It was a small blue shop with gold painted windows. Through them, Credence could see posed mannequins dressed in all kinds of fancy coats, dresses, and suits. Written above the entrance in the scripted font was a sign that read: Vendicci’s.

Upon entering the store, their ears were filled with Italian opera. The shop appeared to be empty. There were no other shoppers, and the front counter was left unattended. Credence followed her to the counter. On its surface was a small golden bell that she tapped lightly. The bell rang, signaling their presence.

Shuffling could be heard from the back of the shop, catching their attention. From the back of the shop, they could hear harsh whispers and unintelligible curses. A short, thin man came stumbling in. He had dark olive skin and chestnut brown curls that fell around his Grecian face. He was disheveled—the first three buttons of his pink dress shirt were unbuttoned, and the fabric of his pressed white pants were creased. Without looking, the man made his way to the back of the counter, mumbling in a language he couldn’t make out.

Following behind him was a woman equally disheveled in appearance. Her short black hair stuck up in odd places, and she had missed one button of her blouse. She wandered the shop, to mind some clothes on the rack as the man drew near to the front counter.

“Stupidi Americani... Sorry, we are closed for now. You can come back later when—,” The man stopped when his eyes landed on her.

(y/n) smirked. “Hello, Raül,” she waved.

“Bella!” He gasped and hurried towards her with open arms. “How wonderful to see you!” He said in a thick Mediterranean accent. He placed hands on her shoulders and pulled her in to kiss both of her cheeks. “You look even more lovely since the last I saw you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Raül,” she chuckled.

“Where have you been?” He pouts. “It’s been so long I’ve barely been able to survive without you.”

“I’m sorry, Raül, I’ve been trying to be more mindful of how I spend my money,” she explains.

“Mind your money here! I have so many new items you would look molto bella in. I saved them just for you,” he winked.

“That’s sweet of you, Raül. I promise I will come by and try them on at another time.”

Suddenly, the man became aware of Credence’s presence in the room. He looked at him like something had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Raül raised a skeptical brow and asked with pursed lips, “Is this man with you?”

“Yes, he is,” she says as a matter-of-fact. “We’d like to buy a coat. Something thick for the winter.”

Raül nodded and hummed, turning back to face her. “You’re just in luck,” he says. “Early this week I got a shipment straight from Italia: a fine selection of winter coats designed by Feliciano Romano himself.”

(y/n) gasped, clasping her hands together. “That’s fantastic! We’ll try those first!”

She took Credence by the arm and they followed him through the shop where they came upon a round archway covered by red velvet curtains. Raül pulled back the heavy curtains to reveal a separate room. It was small. The carpet was also red to match the curtains and the loveseats and chairs that decorated the room. In the center of the floor, was a circular platform. Above it was a circular ring of white drapes that had been pulled up. Across from the platform was a wall of mirrors, reflecting the room from different angles.

The woman from earlier had come in as well. With her, she brought along a rack filled with many expensive coats. She pulled it to the side of the room, right next to the platform. Raül thanked the woman with a playful pat on her buttcheek.

Credence blushed, having put two-and-two together about what was going on between the two co-workers before he and (y/n) had shown up. (y/n) was unfazed at all by the promiscuous interaction. Instead, she took off her coat and hat and threw them on one of the sofas facing the platform before taking a seat.

“Let’s begin!” Raül said excitedly.

“Stand up there, Credence.” (y/n) pointed to the platform. Credence did as he was told, and stepped onto the raised surface, awkwardly awaiting more instruction.

The dark-haired woman came up to Credence with a large coat in her arms. He didn’t need to put it on to know it wasn’t something that would suit him. She stood behind him and slipped the sleeves of the coat over his arms and shoulders. The coat itself was heavy enough to make him slouch slightly and tense his leg muscles to carry the added weight. The warm fabric engulfed his lanky form. It was made of strange, thick fur—not mink, but from another animal, he couldn’t guess. It was dark brown, and in some areas, it looked black. The length of the coat ended just above his ankles and the sleeves practically covered his hands, the tips of his fingers were all that were visible.

It was definitely a coat well suited for a more muscular type of man. It was the kind of coat that would be perfect for a large Russian mobster. However, on his lanky form, it just looked plain silly. (y/n) looked at him in the mirror, catching his eye.

“Do you like it?” She asks. “Be honest. I won’t buy you something you don’t like.”

“It’s fine,” he lied.

“Absolutely not!” Raül said as he took a step onto the platform and stood in front of Credence, looking him over intently. “I never thought I would say this to anyone, but, my dear, sable is not for you.”

“You don’t think so?” (y/n) chimed in.

“Miss (l/n)!” He gasped. “You are my most fashionable client! Tell me you don’t think this works for him!”

She looked him up and down, a smile stretching across her lips. “I think he looks cute,” she says. “like a cuddly bear.”

Credence blushed and shied away from her gaze. Raül tuts his tongue and rolls his eyes. “Well, he must be the skinniest bear in the forest,” he mutters as he pulls the coat off Credence’s shoulders.

“Want to try another one?” She asked. Credence nodded.

Raül went through the rack before pulling out another coat for him to try. He found one he thought might look best and took it off its hook before helping Credence try it on.

After he helped him slip his arms in, he took a step back to look him over. “How's this?”

It was a slim-fitting burnt orange fox fur coat that stopped halfway. It had a low collar and large brown buttons that trailed from his chest to the hem. He noticed how it was tighter around his waist and made his hips look bigger than he’d like. He thought it was a coat he would see on a woman. 

“It’s a bit bright for winter, don’t you think?” She pointed out.

“Nothing is ever too bright,” Raül argued.

She squinted at Credence’s reflection in the mirror, pondering the look. His face burned red and he silently pleaded she disliked the coat as well. His flustered expression made her stifle a fit of giggles. “I think we’ll try another one,” she smirked.

Raül sighs and slips the coat off Credence’s shoulders, much to his relief. The next coat was a black and white trench with large black buttons and a belt. Credence stood uncomfortably in front of the critical pair.

Raül crossed his arms, a small approving smile plastered on his lips. “Now this, I like!”

“I don’t know...” She hummed. “What do you think, Credence?”

“It’s itchy,” he says.

“It’s tweed,” Raül said, as though it made it better.

She giggled and looked at Raül. “Another?”

They went through several different coats, most of which were unflattering or uncomfortable. Credence thought the others were doing it on purpose — at least, he felt like she was. There was something about the playful smirk that curled the corners of her lips whenever he was dressed in a seemingly ridiculous or feminine coat that made him feel as though she had taken joy in dressing him up and watching his cheeks turn red from embarrassment whenever she expressed how ‘cute’ he looked. While there may have been no initial mal-intent when she initially insisted on buying him a coat, he was starting to feel like she was toying with him; teasing him for her own pleasure. 

Raül pulled another unsatisfying coat off of his shoulders only to replace it with another. The weighted coat comfortably slipped onto his shoulders. When Raül properly fit the coat onto him, he took a step back, a small smile gracing his features. Credence turned his neck to look back at (y/n) who had a similar expression of approval.

“Wow.” She whispered.

The coat was indeed impressive in a simplistic kind of way. It wasn’t too flashy or extraordinary. Just a simple black trench that fell to his knees. It was a sharp, angular cut, one that seemed to broaden his shoulders to imitate a somewhat muscular appearance. The shade of black complimented his pale skin and matched his raven locks, making him appear more porcelain than before. 

“Magnifico! So handsome, like a dark prince!” Raül cheered. His assistant then too voiced her agreement.

(y/n) moved from the sofa to the platform where Credence stood. She eyed him closely, circling him before stopping in his eye-view. She ran her hands up his arms, feeling the material under her skin. She dragged them up and across his shoulders, before stopping at his chest. Credence’s heart drummed against his chest, excited by her touch. He wondered if she could feel it through the coat.

“Do you like it?” she asked him.

“I do,” he says, truthfully this time.

She smiled and turned to face Raül. “We’ll take it!”

(y/n) left with Raül and the woman from earlier to pay for the dashing coat, leaving Credence alone in the dressing room. He looked himself over in the mirror, admiring how he looked in the black material. He couldn’t deny how good he looked in it. For the first time he looked, normal. Better than normal—he looked like a proper gentleman. Sure, a real ritz could snuff him out in a heartbeat, but to the average New Yorker, he could pass for someone on the same caliber as (y/n). It was like looking at the version of him he always wanted to be.

It wasn’t long before the fleeting fantasy soured. The rational part of his brain picked at the flaws of this entire interaction. How would he explain to his mother where he got such an expensive coat? If she saw him wearing it, she would definitely ask questions he was afraid to answer. Either way, he knew he couldn’t be seen with it on while she was around. But he couldn’t throw it away; not when she went through all the trouble of buying it for him. And it was such a nice coat... Credence shook the worries from his mind. He couldn’t think about it now. 

After (y/n) paid for the coat, the two bid Raül goodbye and ventured back out into the cold. Already, Credence noticed a stark difference of the cold with the coat protecting his skin. It dulled the nipping chill that never left during the winter months. 

“Much better, isn’t it? ‘Not cold’ my ass,” she snarked playfully. She fished around her coat pocket and pulled out a pair of black leather gloves. “Take these.”

Credence eyed the gloves questionably. (y/n) sighed and took his hand from his side, sliding the gloves on before doing the same with the other. “There,” she grinned. “I wasn’t sure if these were gonna be the right size, but look! They’re perfect!”

“But... you didn’t have to buy these for me,” said Credence.

“I didn’t buy them,” she says. “Raül gave them to me—well, to you. He says those gloves must go with that coat. I have to say I agree; they really complete the look.” She began walking down the street again, prompting him to follow her. “And don’t worry about the coat, okay? Like I said before, it’s on me,” she reminded him.

Credence still felt couldn’t accept something so valuable without thanking her. She bought him a coat because she cared about how he was feeling, just like when she helped him off the street all those weeks ago. He felt indebted to her—grateful to her. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he returned the favor tenfold. 

To her, this was obvious. She could tell buying the coat bothered him. He was so tense. He probably would never relax around her unless he somehow proved that he deserved to. Perhaps she can help him see. She glanced at the taller boy from the corner of her eye.

“But,” she sighed. “If you’re still looking for some way to repay me, I can think of something I’d like you to do.”

Credence perked up. “Really? What is it?”

She grins up at him, showing her pearly white teeth. “Go on a date with me.”

Credence’s eyes widened. “W-What?”

(y/n) chuckled. “If you don’t want to go on a date with me, that’s fine.”

“No!” He said all too desperately. He blushed at his own excitement. “I mean... Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“It’s why I suggested it, isn’t it?”

Credence blushed. A date? He’d imagined taking her on a date in his head about a hundred times. He thought of what he might say and do on the chance he got to be alone with her again. Maybe this time he’ll follow through.

“Okay,” he gave in. “Where do you want to go?”

“How eager are you!” She laughed. “I didn’t even say when and you’re already trying to sweep me off my feet, huh? Either that or you’re just trying to get rid of me.”

“T-That’s not how I meant it!” he stammered.

(y/n) giggled at his demise. “I’m just teasing you, Bunny. No need to turn so red,” she smirked.

She didn’t help his case when she slipped her arm between his to link their arms. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to her being so close to him. No matter how many times she touched him, he always managed to get flustered. It’s probably why she did it so much, just to see him blush.

“Now is as good a time as any,” she said while smiling up at him. “Are you hungry? I’m starving!”

They walked through the city together, arm in arm. Unlike last time, Credence attempted to be more interactive with her. (y/n) was definitely the more dominant converser, but his attempts to be more engaging with her didn’t go unnoticed. He asked her the questions that have been collecting in his head since they met.

He asked her what she did in her spare time (paint) and what her favorite food was (chocolate). He learned that she was a Columbia scholar currently on break and that she recently adopted a hairless cat named Onyx (it was the only cat her father wasn’t allergic to). Talking with her became easy. He even made her laugh a few times.

While they walked, Credence felt like they passed about twenty different restaurants and cafés he thought she would like. But whenever he thought they were about to stop, she kept going. He was wondering where exactly she was taking him. 

“Are we eating somewhere in particular?” He asked discreetly.

(y/n) nodded and hummed. “I’m taking you to one of the best places on earth. Salone’s! It’s not that far from here. It’s been a while since I’ve been, but I’m really craving it. Have you ever been there before?” She asked.

Credence shook his head. “Never,” he said, causing her to gasp dramatically.

“Oh, now we definitely have to go! What kind of person would I be if I let you go on living without experiencing God’s gift to man? And by ‘God’ I mean Dixie Salone, the owner.”

When they turned the corner, there was a small restaurant named Salone’s across the street. Taking precautious measures, (y/n) gingerly led Credence across the street and to the restaurant. When they opened the door, the smell of grease and peanuts filled the air. The place was reasonably packed, with average looking people all looking at them as they entered the room. (y/n) looked out of place in her rather extravagant attire, though now—with her on his arm and his new coat—he probably looked just as pretentious as she.

If (y/n) noticed the leering eyes of the other customers, she didn’t show it. Instead, she scoured the area for a place to sit, before landing on a booth tucked away in the back. They claimed the booth for themselves. Credence took the booth facing the door, shedding his outer attire and tucking it away in the seat corner. (y/n) slid into the seat across from him, shrugging off her coat and hat, revealing her clothes underneath.

Underneath the mound of fur, was a matching white dress. Unaccommodating to the weather, the dress underneath hung off her shoulders. It had long sleeves, but the upper half of her chest and her shoulders were exposed. Though, Credence figured when you have fur to wear over your clothes, it doesn’t matter much what you wear under it. The fabric was velvet, which must have also helped. From what he could see, it hugged her body well. Credence looked down at his hands on his lap, realizing he had been staring a bit too long. Lucky for him, she hadn’t noticed.

On the table were two menus placed before them. He looked down at the large printed sheet. Credence had never been to a restaurant before. He had eaten nowhere else but the church. He ate once a day (if he ate at all) and it was the same thing almost every time: porridge and stale bread. But on the menu before him, there was no porridge or stale bread at all. There was soup, steak, chicken, and almost every kind of pie. He felt his mouth watering just thinking about it. 

“Don’t bother looking at the menu,” (y/n) told him, gaining his attention. “I’m going to order for you. This place is really only good for two things, everything else is subpar, trust me.”

He looked at the menu again, mildly disappointed. He was looking forward to trying fried chicken. He took a moment to look around the diner. Most of the people there looked like working classmen: factory workers or nannies. Some still wore their uniforms under layers of sweaters and scarves. Others wore regular everyday clothes. Many of those who eyed them upon their entry returned their attention to their food and prior conversations. Though, there were a few that still snuck looks at their table in the back. Some were harmless, like the little girl who was staring at (y/n) in awe. Some were more menacing, like the rugged-looking man sitting on a stool by the counter who seemed annoyed by their presence.

(y/n) noticed that Credence’s eyes were shifting around the room pointedly. “Is something the matter?” She asked.

“It’s just...” He began. “I never thought you would be the type to eat at a place like this.”

“I guess it does seem a bit funny, huh? I look like someone who’d frequent an uptown steakhouse, right?” She chuckled. “Truth is, I’ve never had a big part in that lifestyle. Banquets and fine dining, I mean. It’s all fake and pretentious. But this—” she gestured to the room around them. “This is real. The food is real. The people are real. Do you know what I mean?”

Credence nodded. “I think so.”

“Some of my favorite memories take place here. My father would take me here when I was little on his days off. It was one of the happiest times of my life. I guess I wanted to relive that with you today.”

Credence took notice in the look in her eyes. He could tell that recalling such memories saddened her. He didn’t like seeing her upset, but, at the same time, he was glad she wanted to share something so important to her with him. One day, he hoped to do the same.

Not long after that, a young woman dressed in a red dress and a white apron with a stitched red S on the bottom corner walked up to their table with a notepad in hand.

“Hello and welcome to Salone’s, what can I get the lovely couple today?” The waitress asked. Credence couldn’t help but blush after being referred to as a couple.

“Yes,” (y/n) said happily. “Today we’ll—” she stopped mid-sentence before glancing at Credence across the table. She smirked and waved the waitress down to her.

The waitress smiled and got down on her knees next to her. (y/n) grabbed a menu and held it in front of their faces so Credence couldn’t tell what she was whispering. He watched in confusion as (y/n) whispered their order to the waitress.

The waitress nodded, and every once in a while he heard her giggle. “Yes, alright... okay... got it!”

The woman stood back up on her feet and smiled down at the two diners. “If you two just wait here, I will be right back with your orders,” she said cheerfully before trotting off.

“What did you get?” Credence asked once she had left.

(y/n) shook her head and held her fingers to her lips to imitate the motion of closing a zipper. “It’s a surprise,” she winked.

Credence nodded, having decided to trust her decision. In the meantime, while they waited for their food, (y/n) engaged in another conversation with him. It was a continuation of their earlier conversation about pets. (y/n) wanted to know if Credence had any pets. When he told her he never had a pet, she asked him what kinds of animals he likes. He told her that he never met many other animals before. He’d seen many rats in his life, but that just came with the joys of living in New York City. But he thought it appropriate to mention he once made a bond with a stray cat when he was younger.

It was a black skinny thing, with a chewed off ear, and part of its tail was missing. One day, when he’d been left out on the streets as a punishment (he told her he was walking home), the cat came up to him and was begging for food. Lucky for the cat, he had a piece of bread in his pocket. He gave it to the sad creature, and it ate it from his hand. He’d never pet a cat before then, but he liked how it’s fur felt when he brushed it, and the sounds of the cat’s meows. After he told her that story, he stated that he probably liked cats the best.

“We’re just alike! Maybe one day I can take you to meet Onyx,” she suggested.

The corners of Credence’s lips curled up softly. “I’d like that,” he said.

Just then, the woman from earlier came up to them with their order on a large silver platter. The waitress placed the hot food onto the table, along with their drinks before leaving them to enjoy their meal. Credence looked down at the plate of food in front of him.

“Burgers?”

“Burgers,” she repeated excitedly. “If there’s one thing this place can make, it’s a damn good burger. Well, that and a mean vanilla milkshake! The fries aren’t half bad either,” she says as she pops one in her mouth.

Meat and fried potatoes filled his nostrils. The burger was as big as the plate it came on. The sesame bun was soft and round, and the edges appeared to be lightly toasted. Crunchy lettuce, cheese, and two slices of bacon coated in mayonnaise and ketchup poked out from the sides on top of a thick beef patty. (y/n) smiled in amusement as she watched Credence carefully take the burger in his hands. His eyes were practically sparkling with excitement.

“Go on,” she encouraged. “Take your first bite! I want to see the look on your face when the juicy meat hits your tongue.”

Credence glanced at her across the table, before opening his mouth and taking a generous bite out of the hefty burger. Various flavors overstimulated his senses. The beef and pork collided with the onions, lettuce, cheese, and condiments to create an unfamiliar taste he’d never experienced before. The meat was succulent and juicy, just as she said it would be. The cut of the beef was thick and chewy, and the bacon was crispy and flavorful. The bun was soft and crunchy and tasted as though it was toasted with butter. It wasn’t stale at all! It was like it came fresh out of the bakery just before it wound up on his plate. 

It was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

“Well?”

Credence hadn’t even realized he closed his eyes, but when he opened them, (y/n) was looking at him expectantly. He swallowed the delicious food and licked his lips greedily, chuckling softly.

“It’s good,” he smiled.

A wide grin stretched across her painted lips. It was the first time he’d laughed around her.

“You have a pretty smile, you know that?” She told him.

Credence’s cheeks reddened for the thirtieth time that day, and he lowered his head to hide it from her.

(y/n) chuckled softly before taking his basket of fries. “Here.” She took the red ketchup bottle from the side of the table and drizzled the condiment over the fries in a zig-zag pattern before sliding the basket back towards him.

“Thank you,” he muttered bashfully through a mouth full of food.

“You’ve got ketchup on the side of your mouth,” she told him.

Without thinking, he stuck his tongue out to lick the spot clean. (y/n) smirked in amusement, watching him do so, finding it cute.

“Did I get it?” He asked.

She snickered and reached her hand across the table to the side of his face. Her thumb gently swiped the corner of his mouth. The action took him by surprise. He sat tensely as she did it. It was a quick moment— a gentle touch, and yet his entire body burned with heat at the contact. When she pulled away and leaned back in her seat, the warmth still lingered. She looked him in the eyes, not breaking contact as she brought her thumb to her lips. The pink flesh of her tongue darted out and lewdly flattened against the pad of her thumb, cleaning it of the ketchup.

Credence felt his body ache at the simple action, the tips of his ears burning incredibly hot. (y/n), who was by no means ignorant to the effect she had on him, could only smirk and marvel at the rosy tint of his cheeks. Credence was grateful she didn’t draw attention to it. It was easier to hide how flustered she made him when they were outside, and he could blame his feverishness on the cold. Now that they were inside and it was warm, it made it harder to deny. He couldn’t bear being teased by her further, he felt like he might explode. She must have sensed it too, because she made no other moves to make him blush after that. She acted as though it didn’t happen and continued to eat her food. Credence then too returned to eating, praying that the ache he felt went away. 

It did, with the help of other distractions. (y/n) continued innocent conversation as they ate to keep the peace. As they talked she could tell that her earlier display still hindered his interaction. While they talked, she’d notice his eyes would linger on her lips rather than her eyes; and whenever they did lock eyes, he would trip over his words and look away.

It was cute, she thought.

Before she could decide to tease him further, the waitress had returned to their table, having noticed that their plates had practically been licked clean. She asked if they were finished with their plates, and they both nodded.

As she collected their dishes she asked, “Can I interest you two in some dessert?”

(y/n) pursed her lips and turned to Credence. “What do you think? Still have room for more, pretty boy?”

Credence flushed.  “I-I’ve never had a milkshake before,” he stammered, referring to the claim she made earlier.

She smiled, before gingerly holding up a finger to the waitress. “We’ll have one large vanilla milkshake with extra cherries, please!”

The waitress returned her smile and winked. “Coming right up!”

It wasn’t long before she came back with the milkshake. It came in a large glass cup filled with vanilla milkshake and topped off with a generous swirl of whipped cream. It was decorated with a cherry, but the extra cherries (y/n) asked for layered the bottom of the glass. The waitress placed the glass on the center of the table between the two. She handed them two big, red and white striped straws before leaving them once more. They both took one and put it into the glass.

(y/n) smiled eagerly at Credence across the table. “You get the first sip,” she said.

He thanked her as he leaned forward and wrapped his lips around his straw. He sucked on it how he normally would without realizing how thick the milkshake was. (y/n) watched him struggle for a moment as he nearly ran out of breath trying to suck the ice cream up the straw. He got it eventually, the cool, sweet, vanilla filling his mouth. It wasn’t what he was expecting at all. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, really, but he just knew that the taste surprised him. He never had sweets before. Sugar is a gluttonous indulgence that Mary Lou found sinful. But as the sticky sweet cream slid down his throat, he wondered if all sin was just pleasures he was being denied.

He didn’t have to tell her he liked it. It was written all over his face. It was probably the most relaxed she’s ever seen him. She enjoyed seeing him that way, with a small smile on his face and flushed cheeks. Credence was so invested in the milkshake, (y/n) was sure he would drink it all if she didn’t get her sips in. Credence nearly choked when he looked up and saw her face mere inches from his own, sipping on the other straw in the glass.

She didn’t seem to mind at all, being so close to him. Her eyes were closed as she sipped. Her curled lashes brushed against her full cheeks and her glossy lips circled the straw delicately. This close, he could see the texture of her (s/c) skin, seeing the few freckles and moles that decorated her features he hadn’t noticed before.

When she did open her eyes, he didn't look away. This time he looked in her eyes and saw for the first time that her eyes weren’t just one shade of (e/c), but a combination of different shades and colors to make the color that was distinctly her’s. Similarly, she saw that his eyes were a deep brown, almost black if it weren't for the few streaks of chocolate brown and burgundy that reflected in the light.

(y/n)’s lips curled into a smile. She bashfully looked away from his eyes and into the glass. The two drank in comfortable silence, savoring both the milkshake and the tender moment. They drank the contents of the glass, leaving nothing but the leftover cream and cherries at the bottom. They wouldn’t go to waste. Cherries must have been (y/n)’s favorite because ate most of them. She did however offer one to Credence for him to try. She held the cherry by the stem and encouraged him to take a bite. He thought it was a bit embarrassing that she insisted on feeding it to him, but he took the cream covered fruit into his mouth and found it just as sweet—if not sweeter—than the milkshake itself.

She let him eat the remaining cherries himself. While he was eating, he watched (y/n) gather her things, putting on her coat before sliding out of the booth.

“I’m going to go pay while you finish,” she told him as she got up.

She walked over to the front counter where the waitress was counting money from the cash register. Credence watched as the two women talked. (y/n) smiled at the waitress and said something that made her laugh. She reached into her purse and pulled out several bills. She handed it to the waitress, who looked at the cash in her hands with wide eyes.

“For me?” He overheard the waitress ask. When (y/n) nodded, the young girl squealed in excitement and rushed from the counter to hug her. The two stumbled due to the unexpected force, but (y/n) didn’t seem to mind. She laughed and hugged the waitress back, patting her back in a friendly manner. Credence, having finished his cherries, got up to stand by (y/n)’s side.

“Thank you so much, miss!” Credence heard the waitress gush as he came up.

“It’s nothing, you deserve it,” (y/n) insisted. (y/n) turned her attention from the young girl to Credence beside her when she felt his presence. She looked up at him with a smile. “Are you ready to go?” She asked him. He nodded.

The waitress looked between the two and grinned softly. “You two make a sweet couple,” she said.

(y/n) returned the grin, hooking her arm around Credence and leaning her head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she said, playing into the waitress’s assumptions.

“You two have a blessed day!” The waitress left to tend to a waiting customer leaving him victim to (y/n)’s smug grin. At this point, even his neck was red. (y/n) couldn’t help but find  it amusing. No matter how flustered he got, he wouldn’t protest.

She lightly squeezed his arm, making him look down at her. “Are you ready to go, pretty boy?” She asked him.

It was the second time she called him that, and it was just as startling as the first time. The pet name made his heart swell in his chest and his brain stutter. But again, he didn’t protest. He just nodded his head and turned his face away to hide his reddened cheeks. (y/n) giggled, satisfied with the reaction she got, and they both walked out of the restaurant and back into the cold.

Outside, the snow had stopped falling, but the sidewalks were still slick with slush and ice. (y/n) took a deep breath, breathing in the crisp air as she looked up at the sky.

“Is it that late all ready?” She muttered to herself, her happy features falling slightly. Despite the heavy, grey clouds blanketing the sky, they could still see the sun shining brightly behind them. Credence too looked up at the sky. From what he could tell, it was around three in the afternoon..

He turned to (y/n). “Do you have to go now?” He asked her regrettably.

Her eyes fell down from the sky to his own. Her lips pressed into a small smile and shook her head. “Not just yet,” she said.

“Why don’t you walk with me to the park.” She demanded more than asked and pulled him off down the sidewalk.

He walked with (y/n) a little while longer, back towards the park. Along the way, (y/n) would stop outside shops and look at the items displayed in the windows. Some things of the things she expressed an interest in were for her, sometimes she would see an item and would say something along the lines of “Mom would love this” or “Aaron has something like this”. But sometimes she would stop and turn to Credence and ask, “Do you like this?”

He had to talk her out of buying him things multiple times. She seemed so eager to spoil him. She wanted to buy him a new pair of shoes and a watch she’d seen on display. There was an expensive-looking suit outside of a tailor’s shop, and her eyes practically sparkled upon seeing it. She tried to convince him to go in and try it on, but he knew if he did, she would end up buying it for him. How he deterred her from the idea was a miracle in itself. But eventually, she dropped the idea, and the two continued on their walk. 

The two reached the park without buying a single thing. When they reached the entrance of the park, (y/n) stopped, and pulled away from his side. Credence halted in his tracks, turning around to face her. He looked down at her as she smiled up at him.

“Do you have anywhere to go after this?” She asked him.

Credence shook his head. His mother wouldn’t be expecting him until dark.

She pursed her lips and tilted her as if in thought as she sighed.

“Should I just kidnap you?”

The question took him by surprise. (y/n) laughed at the perturbed look on his face. “I’m joking, Credence,” she said between snorts. “I won’t kidnap you. Not unless you want me to.”

Credence smiled softly, letting out a soft chuckle of his own. This made (y/n) smile even bigger than before. She took a coy step closer to him, taking one of his gloved hands in her own and swinging it playfully.

“I had fun today, Credence,” she told him. “As first dates go, this is probably the best one I’ve ever been on.”

“Just probably?” Credence mumbled jokingly.

(y/n) smirked, amused by the sudden remark. “Yeah, just probably.”

Credence looked down at their hands, admiring how small her hands were compared to his. Somehow he hadn’t realized just how much shorter than him she was. He always felt smaller than her. He didn’t mind it: feeling small. It was different from how other people made him feel small; like his mother or strangers on the street. They made him feel tiny, like a bug— like something disgusting and inconvenient. To them, he was something they could easily step on. But with her, it was different.

With her, he felt small, like a flower. And to him, she was the sun. She was so big and so bright. Whenever she was around, he felt alive. And whenever she wasn’t, he felt like he might die. He didn’t mind feeling small around her, because, at least when he’s with her, he is consumed by light. 

“I had fun too,” Credence spoke up. “I really enjoy spending time with you, Miss (l/n).”

“Are you always this formal?” She teases despite her obvious blushing. “I enjoy spending time with you too, Mister Barebone.”

She gave his hand one last gentle squeeze before letting go. She brushed past him, striding down the street. Credence watched her as she walked, his heart sinking just a little.

As though she could sense it, (y/n) looked at him over her shoulder as she walked and grinned. “Don’t look so sad,” she yelled to him. “I’ll find you again.”

With a chaste wink, she disappeared around the corner and away from his line of vision, leaving him with a full stomach and an even fuller heart.

That night, Credence returned home alone. He reluctantly walked back to the crooked chapel. His mind was fogged with thoughts of her. When he came to the front of what he, unfortunately, called ‘home’, he hesitated to go in. He looked through each window. It was dark inside. Could everyone have fallen asleep already?

He looked down at the coat on his body. He quickly shrugged the heavy material off of his shoulders and folded it in his arms before quietly entering the house. The house seemed empty, and it was almost too quiet. He pushed his way through the dark and carefully made his way up the stairs as to not make a sound. He’d gotten good at being quiet in the house. He memorized each squeaky board and mastered the art of moving in silence despite his height. 

He crept up the stairs as he’d done many times and tip-toed to his bedroom, where he then quietly shut his door. Once he heard the door click softly, he released his breath and sighed in relief.

His room wasn’t much. It was small and comprised a bed with an old iron frame, an armoire, a sink, and a metal tub that he uses to bathe. He looked down at the coat in his hands. He moved to the armoire by his bed and opened its doors. There wasn’t much inside; he had little to put in it, anyway. But today, he would be thankful for that. 

The armoire was a rather fancy piece of furniture. It stood out in his otherwise destitute room. The armoire was just as old and worn out as the rest of the room, but it wasn’t hard to tell it was an ornamental relic of the 19th century. It had enough space to fill two weeks’ worth of clothes. It was almost offensive how little there was inside it. One detail about it was its hollow bottom. Credence could slide the bottom plank of wood to reveal a cubbyhole. Its original purpose must have been for shoes or winter blankets, but now it would serve a new purpose. 

Credence kneeled on the ground and packed the coat neatly into the cubby before throwing his new gloves on top. They fit perfectly inside and he was allowed to slide the wooden plank back on with ease. With that accomplished, he rose to his feet and closed the armoire doors. He began undressing, stripping his clothes until he was left in nothing but his boxers.

It was as cold in the house as it was outside, but credence had no pajamas that would keep him warm. He had but one pair of old satin pajamas that were too small for him. He decided not to wear them tonight. The naturally cool material wouldn’t provide him warmth or comfort.

After putting away his dirtied clothes, Credence fell back on his bed and stared up at the rotting ceiling above him. As he lay there, his mind would drift to the memories of his ‘date’. Just thinking about her made his heart beat faster. He pictured her in his mind, reliving the time he spent with her.

It was the most surreal thing. Being with her made him feel things he never felt before. She made his heart flutter and his cheeks warm in a pleasantly addicting way. When he was with her, he forgot everything bad. There was no anxiety, no judgment, no harsh words, or abuse. He was just a normal man with a normal woman. He wished he could feel that way all the time.

His hand reached behind his head and slipped under his pillow to retrieve the soft pink piece of fabric he kept there. He held it up in front of him, rubbing it between his fingers. The moonlight from his window reflected on its threads, and he could read the stitched initials in the corner.

“(y/n)...” He whispered her name so tenderly. Just saying her name aloud made his lips tingle. He loved saying her name for the simple reason that it was her name. He would say it a thousand times aloud if he could.

He brought the cloth down to his nose and inhaled its scent. Her fragrance still lingered on the soft fabric, clouding his senses. Credence felt a familiar stirring rise in his stomach. Heat rose to his cheeks, and he pressed his legs together. His mind flashed to the other day in the church, remembering the lewd images of her he had fantasized about. A part of him was ashamed. Sexual desire was a sin he shouldn’t act upon. It was a vile, disgusting act. That’s what the church told him, at least. And his mother would have no part of it either.

Mary Lou made sure to reprimand him whenever she suspected him of sexual temptation, so much so he shied away from girls all together. Yet recently, he’s felt a bumbling desire well up inside of him. He knew what it was; he felt it before. Only once before had he fallen victim to his lusty desire. It had been in his adolescence. He was sleeping when he had a dream about a red-haired woman he’d seen on the street. She was most likely in her twenties at the time, but she was so captivating he remembered her face for a week. He dreamed of that red-haired woman touching and caressing him. She’d even kissed him like he’d seen couples on the street kiss. This mild fantasy woke him from his sleep with a shameful mess on his bed.

He was so humiliated and ashamed he rushed to confess to Mary Lou, who punished him greatly for his lasciviousness. He didn’t dream of the red-haired woman or any woman at all after that. That is, until he met her.

At first, his thoughts of her were innocent. He would fantasize about holding her hand and laying on her chest as he slept. She would caress his face and run her fingers through his hair.  He would give her chaste kisses on her cheek, and she would giggle and laugh, returning the favor. But that changed that day he went to church and listened to Father Blackwell’s sermon. That was the first time he thought of her in such an erotic way.

It was because of this he felt particularly suffocated by her presence today. He became even more aware of her touches. His eyes would stare at her lips more often and glance at the curves of her chest. He thought about how she held on to his arm; How warm and soft she was; Her small hands. He thought about how her finger felt brushing against his lip. About how her tongue darted between her plump lips to lap at her thumb.

Credence bit his lip to keep his whimpers from escaping. His thoughts were filled with images of her, his body reacted on its own. He curled on his side and pressed his legs together to relieve himself of his growing hardness. Instead of discouraging his growing lust, it seemed to only spur it on. The feeling of his thighs pressing against his length brushed an itch he desperately desired to scratch.

He wanted her by his side so terribly. If only he were as confident and manly as the men he saw on the street, she would be. If he were as confident as the man she was with today, then he could call her by her name. He too could take her by her delicate waist and kiss her cheeks. And, oh, did he wish to kiss her.

He wanted to kiss her many times today. He wanted to kiss her the moment he saw her. He wanted to kiss her again in the boutique when she pressed her hands on his chest, and again when she asked him to go on a date with her. He wanted to kiss her multiple times in the restaurant for teasing him so viciously, and he wanted to kiss her deeply before they said goodbye.

He imagined what it would be like to be that kind of man; what it would be like to have her with him now, and what he would do if she was. If she was there on his bed laying next to him, he would want to kiss her now as well. He would have her under him, staring up at him with her beautiful (e/c) eyes. He would brush the hair away from her face and stroke her cheek. Her hands would hold his sides and pull him closer so their bodies lay flat against each other. He would feel her and she would feel him. Her warmth would consume him, and their bodies would mold together.

Credence closed his eyes and smelled her pink handkerchief. If he kept his eyes closed, he could pretend she was there.

“(y/n)...” He whispered her name once more. His hips rocked hesitantly, the undeniable bulge in his boxers was now too evident to ignore. Rocking his hips caused a pleasurable sensation in his stomach. It felt so good, he did it again... and again... and again; rocking his hips as he held her handkerchief to his nose and imagined her.

He thought of kissing her soft lips as he pressed into her, feeling her hands run up and down his sides as they had done before. He wanted to rock his hips against her like he was doing now. Would it feel as good for her as it felt for him? Would she breathe as heavy as he was now? Would she pant and whisper his name?

“A-ah...”

He panted lewdly, pleasuring himself with these thoughts. But it wasn't enough. He needed more.

He laid on his back on the bed. His body seemed to know what to do without thinking about it. He kept his eyes closed as his free hand snaked down his body to palm himself over his boxers. He rubbed himself through the fabric, his shallow breaths filling his ears. But to him it wasn't his hands, but hers; her soft, small hands touching him gently.

It was her delicate hands that slipped past the waistband of his boxers and gripped his length. It was her hands that stroked him slowly. She was there, whispering his name while he whispered hers. The more she stroked him, the shorter his breaths became. Each breath he took was filled with her scent. She consumed him, wrapping her essence around him, and filling his body with heat.

She stroked him faster as they kissed. He kissed her deeply, slipping his tongue past her lips as he’d seen couples do before. He could taste the cherries and vanilla on her tongue, as sweet as they were in the milkshake they’d shared. She moaned his name in her mouth, driving him crazy.

“Ha..-ahh. ahaa...”

More, he thought. All he could think about was how he wanted more. More of her scent, more of her touch, more of her.

Her hands became wet with his slick, gliding up and down his length with vigor. His body was overtaken with a foreign sensation, buzzing through his body, collecting where he wanted to be touched the most. The faster she stroked him, the better he felt. She felt good, so so good.

“H-Ha...-haaaa...(y/n)...”

He wanted to say her name over and over. He wanted to shout it, loud enough for the heavens to hear. He didn’t care if God heard him. He wanted God and the angels to hear so they would know how she made him feel. He was overwhelmed by love and lust for her. He wanted them to know that his body was hers and he willingly gave it to her. He wanted to touch her, please her, feel her.

His eyes clenched shut. Her hands pumped his twitching length excitedly, the buzzing heat collecting at his center. His legs began to shake, his back arching from the bed. Lavender and vanilla, that’s what he smelled as his vision blurred and the buzzing heat tingling in his core burst and was replaced with a cool wave of overwhelming pleasure.

His body trembled, somehow coated in a thin layer of sweat despite the room being cold. He stayed still, laying in silence as he let his body calm. When he finally opened his eyes, he half expected to see her hovering over him with that playful smile on her face, only to be met with the rotting rafters of his ceiling.

He sighed through his nose. Once the euphoric cloud in his mind cleared, shame and regret replacing his lusty desire, he moved from his bed to the sink across the room. He turned the knob and a low stream of water fell from the faucet. Taking the dingy rag that rested on the sink’s bowl, he wet it, using it to clean up his mess. As he wiped himself, he wondered if that was what sex was like. He never touched himself like that before, though he wanted to many times. Now that he had, the answer to his question was clear. Sins were just pleasures he was being denied. 

He returned to his bed, burying himself beneath the covers. He took the handkerchief back into his hand and held it by his face as he slept on his side. His eyes grew heavy, the scent of lavender slowly drifting him to sleep. A passing thought in his mind wondered if this is what it would feel like to sleep by her side. He would do anything to just hold her once, to lie on her chest and listen to the sounds of her breathing.

That was his last thought before falling asleep.

Several days would pass since the last time he saw her. They would be long, dreary days spent in the chapel. It snowed relentlessly for three days, making it impossible to venture out. During that time, he would clean and help Chastity serve meals to the orphans that sought refuge from the streets. The day when the snow finally ceased to fall, Mary Lou tasked him with shoveling the street in front of the chapel while she took Modesty and Chastity into town.

It was once he finished shoveling that he realized he had the rest of the day for himself. He pondered staying in the house for a moment, but quickly threw the idea. He couldn’t bear another minute in that house. Instead, he went on a walk. It wasn’t unusual for him to do this when he had the time. He would walk aimlessly just to get away. He only could afford to when his mother left him alone.

Today, Credence found himself at Central Park. It was no surprise that the park was packed. The low temperatures of the past week allowed the lake to freeze over, thick enough for people to skate on. Men, women, and children scattered across the area. Carolers were singing Christmas songs and street vendors peddled treats. It was a pleasant and lively scene.

He had almost forgotten that Christmas was so soon. He’d been so caught up with his duties it had slipped his mind. He liked Christmas, even though he didn’t celebrate it the way most people do. His mother forced him and his siblings to attend church on Christmas Day. But he could appreciate what others did on Christmas. He liked seeing the kids play in the snow, showing off their new toys. He liked the idea of parents spending time with their children by the fire. He even liked listening to Christmas songs that would play on repeat outside the record store.

Credence watched the people as he walked through the park. He liked to imagine himself in their place. Sometimes he was a kid playing fetch with his dog. Sometimes he was a woman making snow angels, or a man building a snowman. Right now, he was the man of a couple skating on the ice, holding hands with his partner. The pair laughed as they spun in circles, occasionally grasping at each other’s arms when they slipped.

He was too busy projecting he hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings. Like any other creature, he was susceptible to attack. He flinched as he felt icy-cold pellets burst against the back of his head. He heard a sharp gasp not far behind him, followed by a heap of childish giggles. Credence turned around, expecting to see a group of devious looking children. Imagine his surprise when he saw her standing ten feet away from him with a group of children looking incredibly guilty.

“Oh, my gosh! I’m so sorry, Bunny! I was aiming for your shoulder, I swear!”

“(y/n)?” He muttered in disbelief.

How did she always appear in the least expected places? He stared her down as she rushed towards him. Today she was wearing a heavy, brown fur-lined coat and a green cloche hat that matched her boots. When she reached him, her hands immediately reached behind his head to dust the remaining remnants of her snowball from his hair.

She looked at him apologetically. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I feel like a total gink,” she pouted.

His cheeks burst into flames. The position she put him in had her chest brushing pressing against his as her hands brushed through his hair. At this angle he could see how neatly curled her hair was under her cap, falling in styled swirls around her face. Her swollen nose was red from the cold. Her breath that smelled distinctly of coffee beans warmed his cheeks.

Credence’s expression softened, a faint smile ghosting his lips. She was still apologizing to him, frantically brushing snow from his hair and shoulders.

“It’s okay,” he said in hopes to calm her. 

She closed her eyes and sighed. Her head lulled forward, hiding her face in his chest. “You’re angry with me, aren’t you?” He heard her muffled voice say.

Credence swallowed the lump in his throat and nervously licked his lips. This was the closest she’d ever been to him. He reached a dithering hand to grasp hers and rubbed the back of her gloved hand with his thumb.

“I’m not angry,” he assured her.

(y/n) lifted her head from his shoulders to meet his eyes, searching for any sign of irritation. “Are you sure? You can get me back, if you want.”

Credence nodded his head. “I’m sure.”

She believed him this time, her relief washing over her face. “I really am sorry,” she said one final time. “I just saw you walking past by chance and I wanted to surprise you.”

“I was surprised!” He said a bit too excitedly.

This made her laugh and playfully push his shoulder. Her laugh alone was enough to put a smile on his face, one that made dimples appear on his cheeks. He felt her hand firmly grasp his, holding it properly.

“Why aren’t you wearing your new coat and gloves?” She asked. “Don’t you like them?”

Credence had forgotten he wasn’t wearing the coat you got him. He couldn’t, not without his mother seeing it. If she knew about the coat—if she knew about him seeing you—she would be furious. He kept the coat (y/n) had given him hidden with the rest of the precious things she gave him. He wore the old navy blue coat out that Mary Lou had recently acquired and given to him. It wasn’t nearly as warm or stylish as the coat (y/n)  had gotten for him, but it was enough for the winter, and it was the only thing he could wear in front of his mother.

“I do like them,” he answered. “I was afraid of ruining it. I don’t want to wear it out too much.”

It was the best excuse he could think of at the time, and after mulling over it for a brief moment, she seemed to accept it. She then told him that, if he did end up damaging his new coat, she would simply buy him another, and spoke no more of it.

She nodded towards the lake behind him. “Did you come here to skate?”

Credence looked back to the lake. “Oh, no,” he said. “I never learned.”

Another gasp left her lips. “You’ve never been ice-skating before?”

He shook his head.

“Then we’ve got to fix that, now don’t we?” She reckoned.

Before he could ask what she meant, she’d already left his side. He looked in all directions until he saw her talking to an older couple sitting on a mess of picnic blankets under a tree. It appeared she’d asked him a question because their answer was a shake of their head. She waved goodbye to them before walking off to pursue another person, who gave the same answer. He watched her do this a few times around a small area of the park with no luck. At one point, she stood in the middle of the snow pondering while she scanned the area. Curious, Credence walked up to her.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Looking,” she replied simply.

Her squinted eyes panned across the park, her lips pursed as though she were thinking very hard about something.

“Ah!” She shouted, a triumphant smile stretching across her lips. She turned to Credence and winked. “Follow my lead.”

She walked down a small hill towards a small group of children who were playing in the snow at the bottom. Credence followed a few steps behind.

“Hey, kiddos,” She waved.

The kids stopped what they were doing to look up at her. She waved her hands towards her, beckoning them over. The children shared confused looks, before cautiously making their way towards her. She squatted down Asian style to meet their eyes. Credence stayed a couple of feet away, but he could still make out what was being said.

“Can you keep a secret?” He heard (y/n) ask the children.

The kids nodded and hummed in confirmation. (y/n) grinned.

“You see my friend over there?” She pointed behind her, directing the children’s attention to Credence. “He’s never been ice-skating before!”

The children snickered whispered teasingly among themselves. Credence looked away, embarrassed to be taunted by children. (y/n) giggled with them and easily brought back their attention.

“I really want to teach him,” She revealed once their jeering ceased. “But he’s so silly, he forgot to bring a pair of skates.”

“That is silly!” One of the little girls yelled.

(y/n) looked between Credence and the children. “Now, I see you have a pair of skates.” Sure enough, there were a pair of skates laying in the snow where the kids were once playing, far too big to fit on their small feet.

“Do they belong to any of you?” (y/n) asked.

“No,” The little girl shook her head. “They were already there.”

“We think someone left them by mistake,” An older boy chimed in.

“I see,” (y/n) hummed. “Do you think I can take them for my friend, then?”

“But we was gonna use ‘em! We saw them first!” A small blond boy frowned. (y/n) looked at the boy and flashed her kindest smile.

“Oh, were you now? How about I just borrow them? I’ll bring them right back to you, I pinky promise!” She held out her pinky for him to take. The boy looked at her hand in front of him. He lifted his hand and stretched out his pinky.

“I guess that’s okay...” He mumbled through puffed red cheeks.

(y/n) hooked hers around the boy. “Aren’t you sweet?” She affectionately pat the top of his head. “I hope my kid will be as kind as you are.”

The boy blushed and swat her hand away from his head, adjusting his hat. “Whatever, Lady!” The blond boy ran away, the rest of the children chased after him with childish taunts.

(y/n) chuckled and rose back to her feet. She walked up to where the skates were laying and picked them off the ground before making her way back to Credence’s side.

“Are you ready?” She asked excitedly.

Credence shrugged his shoulders, still processing the events of the last fifteen minutes. (y/n) scoffed and rolled her eyes, forcibly taking Credence’s hand.

“Just come on,” she groaned as she dragged him towards the lake.

When they reached the edge of the ice, she handed him the skates and ordered him to strap them onto his boots. Credence did as he was told and sat down on the nearest bench, securely strapping the skates onto his shoes. After (y/n) had double-checked to make sure they were on right, she held out her hand for him to take. He grabbed it, using her to find his balance. When he stood to his feet his ankles wobbled, disrupting his balance.

(y/n) gripped his arm tightly to keep him from falling. “Careful,” she warned.

He held on to her as she guided him to the lake. She stepped on the ice with ease. She grabbed his other hand and helped him step on the ice. Immediately after his skates touched the ice, his heart raced.

“I don’t think I want to do this anymore,” his voice fluttered anxiously.

“You’re okay, I got you,” she promised.

She pulled him further out onto the ice, still clasping his hands. Credence gripped her hands for dear life while silently trying to figure out how it was he ended up in this position.

Other skaters flew past them as he stumbled on the ice like a baby deer. (y/n) didn’t give up on teaching him. No matter how many times he slipped or tripped, she was always there to catch and pick him back up when he fell. Eventually, he got the hang of it. He started balancing himself on his own, gliding somewhat smoothly without having to hold on to her. It didn’t take long for him to relax and reciprocate her playful activities.

(y/n) eventually stepped off the ice, giving him the space to skate on his own. She watched him fondly, taking in the smile glowing on his face. He went around in circles, almost bumping into others a few times, but he directed himself easily. She would say he was a natural.

He went on like that for a while as she watched. When he’d had enough, he made his way back to the edge of the lake where she stood.

“Was that fun?” She asked when he skated towards her. Credence nodded his head and smiled bashfully. She helped him stop by taking his outstretched hands. 

“You’re a fast learner. I’m kind of jealous. I didn’t get the hang of skating until I was twelve,” she brooded jokingly. “Are you done?”

“Yes,” he said as he stepped back on the snow. 

They walked towards the bench, and Credence sat down to take off his skates. (y/n) stayed standing. “There’s a vendor selling treats across the street,” she told him. “Why don’t you give those skates back to the kids while I get us something to drink?”

“But––” Credence tried to protest, not having the courage or social skills to approach a group of children. It was quickly ignored, however, for (y/n) had already made up her mind, and began walking to the street. 

“I’ll be right back!” She said as she left him alone on the bench. 

Credence looked around, silently doubting his ability to find the kids. His eyes scanned the park until they landed on a group of children having a snowball fight. He recognized one of the children as the bratty boy (y/n) convinced to let them borrow the skates. 

He reluctantly got up from the bench and walked over to the children, skates in hand. The closer he got, the louder their shouting laughter became. Most of the children were boys between the ages of seven and thirteen, but three girls around their age had gained their friendship. One girl stayed off to the sidelines watching the others play. He recognized her as well.

“Excuse me... little girl?” He called. The little girl turned around and held out the skates. “Here.”

The girl took them and smiled. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome.”

She looked behind him, frowning when she saw nothing there. “Where’s that nice lady?”

Credence pointed across the street towards the street vendor where (y/n) was patiently waiting in line. “She should be back,” he told her.

“I like her!” said the girl. “She’s very pretty, like a princess!”

This made him smile. It made him happy to know others, even children, saw her the way he did. “Yeah,” he agreed. “She is.”

The little girl looked at Credence, noting the soft smile on his face as he watched you. “Do you like her or something?” She probed unexpectedly. 

“Uh... I...?” Credence struggled to find the words to say. It's not that he didn't know the answer, it was just that he hadn’t expected to be asked that question. Especially not from an eight-year-old girl. Were his feelings that transparent? Did you know how he felt too?

The little girl didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, I think she likes you,” she told him, surprising him for the second time.

Credence flushed pink. “Really?”

The small girl reached her hand to pat Credence's arm and imitated the look of someone wise beyond her years. “Trust me. Women know these things.”

Oddly, he couldn’t help but feel a bit hopeful despite the words coming from a child. He never felt about anyone the way he felt about her. The way he is when he’s with her—the way he talks to her and touches her—he can only be that way with her because he likes her. He could never be that way with anyone else. But he always felt that, for her, it was different. Seeing her interact with others like the children, the waitress, Raül—even Edmund—made him realize that she was kind to everyone. She didn’t treat him that way because she liked him. She treated him that way because that’s just the kind of person she was.

“Hey, kiddos!” (y/n)’s voice caught his attention. Both Credence and the girl looked up to see her holding a cardboard box of steaming paper cups. “I got something for you!”

The children playing heard her too and ceased their fight to run towards her. They circled her like a litter of puppies, excitedly asking what she was holding.

She lowered the box for them to see, showing off cups filled with light brown liquid. “For letting us borrow the skates. Be careful though, it's hot!”

The kids yelled enthusiastically as she began handing them each a cup. Credence walked to her side to help her.

“What is it?” He asked.

(y/n) frowned. “Hot chocolate. Have you never had hot chocolate before?”

He shook his head, causing her to gasp.

“I wish I had known sooner!” She pouted. “I got this is from a vendor across the street. I could have gotten better hot chocolate with marshmallows at a cafe a block from here.”

“I think it’s delicious!” The little girl interjected. 

(y/n) smiled down at her. “Well, if you think so, then it must be.”

Credence ended up being the one to give the bratty boy his cup of hot chocolate. (y/n) watched him as he drank it greedily. 

“What about you?” She asked him. “Do you like it too?”

“It’s pretty good, I guess,” he said, trying his hardest to sound indifferent, but it was hard to take him seriously with the chocolate mustache on his lips.

(y/n) laughed and took his cheek between her fingers, pinching them gently. “Gosh, you’re so darn cute! Do you have a big sister already? I can be yours, if you want. I’ve always wanted a little brother!”

The boy blushed and pulled his face away from her hand. “Lady, you’re crazy!”

He threw his empty cup on the ground stormed off angrily. The other children finished their cups and handed them back to her nicely before running off too, leaving her and Credence alone. 

“What did I say?” She mumbled to herself.

Credence couldn’t help but find it amusing. It was nice seeing her tease someone else for a change. 

“Maybe he already has a sister,” he answered sarcastically.  

(y/n) scoffed. “Yeah, yeah, just drink your cocoa,” she chuckled after handing him a cup. 

The two threw away the empty cups and cardboard box in a nearby trashcan. (y/n) suggested they take a walk around the park and talk. She asked him if he liked the hot chocolate, to which he answered yes. She then asked which he liked better: vanilla milkshakes or hot chocolate. He told her milkshakes. They talked like this for a while. Occasionally she would ask about his family and what he liked to do at home. He didn’t give her many satisfying answers, but that didn’t stop her from prodding.

“So, did you give up on hunting witches?” She asked.

Credence swallowed another sip of his hot chocolate. “I’m sorry?”

“You don’t carry around flyers anymore. Did you give up?”

“Oh. No, it’s not that,” he said. “I don’t think my mother will ever give up on exposing witches. It’s just that right now she’s kind of stuck.”

“Stuck? Stuck how?”

“She wanted to speak at the church to let everyone know about what she’d seen, but the priest, Father Blackwell, wouldn’t allow it.”

“I know Father Blackwell,” she told him.

Credence perked up. “You do?”

“Yes! My father is a big supporter of the church. Personally, I identify as agnostic, so I don’t go to church with him unless it’s for a holiday like Easter or Christmas. I wonder if you’ve seen him. Not that you could miss him. He’s a rather large man,” she joked.

“Does he wear a white suit?” Credence asked, remembering the stocky man talking with Father Blackwell the last time he visited the church.

(y/n) grinned and nodded excitedly. “That’s his Sunday suit! He has four of them. For some reason, he only likes wearing cream-colored suits on Sundays.”

“I have seen him,” he admits.

“Small world!” She exclaimed. “Well, anyways, I can definitely tell my father to put in a good word for your mother to Father Blackwell.”

“You would do that?”

“Of course! Better yet, why don’t we go right now?”

“N-Now?” Credence gaped.

“It’s Wednesday, they have a service tonight. Father Blackwell will be there, and I can try to convince him to let your mother have a set this Sunday!

“But what about your father?”

“We might not need him. I know Father Blackwell well enough. He might be swayed on my word alone. It won’t hurt to try,” she explained.

“I guess not,” he agreed.

“Come with me, my car is just a short walk from here!” She grabbed his free hand and directed him towards the street where she’d parked her car. 

After they reached the car, she drove him to the church. It was a short fifteen-minute drive from Central Park. It was still too early for the service to start, but when they entered the church, a few people were sitting in the pews praying. An older woman was playing the organ at the altar while Deacon Ripley read scriptures from the Bible. He stopped only stopped when he noticed the two walking down the aisle. 

“Oh, God,” Credence heard (y/n) mutter under her breath. “Not this clown again.”

He wasn’t used to you outwardly showing your distaste for someone; you were always so nice. But considering it was Deacon Ripley, it wasn’t too surprising. 

He was a cunt.

As they came closer, Ripley marked the passage he’d finished reading and closed the Bible. 

“Miss (l/n),” he called her name with a sneer. “What a pleasant surprise. What brings you here?”

“I’m here to speak with Father Blackwell,” she replied coldly. It was the first time Credence had ever heard her use such a tone. 

Ripley frowned, taking a step down from the podium. “What business could you have with him?”

(y/n)’s lips curled into a sly smirk. “My business with him would be his business and mine, so why would I tell you our business if it isn’t your business to begin with?”

Her witty remark clearly got under Ripley’s skin. His frown deepened and splotches of red began appearing under his grey skin. He didn’t get the chance to respond before Father Blackwell stopped him. 

“Give it a rest, Ripley.” Father Blackwell had come out from the door to his office. He moved between Ripley and (y/n), and held out his hand for her. “(y/n), it’s lovely to see you. It’s been a while. A year, I think?”

She took his hand and shook it. “Don’t be silly, Father. You saw me earlier this year, remember? For my parent’s Easter party.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he nodded, chuckling softly. “Must’ve slipped my mind. What brings your here, child?”

 “Ah, yes, about that...” (y/n) eyed Ripley. “Can we speak somewhere private, just the two of us?” 

“I don’t see why not. Step into my office.”

(y/n) turned to Credence and gave him a reassuring smile before following Father Blackwell to his office and disappearing behind the heavy door. Credence could feel Ripley’s eyes burning a hole in the side of his head. He obviously wanted to say something to him. 

“Seeing that godless woman walk through God’s doors was not something I expected to see today,” he began, excited to get his two cents in.  “But I must admit, seeing you by her side surprises me more. I didn’t realize you two were so close”

What was his problem? Why did he hate her so much? Then Credence remembered what she said to him in the park. Could that be why Ripley hated her? Because she didn’t believe in the church? No, it had to be something else. His pointed anger felt too personal.  

“We’re not really,” Credence answered. “I only just met her.”

“So you say.” Ripley circled him. “I wonder... Does your mother know about you and Miss (l/n)?”

If there’s one thing Credence hated about Ripley, it was his talent for stirring up trouble. His hobby of collecting and relaying gossip often caused spouts within the church. Credence fell victim to this twice before, each time resulting in a beating from his mother. He had to be careful with what he says to Ripley because he will most definitely relay it to his mother if he thinks it will cause conflict. 

“She does,” he lied as best he could. 

Ripley raised his brows. “Really? I never took her for the kind of woman who would allow her son to stroll the streets alone with such... unholy company. If there’s one kind of person Mary Lou hates, it’s women like her.”

Credence frowned. “What do you mean by ‘women like her’?”

“Don’t you know? Not only does she not accept the Christian God, but she fully denounced him. Instead of saving her divine feminine for holy matrimony, she committed salacious acts with various men that would make the Virgin Mary cry.”

Credence fell silent. So this was the reason. The malicious smirk on Ripley’s cracked lips proved that he couldn’t wait to tell him what he knew. 

“Oh my,” Ripley sighed. “I suppose you didn’t know.”

Credence clenched his fist. He could feel his body vibrating with heat. He was so angry. How dare he speak about her that way? How dare he disrespect her? Spread rumors about her? Was gossip not a sin?  Who was he to degrade and scrutinize her?

So what if she did? He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. It didn’t change what he thought about her. It didn’t change how he felt about her. But hearing such demeaning words come from Ripley's mouth made his blood boil. 

There were times where Credence would get like this. It wasn’t often, but when he did, his mind would think dark, violent thoughts. They build up in his head until anger and rage blinded him. He wanted to say something—do something. He probably would have too, if her voice hadn’t rung in his ears, immediately calming his nerves and the growing anger inside him. 

“Credence, I did it!” 

He saw you rushing excitedly towards him with a big smile on your face. You came up to him, grabbed both of his hands, shaking them wildly. 

“Tell your mother that she can speak this Sunday at the end of the service!”

Credence swallowed the lump in his throat. His tightened chest released the tension it was holding and his hands unclenched to hold hers. Looking into her shining (e/c) eyes made all his violent thoughts disappear as if they were never there. 

He blinked a few times, already forgetting how upset he’d just been. “H-How?”

“Magic,” she winked. 

She hooked her arm around his and began walking him back down the aisle to the exit. “Do you want me to drive you home?” She asked, looking up at him.

Credence smiled, Ripley’s taunting comments fleeing his memory. “Yes.”

The drive took longer than expected. There had been an accident on Manhattan Avenue that detoured them to Harlem. Credence didn’t mind it. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye just yet. Driving through Harlem was an experience in itself. He’d never been past the Upper East Side. Harlem was a lively neighborhood. People played music and danced in the streets despite the cold. Murals lined the walls, and there was a hopping joint around every corner. Credence looked out the window in silent awe, taking in everything he saw. 

“Have you never been here before?” (y/n) asked, noticing his astonishment. 

“No,” he told her truthfully. “It’s really nice.”

“You know, I used to live here,” she revealed.

That, he found hard to believe. His doubt must have been visible on his face because she laughed and shook her head. 

“What? You don’t believe me? It’s true, I swear! I wasn’t always like... Well, we didn’t always live in Kings Point.”

Having something to prove, Credence watched as she made a sudden turn, off course from where they were heading. The townhouses they passed were tall, skinny, and faintly worn down. The further they drove from the commercial streets, the quieter it became. They rounded about four blocks before turning into a barren street. Some houses were completely dark, while others had lights in their windows. The car slowed to a stop in front of one of the dark houses. It wasn’t terribly worn, but chipping blue paint covered the exterior and there were cracks in the brick fence that protected it. 

(y/n) parked the car and moved to get out. Credence did the same, opening the door and stepping onto the pavement. (y/n) came to his side and eyed the house. 

“This was my house,” she spoke after a while. “I lived here until I was nine.”

She walked up to the gate and pointed at the mailbox inside it. Faded letters that spelled her last name were imprinted on the stone from where a sign used to be. He tried to imagine her living it; it was almost comical. He only knew her to wear mink coats and designer clothes. He’d only pictured her living in a palace—somehow it felt fitting. Imagining her in such a small house and living an average life didn’t seem right. But perhaps that’s why she kept surprising him.

“No one lives here now. Sometimes I come back just to look around and remember as much about the place as I can.”

Credence walked to her side. “What do you remember?”

A smile fluttered on her lips. “I remember chasing my brothers around the house. We sat by the fire during the winter while my father read us stories and my mother knitted blankets and scarves. I learned how to ride a bike right on this street!” She looked down at the cracked pavement. “We were happier, I think.”

“Are you not happy now?”

(y/n) looked up at Credence and flushed. “I am! I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s just...” She sighed. “Now that my father has his own architect firm, he’s been so busy I rarely see him anymore. My mother and I were never really close, and it’s pretty easy for us to avoid each other in such a big house. I don’t know... Sometimes I wonder if it was all worth it.”

“What about your brothers?” asked Credence. “You seem close.”

“We are,” she smiled. “We always had each other, and most of the time it was enough. Even when Aaron left to study at Oxford, Channing paid extra attention to me. Still, I want us all to be as close as we were.”

He could sympathize with that. Blood-related or not, Modesty and Chastity were his sisters. They’d been through a lot together, and that was enough for him. He didn’t know what it was like to lose a close relationship with a parent, having never had one in the first place—but he figured that’s what made it worse. 

“Anyway,” she elbowed him playfully. “D’you believe me now?”

Credence nodded. She chuckled softly, taking his hand and guiding him back to the car. They continued the rest of their drive uninterrupted. It was relatively quiet aside from the few comments she made along the way. By the time they reached Pike Street, it had started to snow again. It wasn’t heavy like the days before. The snowflakes fell slowly and softly, fluttering down gracefully on the window-shield. 

The care halted to a stop on the street corner. (y/n) turned to Credence, who was already looking at her. 

“Thank you,” he said. “For helping me.”

She smiled and looked down at her hands. “You don’t need to thank me,” she blushed. “I was happy to.”

“Still, I want to. Thank you, for everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

They regrettably said their goodbyes, something Credence hated doing because he was never sure when he’d see her again. He stepped out of the car and onto the icy street, turning to wave goodbye at her one last time before watching her drive off down and disappear behind the buildings once she rounded the corner. Credence turned on his heels and walked back to the snow-covered chapel. His feet dragged behind him to stall his arrival. He walked up the creaking steps to the door and opened it lackadaisically. 

He began stripping himself of his outerwear when he noticed another presence in the room. He looked to the stairs and found his mother, Mary Lou, sitting there. Her icy blue eyes bore into his skull. Credence got a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach, a vestigial remnant of primal instinct that signified impending danger. 

“Hello, Mother...” He said upon seeing her. She didn't respond. She only looked at him in a way that made him increasingly nervous. He shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.

“I have some good news.” His mouth began moving before he could think. “Father Blackwell said he would let you speak this Sunday. It’s towards the end of service, and he is only giving us three minutes to speak, but that’s better than nothing, right?”

“Did your jezebel tell you that?” She spoke dangerously.

Credence’s body tensed. “What are you talking about, mother?” He asked, fearful he already knew the answer.

Mary Lou opened her hand to reveal the pink handkerchief. His stomach dropped as she threw the cloth down at his feet. Mary Lou rose from the stairs, her heels thumping loudly as she climbed down.

“I saw you at the cathedral, Credence. You and your little harlot,” she said as she walked towards him. “I was on my way to speak with Father Blackwell when I saw the two of you skip outside with her clinging to your arm.”

Credence kept his head down, staring at the handkerchief by his feet. Mary Lou circled him like a vulture ready to pick at a rotting carcass.

“I always knew your flesh was weak... but I didn’t know all it took was a pair of big (e/c) eyes to make you fall from grace.”

“Mother, I—” The sound of her heavy hand slapping across his face cut his sentence short, sending him to the ground. 

“Silence!” She ordered. Credence felt tears prickling behind his eyes. He stared at the handkerchief lying pathetically on the floor. Mary Lou’s pointed black shoe came into his view and stepped on the delicate silk. Mary Lou was never one to yell, that’s what made her anger so much more terrifying. She spoke barely above a whisper, in a sickeningly sweet and proper tone, the cruel words that left her thin lips.

“The worst part of it is: you tried to hide it from me. You knew what you were doing was a sin. You knew that God was watching, and you did it anyway.”

“Mother, it’s not what you think,” Credence said through his strained tears. “I didn’t touch her!”

“Don’t lie to me, Credence, I saw the way you looked at her!” Mary Lou seethed. “You think I wouldn’t notice you sneaking in late? That I wouldn’t smell the perfume on your clothes?”

Credence fell silent, realizing that denial was futile. It didn’t matter what he said. Mary Lou had already set her mind about his relationship with (y/n). He knew it was too good to be true. He had been happy for far too long. He should have expected it wouldn’t last. He always screwed everything up somehow. This was his own fault. He deserved this.

“You know what I have to do now, don’t you?” She whispered.

Credence did know. His heart thrashed in his chest, fear coursing through his veins. “Mother, please, don’t!” he begged feebly. “I won’t see her again, I promise!”

Mary Lou kneeled in front of Credence. Her hand reached up to lift his head. He forced himself to look her in the eyes, his vision blurred from his tears. They were unfeeling and as cold as the words that left her lips. 

“I know you won’t. We’ll make sure of that.”

More people die in winter than in any other season. That is a known fact. The blistering cold is more dangerous than the smoldering heat. During the winter, everything dies. The plants die, the animals die, even the sun dies just a little.

“Credence?”

There was nothing worse than winter, he thought. There was nothing worse than being left in the cold, wet, nodding in and out of consciousness—somewhere between life and death. Maybe he was being dramatic. He’d survived this at least twice before. He will be allowed back home, eventually. He would be given a hot bath and warm clothes. He would be wrapped in a blanket and laid on his bed. He would be forgiven.

But, in this moment, he had no warmth. The clothes on his back were damp, sticking to his skin like icy sheets. His already pale skin looked almost as white as the blanket of snow that covered the city, save for the faint blue tint of his lips.

“Credence.”

At first he’d thought walking would make him warmer. Maybe if he moved his muscles, his body would produce what little heat it could. Thinking back on it now, it was a pretty stupid idea. If anything, it made it worse. The wind had picked up, and the snow fell faster than it was earlier. How long had he been out here? It could have been twenty minutes or an hour, he couldn’t tell. Time moves slower when you’re miserable. What he did know was that he had walked about four blocks from the chapel. He thought he might find a place, a warm place where he could sit and rid himself of the cold.

He’d try a tea shop, a restaurant, and a bookstore before giving up. No one would let him in. They were all closed early for the holiday season. He then became increasingly aware how late in the afternoon it was, and how much colder it would be once the sun finally set. And he would still be here, cowering in a filthy alleyway that smelled heavily of rotting food and urine.

“Credence!”

How did she always mange to find him? Her large eyes bore into his own, wide and unyielding. She was close enough that her short breaths gave him the first gust of heat he’d felt since he was thrown out of the chapel. Unlike before, it didn’t smell of coffee beans, but of the hot chocolate they had shared just hours before. If the sweet scent hadn’t filled his nose, he would have sworn she was a hallucination. This was the last place he’d expect to see her. Yet, she always had a knack for turning up in places he’d least suspect. Regardless of what she always said, it felt a little more than coincidence—something just shy of fate.

“What are you doing out here? Where’s your coat?” Her hands flew to his shoulders, her own body reacting to the lack of warmth jolted and shivered.

It was her kind eyes he liked the most. Her eyes had the greatest warmth, the kind that filled your chest whenever you looked at them. He could stare into them forever and never get cold. Her eyes are what he’d miss the most.

“You’re soaking wet! You’ll freeze half to death out here! Come to my car, It’ll warm you up.” She reached for his hand, but he would not give it to her.

“Go away.”

This he could not say while looking in her eyes. It would only make it harder. There was an unpleasant pause, one that continued for a second too long. Her voice, he would miss the sound of her voice as well. He wanted to remember it as best he could, even if the last words she would say to him were full of resentment.

“What?”

He turned his back to her, hiding his tears. He had to do this. It was bound to happen anyway. What was the point in watering a dead plant? The fantasy should have long since ended. It shouldn’t have begun in the first place.

“I’m fine. Just go away,” his voice was barely above a whisper.

But he wasn’t fine, and he didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to follow her to the car, where she’d wrap him in the wool blanket she kept in the back seat, and she’d hold his hands to keep them warm.

She scoffed, her heels scuffing on the asphalt as she stepped back, exasperated. “Yeah, right, you’re one minute away from mummifying out here! Just get up and come with me!” She reached for him again, taking his hand. Her touch. He’ll miss her touch.

“No!” He jerked away from her gentle hands.

He didn’t need to see her face to know it hurt her. It hurt him just to say it. But he had to. He made a promise he had to keep. No matter how much it hurt. The next words to fall from his lips would be nothing but lies to mask the truth.

“I don’t need you.”

I do.

“I don’t need your help.”

Help me.

“I don’t want to see you anymore!”

Please don’t go.

Another pregnant silence. The lump in Credence’s throat was large enough to suffocate him. Every time he tried to swallow it down, it would grow bigger, prompting more tears to stain his cheeks.

“You don’t want to see me anymore?” She repeated. Her voice was as cold and steady as the snow that fell around them.

Everything dies in winter. The plants die, the animals die, even the sun dies just a little. The sound of her heels knocking on the asphalt faded along with her warmth. He’d call out to her if he wasn’t a coward. He would tell her the truth and beg for her forgiveness if he had the strength. But when he couldn’t smell lavenders or vanilla, or feel her unwavering warmth, he knew that it was too late. She was gone.

He fell to the ground, burying his head in his knees to muffle his pained cries. The icy ground didn’t phase him. He felt nothing but the ache in his chest and the swell of his throat. He wondered if that pain would ever go away. Could he continue on like this? With the feeling that a part of him had been taken?

He unclenched his fist, revealing frayed pink fabric; the stitched golden letters staring back at him mockingly. It was the only surviving piece of the handkerchief his mother burned. He’d picked it from the ashes before she threw him out on the streets. The smell of ash and smoke dulled the scent of lavender and vanilla it once carried. But, if he focused hard enough, he could still smell the traces of her perfume. For now, it will be enough.

He sat in the alleyway until the early night sky replaced the setting sun. He would sit and listen to the passing cars and pedestrians in silence, until he could no longer feel the fabric in his hands, or the sting of his aching muscles. His swollen eyes grew heavy, barely staying open longer than a second. He closed them, letting his body relax and fade slowly into nothingness.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, he stayed curled in the alleyway, unaware of his surroundings. Unaware that a car had parked outside the alley entrance. Ignorant to the footsteps that neared his meek form and the shadow that loomed over him. He was oblivious to it all until he felt a weight on his head and shoulders. He pried his eyes open to find himself wrapped in a thick wool blanket.

A dainty (s/c) hand opened for him, tempting him to take it; his saving grace.

“I’m not going to leave you like this. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”

Her eyes weren’t angry. They weren’t cold or full of resentment. They were as kind and warm as they always had been, perhaps even more. Her rosy lips held a gentle smile just for him.

“You don’t have to see me again after tonight,” she concurred. “But I need you to get in the car. Please, Credence. Just one more night, then you’ll never have to see me again.”

Had it been anyone else, he would have refused. The hold his mother had on him was stronger than the yearnings of his heart. His fear of her would keep him from acting on his desires—what he truly wanted. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. But now, with her hand outstretched for him to take, there was no nagging fear pulling him away. No voice in the back of his head vilifying him from acting on his whims. Because, for the first time, someone had heard what he didn’t dare to say aloud. For the first time, someone cared. 

Had it been anyone one else, he wouldn’t have taken their hand. He wouldn’t have stood from the frozen ground or walked towards their car. Anyone else, and he wouldn’t have gotten inside and felt the heat melt his frozen muscles. If it was anyone but her, he would still be wasting away in the freezing, damp alleyway. 

“Just try to relax and get warm,” she told him as they drove off. He didn’t have the strength to speak. He was far too tired. She could see from the corner of her eye that he was falling asleep. His head rested on the window, his bloodshot eyes struggling to stay open. She took his hand that rested in his lap. It was cold to the touch, like ice, as if no blood coarsed through his veins. 

She refused to let go, instead she held it tighter. “Rest. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

If he wasn’t already drifting to sleep, he would have asked where she was taking him, but his eyes refused to open, and his lips would not open to pose the question. Instead he let the motion and hum of the car lull him to sleep. 

New York City was known for many things: its gigantic skyscrapers, the lively scene, the people. But it was easy for tourists to see what the locals could not. New York City was by no means as glorious as its reputation would like you to believe. Everything great about it was reserved for people who could afford it. Shopping, clubbing, broadway, the cinema; it was all novelty. The grit of New York City was something the average New Yorker would like to escape. If the city was as great as it was made out to be, then why did the wealthy live upstate in their palatial mansions? It’s because beyond the smog and stench of the city was fresh air, and acres of woodlands and grasslands to admire. 

That’s all Credence could see when he opened his eyes from what felt like a year’s rest. From the passenger window he could make out the shadows of tall, snow covered maples and oak trees rushing past. The road was long and winding, twisting through the scenic route with ease. 

Beyond the trees, he could make out the orange lights of houses drawing near. It wasn’t long before the trees were replaced by vast mansions with plunging yards, overly decorated for the holiday season. The drowsy fog had barely lifted from his mind to take in such a foreign sight. As his mind awoke, so did the rest of his senses. He became aware of his body, and how it was no longer cold and wet. He could feel his blood circulating in his hands and feet, allowing them to move and wiggle as he pleased. His nose was no longer stuffed, and the numbness in his face had left. 

Taking a peak through the corner of his eye, he saw her; her eyes focused on the road. The light from the passing mansions cast shadows over her features. She was otherwise relaxed, if it weren't for the faint wrinkle of her forehead, the kind that appeared when she was deep in thought. He was too afraid to say anything. Even if he wasn't, he wouldn’t know what to say. Things had happened so suddenly, he couldn’t keep up.

Instead, he kept silent and watched the houses roll by as she drove. Trapped in his thoughts, he began to realize just where she was taking him. He didn’t know why she thought to bring him here, or what she planned to do, but he concluded she was taking him to her home. He’d never been to Kings Point before and he never imagined going within his lifetime, but he could say with confidence that it did not disappoint.

Kings Point was exactly how he imagined it, save for a few minor details. Under different circumstances he would be awestricken, but tonight he didn’t have the energy for it. All he had the energy to do was count the mansions they passed in his head. It was better than thinking of the events that lead him there.

He counted seventeen pompous manors before the car’s speed gradually reduced to a cruise. He watched as a large manor with swooping gable roofs and multiple chimneys came into view. An untouched layer of snow blanketed its long front yard. Windows were plentiful, all of which were lit with those distinct orange lights.

The car pulled into the long driveway, normally protected by a gate, but tonight that gate was left open, allowing them to drive through with ease. As they drove closer to the main manor, he could see the two other sprawling houses that surrounded a large courtyard highlighting a marble fountain.

When the car came upon the front of the manor, there was a man in a black tailcoat tuxedo waiting for them. The car came to a stop, and the man came around the hood to the driver’s door.

“Miss (y/n), welcome home,” he said as he opened the door. (y/n) thanked him, taking his outstretched hand and stepping onto the scalloped cobblestone.  

When the door closed behind her, leaving Credence inside. The two were clearly conversing, presumably about him. She would steal a glance at him through the window a few times while she spoke. The man, who he could now see was no longer in his youth, only nodded compliantly. When the two seemed to come to an understanding, (y/n) walked around to his side of the car, opening it for him to step out.

“Follow me,” She said, taking his hand.

She wasted no time pulling him from his seat and leading him off to some side entrance of the manor. The door they entered was smaller than the wide, double-doors he saw at the front entrance. Inside was just as grand as the outside. The door they took lead to a kitchen as big as the chapel he lived in. Currently, it was packed with chefs prepping large platters of food and servers organizing the trays.

(y/n) clasped his hand tightly as they bulldozed their way through the kitchen. She apologized to the passing help, weaving her way through to the door that stood on the opposite end of the room. Credence kept his head low, allowing her to guide him. Once they reached the adjacent door, she pushed her way through, pulling him down a hallway that he could see led to a set of stairs.

They were rushing down the hall when they passed a side room they didn’t realize was occupied. Their footsteps prompted the voice of a woman to call out into the hall.

“(y/n), honey, you’re back already?”

(y/n) stopped in her tracks, cursing under her breath. She held her finger up to her lips, telling Credence to stay quiet.

“Yes.” She answered.

The woman called out again. “I thought the shops would be busy today.”

“They were.”

“Well, did you get everything you wanted?”

“Yes.”

There was a moment’s pause before the woman spoke again.

“Alright,” she said. “Don’t go picking at the food in the kitchen! You’ll just have to wait until tonight like everyone else!”

(y/n) rolled her eyes. “Alright, Mom.”

She signaled for Credence to continue walking towards the staircase as her mother continued to talk from the room.

“And once you put your gifts away, come back and help me finish arranging the poinsettias in the foyer!”

“I will!” She yelled back while pulling Credence up the stairs.

She practically dragged him down the upstairs hall and pushed him into a room, closing the door behind them. That flowery scent that was distinctly hers immediately overtook his senses. The wide, circular room was lit up by various lamps and a sparkling chandelier made of iridescent crystals that hung at its centre. The dark wood panelling of the walls contrasted the rosy accents: blush pink art deco wallpaper, tall white drapes that covered balcony doors, the various mix-match carpets that covered the wood floor like patchwork. The broad circular bed enclosed in a silky white canopy sat against the wall next to a small fireplace. On the other side was a door he assumed led to a bathroom.

(y/n) stood awkwardly by a three-mirror vanity, bashfully fiddling with a silver hairbrush. She’d shed her coat.  

“Sorry about her,” she muttered. “She gets like this around the holidays.”

It was overwhelming, being in her room. He’d barely had a moment to register all that was happening. Now that he had the chance to breathe, his anxiety got the better of him. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He should be in the city, on his knees begging his mother to forgive him, not miles away in King’s Point; and definitely not in her bedroom.  

“This was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here—”

“You promised me, Credence,” she interjected, silencing him. “Please... Just let me have tonight.”

He clenched his jaw, turning his head to stare at the wall. It was better than looking in her eyes. He heard her move from the vanity. The sound of a cabinet being opened caught his attention. She had an armoire of her own, though hers was grander than his. It towered over her, composed of white and gold painted wood. From inside, she retrieved a blueberry colored suit. Credence recognized it as the suit she eyed in the window the week before. 

“I got you something,” she said, placing the suit on the bed, along with a fresh pair of brown oxfords. “I know you told me not to... but I just couldn’t help myself.”

Credence walked to the edge of the bed, brushing the material with his fingers. She got this for him.  

She moved to a dresser, where she pulled a neatly folded white towel and cloth from the drawer. She walked back to his side, holding the towels out for him to take.

“There's a bathroom behind that door. You can take a bath and get yourself ready. I’ll come back once I’ve finished helping my mother.”

He took the towels from her hands, leaning towards the idea of a bath. His body still hadn’t completely warmed from the ride, and his clothes still stuck uncomfortably to his skin. She left him alone in her bedroom, closing the door behind her as she left.

Credence stayed by her bed even after she had left. He took the suit into his hands. The material was thick and soft. He could tell by the fine stitches it was of high quality, unlike the suit he currently wore. He collected the pants and shoes in his arms and walked to the bathroom door. Much like the bedroom, her bathroom was big. A porcelain bathtub resting on top of golden legs facing a large window that looked over one of the gardens. Credence walked across the mosaic floor and turned the knob of the tub. Hot water rushed from the faucet and filled the tub. Steam rose into the air, forging the mirror above the sink. He placed his clothes on a stool away from the tub so it wouldn’t get wet.

Stripping himself of his clothes, he dipped his foot into the warm water. Pleased by the feeling of the hot water heating his skin, he pulled the rest of his body into the tub and submerged himself until only his head remained above water. He sat in the water unmoving for a while with his eyes closed. The water relaxed his tense muscles, ridding his body of the prickling cold. As he sat there, resting his head against the edge of the tub, he thought about how long this would last. Why did she bring him here? 

Credence opened his eyes and found a rectangular bar of soap sitting on the tub’s edge. He lifted his hand from the water and took it, bringing it to his nose. Lavenders. 

He really shouldn’t be here. There was a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that was sure something would go wrong. His mind went back to what she’d said. He promised her he would stay with her tonight. He supposed he did, even if he hadn't explicitly say the words ‘I promise’. Taking her hand was more than an answer. 

But he had made another promise—a promise to someone he never dared to disobey so brazenly. He promised he would never see her again, to wipe her from his life and pretend like she never existed. And yet, here he was, laying in her bathtub, washing himself with her soap, wearing the clothes she bought him, and standing in her room. 

Credence stared at himself in the mirror by the armoire, now dressed in the blueberry suit she’d given him. It fit perfectly, as though it were made for him. It probably was. The shoes on his feet were comfortable. At first, he didn’t think they would fit; they were much larger than the pair of shoes he always wore. But after he pulled his socks up and slid his foot inside, he realized it wasn't that the shoes were too big, but his were a size too small. He could walk in them without his toes uncomfortably pressing against the tip. His toes could breathe and soles of his feet didn’t ache with every step. 

He almost didn't recognize his reflection. It was like another person was staring at him in the mirror. He looked like one of the men he admired in Times Square. The handsome scholars who came down from The Eggs to frequent the speakeasies to unwind after a long day of doing whatever rich boys do. He looked like the kind of man she belonged with.

A knock came from beyond the door.  “Are you decent?” Her muffled voice called from behind it. 

The door opened, and she peaked her head inside, meeting his eyes immediately.

“I knew it’d look good on you,” She smiled brightly, making her way towards him. “Does it fit nicely? I tried my best to guess your measurements. I was afraid it would be a bit off.”

He let her place her hands on his chest, smoothing the fabric of any wrinkles. His heart beat in his chest loudly, like it always did when she got this close. He watched her closely as she looked him over, avoiding his eyes. Her hands flew up to the black tie around his neck. 

“Your tie is a bit crooked.” She chuckled softly, taking the tie into her hands. “Let me.”

“Why are you nice to me?” He spoke lowly as she untied the knot. 

She furrowed her brows, her hands halting. “I’m sorry?”

“Most people would have ignored me had they saw me lying on the streets like I was today, and the day we met. Many people did. But you...” Credence struggled to find the words. “You helped me after I had fallen and dropped my papers, then you drove me home. The other week you insisted on buying me a coat, even though I told you I was fine without one, and then you took me to that restaurant. And then today, you convinced Father Blackwell to let my mother speak. You’ve been kind to me without even knowing me. Why?”

(y/n) lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Do I need a reason?” She countered. “Can’t I just want to?”

When he didn’t answer, she understood that wouldn’t be enough. She sighed, focusing her attention back on the tie. 

“Why did I do those things?” She bit her cheek in thought. “The night we met, I saw what that jerk did and wanted to help you. You looked so... sad. People walked over you—ignored you. It was like you didn’t exist, like I was the only one who saw you. I didn’t like it—seeing you like that. I just thought it would be nice to see a smile on your face. Maybe if I saw you smile, it would make me feel better.”

“Now that I’ve seen your smile, I’ve become a bit fond of it. Addicted is probably the better word. After seeing you smile for the first time, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wanted to see it all the time. If stuffing you full of burgers and teaching you how to skate put a smile on your face, I would do it. I would do anything to keep you smiling.”

She looped the tail of the tie and pulled the knot, tightening it around his neck. She adjusted his collar and let her hands fall to her sides. Her eyes flickered up to meet his. 

“So, I guess the answer to your question is: I did those things because I like you.”

Credence swallowed the lump rising in his throat, sending it back down to his chest. His eyes glistened in the light, glazed with rising tears. His heart ached in his chest, still hanging on to her words. ‘Like’? She liked him?

“And now?” His voice cracked. “Do you still fell that way? Even after the things I said?”

“Why did you say those things?” It was clear she had been wanting to ask this for a while. “Did I do something—say something to upset you?”

Credence vigorously shook his head. “No!” 

He clasped her hands tightly, taking her by surprise. “It’s not you,” he tried to explain. “It was never you.”

She held his hands just as tight, like she was afraid he would fade away if she let go. “Then?”

He swallowed again, looking down at his feet. “It’s my mother... she...” 

(y/n) frowned. She lifted Credence’s hand, turning his palm upward to expose the raised scars on his palms. 

“Was she the one who did this to you?” She whispered, though it sounded as if she already knew the answer. 

Credence stayed silent. He didn’t have the strength to say it out lout. 

“Did she leave you out on the street?” She asked, anger rising in her voice. 

“She doesn’t want me to see you anymore,” He muttered, shamefully. 

“Is that what you want?” 

Credence stilled. Nobody had ever asked him what he wanted. They locked eyes, (y/n)’s stared deeply into his, yearning for an answer. He barely opened his mouth to answer when a knock came from beyond the door, the person behind it bursting into the room. 

(y/n) dropped his hands, turning to face the culprit.

“Aaron, how many times have I told you to wait for me to answer before coming in my room?”

Aaron was a stocky man, just a few inches shorter than Credence. His angular face was covered with a tapered beard. He had the same (s/c) skin and (h/c) hair as (y/n), but his eyes were a light brown. He wore a black formal tuxedo with a matching bowtie. The smile on his face fell slightly as he looked between her and Credence. 

“Sorry sis, I didn’t realize you had company.”

(y/n) sighed, crossing her arms. “What do you want?”

Tearing his eyes from Credence, Aaron turned his attention to his sister, his smile widening. “I just thought you might like to say hello to someone.”

(y/n) raised a curious brow. “Who?”

The answer to her question walked in not a second later, dressing in a black fitted full dress tuxedo. He too shared a similar complexion to (y/n) and Aaron, but unlike Aaron, his eyes were the same has hers. He smiled, displaying a row of perfectly straight white teeth. “Hey. Did you miss me, street rat?”

(y/n)’s eyes widened, “Channing?”

Channing chuckled as she sped towards him. “The one and only—Ow!”

(y/n) had punched him hard in the shoulder. “Why didn't you tell me you were coming home?!”

Aaron snickered to the side. “Told you she would do that.”

“Well, that would defeat the purpose of it being a surprise, now wouldn't it?” He said, clutching his sore shoulder. “Can’t you act like a normal sister and be happy I’m back?”

“I am happy, you jerk,” she smiled, pulling him into a hug. He hugged her back gladly. It was clear the two missed each other greatly. 

“(y/n), who’s this?” Channing asked, looking over her shoulder at Credence.  

(y/n) too looked over her shoulder, her lips still holding her elated smile. “Aaron, Channing, this is Credence. He’s my plus one for tonight.”

“Right.” Aaron skeptically squinted at Credence. “And do Mom and Dad know that you have a boy in your room?”

(y/n) placed a hand on her hip. “I don’t know. Do Mom and Dad know about you and Mr. Finnegan’s daughter?” She deflected with a glare. 

Aaron cleared his throat, wrapping an arm around his younger brother and pushing him towards the door. “We’ll see you downstairs.”

“Wait,” (y/n) went to grab Credence by the hand and pulled him towards her brothers.  “Why don’t you show Credence around? You can bond and do whatever boys do while I get ready.”

They all looked at Credence, who was too petrified to protest the proposition. Aaron gave Credence a look that made him think he wasn’t too keen on the idea, but kept his otherwise cheerful smile. 

“I don’t see why not,” said Channing kindly, flashing an inviting grin much like the one (y/n) had given him many times before. He was starting to see the similarities between the two. 

“Yeah, come on, Credence,” Aaron agreed, throwing his free arm around Credence’s shoulder. “Hang with us guys for a while, we’re much more fun than she is.”

(y/n) rolled her eyes, escorting the men out of her bedroom. Credence’s pleading eyes silently asked for her not to leave him on his own, but she said nothing to stop them. She only gave him a comforting smile from the doorframe as they pulled him from the door. 

“I’ll see you in a bit.” She promised. 

Aaron and Channing dragged Credence down the hall, guiding him to another set of stairs. Unlike the ones (y/n) had sneaked him up an hour before, these stairs weren’t hidden in a corner at the end of the hall. It was a grand bifurcated staircase, with wide, velvet-clad sweeping steps that plunged into a wide landing that split in two directions: upwards to another wing of the manor, and downwards to the foyer. He could hear the music and babbling chatter clearly from the top of the staircase. The two brothers led him down the many steps, and again down the steps to the foyer where a great crowd of well-dressed men and women conversed under dropping garlands and mistletoe.

Without warning, they pulled him into the crowd, weaving their way through fur shawls and padded tuxedos. Tucked away in a corner of the room, Credence saw something he’d least expected: a familiar face. 

There, resting against a paneled wall, was Edmund Tully, drinking from a half finished glass of brandy. His eyes were distant and seemed to dart around the room, looking for something or someone. He wasn’t entirely sure if Edmund found what he was looking for, because when Aaron had called out to him, he gave up on his previous endeavor. 

It appeared that Edmund was not only friendly with Aaron, but Channing as well. They greeted each other as old friends do, with open arms, harmless roughhousing. Credence stood idly by, feeling out of place. It was only when Edmund set his green on him that Credence was pulled into their circle. Aaron noticed his friend’s stare and pointed his attention towards him. 

Aaron gestured to Credence, snapping his fingers. “Eds, this is uh—this is—give me a second—”

“Credence,” Edmund made up for Aaron’s forgetfulness. “Am I right? We met before.”

Aaron and Channing looked between the two unlikely acquaintances. “You have?” The eldest brother asked. 

Credence nodded, confirming Edmund’s claim. 

“Through (y/n), of course,” Edmund clarified. 

“I see,” Aaron hummed. 

A server in a tight vest came up the group of men with a tray full of glasses filled with a pinkish liquid. Credence watched as they each took a glass from the tray. 

“Do you drink, Credence?” Asked Channing, noticing Credence’s empty hand. 

“Sure he does!” Aaron exclaimed, taking an extra glass and shoving a it into Credence’s unsuspecting hand. “It’s Christmas!”

Giving into the pressure of the situation, Credence accepted the drink. It wouldn’t be the worst thing he’s done today. The gentleman made a simple Christmas toast, before taking their own respectable gulps. 

Credence brought the glass to his lips, letting the strange liquid slow past his lips and hit his tongue. Somehow the cold liquid felt like heat on his tongue, vibrating down his throat and spreading that warmth into his chest. It was a strange sensation, but not entirely unpleasant. While it was strong with alcohol, the sugary sweet after-taste made it palatable. He took another sip. 

Credence found Aaron and Channing to be decent men. Channing was more friendly to Credence that Aaron, but it had more to due with the age difference and the extenuating circumstances in which they’d met. He supposed it must have been hard warming up to the strange man who was found alone in your younger sister’s room. 

Edmund on the other hand didn’t address him much at all, only speaking to him when obligated. He had the sneaking suspicion that Edmund didn’t like him at all. Credence could care less. To be fair, Credence wasn’t sure he liked him either. 

Like (y/n) had asked, the two brothers, along with Edmund, showed Credence around the mansion. They took him upstairs and downstairs, through long halls and into opulent rooms that were also filled with partygoers. All the while, they continued to keep a full glass in their hands. Credence had drank four full glasses of pink drink by the time they circled back to the foyer—and they hadn’t even venture half of the vast manor. He wasn’t fully convinced that just one family lived in such a palace. 

They loitered the foyer, the music in the next room traveled well, distracting him from the conversation he wasn’t completely involved in. His eyes darted around the room, glossing over the painted and shaven faces of the other guests. He didn’t know what he was looking for until he found it—or rather— her. 

Descending from the heavens that was the staircase landing was her elegant figure, clothed in a velvety red dress that hung off her shoulders. Her hair fell in waves around her face, adorned with pins that resembled holly. The long pointed sleeves clung to her skin along with the rest of the dress, hugging her figure dangerously. He was the first to see her, and in parallel, she saw him first; her painted red lips curling into a wide grin once their eyes met. 

His chest was filled with a fluttering excitement as his eyes followed her movements drawing nearer. She walked straight towards him, bowing her head shyly as she got closer. The others noticed her too, hooting and hollering as she came, embarrassing her more. 

“The Princess has finally decided grace the party with her presence,” Aaron playfully jeered. 

“It’s not easy being the most attractive in the family, it takes a lot of work to look this good,” She bantered. 

“Tons of it, if you ask me,” Channing muttered snidely as he took a sip of his drink, causing a fit of harmless laughter between all of them but Credence. 

“You look amazing,” Edmund complimented over the giggles. 

(y/n) thanked him, her eyes drifting back to Credence expectingly. Flustered, Credence sputtered the first words that came to mind. “You look beautiful, you always do.”

(y/n) blushed, her girlish smile reaching her ears. Her brothers found the interaction equally amusing, stifling their laughter. Though Edmund didn’t find it so amusing, his once joyous expression faltering. 

“I have to steal my brothers for a moment,” (y/n) revealed. 

“What for?” Channing asked, unaware that he was needed. 

“Mom wants to see us all for a portrait. You were supposed to have been there by now. Daddy’s getting restless,” she told them.

Aaron cursed under his breath, having forgotten about the detail. He turned to his friend and handed him his drink. “It will only be a minute.”

Aaron and Channing hurried off towards the stairs whence (y/n) had come. Before she left, she met Credence’s eye. “Just wait for me here, okay? I’ll be right back.” 

She then disappeared up the stairs with her brothers, leaving him alone with Edmund. And then there were two. 

“Why don’t I show you to the gardens,” Edmund suggested after an awkward beat of silence. 

Credence didn’t get the chance to deny the offer before Edmund turned on his heels and headed towards the door, beckoning him to follow. Out of pure obligation, Credence followed, venturing from the manor and out into the cold (though the consistent warm buzzing in his head and chest kept him warm enough). 

Edmund guided Credence around to the main garden that sat in the center of the sprawling houses. Snow covered the hedges and statues that scattered the grounds. 

“Where are you from, Credence?” Edmund asked suddenly as they walked the garden path. 

Credence shrugged his shoulders. “Here.” 

“No, you’re not,” he said. “You might be from New York, but you’re not from here.”

Credence’s brow furrowed. What was he playing at?

“How did you meet (y/n)?” He pestered. 

“In Times Square,” Credence answered. “She helped me when I fell on the street. We kept running into each other ever since.”

Credence wasn’t sure why he was telling him all this, but he felt if he wanted to know, why not tell him? 

“You know, it's charming,” said Edmund. “How you’re sweet on (y/n). It’s pretty obvious. You look at her like a little puppy dog. It’s almost endearing. But it’s pointless.”

“Pointless?” Credence repeated. 

Edmund stared blankly at the younger boy. A sly smirk teetered on his lips.  “Oh, come on. Do you... Do you actually think you have a chance with her?”

Credence’s silence only amused him more, spurring him to laugh tauntingly. “Oh my God, you do! I almost feel bad for you!” It was only now that Credence noticed the subtle slur of his words. “Listen, mate, I’m only saying this because I feel like we could be friends. It's not going to happen. (y/n) is a sweet girl, almost too sweet. She’s oblivious to these kinds of things, you see?” He leaned against a stone post.

“How should I explain this? I’ve watched her grow up, and I have seen many young chaps like you fall all over her. She doesn’t realize her kindness attracts people. There have been many broken hearts left at her feet. You don’t want yours added to the pile, trust me.”

Yes, Credence decided in that moment he didn’t like Edmund at all. He took too much of a likeness to Ripley; they had the same condescending leer. The buzzing of his head wouldn’t allow him to hide his obvious disdain, and for the first time Credence would speak his mind, unafraid of the consequences. 

“Is yours one of them?” He asked boldly. 

“Excuse me?”

“Your heart,” he reiterated. “Is it one of the ones she broke?”

“I—”

“Do you feel threatened by me? Are you afraid that she might not like you as much as you think?” 

“What did you just say to me?” Edmund sputtered. 

Credence continued, feeling no shame for what he was about to slur and stutter. “She’s only nice to you because you’re friends with her brother and she’s known you for so long. But that isn’t enough to win her affection. Deep down, you know that.”

Edmund took Credence by the collar, “I suggest you stop talking,” he whispered dangerously. 

“You say that I don’t have a chance, then what do you have?” Credence chuckled provokingly. “She said she likes me. Has she ever said she likes you?”

“You don’t know a damn thing!” Yelled Edmund, red in the face. “To her, you’re just a pet. A sad little puppy she has to take care of. She’ll give you treats and dress you up like a doll, but it doesn’t mean anything. She’ll never see you as a man.”

“Is this what you do?” Asked Credence. “You drive away any person who you think might come between you and (y/n)? There’s nothing to come between. She’s not yours. She never was. And she’s not mine either. I don’t care if she doesn’t feel the same way I do. That doesn’t matter. But she said she liked me... and I like her.” Credence smiled. “And that is more than anything you’ll ever have with her.”

A powerful fist collided with his left cheek, sending him to the ground. The pleasing buzz in his head was replaced with rushing blood pounding against his temple. 

“I told you to stop talking,” the assailant heaved. 

Credence struggled to his hands and knees. The punch left a metallic taste in his mouth, and a bubbling rage in his stomach. Without thinking, he lunged forward, tackling Edmund to the ground. The two fell in a heap on the cobblestone, wrestling and thrashing violently. Credence got the upper-hand, landing a satisfying punch in the face, leaving Edmund with a bloodied nose. It didn’t last, because as soon as Credence wrestled his way on top, he was back under him, taking blows to the face and ribs. 

He couldn’t react fast enough to defend himself, and honestly, it was a miracle he landed a punch in the first place. He curled into himself to protect his face and ribs. The same vibrating rage he felt earlier that same day with Ripley danced under his skin. His thoughts faded in and out between consciousness, each unfamiliar thought being one of violence and rage. Pure, dark rage. 

Edmund may have got a peak at this entity—a glimpse into it’s glassy white eyes. If he had, he didn't say so. He only hesitated, a look of both confusion and fear flashing over his once blinding anger when their eyes locked. If he had seen those shining white eyes, they disappeared as soon as they came, her voice retreating the beast inside. 

“EDDY! CREDENCE! STOP IT!”

It was a trick of the lights, Edmund would later conclude. A figment of his drunken imagination. But it wasn’t true. The truth was Credence had a part of himself he couldn’t control—a part of himself that could destroy buildings and uproot roads—a part of him he couldn’t control, that is, until he met her. Until the sound of her sweet voice reached his ears and calmed the blackness to its dormant state.  

Edmund was pulled off of him, pushed several feet back while she dove for him on the ground, dirtying her red dress. The light from the lamppost and house gave the illusion that she glowed in the night.

Her eyes were big with worry. “Credence, are you okay? Does it hurt?” She helped him sit up, taking his face gently in her hands. It didn’t hurt. He couldn't feel anything but her warm hands caressing his cheeks. 

“I’m hurt too, (y/n),” Edmund croaked from his place. Aaron and Channing were there, barricading him away. “I got hit too. Why don’t you ask me if I’m okay? Huh?!”

(y/n) glared back at him. “You’re drunk!”

Edmund’s red face became wet with hot, angry tears. “WHY DON’T YOU ASK ME, (Y/N)?! DON’T YOU LIKE ME TOO?”

She held on to Credence's arm, holding him close. “I think you should go,” she muttered. 

Edmund sniffed, a look of pure heartbreak slapping over his chiseled features. “(y/n)...” He called for her one last desperate time, but she turned away, shutting him out completely. 

“Come on, man,” Aaron said sternly, pushing him back. “Let’s take a walk, okay?”

“GET OFF ME!” Edmund pushed Aaron away from him, staggering backward. He took one last long look at (y/n), hoping that she would look at him again. But she didn't. Her eyes stayed trained on Credence. He stepped back, defeated. 

“I can walk by my bloody self,” he slurred bitterly, retreating further into the garden, Aaron chasing after him. 

“Can you stand up?” (y/n) asked softly, taking Credence by the hand and pulling him to his feet. 

Channing helped as well, guiding them both back into the house. They stayed away from the festivities, taking the hidden stairs back up to her room. Channing had retrieved a medical kit after they reached her room, leaving once (y/n) insisted she could care for Credence on her own. 

Now, he sat next to her on her bed, while she shifted through the medical kit. His eyes trained on a young, black, hairless cat played curled up in a stuffed bed by the fire. This must’ve been the cat she had told him about. 

“Do you mind telling me what that was about or are you just going to stay silent?” Asked after the long silence. 

“It was nothing,” he told her, as she took his face in her hands to examine the wounds on his cheek and lip. 

“Yeah, right.” She muttered, taking a wet cotton swab and dabbing it on his scraped cheek. It burned, causing him to wince. She stopped immediately, looking apologetic. “Sorry.”

She went for the medical kit again, rummaging through it messily before stopping abruptly.

“You know what, I’m not sorry! Serves you right worrying me like that! I leave you for one minute and you’re picking fights in the street! Just look what he’s done to your face!” She cupped the side of his face where Edmund had punched him. She sighed, taking another cotton swab from the kit. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to yell. I don’t like seeing you hurt is all.”

He looked at her deeply through lidded eyes as she dabbed the cut on his lip. 

“We were fighting about you,” he confessed.

She stopped, her eyes flickered to his for a moment, before focusing back on his lip. “Me? Why on Earth would you be fighting about me?”

He didn’t say. She waited for an answer, but soon concluded she wouldn’t get one. He hissed when she began applying cream on his cuts. “Fine, then,” she mumbled irritably. “Don’t answer me. Just hold still—”

His lips were on hers before she could finish her harping. The swab fell from her hand in shock, her eyes wide as saucers. He was kissing her. His eyes were closed, his lips plush against hers. He ignored the sting of his cut as he pressed his lips onto hers like he’d seen couples do many times before. His heart pounded in his ears. He would have kept kissing her if he hadn’t held his breath for too long. When they parted, and he opened his eyes to see her staring, awestruck. 

His ears turned red, and a wave of embarrassment crashed over him, realizing what he’d done. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I shouldn’t have—”

Her soft lips crashed into his with passionate force, her hands flying to caress the nape of his neck. Now, it was his turn to be taken aback. Credence had kissed her how shy young couples do: pressing his lips onto hers. But she kissed him like lovers do, moving her lips feverishly against his, licking his lips coyly with her tongue. Imitating her actions, Credence let his eyes fall shut, opening his mouth for her. Her tongue slipped passed his lips and swirled around his, welcoming the foreign sensation.

“(y/n)...” He whimpered out of pure instinct. 

She pulled away, leaving him a blushing, panting mess. 

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you call me by my name,” she whispered. A smile stretched across her lips.  “Say it again.”

Credence’s cheeks burned, but he gladly did what she asked. 

“... (y/n),” he called her name again.

“Again.”

“(y/n),” he repeated.

“Credence,” she whispered his name, sending shivers down his spine.

“(y/n),” he whispered breathlessly. 

“Credence.”

“(y/n).”

She captured his lips in another sensual kiss, pushing him back onto the bed. The medical kit fell to the ground, forgotten. She laid on top of him, her legs wrapped around his thin waist, pressing her body against his like he’d imagined many times before. His heart thundered in his chest, his mind consumed by her. Lavender and vanilla, it was all around him; pressing against him, kissing him, caressing him.

“Credence,” she said between fiery kisses. “I want you.”

“Y-You want me?” He flushed, making her giggle. 

“Yes,” she chuckled, taking his hand. “Do... Do you want me too?” Her voice was small and unsure. 

Credence nodded, lacing his fingers between hers. “I’ll always want you.”

His words seemed to spur her on, reviving her confidence. “Is this okay?”

The touch of her hand on his thigh traveled down to his waist, sending shivers up his spine. The beat of his heart pulsed powerfully in his chest, ringing in his ears. He watched expectantly as she drew nearer, hovering over him. One of her hands rose to tenderly cup his cheek. Her hand was soft and warm against him. The way she touched him was unlike any other. She was always so gentle with him, so kind. 

Their lips were mere inches apart. So close he could feel her warm breath on his skin. She looked at him through hooded lids, her eyes darkened to a deep shade of (e/c).

Credence swallowed. “I...I’ve never...”

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.” 

She grinned, kissing his lips tenderly to calm his nerves. He felt her fingers move to unbutton his suit jacket. She pulled it off his shoulders, discarding it to the floor.

“Just relax,” she cooed. “I’ll take care of you.”

His black tie slipped off with ease, the buttons of his white dress shirt opened one by one the sound of fabric rubbing against each other and sultry sighs filling their ears. His shirt joined the jacket onto the ground, leaving him half-naked under her. He felt exposed, his eyes nervously fidgeting around the room. 

Her warm hands grazed the sides of his waist, delicately dancing up to his chest. She noticed the change in his breathing, his chest rising up and down in anticipation. He’d never been touched like this by anyone, not once. But now, as her hands glossed over his torso causing goosebumps to rise even though his skin was burning hot, he realized he wanted to be touched by her all the time, in every way. He wanted to kiss her over and over again; to feel her lips against his. He wanted to be close to her in the closest way possible.

As if answering his silent prayers, she pressed her chest against his, her breath tickling his cheeks. She kisses the mark on his cheekbone tenderly, then the corner of his lips, then his jaw. His eyes lull back. He let his head fall to the side, presenting his neck to her. Her hot breath on his neck excited him. Her lip pressed soft kisses down his jaw and neck, marking him with her red lipstick. Her wet tongue licked a stripe up his jugular, and he made a sound he’d only made once before in the confines of his room. 

She did it again, licking, sucking, and biting at the sensitive flesh of his neck. Credence bit his lip, muffling his desperate mewls. 

Her lips kissed up to the spot just under his ear. “It’s okay,” she whispered in his ear. “No one else can hear us. It’s just me.” 

Hoping to drive out more sweet moans, she sucked on the flesh of his neck she learned to be the most sensitive. His hips bucked upwards, grinding between her legs. He squirmed pathetically under her, his desperate pants and moans filling the room. 

His body was sensitive to her every touch, each kiss sending jolts of electricity through his body. She left love bites on the expanse of his neck and collarbone, coloring his pale skin purple and mauve. 

She caught his lips in another open-mouthed kiss, assaulting his mouth with his tongue at her pleasure. 

“Is... C-Can I touch you?” He asked through her kisses. 

She pulled away, her nose brushing against his. “Always,” she breathed. 

His hands daringly glided over her arms, reaching around her back. His fingers found the zipper to her dress and pinched, pulling it down her back until it stopped at her waist. She slid out of the dress with ease, slipping it off her body and letting it pool around her waist. His eyes glued to her bare chest, turning red from the neck up. She took his hands and guided them up her sides, outlining her feminine curves. 

She brought his hands to cup her breasts. His touch was hot on her skin, her own blush burning undeneath. He could feel her heart pounding wildly in his chest, and he knew she was just as excited as him. He let his body act on its own, his hands massaging her breasts. She let out a shaky breath, her mouth falling open. 

He continued, brushing his thumbs against her hardened nipples. Her hips rocked sensually against his twitching member. Her name slipped past his lips, his eyes trained on her figure above him. Her hands pressed on his chest, her hips moving in circles over him. Credence sat himself up, snaking his arms around her hips, gripping them firmly. They stared at each other breathlessly through half-lidded eyes. Credence’s already dark eyes turned to black pools reflecting in the moonlight. 

He mimicked her affections, placing chaste kisses under her jaw. He kissed the expanse of her neck, tasting her soft skin. He pulled her hips into him, guiding her movements in his lap. His length strained against his trousers, aching to be touched. 

“You said you want to touch me, right?” She panted. “Touch me here.”

She moved his right hand from her hip, slipping it under the velvety veil that covered where she wanted him most. He could feel her through thin lacy fabric, her heat already slick with arousal. He experimentally rubbed his fingers up and down her slit, studying the twitches and jolts of her body. She seemed to really enjoy when his fingers brushed against a certain spot, so he kept his attention there, rubbing steady circles around the sensitive area. 

Her hands gripped his shoulders, her head falling to rest in the crook of his neck. He enjoyed hearing her high-pitched moans, even as they were muffled against his neck. He pressed harder, picking up his pace to hear more. Her hips jut against his hand, jerking every so often. Her breaths quickened, and she whimpered his name in his ear. 

“Faster,” she’d pant desperately, her grip on his shoulders tightening. 

He did, circling his fingers as best he knew how. Her thighs tightened around his legs, her body stilled but he didn't stop. Only when he felt her body shake and relax against him did he stop, her sweet satisfied moan reaching his ears. 

He held her in his arms, peppering kisses on her shoulder and neck as she steadied her breathing. When she did lift her head from his neck, she pecked his lips and cheek. She held his face in her hands and moved to lie on her back, pulling him down in the process. 

He planted his hands on either side of her head. He admired her from above. Her red lipstick was faded, smudged messily on her chin, having been transfered on his own lips and neck. She didn’t break eye contact as her hands unbuttoned his trousers, pulling them down his waist and kicking them off with her feet along with his boxers. They lingered like that, just staring and admiring one another. He didn’t feel embarrassed. He felt strangely calm. The rest of the world seemed to float away. Nothing else mattered. Not the party down stairs, or the people laughing and drinking. Not Edmund and his jealousy, and not his mother and her vilification. Nothing mattered but her and him together in this room, together in her bed. 

He bent down to kiss her with all the passion and love he could muster. She was everything he could ever want and more. She was his saving grace, his goddess. He wanted to show her how much he loved her. ‘Closer,’ he thought. He needed to be closer to her.

Their lips and hips magnetized, their bodies melded together. He whispered her name like a mantra because he knew she liked hearing it as much as he liked saying it. He felt her hands slip between their bodies, grasping his length. She guided him to where she needed him, his tip pressing teasingly at her entrance. With her help, he eased inside, feeling her wrap tightly around him. They sighed in each others mouth, devouring their intoxicated moans. Her legs wrapped around his waist, urging him further. 

She opened for him like a flower in bloom. His hips moved without having to think. Being with her felt so natural. Every move he made came to him like second nature. His thrusts were slow and gentle, drawing wanton moans from her lips. Her hips rocked into him with equal fervor. She collected his moans with her kiss, her fingers tangling themselves in his hair. 

He lost himself in the feeling of her, his pace quickening. He watched her pretty face morph into varying expressions of pleasure, each thrust of his hips creating a new one. He’d never felt so good in his life. His body tingled and his skin burned pleasantly. He didn’t know it was possible to feel such pure, utter euphoria. 

He fisted the rosy silk sheets, his breath stopping in his throat. She tightened around him, and like a wave crashing down on a cliff side, he came. His body vibrated and twitched above her. He called her name into the air, his spastic thrusts edging her to her end, which—by the sounds of her shameless cries—was as powerful and illustrious as his. 

There was a moment of stillness; a moment in which they heard nothing but their shallow breaths and the crackle of the fire. They could do nothing but stay in their connected position with eyes locked. Credence fell to his side next to her on the bed. His muscles ached and his skin was slick with sweat, but he was filled with unwavering adulation. Eyes still locked, they said so much without needing to say anything at all. His hand found hers, lacing his fingers between her small ones.

They laid there, staring lovingly in each other’s eyes for what felt like hours. He silently adored her, memorizing the details of her features until his eyes grew heavy from exhaustion, slowly falling shut as graceful as the falling snow outside.  

Credence pried open his tired eyes. The fire still burned beside him. It crackled and danced, keeping the exhausted pair warm under the thin sheets. The moonlight broke through the balcony glass door and cast shadows of the curtains across the room. There was no music heard from downstairs and the manor outside sounded empty of all festivities. 

He took the time to embrace her presence. She laid on her side, facing him. Her eyes were still shut, soft snores falling from her lips. She held his hand between their bodies. Her thick (h/c) hair sprawled wildly around her, messed by their passionate love affair. And still, even with her hair a mess, and the corner of her lips wet with drool, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He reached his free hand to brush the fray hairs from her eyes, watching her lips twitch and curl into a sleepy smile when his thumb brushed against her cheek. That smile alone rid his mind of any and all doubts that still lingered. 

There are very few moments in life worth living for. Most things in life are mundane and repetitive, and when they weren't, they were bleak and agonizing. He’d been through it many times before, taking in so much pain he thought death was a kinder fate. But, as he lay next to her, listening to her slow steady breaths, watching the rise and fall of her chest while she slept; he knew he would face it all again, if it meant he could have more of these moments with her.  

[aros001]

First time read through light novel vol. 7. Random thoughts.

Through some kind of mistake, Rem had completely accepted Subaru, but he knew all too well that the Subaru Natsuki she saw was an ideal far removed from the real thing. Compared with the man she envisioned in her mind, the cards that the real Subaru held were few in number, and poor in quality—

But he learned, now that he stood at the playing table, no one cared about his personal problems.

All anyone in his position could do was try to win with the cards he was dealt.

This is sign I think Subaru has grown a little bit, though he is still growing. It's not about him, and Ferris later seems like he's trying to drill that into him a bit more later when Subaru wants to help with the battle preparations. It's good that he wants to help but sometimes he's unintentionally making things too much about himself, just to ease his own feelings. There are places where he would be getting in the way if he tried to help and Subaru's learning to accept that; to be patient and give his services where he can actually be of use, not just to help himself feel better. And damn, does he put that new maturity to good use in the big battle.

Originally, these negotiations had been Rem’s appointed duty. He could easily imagine how being unable to divulge her task to Subaru and having to speak with Crusch day after day had whittled away at her spirit.

Subaru had continually rotted by himself while the future of the Emilia camp had been entrusted to her—she must have suffered under that burden.

He hoped that in some small way, this victory repaid the girl whose feelings had supported him for so long; if so, then for the moment, that was enough for Subaru to be happy.

I really like this part. Again, it's not all about Subaru. He's acknowledging how much Rem's had to deal with while he was having his breakdowns and indulgences during his prior loops, and how much she still did what she could to support him in spite of it all. We're getting a little more that she does have a life outside of just Subaru and a little more added on to why he feels he's been so selfish. It really feels like he is now doing this for her. It's not like Subaru was completely self-centered before but I imagine there were times, especially with Emilia, where he wanted to help, but he wanted to be the one to help. He wanted good things for her but part of him cared more that he was the one giving them to her, verses her just getting what she needs in general. It's like how he couldn't feel happy that Otto was in support of Emilia first time he met him, though of course that was when he was at one of his lowest points.

And, of course, I'm absolutely reveling in all the sweetness of Rem supporting Subaru through his negotiations. Even if it's just holding his hand and reminding him she's there, he clearly appreciates the strength and courage it's giving him. Obviously they're not a romantic couple but this is the kind of stuff I love to see in romantic relationships. Just the basic comfort and support they find in each other's presence.

“...If I am gone, will you remember me just as long?”

“...I don’t wanna answer that. It’s bad luck.”

Speaking with a voice of dismay, Subaru gave Rem’s forehead a little poke.

When he touched Rem’s forehead, she smiled with a happy expression, almost as if she’d received the reply she had been hoping for.

Given something I believe I've been spoiled on for what happens later in the story (after where the anime leaves off), this feels like a very cruel monkey's paw bit of foreshadowing.

“Subaru.”

“...What?”

“I am fine with being your second wife.”

They were words to make a man unwittingly halt in his tracks.

When Subaru, unable to resist, looked toward her, Rem made a face like that of an adorable puppy, seemingly wagging her tail as she awaited Subaru’s reply.

Oh, good grief, just how far is this girl gonna—?

“If Emilia-tan’s a very generous first wife...”

“Well then, when we get back you must convince Lady Emilia. I shall try hard as well.”

Rem clenched the hand not grasped into a fist, very animated as she spoke with a smile.

Speaking jokingly like that broke all the tension, driving home to Subaru how weak he was. He truly couldn’t hold a candle to the girl.

I'm...going to have to see where the story goes from here, and how truly joking/serious Rem was with that second wife line. Just to put it out there, I don't really have a good view of polygamy. I'm always going to think that, 1st wife or 2nd or 3rd or wherever, someone is always going to be treated like second best and second priority. What they're receiving doesn't feel like real love and that's not fair to them. The only way I can see myself supporting a polygamous marriage in this series is if it's made clear Emilia and Rem are attracted to each other as well as Subaru and want to bang. Then it at least becomes three people who love each other as opposed to just "the guy and his two prizes".

So, first time you read this part in the novels or watched it in the anime, was anyone else afraid of the White Whale not showing up where and when Subaru told everyone it would? Like the world would just want to gut punch him one more time and have everyone think he's a fraud? I remember I was.

One theory I have for why the witch's scent grows stronger, not just when Subaru RBD, but also when he tries to talk about RBD is that maybe the witch likes when he acknowledges her "gift" to him. But she's also quite screwed up and doesn't like it when he tries to "share" what's between them, thus why she punishes him or those around him for doing so.

In front, behind and up above, he saw yet another whale-shaped figure high in the sky, scattering mist all around.

—The infinite mouths of the three White Whales laughed together, drawing out the despair of men.

Subaru, Crusch, the soldiers, everyone, etc.

Though pests had interrupted it, the White Whale’s mission was to cover the world in mist. This, too, was the command of its instinct, and doing so was the purpose of the White Whale’s existence.

One thing I've enjoyed about the various light novel series I've been reading is that, compared to their anime, I get a better idea of various characters' and monsters' mentalities. The best example I could give would be the goblins in Goblin Slayer (that they are not mindless creatures; that they know EXACTLY what they're doing to people and they enjoy it) and this bit with the White Whale is another good one. It seeks to cover the world in its mist and thus destroy/consume/erase everything (maybe?) And it doesn't know why it seeks to do this. It just does, suggesting there is something else, possibly the one behind its creation, driving it.

It's also interesting that, to the White Whale, the witch's scent is described as foul, despite the stories that she's the one who created it. This brings to mind a couple different theories.

Satella didn't actually create the whale. Someone else, perhaps one of the other six witches did or one of the archbishops.

Satella did create the whale but maybe used one of the other witches to do it. Puck did mention something about Gluttony when he sensed the whale approaching in the last loop.

Satella REALLY cannot tell the difference between positive and negative emotions, even more so than we were already led to believe.

Kind of cruel of Rem to trick Subaru into thinking she was dying, but at least we do get Subaru's completely true feelings out in the open. Back to the polygamy matter, I don't have a problem with Subaru being indecisive between Emilia and Rem or being in love with them both. It's not just that they've done so much for him, in which case the relationship would feel just like how Emilia described, just the two of them repaying debts to each other. Both women have been a hugely positive influence on Subaru's life. They've impacted it for the better and helped push him into being more of a man he can live with being, and it works the other way around too. It would be hard to imagine his story without either of them in it. I feel the same way with Code Geass in regards to CC, Shirley, and Kallen in Lelouch's story. It was the only "harem" series I've ever watched where I had trouble saying who the MC should end up with, because all three were irreplaceable in his life and story. Take any of them out and it loses a lot. Emilia and Rem are a similar case.

As Rem looked back at Subaru, now beside her, large tears filled her blue eyes. It was not being left behind that she feared. No, what she feared more than anything was—

“When you are in distress, Subaru, I want to be the one offering my hand faster than anyone. When you hesitate along your path, I want to be the one pushing on your back. When you challenge something, I want to be at your side, stopping you from shaking. That is—that is all I wish for. So please...”

Again, more great parallels between Subaru and Rem, as this isn't dissimilar to what he wanted to do for Emilia.

Wilhelm might just be the biggest example of a tsundere I've ever seen. Married a woman he loved from the bottom of heart for what was assumedly a decent amount of time...never freaking told her "I love you" until he finally killed the beast that killed her.

As for Theresia, it's definitely a case of why context is so important. She never wanted to be the Sword Saint. She only did so because she found purpose in saving as many lives as she could with the insane power she had (the whole "great power, great responsibility" chestnut). If Wilhelm is strong enough to protect and save people, to where her absence would make no difference, then she doesn't have to be the Sword Saint anymore and can live the life she wants. It's what makes it an actual kindness vs. some chauvinistic BS. Probably helps too that she'd already helped put an end to a long war, so she wouldn't have been needed as much anyway.

“So it is said. The existence and origins of demon beasts are mysteries to us. Some propagate in the same manner as ordinary living creatures, but some suddenly appear out of nowhere like the White Whale. Though, properly speaking, the only exceptions on par with the White Whale are the Black Serpent and the Great Hare.”

Oh...I'm so not looking forward to meeting those two. After how much tragedy just the White Whale caused, what the f**k are those things going to do? My money would be that whatever it is, it will hurt Subaru quite horribly.

This book potentially answered a question I had in my last post. The Witch Cult is after Emilia because they see her as an impostor of the Witch of Envy, or at least so the characters in-story are speculating.

Not sure how many people here are fans of Rising of the Shield Hero but after this I kind of want to see the White Whale and the Spirit Tortoise duke it out. That sounds awesome. Mountain Turtle vs. Witch Fish.

Original Reddit post: https://www.reddit.com/r/Re_Zero/comments/gub735/novels_first_time_read_through_light_novel_vol_7/

[irandrura]

Third and final post: what were my other thoughts?

 Let’s talk about the game’s mechanics first.

I am overall very pleased with the battle gameplay. On the battlefield itself the gameplay is more-or-less unchanged from the past, but the character advancement and customisation system is significantly improved. Moving to a single overall character level and giving every character the ability to change classes at will is a much more fluid and elegant system than in the past, and the ability to choose the specific combat arts and abilities each character takes looks like it adds a lot of depth. It’s probably appropriate for the overall ‘teacher’ theme of the game that you have much more power to mould each character’s skills and talents, but I’d like to see it in other games as well. There’s an important balance to strike: on the one hand, characters should not be infinitely malleable, and should all have their personal strengths and weaknesses. On the other, so much of the fun of the game is in developing characters and watching them grow that it’s really good to be able to specialise them.

Speaking of battle gameplay, divine pulse is great. The Fire Emblem series has always struggled a bit with accessibility, and while casual mode definitely made the series easier, it also felt to me like missing the point. Casual mode is too easy, and by removing any risk of permanent death, it felt like it removed a lot of the game’s tension. Divine pulse is a much better way to make the gameplay a bit easier and less frustrating while still keeping the same feel as classic FE gameplay. It gives you just enough room to survive a lucky enemy crit, or a small misjudgement on your part, without totally removing the need to be careful. I approve. That said, I did feel that by late-game you probably had access to too many pulses and it removed the need to conserve them. With a dozen pulses, there isn’t much risk any more, whereas if it stayed capped around three to five, each individual pulse might have felt more precious.

 (Apparently Mila’s Turnwheel in Shadows of Valentia actually did the mechanic first, and I totally forgot about it. Oh dear…)

Other gameplay innovations were more hit-and-miss, for me. Battalions were fine, but I don’t think I would have missed them if they weren’t there. They helped make the battlefield seem busier and more populated, but they don’t seem to have had a massive impact on the game. Similarly, monsters were mostly fine (Cindered Shadows boss notwithstanding), but again, I don’t think I’d mind very much if they didn’t come back. They rarely actually felt like the most dangerous enemies on the battlefield, and just required a slightly different strategy, and… well, maybe it’s just me, but it feels weird for FE to have boss monsters like that. I suppose arguably it’s been a tension in the series going all the way back to the original game? Marth was supposed to fight monstrous dragons, but his entire game was about enemy soldiers, and dragons didn’t stand out as the terrifying beasts they ought to have been. Still, I’m not sure I’m sold on them here.

When I started playing I complained that exploring the monastery was tedious. You can get into a routine later on, but for the most part, I did think it could have been streamlined more. Having lunch with students or going for special training or browsing the marketplace are all fun things to do, but a bit less sprinting all over the map to talk to everyone and return lost items would have been appreciated. The lost item mechanic in particular feels like busywork. A bit of exploring is nice, but only as long as it doesn’t get tedious. It might have been lovely to explore other locations as well – Enbarr, Fhirdiad, the army camp outside Gronder, etc. – but I can understand that the amount of work required would not be practical.

Speaking of tedium, though… I really could have done with a few more maps. Maybe this is my fault for constantly choosing battles, but I found myself replaying the same forest, plains, beach, or volcano map too many times for comfort.

I might also have liked for crests to be a bit more mechanically impactful, given their important to the world and the plot. I regularly forgot which of my units have crests, and what any of the crests do, since most of them have so little effect as to not matter. The only one I did usually remember was Felix’s Crest of Fraldarius, and that was mainly because it makes him do more damage and sometimes made him kill people I’d hoped to leave on one or two HP. I don’t think crests should have been overpowering, but a little more power would still have been nice. It should not have been so easy to forget that they exist.

Similarly, by the time I finished the game I realised that I had never used a Hero’s Relic, even once. I would like to say that this was a principled decision on my part, given that they turn people into monsters (and it looks like I was right about them being made from bone?), but it was mostly just the BUT-WHAT-IF-I-NEED-IT-LATER effect. They all have quite low durability, and while I understand that infinite durability, as with relics in previous games, was not an option due to breaking how combat arts work, it was still enough to discourage me from using them. Perhaps on a higher difficulty they would become necessary? I always feel a bit sad when for mechanical reasons I never let characters use their most iconic weapons.

 Moving on from mechanics…

There is technically a shipping mechanic, with an S support for the protagonist, but it really felt like an afterthought to me. I don’t think the game would lose anything significant if you just removed all the S supports. Compared to a game like Awakening or Fates, where the second generation makes it mechanically important and the plot seems like it works best with a bit of romantic drama (f!Robin/Chrom and m!Robin/Lucina looking particularly intended), Three Houses is surprisingly chaste. I suppose picking a character to be your waifu might be part of the culture now, perhaps looking also at the growing influence of waifu gacha games, but for me it felt tacked on. I can imagine potentially rewriting the game to make romance a more important theme – perhaps talking about Jeralt and Sitri a bit more? – but to be honest I think that that would have been worse for the game overall.

In particular, it stands out to me as sitting a touch oddly alongside the teacher concept. One of the things that stands out to me about Byleth as a protagonist is the way that Byleth is in a superior position relative to the other units. You are a professor, in a position of authority, and you have more life experience. Your job is to teach and mentor these younger characters. This contrasts strongly with Robin, who I think was presented as the equal of the other Shepherds (your relationship with Chrom is that of comrade and friend), and with Corrin, who was presented as an inferior or junior (your siblings are older than you, and they start off with higher status). Because of that superior position, then, I found the game suggesting a feeling of responsibility towards them, and a feeling of pride in their accomplishments.

This might be a bizarre comparison, but in some ways a game that Three Houses reminded me of while playing was Princess Maker 2, a weird little DOS game from 1993 about raising a girl. The core loop of choosing activities to raise the stats of a character in your care, punctuated with occasional outings to fight monsters and get loot, felt quite similar. Similarly, the emotions that seemed to be evoked, to me, were emotions of care and pride: perhaps not paternal as such, since Byleth isn’t that old, but certainly the satisfaction that comes from nurturing a younger and less experienced person.

For the most part that actually worked, and I certainly applaud it for feeling less icky than Fates. If I compare tea parties to that weird Fates mechanic where you could invite characters to your room and touch their face, it is vastly less creepy. So I’m glad that the romance has been toned down.

And speaking of things that I’m glad aren’t prominent…

I’m deliberately burying this part in the middle of a long post. Tumblr is famously ruthless on issues like this, but fortunately I have a very low follower count and you’re all nice people. Basically, one of my worries going into the game was that Three Houses might be the ‘woke’ Fire Emblem game. I am glad to find that concern averted, at least so far. A person could perhaps make some pretty cringeworthy interpretations of Duscur to do with racial politics, but the game itself does not push you in that direction. Tumblr and AO3 love slash shipping, but as far as I can tell that remains as canonically unsupported as ever. Interestingly, while Three Houses has a small handful of same-sex romantic S supports and endings, as far as I can tell they’re all for Byleth and they’re all simply copy-pastes of the opposite-sex versions. It’s enough for me to genuinely wonder whether they’re in the original Japanese at all, or if they were added. I know translations of FE games have played around with character sexualities before, so it’s possible. At any rate, part of me was concerned that this might be the Dragon Age: Inquisition of Fire Emblem, and fortunately it isn’t. (I mean, I did actually enjoy Dragon Age: Inquisition, but at times it did get to be a bit much.) I’ll take this as a valuable lesson when it comes to not believing posts I see on Tumblr. You’d think I would have learned from previous games: popular fan interpretations of a character are often completely wrong. Three Houses seems for the most part to be a very traditional Fire Emblem game.

In terms of the overall series trajectory, I take Three Houses to be an overall positive sign. Awakening and Fates seemed to be taking the series in a direction that I didn’t care for as much, with heavy use of player avatar characters, much more fan service, and more trope-driven plots. Three Houses seems like a return to deeper worldbuilding and characterisation. The cast of characters overall has definitely been a high point: in Fates I sometimes struggled to build a team of characters that I felt truly fond of, but in Three Houses there were usually more characters I wanted to use than I had space for, and there were no recruitable characters that I truly disliked.

Really, the biggest disconnect between me and Three Houses, in the end, is the fact that Three Houses is built for replayability, and I don’t like replaying games very much. However, I don’t think I can in good faith call that a flaw or poor design: obviously there are a lot of people who love replayability, and considering that I got a good eighty hours of gameplay out of my first playthrough (DLC included) and enjoyed it, I’m not really in a position to complain.

So in the end, then, I think that while Three Houses is not my favourite Fire Emblem and does have some places where it could be improved, for the most part I think it’s quite a good outing and a significant improvement on the last few. It is not designed entirely to my tastes, but what is here is mostly good. Three Houses leaves me feeling much more optimistic for the future of the franchise than Fates did.

[gingerteaonthetardis]

The best Ten/Rose song would literally have to be Stay by Miley Cyrus! It describes them perfectly I think.

hey, how dare you make me write angst! (actually, i’m not sure if this is even remotely what you had in mind, but it’s what happened, and i hope you enjoy my prime sad boy ten hours.) warning: he contemplates doing a bad thing, but he does not do it.

-

𝕀'𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕙𝕠𝕞𝕖

-

He’s calling it a farewell tour, because to call it a death note is too grim, and calling it a celebration of his life is patently dishonest. He makes all the stops he can manage, layering landing on top of landing, the mere act of being where he is not supposed to be making his body ache, the juddering wrongness of being in so many places at once setting his teeth on edge. He feels spread thin by the end of it, looking forward to his last stop as much as he’s dreading it, if only because it is, in fact, the last.

The very last.

It’s the only part that feels at all, in any way, like coming home again. And so, he approaches it much like he might—if he were a human man, with a life and carpets and a mortgage—approach his home at the end of a workday. He loosens his tie—not because it is choking him, or because the act of getting precious oxygen into his lungs is taking more work than usual.

He is simply a man, loosening his tie.

It’s easy to forgive her for thinking he’s a drunk, considering the tie. Considering the… everything about him. His shoulders are sloped as he speaks to her, his bearing heavy.

“Maybe it’s time you went home.”

He does not say, “But that’s the problem, Rose Tyler from the Powell Estate: I am home. The problem is that you are my home, and you are a universe away from me, and even if I could find you, I wouldn’t be able to keep you. No matter how many times I run this loop and tell this story, no matter how many times I show up at your mum’s tiny little flat and poke my fingers through that stupid cat flap, I will never—never—be able to keep you.

“Because, Rose Tyler, that is the problem with time. I make a lot of fuss about how complicated it is because you humans like to hear that—that it’s messy and tangled and unfathomable—because if you knew the truth, it would break you. But it’s really quite simple; time is only just a flat circle. A loop, infinitely repeating. I have found you and I have lost you a thousand times. A million times. A million billion times, I have come home to you, Rose.”

He does not say that, because it would be mostly nonsense, and in all likelihood, it would make her very, very nervous. And if he made her nervous, he might perhaps make her less prone to trusting strange men. And if he took away her capacity to trust slightly mad-looking men, she might never have gotten into his scrubby police box and traveled the whole of the universe with him. And if she’d never done that, he wouldn’t exist.

He blinks.

He wouldn’t exist.

For a moment, he sees it all play out in front of him, and he can’t tell if it’s real or not. It certainly doesn’t feel real—he’d never imagined himself as this sort of man. But who can say now?

The life drains from his eyes, and his shambling becomes more threatening until he is looming over her, using all his height to oppress her, back her down. She looks up into the fathomlessness of his eyes and his brave Rose—she flinches. Her fear spurs him on. He doesn’t touch her, but then, he doesn’t need to. He is a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey and his mere force of being is enough to crumble all her boldness to dust. 

“You should be frightened, little girl.”

From then on, she doesn’t walk alone. She asks Mickey to go out with her at night. She doesn’t know why, she tells him, but she just doesn’t feel comfortable anymore. Her best friend-turned-boyfriend curls his arm around her and says he won’t let anything bad happen to her. As if he can hold back what’s coming.

She only takes early shifts, because she dislikes the dark. When Henrik’s explodes, she is nowhere near the building. She loses her job, and her chance of meeting a mad man in a blue box.

He can practically feel himself—this version of himself—blinking out of reality. He is a loop that cuts itself off before it can close. He is a clot in the wound of Rose Tyler’s existence, preventing her from ever leaving him—from ever meeting him. Time struggles to sew itself closed over the gaping loss. He feels all the ways he dies without her, and all the ways he lives. He feels himself forgetting her until she is nothing—just a name on the wind. Just a page in a book nobody will ever open.

And then he blinks again.

“Did you hear me?” Her hands are on her hips, and she’s come a bit closer to him. She looks disapproving and worried all at once, and then she repeats herself, her tone more commanding than before. She almost sounds like Jackie—fearless. Who was he to think he could frighten her? His Rose, who had leapt through time and space to find him. “Go home, mate. I’m sure someone is wondering where you are.”

He thinks of the TARDIS, waiting in an alley, and gives a little nod. “Yeah, alright.”

At his acknowledgement, her whole face softens. “D’you need me to call a cab?” And she begins fumbling through her pockets, probably for her familiar old mobile.

But he shakes his head. “No. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it,” she shoots back, and then flushes. “Sorry.”

The Doctor chuckles, a wheezing sound that makes his ribs ache. “Don’t be. This isn’t my best look. I’ll be better by tomorrow.” Whenever that is. Whoever I am by then.

“I’d like to see that.” She eyes him, up and down, appraising. It reminds him of all the times she’d stood in the console room and let her gaze drift up and down his body, taking in the long lines and gangly limbs and finding something to love in amongst the mess. The memory stings. But what doesn’t hurt? He’s running out of time—

“Maybe you will,” he finds himself replying, even if it’s not true.

When she grins, her tongue touches her teeth in that familiar way. “Maybe.” And when he makes no answer, she begins to turn her back on him, calling “Happy New Year!” over her shoulder.

He isn’t ready yet. He holds on for one more second—one more question. “What year is it?”

Rose Tyler glances back at him, her blonde hair whipping in the wind under a winter hat. Her cheeks are flushed pink with the bitter cold, and her lips and nose are bitten with red. She looks beautiful. She looks like his saving grace. She looks like home.

And she says, “The best one yet.”

-

send me a prompt!

[kcostanz]

disclaimer: I’m going to be existential & sad before I turn it around

As 2020 wraps, I find myself increasingly absorbed by understanding the practices that I’m newly drawn to. The things I’ve chosen to connect with to get through what has certainly been the most unexpected year of my life, and perhaps that of billions of others. Even making such a grand statement still boggles my mind. Taking a moment to step outside of my life to acknowledge this global reality always gives much needed perspective. Life has been altered in wholly unforeseeable ways for billions of people this year. 

Exactly how our lives and worlds have been reshaped certainly looks different for each and every one of us. Our realities are constructed by so much: where we live, who we live with, what we do each day, our job, or the roles we play in society as a whole. Every life looks different, but the pandemic’s impact on these answers (and many more) is ever-changing and harshly felt. 

Reflecting on my own journey that has been navigating covid-19 and its impact on the world centers upon my age. Being 22 years old right now feels like constantly being stuck at a major life inflection point. In many ways I’m at the height of decision making- important ones at that, that will guide (the beginnings of) the rest of my life. Existential and perhaps a bit dramatic I know, but the pandemic exacerbates these emotions, so throw me a bone. 

I spent the first 21 years of my life on a set path, a regulated track that unknowingly provided an absurd amount of comfort. I went to public school K-12, graduated high school, and attended a 4-year institution, long awaiting the fantastical graduation year that for so long existed as a far-off fantasy: 2020. 

That momentous final semester was different than expected, but I can’t complain. I spent the last 3 months of college with a small handful of my closest friends, attended classes from the comfort of my bed, and graduated in my tiny apartment with two of my closest friends who hung around until the end. 

I procrastinated packing and cleaning my apartment until the last possible moment as my disapproving landlord approached to conduct the final walkthrough. Unsurprisingly, I left with a fraction of the security deposit, and the hard learned lesson that expo marker writing does not always come out of refrigerators (as the All Purpose spray, Oxi-Clean, bleach, hot water, soap, and eventually, shamefully, white paint can attest). 

With a egregiously packed car and zero rear view visibility, I was off. I blasted oldies with a twinge of liberation- I think I recall Born to Run (don’t worry, I am indeed embarrassed). I left all four windows down until I could no longer stand the sound of garbage bags flapping. Five short hours later I pulled into the driveway of my childhood home in Rochester, NY (with a broken mirror in the trunk no less- unsure if I’m superstitious but it felt like bad luck). 

The latter half of 2020- from June until now, has been full of unknowns, decision making in the dark, and hard fought self motivation. Vivid mixes of emotions old and new. 

First the dread of moving back in with parents as a young adult, and the stubborn resistance to fully unpack, so as to not get “too comfortable” at home. I now know such a thing is impossible for many reasons, one being that regardless of the lighting, art, and design, the girly pink walls of my childhood bedroom have proven immutable. 

Following this initial shock were extreme levels of self-induced pressure to find a job, do nothing but apply to jobs, and then bask in dejected feelings of never being able to get a job. While in the process, fully isolating myself from others, because I simultaneously felt I had too much to do, but yet was never really doing a thing. That concept has been fun to sit with. It comes with the realization that the carefree bliss of not having a single thing to do- say for a month long winter break- is officially gone. The list of things you could (and probably should) be doing is endless- welcome to the real world, Kate!

August was a blessed, beautiful month that, at the risk of (again) sounding dramatic, I am eternally grateful for. During this sweltering month I lived out of a car for nearly 3 weeks, camping with two pals throughout Utah and Wyoming. Even hitting a deer at 9pm, in a no-cell service zone, in the middle of a State Forest in Wyoming was a welcomed adventure at this point. A broken transmission, impromptu camping, two-hour tow truck ride, countless insurance calls, hostile car dealership conversations, two rental cars later, and we were back on track. This (incomplete) list of challenges provided beautiful life experience however, imparting lessons I could never fully know until I lived them. 

Returning home was as expected, a difficult transition back to monotony. Did I apply to vineyard jobs vaguely “out west?” Absolutely. Did I have it in me to go through with such a spontaneous life choice? Unfortunately not, though to my credit I did realize important goals that stood in the way of a dreamy vagabond existence. 

The fall has been a blur, and now there’s snow on the ground. I’ve found myself living for the future, and rarely ever for the moment, which is entirely antithetical to my personal philosophy. I have proclaimed my personal soundtrack to 2020 to be the loop of traditional Lebanese music that plays on repeat at my job as a server at Sinbad’s Mediterranean Cuisine (now as a takeout extraordinaire. And yes, despite the lack of in-person customers we are indeed instructed to play the CDs as per usual). This work, or my role as a part-time nanny is far from fulfilling (though the kids are darn cute), but that’s not the point for now. “At least I’m saving!” has been my most reliable source of positive encouragement, nearing personal mantra. 

I write this from my childhood bedroom, sitting at my desk, which was once our kitchen table circa 2002. It is as wobbly as it is sentimental, and I love it. The desk faces a window, the sill littered with glassware and candles because I have a thing against artificial light. I have a total of five notebooks, half opened, each containing swirling levels of thoughts, drawings, organization, calendars and to do lists. An orange caricature of a topless french woman sunbathing sits in front of me, reminding me that “TOUT VA BIEN!” (that everything is fine). And in minutes I will be dancing to the Moana soundtrack or drawing christmas trees and unicorns with 3 and 4 year olds. A snapshot of my life, at 22 years old, in 2020. 

Despite my life not being what I expected, or what I wanted it to look like as I embark on what’s supposed to be the most adventurous, spontaneous, and simply well-lived decade of my life, it is what it is, and as the french lady says, everything is fine. I have two part-time jobs, unforeseen savings, quality family time (both for better and for worse), my mom’s cooking, and a roof over my head. In a world with inconceivably high death tolls, rising unemployment and homelessness rates, and the constant, precarious fear of general loss, I have infinite blessings to count.

Life does feel like a giant waiting game though. How can one strategically plan out what comes next in their individual life when the entire world remains a massive question mark? In a time when we feel trapped, impatiently waiting for opportunities, experiences, and adventures to reopen, waiting feels hopeless. Because it is. If you’re unhappy with the opportunities before you, create your own.

I’m not saying I’m doing a stellar job at this myself- and as you can see I certainly struggle with my fair share of existential pessimism (day in and day out). But doing things has a certain electrifying feel that ignites and empowers you to build a meaningful life. I’m producing a web series with a group of similarly listless 20 somethings who are also doing their best to be creative and productive from the confines of their family homes. I’m practicing yoga and meditation really to cope with my own stress and internal anxieties, but in doing so am creating new habits and mindsets that will certainly outlast the pandemic. I’ve connected with a group of strangers by dancing to shamantic and electronica music in various outdoor locations throughout Rochester. Whoa! Never would I have imagined finding such deeply liberating peace through ecstatic dance of all things, but hey 2020 is full of surprises. 

This position I’m in is both uniquely my own through my personal experiences, and also shared by more people than I could imagine. Maybe only bits and pieces resonate with you, or maybe you are living your best life in the city of your dreams with a fabulous career in a lovely home with the world’s best roommates. But even if that’s you- you’re missing out on something too. The whole world is. We feel disconnected, disjointed, digitally controlled and consumed, and despite who we surround ourselves with- isolated. We’re stuck living in a world of “once this is over I’ll….” and no matter who you are it feels damn weird to spend so much time in your head dreaming of a future rather than living it out in the now. 

So… solutions? As we all know, you only have so much control during a global pandemic (very little to be exact). But what you can control is how you live your life during it. I certainly won’t preach to what works and pretend like I’ve figured it out- that work is no one’s to do but your own. But I do feel that so much comes down to mindset, perspective, mental health and ultimately finding ways to seek inner peace. 

Potential solutions are abundant, and have been explored by more people now than ever before. Though there is no recipe to conquer the inevitable fears, concerns and anxieties that accompany the pandemic and this phase of life, I’m interested in further exploring some of the ones that work for me. How is something as simple as breathing so helpful? 

Finding inner peace is a sought after skill in 2020. I have endless gratitude to all of the incredible humans who have served as a source of learning, and have helped me to tap into positive internal energy. My intention is to look into some of the causes of (my personal) covid-realted inner turmoil and the solutions that have brought some serenity into my life. Though they may not always be long lasting, some answers are better than none. Here’s to writing for no one, and thank you for listening. <3 

[maxthommusic]

TLOU 2 Halfway Spoiler Post

*DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE NOT PLAYED THE GAME. SPOILERS AHEAD.*

TLOU2 is a generation-defining game. It’s from the top dog developer, not only within Playstation, but in the industry; full stop. It’s a complete masterclass in environmental design, storytelling, and it’s weaving a narrative that is essential for our #MeToo, BlackLivesMatter, COVID society.

A little context though: I grew up in a culturally understanding household. We never talked negatively about other races, beliefs, or ideals. I’ve really never had a hard time grasping the LGBTQ community, rejecting racism or being good to my fellow humans, whomever that may be. Yeah, it’s a little confusing comprehending all the rules sometimes; misappropriation is a thing and not everyone can be super chill if you accidentally slip-up. But the thing here that’s relevant to TLOU is that discovering someone’s sexuality shouldn’t change your views upon them. And as I see people with posts like “how can a lesbian take down all these zombies?” it becomes apparent that TLOU2 is so much more important than just a sequel.

There are two ways, from my perspective, that I came to appreciate TLOU2. The first would be the characterization of Ellie. When I started TLOU2, Ellie being gay meant little to nothing for me. It’s irrelevant. The same way Joel being straight is completely useless information too. But as the game progressed and I became more comfortable viewing more TLOU2 articles and user-posts, I started seeing the vehemence with which people spoke about Ellie’s sexuality. While I was initially confounded why anyone would be hazing the game and its creators, I began to peer back the veil and confront the source. When I recognized this, I literally became more motivated to press onwards in Ellie’s vengeance quest. I began jumping into sessions wanting Ellie to kick so much ass and just murder tf out of these Wolves. Every time I laid a trap to blow away some pursuing soldiers, I was more satisfied knowing that “this lesbian” had obliterated her assailants. Every time I stabbed a zombie in the back of the head, I was elated that “this lesbian” was running the gauntlet. Knowing that players are getting heated about a gay character taking control of her fate in such a violent, proficient fashion only upped the stakes. In this way, I find TLOU2 to be essential gaming.

Maybe the message isn’t for you. And it’s certainly not for me. But when it occurred to me that this kind of representation was offending people, I realized it’s way more than a game; it’s a statement. TLOU2 is a big middle-finger in the air to everyone who wants to cast shame upon the characters, creators and devs who made it possible. Which I completely support. Because the real clincher is that TLOU2 is a great game. The environments are stunning, the performances are mostly excelsior and the presentation is magnificent. I find the combat to leave a lot to be desired and there are ways in which TLOU2 definitely could be a better game. But for now, the point remains, by most metrics, TLOU2 is usually stunning. People who can’t get over someone’s sexual orientation are missing out.

And I hope they continue to miss out. I hope those people continue to feel like their world is shrinking. Because it’s 2020 and you’ve had your chance to get educated and get on board. TLOU2 by no means is actually that progressive. Ellie’s sexuality hardly comes up and the romantic scenes are really quite mild by TV standards. That it’s progressive for the games industry proves how far behind we are. But because it’s causing such a stir only shows that a major AAA offering like this was so long overdue.

The second way I’ve come to appreciate TLOU2 is the twist in the middle of the game. Playing as Abby is everything. Because here I was, not feeling so great about the characters, or the world, or their motivations. As mentioned, the gameplay itself isn’t even that great; the loop is a bit less than compelling... But then we get a glimpse into Abby’s side of the story and that little glimpse already has elevated TLOU’s purpose ten-fold.

Such a twist made me re-contextualize the entire previous twelve hours in an instant and transformed TLOU2 from good to great. The reason this is important is because the middling feelings I had towards the game have officially become part of the game. My ten minutes with Abby feels infinitely better than the first ten minutes with Ellie and Co., informing all of the storytelling that’s been done so far. My dislike for Jackson, my distrust of Dina, my skepticism towards Ellie; all of that just made Abby the real hero of this story. And while I haven’t seen everything yet, this is how I feel now, and I’m more ecstatic to see the ending than I was for the past twelve hours.

I’ve also heard people are feeling jilted that Joel got done in and Ellie has suffered by effect. Which again, is another crazy thought. Naughty Dog is trying to tell two sides of the same story with very different moral consequences and people are getting downright offended that their beliefs are being challenged. Players are being morally tested and they ain’t having it; let me tell you what game absolutely needed to exist.

And what’s incredible, too, is that you could only achieve this in a sequel.

The stage needs to be set. The characters and your attachment to them needs to be established. The hype, the anticipation, the desire: it was all there to say something really bold and daring, and it looks like Naughty Dog friggin went for it. 

It was always a little bit in question if we needed a sequel to TLOU. That story definitely could have ended right there at St. Mary’s hospital. But now that I’m in the sequel and I’m seeing it unfold righteously, I really, really hope the desire to continue this tale mostly stemmed from the meta story that could be told. I hope the creators and powers-that-be sat in a room and said, “What if we made a game that really challenged the status quo?”

As I said, I’m not done with it yet. But I love the idea that TLOU2 exists not because Naughty Dog said, “we need to make another game,” but because they said, “we have something that needs to be told.”

And as more and more articles get released about TLOU2 and the creators share their insights, I frequently hear the quote, “These stories needed to be told.” With more context from the game, I understand what they were getting at so much better. And they have my full support. A game like this can only be understood and fully appreciated from beginning to end. Which some may scoff at that remark: we all remember Final Fantasy XIII, right? The argument, “It gets good 40 hours in!” has become a meme, essentially. But sometimes great art takes time; you need to let the story unfold. Now I don’t wanna play games like this all the time. Yet when the narrative is in such caring, successful hands like the team at Naughty Dog, I definitely feel the need to listen and give them a chance. Timing is everything. TLOU2 could not necessarily exist as a brand new IP or an entry from a new studio. TLOU2 is the result of everything before it. Love it or hate it, for that reason alone, it demands your attention. But even cooler than that, it’s a statement that needs to be heard.

[ninwrites]

find your strength

Pairing: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood

Words: 2523

Summary:

a quick study on magnus' perspective towards his birthday, with respect to his newfound mortality

-

Read on AO3 or below the cut xx

Birthdays have never held much weight for Magnus - it’s difficult, to consider it anything special, with the life he's led.

Every year he marks the date that Ragnor had chosen for him, December eight (because Ragnor always insisted that it was important to mark it, as an event, for the barest hope that he won’t get swept away by the ceaseless passing of time, that he’ll have some sort of anchor to hold onto), but he doesn’t go out of his way to celebrate it. He’s not like Ragnor, he can’t celebrate time as though it’s a gift, and he most certainly doesn’t need the reminder, of all the tragedy his existence has brought others, of all that time has taken away from him.

It’s more than a little jarring, for his birthday to come around with so much meaning, now that his immortality is gone, and the friend who’d brought him the day along with it.

Magnus wakes up to an empty bed, which seems pretty on-par for how he already feels about the day. There’s a small, foolish part of him that hopes it won’t set the tone, but he doesn’t have a lot of faith in it - he can’t.

A lot of his decisions are made in that vein of thought, these days. He can’t afford to be careless, can’t take risks the same way that he used to, because there’s no safety net to catch him if he falls, no quick-fix for his mistakes.

It’s made him a lot more cynical - he’d thought he had already hit his peak, but it appears as though there’s another mountain after it, with nothing but clouds of pessimism before him.

There haven’t been many respective upsides to his new, mundane way of life; Alec, bless his beautiful heart is trying as best he can to help Magnus feel better, but there are some cold patches that not even his warmth can reach.

(Still. They say it is the thought that counts, and Alec’s dedication is almost as strong as his follow-through.)

There’s a slight rap on the door, a two-knuckled knock that allows Magnus a few seconds to pull himself up into a sitting position before Alec is poking his head around the corner, tousled hair in disarray, a hesitance to his gaze.

“Good morning,” Alec smiles, and it’s like the break of the sun’s rays through stormy dark clouds, splitting and warm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be awake.”

Magnus shrugs his left shoulder, running a hand through his tangled bed-hair. He misses the ease of the most simplest tasks the most, he’s discovered. The ability to fix even the slightest inconvenience with just a quick snap of his fingers-

“Surprise.” Magnus doesn’t force a smile, just lets it sit, distant but there .

He knows that he couldn’t get through this without Alec, and it’s that knowledge that makes the sacrifice worth it; he’d do it all over again, without question.

(He’d go to unthinkable lengths for Alec.)

“I thought the surprises were supposed to be up my sleeve.” Alec comments, crossing the room. “This is your day.”

“Can’t we share it?”

Alec shakes his head, fondness lighting him up like his atoms are made of affection. “Afraid not.”

He leans in, cupping Magnus’ cheek and kissing him, patient and soft, from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Happy birthday,” he whispers, pressing another kiss to Magnus’ cheek. “Thank you for being born.”

Magnus curls his hand around Alec’s wrist. “You say that as though I had a choice in the matter.”

“It doesn’t matter to me - just that it happened.” Alec drops another kiss, this time to Magnus’ temple, an aching tenderness to the touch. “I love you.”

Magnus rests his forehead against Alec’s. “If you really loved me, you’d get back into bed - that position can’t be too comfortable for a giant such as yourself.”

“I’m supposed to be cooking you breakfast.” Alec murmurs, his gaze hooded - he skips over the giant comment, and Magnus isn’t sure if he should feel grateful; it’s meant to poke fun, for Alec is quite clearly not a giant, nor even that much taller than Magnus, but it wasn’t carried by all that much humour.

“Then again, it was also supposed to be a surprise.” Alec admits, after a moment, his voice just above a whisper.

“Burning down my kitchen is a peculiar gift, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Alec hums, a slip of laughter escaping between his parted lips. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Breakfast is actually something I can cook pretty well, I used to do it for Izzy and Jace all the time. Training with an empty stomach never ends well.”

Magnus tips his head back, looping his arms around Alec’s neck. “Now you’ve spiked my curiosity. What did you have in mind?”

Alec grins, opening his eyes slowly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Ah, now that I can still keep a surprise.” He kisses Magnus again, relaxed and measured, before pulling back. There’s something, more than just kindness in his gaze, more than just consideration to the tugged-up corner of his smile. “I know that birthdays have never been a highlight for you - they’re not my favourite events, either. But this is the first time I get to celebrate with you, and I … I want to make this a good day, if you’ll let me. But only if you’ll let me.”

Magnus’ heart aches for how much he loves this wonderful man before him; it’s impossible and undeniable, all the same. “Breakfast sounds lovely.”

Alec nods, and Magnus thinks that he would have agreed even if he wasn’t hungry - Alec needs something to do, a task to focus on, to pour all of his energy into, and even something as everyday as making breakfast appears to put more iron in his veins, strength and determination taking over from his worry.

He does that, a lot. Worry. About Magnus, especially, now that he’s magic-less. Mundane. Empty.

It’s sweet, if a little overbearing at times, but Magnus knows that is just Alec’s nature - he needs to feel useful, to help wherever he can. If making breakfast makes him feel like he’s doing something, then it’s hardly a chore for Magnus to indulge him; after all, ensuring that Alec is okay is pretty much all that Magnus has the energy to care about, these days.

There’s a stranger in the mirror.

His skin is pale, his cheeks sunken, his mouth a tight, thin line, a shadow in the background of his gaze, flickering and dark. There’s no cat-eye slit, no gold, no spark. Just a plain, normal brown. Nothing extraordinary, nothing special, nothing magic .

Magnus doesn’t recognise the man in the mirror, though they wear the same face, and move the same way. It’s been a month - or, maybe two, time is slippery these days - but he can’t seem to reconcile his new life with who he’s always been.

Alec seems certain that he’ll get his magic back, one day. Catarina insists that he’s mourning what he’s lost; both agree that he’s going through a period of inevitable grief. Yet, neither of them, in their infinite wisdom, have ever been as critical towards Magnus as he is.

Pity is easy. It’s maintaining faith, in himself, most of all, that’s the hardest - being a warlock is all he has ever known, and even with all of the trouble it’s brought him, all of the near-death experiences, the passing of his mother, the countless losses he’s endured … his magic is everything. Or, it was .

It is, he believes, the worst loss he’s ever experienced; in a way, a part of him has died, and he has to learn how to begin again, how to exist without this vital part of himself. It’s exhausting, in more ways than one, and Magnus is losing out on hope that he’ll ever return to any semblance of who he used to be.

He wants to, because living as a ghost is no life to live - he just, doesn’t have the same fire anymore. Not even his many years of experience have taught him how to deal with this new life he’s found himself in.

Celebrating his birthday feels like going through the motions of somebody else, somebody he’s expected to be, not who he truly is - but, then, Alec is putting so much energy and love into this that Magnus can’t find the strength to admit it.

If nothing else, this will at least be a good day, because Alec is here, and he’s smiling, and those are two of Magnus’ favourite things in the world.

“See? No smoke.”

Alec looks so immensely proud of himself, with his whisk-taker apron, an old gift from Isabelle he’d recently dug up, tied around his waist. It’s hard not to smile.

“I’m very impressed.” Magnus tugs his robe closer, part of him wishing it would serve as a binding to keep himself together as well. “So, what is on the menu?”

Alec nods towards the table, which is laden with immeasurable goods. “Croissants, both almond and chocolate, from Elsie’s; raspberry and white chocolate mini-muffins that I made yesterday; and blueberry pancakes with maple syrup. And coffee, of course.”

“Best not to forget the most important part,” Magnus acknowledges, in a distant voice, too swept up in pure awe.

Alec did all of this … for Magnus.

“Alexander, this is - too much.” Magnus’ hands tremble against his abdomen. “You didn’t have to go to all of this effort just for me.”

“I was in the mood for pancakes.” Alec winks, but his carefree attitude doesn’t last long, his grin fading into something more melancholy, but no less sincere. “I wanted to do this for you, Magnus. You deserve this - you deserve everything. I’m just trying to give you what I can.”

Magnus shakes his head, an undeniable lightness soaring within him. “You, my love, are all I need.”

Alec’s cheeks burn a fervent pink, but he doesn’t back down, either. “So, I went to all of this effort for nothing?”

Magnus glances at the spread of breakfast foods, ignoring the tiny pang in his chest. Relationships take effort, a tiny voice whispers in the echoes of his dark mind.

“Not at all.” Magnus summons a smile, and by some grace of the universe, it doesn’t fail him. “Alexander, this is wonderful, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

Alec shrugs, running a hand through his messy hair. “It’s your birthday. This was the least that I could do.”

“You say that as though it isn’t a respectable feat,” Magnus nods towards the table. “For the organisation required, if nothing else. It means a lot to me, Alexander. Thank you.”

“Well,” Alec busies himself at the coffee machine, the low whir serving as background noise for his floundering. “I’m glad you - appreciate, it.”

Magnus walks towards Alec slowly, not wanting him to be spooked, yet also not being able to withstand the distance for much longer. He loops his arms around Alec’s waist, tucking his head against Alec’s neck, drawing what little strength he can from the surety of Alec’s shoulders and the warmth that radiates off him.

Alec gives Magnus the sense that he can take on the world, when he barely has the energy to even get out of bed. And then he makes breakfast .

“Hi,” Alec whispers, slipping Magnus’ ‘M’ mug onto the metal tray. “You’re very affectionate this morning, you haven’t even had any breakfast, yet.”

Magnus drops a kiss to the hinge of Alec’s jaw. “Did you lace it with a love potion or something?”

“As if I know anybody that would give me one of those,” Alec quirks an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting up in a tiny smirk. “I’m just trying to figure out what has gotten you so - cuddly.”

He doesn’t mention that Magnus used to be touchy, before, much more than this, that he’s always been the more tactile partner in this relationship - he doesn’t mention any of it, but he doesn’t have to.

Magnus is re-learning how to touch, without the buzz of energy under his skin, the zap on contact, the warmth that sparks when his magic recognises the person he’s touching - he’s learning how to push past the emptiness, how to keep it from dragging him under the weight of his own sadness.

This is a big step, and he hates that it’s such an accomplishment for him to hug his own boyfriend, but he’s also not going to ignore the fact that it is, for him, quite the milestone.

“I’ve missed you,” Magnus explains. “ This. Us, in this way. I know that I haven’t-“

Alec’s hand curls over Magnus where it rests against Alec’s hip. “You haven’t been through just an ordinary bad day, you’ve had your entire sense of being stripped away. You don’t owe me, or yourself, or anybody else anything , okay? You set the pace, and I’ll follow as closely as you want.”

“I always want you right beside me,” Magnus murmurs, burrowing his face against Alec’s cheek. “I'm just worried that I might be … holding you back. Holding us, back.”

Alec gently nudges Magnus’ shoulder, turning in his arms until they’re facing each other, his hands coming up to wrap around Magnus’ neck. Magnus, after a few hesitant and heavy seconds, rests his hands on Alec’s waist, his fingers bunched up in the fabric of his black t-shirt.

“Magnus.” Alec’s gaze skitters across Magnus’ face, his sincerity strong enough to drown in. “I love you, and nothing is ever going to change that - what you’re going through is awful, and I won’t pretend that I know what it’s like because I don’t , but I can promise that I’ll be here to help you in whatever way you need. This is an obstacle, probably the biggest one you’ve ever had to overcome, but still an obstacle - you’ll get through this, because you’re the strongest person I know, and far bigger than anything that wants to keep you down.”

Alec strokes his thumb against the curve of Magnus’ ear, his cuffs long since locked away with the rest of his jewelry. “All the same, it’s okay if it’s not easy. It’s okay if you don’t want to get out of bed, if you hate the world, if you want to invent a time machine just to go back before everything went wrong - that’s okay. It doesn’t mean that you’re going backwards, or going stale or anything like that.”

Alec’s smile turns wry, and a little deprecating. “It just makes you human. Sorry, it kinda sucks, sometimes.”

Magnus shrugs, his hands tightening their grasp. “It’s not all that bad, I suppose. I’ve got you by my side, after all. Things could be a lot worse.”

Admitting it aloud lets a slow realisation sink in; being human, as Alec put it, is his new normal, and things could really be a hell of a lot worse.

He still has Alec by his side, and with that support behind him, he can do anything.

[nikxation]

“How did you come prepared for this exact thing to happen?” With those good good Stan twins

Two years of adventuring on the Stan O War with Ford has, ifnothing else, taught Stan one important lesson: the only way to survive travellingwith his brother is to expect the unexpected.

That, and that there are very few places to hide coffeegrounds on a 40-foot boat where his brother can’t sniff them out.

Three spots total, and all of them temporary because thatman is practically a bloodhound whenit comes to his dark roast. It’s not Stan’s fault if he has to resort tostarving his brother’s caffeine addiction just to get some shut-eye. The man’ssleep schedule is already atrocious at best, and adding coffee to the mix onlyever makes things worse.

But that’s beside the point.

Exploring with Ford has been fun, probably some of the bestyears of his life if he’s being completely honest with himself (not that he’dever say that aloud). Between Ford’s stories and the assorted creatures and happeningsthey encounter, he’s found that most anything is possible.

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised when, right in the middleof exploring the hallways of some old abandoned warehouse that Ford had draggedhim to, everything suddenly goes completely dark.

It happens in an instant and without any warning, theflickering fluorescent lights overhead not even giving a single whine or pop asthey go out, drenching them in complete darkness. Stan sighs, turning backaround to where he knows Ford is, most likely still a few paces behind andpeeking in empty doorways.

“Hey Brainiac. I think your little generator finally died onus. Pass me a flashlight.”

No response. Stan shuffles a bit to the side, blindlyfeeling for the wall he knows is just a few feet away.

“Earth to Sixer. It’s dark, and you’ve got the flashlights.Come on, I’m practically blind here.”

Still no response. Not even a huff or grunt or the shuffleof feet on the dust-covered concrete. It’s silent.

“Ford, come on. This isn’t funny.”

He’s still shuffling to the side, feeling for a wall that heshould have realistically found by now. Whatthe—

“I swear if you jump up behind me, you’re gonna end up witha bloody nose, and you know I mean it. Where are you, Ford?”

He realizes for the first time how quiet everything suddenlyfeels, his voice not carrying the way it should in the deserted hallway, almostseeming to travel and die in the darkness, his shoes not even making a sound onthe ground.

He’s sure he’s gone a few feet to the side, and he stillhasn’t hit the wall.

“Ford?” His voice is a little louder this time, maybe a bitless sure. “You still there, buddy?”

If there was a wall, he’s sure he would have found it by now.

Stan has no idea what’s going on.

He’s sure Ford hadjust been a few paces behind him. After losing each other in those caves thatone time a year back, it’s become habitual for them to periodically check eachother’s locations, always keeping track of where the other is without everacknowledging it. Little things like listening for the other’s footsteps, idly chattingon and off, glancing back from time to time.

He knows Ford wasright behind him.

He’s given up on finding the wall, instead looking around inall directions and hoping to see something in the black surrounding him. Hiseyes have to adjust at some point, right? Eventually he’ll start seeing blobsof shape, right?

It’s almost tangible, how dark it is. The black only seemsto creep closer and closer with every second, reaching in from every directionand making him feel claustrophobic in a way he hasn’t felt in almost 40 years,locked up in some trunk in the middle of a desert, the air black and stifling—

“Ford?” he calls, cupping his hands around his mouth.“Sixer? Can you hear me?”

He’s not panicking. He can’t be panicking. It’s only been acouple minutes, and it’s just a little dark and Ford was definitely rightbehind him and should have heard him calling and damnit Sixer did you wander off and get yourself lost, did I get lost,why can’t I find a damn wall and why is it so dark what the hell is going—

“Stan! There you are!”

His heart slams violently in his chest, but he’s toorelieved to really care as he spins toward the voice just in time to see aflashlight flicker on…

From somewhere a few yards above him.

“What the hell?”

“Oh,” Ford says, the backscatter of the light in his handfaintly illuminating his face as they make eye contact. He looks vaguelyconfused, but not to the same extent that Stan himself is. Is he… floating? “Hold on. I’ll come down.”

“Come down from wh—?”

Stan can’t stop his mouth from falling open. Not when Fordstarts literally walking on air, hissteps sure and confident in the empty space way above Stan’s head, looping in acircle and coming down, as if he wasdescending some sort of invisible spiral staircase hidden in the surroundingdarkness.

Definitely notfloating, then.

“I’m dreaming or something, ain’t I? That’s what this has tobe.”

“No, I’m fairly certain that we’re awake,” Ford says, finallyon the same level as Stan and coming to a stop in front of him. He’s shiningthe flashlight down at their feet, endless darkness below them, its light onlyseeming to spread in the darkness, illuminating the both of them in a soft whiteglow. “Though I’d be the last to discourage you from checking for yourself. Imyself already did the finger-count check just to be sure.”

“Time check?” Stan asks, knowing that’s the one that usuallyhelps him in the midst of dreams (or nightmares). He glances down at hiswristwatch, angling against the glare of the flashlight on the watch face.

“Six-eighteen.”

“Six-nineteen,” Ford says in the same instant. Stan’seyebrows scrunch, sure that their watches were in-sync when they left the boatthis morning, but Ford doesn’t seem bothered by it. “Which makes sense, since Idid come in a bit after you did.”

“Come in what?”Stan asks. “Sixer, what the hell is going on?”

“We’re in a pocket universe.”

“A what now?”

“A pocket universe. A literal in-fold within the fabric ofspace-time, like a bubble still within our dimension but outside our universe,an existence between existences.”

“You act like what you’re saying makes sense.”

“It does, I promise. Now hold this for a minute.” Stan staggersslightly as Ford shoves his backpack rather unceremoniously into his hands (Ishe carrying rocks in here? Actually,dumb question, he probably is), tucking the flashlight between his shoulderand ear, unzipping the bag’s main pouch, and digging around inside. “Somethingto note while we’re in here: don’t set anything down. These things are known tobe temperamental, so assume anything you let go of you’ll never see again.”

“That’s notconcerning.”

“Only if you’re not an inanimate object and you don’t setanything down,” he says, still digging down into the bag. “These places arevery open to suggestion, so sentient beings can manipulate them to an extent,like how I walked down here or how you’re standing on nothing right now andbreathing air that doesn’t technically exist—”

“Are you trying to be comforting? Because you’re doing acrap job at it.”

“Comfort isn’t necessary. We’re perfectly safe,” he says,adjusting the flashlight on his shoulder to better angle into his bag as hecontinues searching. “You asked where we are, so I’m telling you. Now, back towhat I was saying before.”

“Here we go.”

“Classical physics don’t entirely apply here, so dependingon what kind of pocket universe you’re in, any non-sentient thing you let go ofcould float off into the ether or shrink down into the Quantum Realm or ceaseto exist entirely or anything in between. The pocket universes themselves areas infinite as any universe, but on a much smaller scale of perception. They’requite fascinating, really. I ended up stuck in my fair share of them while onthe other side of the portal.” He squints into the bag, almost seeming to begrudgethe thing for hiding whatever he’s looking for, before zipping the big pouchand moving to the smaller front pouch. “The most annoying thing about them isfiguring out how to get back out of them.”

“And there’s thecatch,” Stan says, glancing sarcastically to the side because, honestly, heshould have seen that coming. Nothing’sever easy. “Care to explain?”

“The rips in space into and out of these things areinvisible to the naked eye and are quite tricky to find,” he says. “They’reconstantly moving at random, so pinning one down is nearly impossible.”

“Is this the nerd way of saying we’re stuck?”

“Not at all,” Ford says. “Because I have…” he trails off,squinting into the bag again. “Hold on. I know it’s here somewhe—Ah-ha!” Hepulls something out, holding what looks to be a small silver tube up to Stan’sface triumphantly. “This.”

“The world’s shortest drinking straw?”

“It’s a semiportable transuniv… I’m sorry did you just callit a drinking straw?”

“I mean, that’s what it looks like.”

“This is an extremely sophisticated piece of technology froma dimension thousands of years ahead of our own. It’s leaps and bounds morecomplex than either of us will ever see the likes of replicated in thisdimension in our lifetimes.”

“Looks like a metal straw.”

“It’s not a…” he trails off, rubbing the bridge of his noseand sighing with such an intense exasperation that Stan can’t help but crack asmile. He takes a breath and holds the thing back up. “This is a semiportabletransuniversal rift and wormhole stabilizer.”

“That acronym literallyspells ‘straws’, Sixer.”

“It’s not a straw!”

“Yeesh okay okay,” Stan says, holding up his handsplacatingly. “It’s not a straw. Just, how is it gonna help us get out of here?”

“It’s capable of tearing through the weaker parts of thespace-time fabric and creating a miniature rift through which matter cantravel.”

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“How did you comeprepared for this exact thing to happen?”

“You know what they say,” he shrugs, pressing his thumbagainst one of the open ends of the straw stabilizer and jabbing it intothe air beside their heads in a stab-like motion. “Better to be transported toa random pocket universe and be prepared rather than wind up trapped inoblivion for the rest of eternity.”

“I can promise you that no one says that,” Stan says.

“Not in this dimension, maybe.” Ford peeks through the endof the tube without moving his hand and, seemingly satisfied with what he sees,yanks it downward. There’s a bright streak of light, the darkness seeming to tearand split as the air prickles with electricity, tasting like burning and ozonein the back of his throat. And then, when the smooth cut of light seems to besufficiently long, Ford jerks the tear to the side, ripping it open. Stanshields his eyes from to the sudden onslaught of light that pours into thedarkness, black spots dancing in his vision when he finally manages to get themopen again against the brightness.

The tear itself looks like exactly that: a tear. Thesurrounding black gives way to a clear view of the warehouse they were inminutes ago, everything exactly as it was before, the fluorescent lights stillflickering and reflecting off the cracked tile and concrete stone walls. Theedges of the rip itself are jagged and frayed like a torn rag, seeming toripple into and out of existence as Stan watches them, a small migraine formingin the back of his head the longer he stares. It would almost be mesmerizing ifit weren’t so… weird.

Weird and unsettling.

Stan doesn’t see what he does exactly, but, with it stillpartially inside the tear, Ford very purposefully fiddles with thetube/stabilizer/not-a-straw/thing, tapping the sides and ends in a verymethodical way. Almost in response, the tube grows another few inches longer,extending further into the rift. Then, as if proving it’s finished, the entiretube flashes bright white, the light fanning out across the tear and disappearingagainst the edges, spreading out like a ripple on the surface of a lake.

“Alright. We’re good to go,” Ford says, tossing the tubethrough the rift. It clatters on the tile on the other side, the sound muffledand distorted.

“This really doesn’t seem safe,” Stan says.

“Well, the alternative is staying here for the rest ofeternity,” Ford says, gesturing around to the utter darkness. “I’d like tothink the risk is the better option. Plus, I’ve had to use these a few timesbefore. They work pretty well. Feels weird when you go through, but I’ve onlyever had something go wrong once.”

“Sweet Moses, I don’t even want to know.”

“Oh, it was nothing extreme. I hadn’t fully activated thestabilizer and the rift just closed unexpectedly and cut my backpack in half.”

“Oh man, we’re gonna die.”

“I know how to use them now,Stanley.”

“That’s what you thought before.”

“Well now I know—”Ford cuts himself off with a groan. “You know what, I’m just going to…” BeforeStan can protest further, Ford steps forward, into the tear, passing through it.His whole body distorts slightly as he moves through, his feet stumblingslightly as he hits solid ground, but otherwise he’s fine, thankfully still inone piece. He turns around and gives Stan a pointed, triumphant look from theother side.

“Coming?” His voice is a bit garbled, but stillintelligible.

“You know, if that thing had closed, you woulda gotten me stuckhere forever.”

“Oh, stop being dramatic and hurry up, you old crybaby.”

“Rude.”

Stan takes that one step forward, and he couldn’t agree morewith Ford that this feels weird. Hecan feel the moment he passes through, like goosebumps going all the way throughhim. It’s a tangible sensation, one that makes his stomach churn a bit uncomfortably.But then his shoes hit tile, the ground a bit lower than he had anticipated andmaking him trip forward. A hand on his shoulder steadies him, though, stoppinghim from actually falling.

“See? Painless,” Ford says, smiling at him.

“More like unnatural.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“So, do we have to close this thing, or will it—” Stan turnsto look, but there’s nothing there. No gaping maw of blackness waiting toswallow up its next victim, no indication of any rip or tear in the universe.There’s absolutely nothing. Just the rest of the hallway that he had beenwalking down before all this happened.

Wait.

He squints, and sure enough, there’s a shimmer to the airwhere he just stepped through, something just off that he can barely make outif he really looks, like a blurred photograph.

“Okay, yeah, it’s still there,” Stan says. “Should we, Idon’t know, fix that?”

“Like I said, it’s a tear. There’s nothing we can do to fixit,” Ford tells him. “One this small is harmless in the grand scheme of things,and it’s not like it leads anywhere dangerous, and people can’t get stuck inthere anymore. I mean, it’s independent of time, so it’s always been here, evenbefore this exact moment in time. Odds are high that what you walked intoearlier is this exact tear. Though to have the warehouse built around it withno incident during its use would be improbable with it’s location being rightin the middle of a major hallway. Also, there’s the fact that we couldn’t getback, so it’s as if the tear was only partially existent? Wait, unless it’salso paradox-inducing, only coming into existence momentarily to trap us andallow us to create it—”

“Here, don’t forget your stabilizer-thing,” Stan says,scooping up the tube and shoving it into Ford’s hands, cutting off thenerd-babble. Ford gives it a cursory glance before handing it back.

“Oh, it’s useless now. They’re one-offs. Once they’re used,they’re no longer quantumly entangled and aren’t capable of piercing throughthe barrier—"

“Yeah yeah, can I have it then?”

“Why do you want it? It’s utterly useless now.”

“I need a new straw for one of my mugs.”

“You know, on second thought, it might be safer for you backin the pocket dimension.”

“Too bad. You had that chance and you missed it. You’restuck with me now.”

“Damn.”

[biasedwriting]

Tales of a Consulting Firm ||19||

Find all parts here

We love feedback so you can ping either @vixxscifiwritings / @animeotakupooh or me :)  

Haneul just really needed a drink. After this day of constant pestering from her two friends using various means and the annoying meeting, she really wanted to down an entire bottle of wine and try and get some peace and quiet. Wonshik had promised her drinks. But she didn't expect to see Jaehwan and Wonshik waiting for her at the end of the day with giant grins on their faces as Jaehwan declared.

“We're going bar hopping!”

Hanuel’s face dropped as the two looped their arms around hers as Sanghyuk and Hongbin walked into the reception looking mutinous as Hakyeon followed with a grin on his face.

“We’re going for a movie!” he declared as Haneul shot Sanghyuk and Hongbin a look as the two rolled their eyes. Minah entered the room and sat down on the couch reserved for visitors.

“I heard you guys were going for a movie.” she said, looking up at Sanghyuk and Hongbin.

“I asked you to come with me, but you said nooo.” Sanghyuk stuck his tongue out at her.

“I said I didn’t want to third wheel on your date with your beloved Binnie.”

“I am not his beloved!” Hongbin cringed.

“But I see you have your third wheel in Hakyeon.” Minah ended as Hakyeon shot her a peace sign.

“It was Sunbae Notice Me. The newest comedy in the theatres, I couldn’t miss it.” he shrugged before turning to Wonshik, Jaehwan, and Haneul.

“I heard you guys are going bar hopping?”

“I didn’t want to.” Haneul sulked.

“You’ll have fun. We promise.” Wonshik guaranteed as Jaehwan nodded in agreement as they turned to Minah.

“Wanna join us?”

“Nah, not in the mood for alcohol, I have plans, don’t worry!” she grinned.

“Okay!” Jaehwan said before tugging his companions along as Hakyeon turned to Minah.

“Well, we’ll see you soon. Or we’ll be late for the movie.” he said as Minah smiled and waved to the group. It was then that Taekwoon entered the lounge and cleared his throat, attracting Minah’s attention.

“Are you ready?”

“Sure am!”

---

The first bar Haneul set foot in with Wonshik and Jaehwan was lit up in pink and had so many Valentine related things cluttered around that it physically made her wince. But when her drink was handed to her by the bartender, she didn’t mind it as much.

Maybe the place would grow on her.

Apparently alcohol and Valentine’s Day decor only got her even more grumpy as Wonshik and Jaehwan swiftly escorted her out of the bar before she punched the next heart shaped thing in her vision.

“Hearts are so mainstream.” she nodded to no one in particular.

“But hearts are cute!” Jaehwan said. He made finger hearts for her, only to get a glare in return. “Accept our hearts Haneul!” Jaehwan sang making one with his arm over his head and the second half with Wonshik’s arm.

“Are you both already drunk?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

“This one has a really long line” Wonshik noted. They had reached the second venue only to find a long line of people waiting to get in.

“We could go to the club on 27th Street” he suggested. Haneul took a moment to debate the idea. If they did decide to go, they would have to walk another two miles. But the place would be less crowded and they could get in easily. She whined a little, already starting to tire from the long day when two girls walked up to Jaehwan.

“Hi there. Are you guys looking for a partner?” one of them asked. Jaehwan and Wonshik looked at each other, unsure of what the girls wanted. Haneul scowled at being ignored when she was right next to the two men.

“They are taken no thank you” she exclaimed, squeezing in between the two men and linking her arms with them. The girl who had talked gave her a look before walking away.

“I have no idea what just happened” Jaehwan confessed.

“They were looking for partners to get the discounted couple entry. I keep forgetting that both of you are handsome and hence easy targets” Haneul said with a frown. She looked at the two and sighed because both of them were smiling at being called handsome.

“So we are handsome?” Wonshik prompted leaning in to tease her.

“I stand corrected. You both are just idiots” Haneul huffed before unlinking her arms and walking forward.

Jaehwan and Wonshik hurried after her to catch up. They bumped into her as she suddenly stopped in the middle of the road. “Do you want to go to a club or do you want to get drunk?” Haneul asked them in all seriousness. “Because if we go to a club, both of you will just be hit on by random women. And I know the perfect place to go get drunk without being hit on” she explained.

“You don't have to worry about us! Our hearts belong to you” Jaehwan sang. Haneul resisted the urge to hit him and looked to Wonshik who seemed to be deep in thought. “I wanted to destress with some music too. But without worrying about someone constantly hitting on you” he told her. Haneul blushed a little but coughed to hide it.

“Let's just get loads of beer and soju and head over to my place. We can plug our phones in for music and if we shift the couch we can get enough space for a mini dance floor” she decided.

“Taking not one, but two men home with you? What ever would your mother say?” Jaehwan fake gasped.

“You can stay here then” Haneul said sarcastically.

“I was just kidding” he said sheepishly while Wonshik grinned.

“So cute” he thought out loud.

“I know right?” Jaehwan asked proudly.

“Why am I seriously here?” Haneul asked no one in particular.

And so Haneul ended up slamming three shot glasses down on the coffee table. Wonshik had set up the playlist for the evening and the fried chicken had been ordered to go along with the beer and soju. The three of them had slipped into something comfortable for the night. Haneul tried to avoid looking at how the undershirts they were wearing accentuated their biceps (the memory of Wonshik’s bare chest was still fresh in her mind no thank you very much) and the boys preened a little, showing off at every chance they got.

“Do you want us to move the couch?”

“How about we move the table??”

“We can lift these books. Easy job”

“Do you want us to lift you up so you can reach those glasses?”

Haneul shook her head. At one point, Jaehwan had decided to drink water and she could swear she had been fixated at the way his adam’s apple bobbed. She clearly must have been losing her mind. “Let's start with the beer! And there is so much chicken! Fried chicken!” she exclaimed joyfully, thankful that eating would provide a distraction. She wasn't lying about loving fried chicken but now it was serving as yummy food as well as a way to save her sanity and she had never been gladder for its existence.

“So clumsy” Jaehwan teased before leaning forward and wiping away the sauce on the side of her lips.

“Here. Let me tie your hair for you” Wonshik offered. He picked up a hair tie from the coffee table and made a haphazard bun of her hair before tying it up. Haneul smiled sheepishly before picking up her glass of beer and drinking it as if it was water.

“You should slow down” Wonshik said while Jaehwan exclaimed “Drinking competition! Whoo!”

Perhaps some things are better done in moderation - is a lesson the three would learn the morning after.

“I don't think that people appreciate fried chicken enough you know?” Haneul slurred a little. She had been buzzed for quite a while now. How many shots had they done? She had lost count after the third bottle of soju had been opened. “People don't appreciate potatoes either” she continued while Jaehwan nodded in full agreement and Wonshik was lost in thought. “Have you thought about how tasty it is but how people always discriminate against it? Ugly as a potato. Don't be a couch potato? Maybe I want to be a potato you know? Why would you judge such a vegetable? It's infinitely better than being broccoli??” she pointed out, very confused.

“Stop potato discrimination 2k17!” Jaehwan yelled holding up another shot glass. The three of them cheered and took another shot before putting the glass down. Haneul turned to Wonshik who had been awfully quiet throughout the entire endeavour.

“Why are you thinking and not drinking?” she asked doing aegyo.

“I have been thinking about something very serious” he told her in a low whisper. Jaehwan scooted in to listen as well, effectively sandwiching Haneul in the middle.

“Do lobsters think fishes are flying?” Wonshik asked. He looked at Jaehwan and Haneul who looked at each other before sighing and falling against the couch.

“That's a very good question” Jaehwan noted. Haneul agreed, scrambling for a post it note and a marker to write the word ‘intelligent’ on it and stick it to Wonshik’s forehead. Except it was suddenly very hard so she just drew a heart and stuck it on his stomach.

“I want one too!” Jaehwan pouted.

“Sorry! Sorry” Haneul apologised before sticking one on his bicep. “Sorry” she said imitating a foreign accent before gasping and stumbling to stand up. “Sorry sorry sorry” she started to sing while trying to do the dance. But she lost her footing and ended up falling back on the couch.

“I miss Super Junior” she said with a sob. Tears started to flow soon as well with both Jaehwan and Wonshik trying to calm her down. “

It's okay! They will be back soon!” Wonshik consoled her.

“Till then you have us!” Jaehwan told her.

“Yeah! You'll always have us” Wonshik agreed. Haneul wiped her tears away to look at the two men.

“I really loved them” she said with a sniff.

“You can love us! You can totally love us!” Jaehwan exclaimed trying to cheer her up.

“Yeah! Just look at Jaehwan. He's so cute! He'll always make you smile!” Wonshik said.

“And Wonshik is so cool! And witty too!” Jaehwan added.

“Jaehwan makes everyone laugh. He's the life of any party” Wonshik said with a sigh.

“But have you seen Wonshik’s dj-ing skills? He literally brings the party to life!” Jaehwan countered.

“But you have a lovely voice! You can just make music as you sing! You beatbox too!” Wonshik said.

“But you rap really well and you have a unique style!” Jaehwan praised.

“I try” Wonshik said modestly.

“You succeed!” Jaehwan declared. The two men smiled at each other, leaning in while ignoring Haneul who had tears in her eyes.

“You both are perfect for each other” she said with more sniffs. “I won't need anyone as long as I have you!” Wonshik declared. “Wonshik!” Jaehwan exclaimed as he tried to hug him, forgetting Haneul in the middle who was crying tears of joy. “Just get married already” she said with a lot of sincere joy (for a drunk person).

“We don't have rings” Wonshik lamented.

“I can draw a ring! What's the point of being an artist if you can't draw a ring for your man?” Jaehwan exclaimed.

“Yeah! Where there is a marker there is a way!” Haneul agreed digging a marker out of nowhere. “I have a highlighter too! For shading” Wonshik said holding a yellow highlighter up.

“Brilliant! This is why I love you!” Jaehwan said.

“I have a phone! We can record your vows!” Haneul said.

The three of them stood up. Jaehwan made his way to Wonshik and held him as steady as he could as Haneul found her phone and started to record.

“I do!” Jaehwan yelled skipping ceremony.

“I do too!” Wonshik declared before handing Jaehwan the marker and highlighter so that he could draw the rings.

“And now I declare you both happily married” Haneul cheered when the rings were complete. “You may kiss!” she said happily.

“Noooo. I feel shy” Wonshik said as Jaehwan made suggestive eyebrows at him.

“Both of my friends got married today” Haneul wept as Jaehwan was now hugging Wonshik on the couch.

“Love is so inspiring. We should tell everyone about this” she decided, going through the contacts list. She found the number she had been looking for before hitting dial.

“Biker sunbae! Jaehwan and Wonshik just got married! Say congratulations!” she said at one go. “No no. It was a completely sober decision. Just like this one is. Sunbae let's get married!” Haneul spoke.

“Yeah! Get married! It feels amazing!” Jaehwan yelled from the side.

“I love you. Jaehwan loves Wonshik. Wonshik loves Jaehwan. Taekwoon only loves coffee because he is a cat. That’s one... two… three! Three perfect reasons for us to get married” she explained. She gasped and stared at her phone before scowling. “Stupid jealous cat” she said frowning at the fact that Taekwoon had taken Minah’s phone and hung up on her.

“I think Wonshik fell asleep” Jaehwan said. Haneul looked up to see Wonshik dozing off at one end of the couch. “How can a person fall asleep on their wedding night?” Jaehwan grumbled before pouting and hugging Wonshik. Haneul giggled at the two before opening up the texting group. So what if Taekwoon hadn’t let her confess on the phone? She could confess on the group! And while they were at it, she could also encourage Sanghyuk and Hongbin to get married as well! They deserved love and happiness too, didn’t they? Haneul typed furiously with a new resolve.

She frowned at the text messages sent in reply. Hakyeon was confused while Sanghyuk just asked her if she was drunk. She wasn’t drunk! No! Not at all! She was perfectly sober no thank you very much. She scowled darkly before flinging her phone away and snuggling with her new teddy bear on the floor. Tomorrow morning, she would pop the question to her awesome biker sunbae again. More romantically than Taekwoon ever would, she thought with vengeance. She giggled at the thought of marrying Minah and having cute children like Injung before finally succumbing to her tiredness and passing out. Strangely her couch felt as warm and as comfortable as a human hug.

Previous || Next

[landywinslow]

The Ides of March

  What do you call the anniversary of something you didn’t want to happen? Is there a name for that? Maybe it’s just “anniversary,” but with a dark timbre of voice? Either way, there’s an experience that most of us shared about twelve months ago, and I’m not sure exactly how to commemorate it. Like, part of me feels like celebrating something. Resilience. Survival. Etc. But part of me wants to spend the day laying in the fetal position with a bucket of strong drink.

  Overall, I feel proud. I’m proud of the ingenuity of our species collectively and individually. I’m proud of all of us for navigating (however awkwardly) the restrictions and profound anxiety of all of it. I’m proud of the millions and billions of us who have stolidly continued to place one foot in front of the other amidst loss of loved ones, loss of income, loss of any and every sense of security. I’m proud of all the people trudging forward with ravaged mental health, emotional exhaustion, and the crippling sense that we aren’t moving forward at all but sliding and struggling down a filthy muddy slope of futility. Despite everything, we continue. Maybe not to do anything but we continue.

  March 13th, 2020 was a Friday. In The Before, I joked about Friday the 13th’s being bad luck. I haven’t joked about it since. It hasn’t been an intentional avoidance, just the fact that our collective existence in the past year has felt like such a string of unbelievably heartbreaking bad luck that I can’t conceptualize it as lighthearted anymore.

  I mention all of this because that thirteenth day of March, the year of our Lord two thousand and twenty was, unbeknownst to me at the time, my Last Normal Day.

  A year ago my family was at the end of a long and grueling battle with a cockroach infestation that had taken up almost every waking thought for a month. The exterminator had come twice, prompting us to completely disembowel and deep clean the kitchen three times. I was kicking myself for the gentle “All Life is Sacred” approach to the small, seemingly non-roach insect I had caught on the counter weeks earlier, and dumped gently into the bushes outside without a second thought. Dealing with a colony of pests while parenting four young kids and starting a new job at a big event venue in town (insert ominous music) was exhausting me faster than I could caffeinate. 

  All of the vague news circulating about a virus swirled around the periphery of my very challenging present. I saw an infographic that said it was less dangerous than the flu, and that eased the itch of anxiety enough for me to put it on the back burner. Dozens of doomsday prophecies had come across my proverbial desk, and had amounted to nothing. I doubted this would be any different. I joked to my neighbor, “Everyone else is talking about this coronavirus stuff, and I’m over here like, ‘Virus? What virus!? My house is FULL OF ROACHES!!!’” as we stood together watching our kids tumble around with each other in the twilight. “The only part of it I’m nervous about,” I remarked, “is school closing. I had a horrible homeschooling experience and my education is shit. I’m terrified to be responsible for their learning, and I’m at the end of my rope as it is!”

  Oh sweet, innocent child. If only she knew how much could (and would) be woven, tied, taped, and glued on to the end of that rope.

  That Friday was drizzly and cold. I decided to be uncharacteristically optimistic and make the best of it by doing something out of the ordinary with the kids. We drove to the nearest indoor mall and wandered around, window shopping and riding the escalators. When we got to the little spongy, rubbery playground they wanted to play, so after depositing their shoes and socks next to a dozen others in the little cubbies, I opened up my phone to zone out a bit. I stumbled across a meme that said, “Just a warning, this week starts with changing the clocks, moves to a full moon, and ends with a Friday the 13th… Good luck people! Ps: Don’t forget to wash your hands.” I chuckled and sent it to a couple friends.

  Everything was fine until a little toddler I didn’t know came up beside me, sniffly and coughing. As I reflexively shifted away from her, a shadow of dread crept into my chest; Maybe we should go wash our hands. I called my kids over and reminded them to not touch their faces until we were finished playing there, which in child-code meant: Pick your nose and/or lick your hand immediately. I rolled my eyes and went back to my phone. A friend or two had posted about closures in their cities, cases beginning to accumulate. I began to worry, but it wasn’t here right? I became increasingly aware of the crowds of people around us, the very first anxiety about group contagion that I can remember experiencing. It’s not here I reassured myself, malls seem contagious in the best of times. But even as I worked to calm the bubbling fear, my passive assessment of risk silently transitioned into something more tangible. I gave the kids a five minute warning, and seconds later a text alerted me of a new post in our school’s parent portal. My stomach dropped, somehow cognizant that this was the fateful moment. My hands trembled, hesitating over the preview: “Dear Staff and Families...” until finally the weight of not knowing was heavy enough to push my thumb across the screen, unsealing the portentous message.

  I skimmed it so quickly for bad news that I ended up having to re-read it three times before finding the key information: “There has been a community-based transmission of COVID-19 in San Diego county. As such, we are cancelling all field trips, social events, and learning center instruction through April 10th.” The hammer fell so gently at the end of that sentence that it didn’t sink in all at once, but rolled around on the surface of my mind for a few moments. All instruction... Cancelled until April 10th. Tears queued up along my lower lids, the first of a very long line. No sense in putting it off, I sighed after a moment of silence for the coming trials. I called my kids to leave and to give them the news, already knowing that their initial reaction would be the opposite of mine. School closed for a month was a dream come true for them. But I knew it wasn’t a month off of school, it was a month of not going to school. A month of my brain stretched thin, full of holes, having to face up to one of my most visceral and life long insecurities. Homeschooling meant working double time, through crippling self doubt, first to learn all of the concepts myself and then, juggling four grade levels, attempting to translate the information to humanoid pinballs who would much rather be doing something else. I felt sick with dread.

  In reality, a month would have been such a lenient sentence, wouldn’t it? The disbelief I experienced back then while attempting to look forward is an inverted version of what I feel now looking back. The exact same sense, but from opposite views. Last March I couldn’t believe how impossibly long a month seemed. Now I can’t believe that I thought a month was so long.

  After we left the mall, I dropped by our school to pick up a workbook and spoke with one of the teachers. We laughed together at how silly it all was. We were sure that it would pass quickly and said that maybe we’d make the most of it by snagging one of the newly affordable flights. The next day I went to work and repeated that conversation ad nauseum with my coworkers. “They say it’s not even as bad as the flu!” We parroted back and forth, because it comforted us. At the end of our shift we all gathered around to ask our boss about job security. “None of the shut down orders apply to us,” she assured, “and we’re booked solid for the rest of the year. Nothing to worry about here!” That was my last shift.

  I recently rewatched some of the entertainment content that came out a year ago. Clunky interviews and table reads done from whatever corner of the house was quietest; celebrities looking slightly dishevelled in their own clothes and diy hair and makeup, recording from iPhones and laptop cameras without proper lighting. Everyone kind of hunching over a screen that was balanced on whatever flat surface was nearby, just like my friends and I do it. It was like everyone’s mask came off, and underneath we were all the same: exposed, scared humans attempting to hold on to any semblance of normalcy within reach. During my rewatching, I found a Tonight Show interview with Lin Manuel Miranda that aired five days after my Last Normal Day. Following a maladroit preamble, Jimmy Fallon says, “A lot of people are saying to me, ‘You must be getting a lot of work done right now, a lot of writing done.’ Are people asking you that?” and in the desperate tone of every disoriented parent, Lin replies, “I’m not getting work done! I’m learning how to teach math!”

  I found the interview equal parts endearing and heartbreaking. We were still so bright eyed and cautiously optimistic that a solution was right around the corner. We just had to flatten the curve. A year later, it feels like all capability for optimism has been sapped, leaving nothing but an indigestible husk. And yet, here I am. For months and months and months every plan has had to change, every expectation has had to pivot, and every experience has been seasoned with disappointment. The reflexive code of, “I can’t do this. I can’t possibly do this.” has run through me on an infinite loop. But I did do it. I am doing it. All of us are. We continue. Despite the stress and isolation and loss and grief we experience. We exist. We are self sustaining verbs, even in what feels like stasis.

  Do you see what I mean about not knowing how to feel about this anniversary? Even at our most beaten down, we are remarkable and there is such a tension between the positive and negative of that. In her poignant and encouraging article for The Atlantic titled “5 Pandemic Mistakes We Keep Making,” Zeynep Tufekci writes, “Hope nourishes us during the worst times, but it is also dangerous. It upsets the delicate balance of survival—where we stop hoping and focus on getting by—and opens us up to crushing disappointment if things don’t pan out.” In all honesty, I’m not ready to hope again. It’s too much to ask, after these last twelve months have burned through every reserve. But I’m also not ready to mourn this last year. The weight of loss has already hung so heavily that asking anything more of us is unthinkable.

  A few months ago I began casually looking into the 1918 flu, as a sort of morbid self soothing exercise. I enjoy reading about it because, while the impact was devastating, the similarity of restrictions and the photos of everyone wearing (less fashionable) masks brings a comforting sense of camaraderie. But mostly I like reading about it for one single fact: it ended. I think that’s the most hope-adjacent perspective possible. We don’t know when our pandemic will end, but whenever it is, it is inevitable. When I put it like that, acknowledging that there was that day last March when everything changed for me, and acknowledging that there will be some other day or days where things inevitably continue to change… acknowledging that there’s no way possible to get back to old normal and no way yet to get to a new normal… it brought a sort of acceptance. I’m not ready to hope or celebrate or mourn, but I am ready to accept. Ultimately, I think acceptance is the only possible way I can commemorate this milestone that is not a beginning or an end. This anniversary of my Last Normal Day simply exists. Just like me. Just like you. I accept that it is a single milestone on a long, treacherous path, and I will keep trudging forwards through however many more days are before me, finding little spots of color and beauty as best I can. The other thing I notice while reading about the last pandemic is how it segued almost seamlessly into the Roaring Twenties. I don’t know about you, but whenever it is that we finally look around and find ourselves in the falling action of this pandemic’s narrative, I sure as hell plan to live it up.

[hiraeth-doux]

A Road Paved In Gold (3/?)

Summary: In Steve’s memory, the seconds, and minutes, and hours of that day blurred into one endless moment of aching uncertainty and bone-chilling fear, but if his calculations were correct, his watch stopped ticking at the exact moment when his plane had gone up in flames.

Steve Trevor was never meant to die in the sky above Belgium for the reasons much bigger than he could ever imagine. Therefore, he didn’t. However, surviving came with a price he didn’t ask for. The price that Diana had to pay, as well.

A/N: First of all, I’m really sorry for taking forever and a half to post this. I did some travelling for something like a month and no writing was done in that time. I do plan to be more consistent with the updates as much as I possibly can :) And second, I’d like to thank everyone for being kind and for the love this story received so far. You’re wonderful! 

AO3 |  Fanfiction.net

It was a a universally acknowledged truth that noticing changes in the others was infinitely easier than seeing them in yourself.

It took Steve a few years to take note that something was off. A few more to get worried about it, the way anyone would get worried about the fact that they’d stopped aging. It was easy to brush off Charlie’s quips (Not having to fight for your life is good for you, man) and Sameer’s comments (You’re just jealous) for a while, and quite frankly, it was hardly a matter of concern for Steve in the years following the war, not when he was too busy putting together the pieces of his shattered life.

Charlie moved back home eventually, driven away by the memories he didn’t want to hold on to, and even though his letters remained fairly frequent for a while, the bond was not the same. And Steve couldn’t blame him. As close as they were at some point, the war was something one wouldn’t want to remember for too long. If there was a part of the world he could run away to, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t do so in a heartbeat.

Sameer was still around, but he pulled away as well, putting a wall between the past and the present, and his new life was drastically different from what it used to be that it was hard to keep up.

There was a knowing look in Chief’s eyes, the one that made Steve’s stomach twist with unease. Like he knew something or could see right into his very soul. However, he never said anything, and Steve never dared ask, fearful of the answers, and then the Chief was gone, too, sailing back to his homeland in hopes of finding a place he could call his own, the torn-apart Europe no longer having anything to offer him.

And this was how Steve Trevor found out that he was terrible at moving on.

The 20’s came and went without his noticing, the post-war life taking shape around him, his hopes and dreams finally having a chance to come true. He hadn’t noticed most of it, what with being focused single-mindedly on making it through one day at a time until he’d lost the count of them, until they started to blur and bend around him, the time no longer bearing any meaning.

The 30’s brought more hassle, the dull pain inside him finally turning into a throb he could almost ignore if he put some effort into it. A decade and a half – that was how long it took him to stop listening for the conversations around him, his ears straining to catch the familiar husk of her voice, the soft accent seared into his memory; that was how long it took his heart to stop wearing itself thin and his throat to no longer go dry at the sight of dark-haired women on the streets of London, and then Paris, and Brussels, and wherever else he happened to be.

Steve Trevor was nothing but unrealistic. He never blamed Diana for leaving. As much as it hurt to admit it, he knew better than anyone that there was little he could offer her, aside from his endless affection, but what value did it have, really? Which didn’t mean it stung any less, making him feel like missing her was driving him man more often than not. Understanding was one thing. Accepting… well, it turned out that accepting her decision was something else entirely.

Something that kept him so occupied that he barely even noticed that at the age of 51, he didn’t look a day older than 35.

Until he did.

Until he found himself in the bathroom one night, staring at his reflection and unable to recognize the face looking back at him. The features were all in place, as familiar as ever, but the total sum of them wasn’t adding up. He touched his cheek, feeling the prickly stubble with his fingertips, and the man in the mirror did the same. His hair was supposed to be streaked with grey, the lines around his eyes were meant to be deeper. It scared him, and yet there was something comforting in being suspended in time. After all, this was what his life had been for the past fifteen years – feeling like the time had stopped.

Ironically, he never got around to fixing his watch. Couldn’t even look at it anymore after Diana spent several months wearing it on her wrist. It was bad enough that his clothes and his bedding smelled of her for so long Steve started to think at some point he was losing his sanity, that her very essence seeped into his very skin to stay there for eternity, his mind trapped in the endless loop of memories he wanted to hold on and to forget, all at once.

And so his once most prized possession remained shoved into the drawer of his desk as Steve tried with little success to ignore a twinge of sorrow in his gut whenever he saw it.

This was not how it all was supposed to end.

When the Second World War rolled around, he accepted it with numb resignation, finally admitting to himself that deep down that he never truly believed that killing a god of war was not going to fix mankind. After all, gods or no gods, people were making their own decisions, and sometimes they had to pay for them.

---

“Dance with me,” Steve asked. He was standing by the stove in a sunbathed kitchen one morning, and Diana didn’t resist when he set down the spatula and pulled her to him, surprised and curious.

His arm wrapped around her waist and his hand curled around hers, and his face was so close that their noses were almost touching, the blue of his eyes so mesmerizing it left her transfixed.

“But there is no music,” Diana pointed out, one eyebrow arched.

The corner of Steve’s mouth curled up, his fingers flexing on the small of her back. She could feel the warmth of his touch through the thin fabric of her shirt spreading all over her, the hardwood floor warm beneath their bare feet.

“Of course, there is.”

And before she knew it, he was humming something under his breath, a tune Diana never heard before but the sound of which reverberated somewhere deep inside her, his body moving ever so slightly, and hers following suit. She could feel his heartbeat her was so close, could feel his breath on her cheek as she rested her forehead against his temple.

It was early still, her mind somewhat hazy around the edges, and her lips stretched into a smile on the will of their own. This was ridiculous, and silly, and it made no sense, and yet, she knew deep down that she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here, swaying to something that wasn’t even music, all because there was nothing quite like the contentment of being cocooned in the comfort of Steve’s closeness.

Diana looked up, her gaze skimming over his bedhead and a faint shadow of stubble dribbling from his cheeks. Solid and warm and alive, and so incredibly off-key it was making her heart almost burst with tenderness.

“Steve?”

“Mm?”

He was watching her quizzically, expectantly, his body still rocking almost imperceptibly in place, and his half-smile was pulling her into a vortex of something that she couldn’t put into words because they simply didn’t exist. It wasn’t meant to be defined, she thought absently. It was meant to be felt.

Unable to say anything, she reached to brush Steve’s hair back, smoothing it down at his temple, taking in his features, trying to memorize them with her fingertips.

“Where have you been my whole life?” He whispered, a little puzzled, a little mesmerized.

“You know where,” Diana murmured back even though he clearly wasn’t expecting an answer.

She rested her cheek on his shoulder and closed her eyes. With Steve Trevor, she could dance for a hundred years - barefoot, in the cramped kitchen, with no music playing, and her soul would sing and soar every moment of it.

---

Themyscira was the same.

And yet it wasn’t.

Crossing the barrier around the island felt like a touch of electric static to her skin that made the fine hairs on Diana’s arms stand on end. And then all she could see was the outline of the cliffs that she knew like the back of her hand, every nook and crevice of which she could wade through with her eyes closed.

This was the place she called home for as long as she lived, a place that was her entire world, and she rarely, if ever, wondered about what lay beyond it, always content with what she’d had. And how could she not be? How could anyone not be? She was always content, happy as one could ever be.

Looking at the familiar landscape and the turquoise waters surrounding her, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing in her chest. She missed Themyscira the way one would miss something that was a part of them, flesh and blood, and she suspected that in many ways it was. For all of them. And she realized with a start that when she left this place nearly two decades ago, she never expected to come back, half-fearful to face the people who undoubtedly thought of her departure as betrayal, half-certain that she would never find her way back, through the barrier, to a place that didn’t technically exist for everyone else.

Hence the drifter and not a motorboat – she knew the navigation equipment would not work here, Steve told her. His compass went ballistic when he was trying to figure out his location, and she didn’t want to get lost, even though a part of her almost wished she’d never find her way back. Maybe it would be better, Diana reasoned with herself, if Themyscira remained hidden, if in her mind, it stayed that magical place where, as a girl, she thought anything was possible and the world was a magical place.

Her mother was waiting for her in the same harbor where they said their sorrowful goodbyes that left Diana’s heart so heavy in her chest she thought she was crumble under its weight. Thought the boat might sink, taking her and Steve to the bottom of the ocean, although those were the thoughts she only barely allowed herself to sink into.

Hippolyta’s arms closed around her the moment Diana stepped onto the wooden dock, fiercely and protectively, and like she was gone for a hundred years. Or like she’d never left at all. And for a long moment, it felt like she hadn’t. Her mother’s face was exactly the same, if only the lines looked deeper than she remembered, but maybe it was the light. Maybe it was in her head. Sixteen years was a blink for them, a moment to pass without anyone noticing. Yet, Hippolyta’s hands on her cheeks and the smile that she was trying and failing to hold back were giving away the cautious hope she was harbouring for her daughter’s eventual return.

She drew back then and looked Diana up and down properly, taking in the unfamiliar clothing, her loose hair falling over her shoulders and a smile that mirrored her own, trembling and teary.

“I’m back,” Diana mouthed almost soundlessly, somewhat scared of breaking the moment, and Hippolyta nodded slowly, as though also uncertain as to whether this was real or not.

Her eyes flickered behind Diana’s shoulder like she only now noticed the boat that swayed ever so slightly on the waves lapping against the gravel shore, like a whisper.

“You’re alone.”

The statement caught Diana off-guard for a second, and she glanced behind her for a moment as if to make sure that she didn’t accidentally bring someone else with her. If only by sheer distraction.

“Yes,” she turned to her mother again, her head tilter to her shoulder. “Should I not be?”

“Your friend…” Hippolyta started and stopped herself; cleared her throat, her face turning into a familiar mask that was meant to keep her feelings in check. “The one who left with you.”

It wasn’t a question, even though it sounded like one. It made Diana flinch inwardly, as thinking about Steve Trevor always did. If time was supposed to heal all wounds, it was sure taking longer than usual with her. Time was an odd thing, though. She was not used to being concerned about it in any way whatsoever, and yet the rest of the world was obsessed with it. Enslaved by it, even. Outside of this place, life was nothing but a race against time.

Diana didn’t know how they were doing it, even though sometimes she wanted so badly to understand it. There was something about the sense of belonging, or lack thereof, that simmered in the back of her mind no matter how much she tried to push it away. She wasn’t one of the Amazons, not entirely, but she wasn’t one of the people either, and even though it didn’t really matter in a grand scheme of things, she wondered sometime just what exactly was her place in this world, which ultimately left her with a sense of profound loneliness.

As for Steve Trevor… She had spent so much time teaching herself not to think about him that her mother bringing him up knocked the ground from beneath her. Of all people in the world, Hippolyta was perhaps the last one she’d ever expected to even think about him, what with how their first meeting went. All the more puzzling was a flicker of sorrow on her mother’s face that mirrored her own. She didn’t ask anything, though. Didn’t comment on Hippolyta’s unasked question.

He was better off without her, without all of this, in the world that was his own.

In all the years growing up here, Diana viewed herself and her people as protectors. Never once did it occur to her that they could be dangerous to the innocent. And that night… that night sixteen years ago, she could have killed him. Could have snapped his neck without even noticing. She could still feel his pulse against her forearm, his breath on her skin and his eyes wide and surprised. Never scared. This was what frightened her the most. He was not worried, trusting her completely, the way she used to trust him – blindly, with her body and soul, and everything in-between. What right did she have to put him at risk?

The only problem was that his absence left a hole in her very being, and there seemed to be no way to mend it. Breath after breath, one day at a time, she hoped that he was having the kind of life he deserved, loved and wanted and happy. And if she tried real hard, she could almost forget the way her heart ached with every beat still, like she’d only seen him yesterday, her memories of their time together as fresh as ever.

Maybe some wounds were never meant to heal.

“I kept it the way it was when you left,” Hippolyta said when Diana stepped into her chambers, her eyes taking in the same bed she had for a long as she could remember, the same comforter thrown over it, her vanity table untouched, and the endless ocean outside the window so blue it hurt to look at it.

Diana took mother’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “I missed you.”

Hippolyta hesitated for a brief moment before pulling Diana into a tight embrace. “Welcome home.”

That night, she fell asleep to the sound to waves lapping against the rocks below and the tears drying on her cheeks, unsure of what she was crying for – her relief over being able to come back, or the fact that the home didn’t feel like home anymore.

---

It was the same, and yet as different as it could be, Antiope’s death still looming like a gaping hole that threatened to suck them all into the void of desperation, the kind of loss that would never go away. In the time that Diana was away, Artemis took Antiope’s place, but she was cautious to become a true replacement. Everything was different, not quite right in the way that was hard to define. Years and centuries of training for a hypothetical threat made the real one feel all the more ominous, looming before them – a when, not an if anymore.

They asked Diana to step up, help train the warriors now that she knew what was on the other side of the peace many of them hoped would last forever. But tempting as it was, she wanted to be one of them, not above them in any way that mattered. She wanted Antiope to be proud of her, not to take her place.

She was watching the training one day from the ledge above the training grounds, the late afternoon sun burning her skin and her breath still short from her own several hours of dodging arrows and deflecting the blows strong enough to shatter steel. Her shield was hanging behind her back, her sword – not the ‘god-killer’, but one of the many they had in their armoury – resting at her hip while her eyes followed the movement of the other Amazons, graceful as an intricate dance.

She felt Hippolyta appear at her side rather than saw her, her mother’s glance also following the attacks and blows and elaborate maneuvers.

Diana’s fingers tightened on Antiope’s diadem that she was holding in her hands, tracing the star on the front, the smooth metal warm in the sun.

“I hope I’m worthy of it,” she murmured, more to herself than to Hippolyta whose eyes darted down almost on instinct.

“You always were,” her mother said, equally proud and wistful in the way that Diana wasn’t used to.

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth? About Zeus, and Ares, and me.” She turned to Hippolyta, not curious so much as weary, the need for answers pressing down on her.

“The truth can be a burden, Diana. I didn’t want you to carry it the way I had to.”

Diana opened her mouth to protest, to claim that she had the right to know, had the right to be prepared for what was waiting for her on the other end of the journey she’d started on a moonlit night because she couldn’t resist the call of the man’s world, a sense of betrayal still running like electric current beneath her skin.

Would it have changed anything? She didn’t know, no matter how much she tried to imagine it. Probably not. It would probably only complicate things in certain ways, but then there was an issue of honesty, of honour that was engrained into her since birth. By her mother, no less. That part stung the most, perhaps, a dull ache that made her question everything else she knew about the world, about the Amazons, about herself.

Still, she nodded, the words dying on her lips. What was done was done; all they could do now was live with their choices.

“Antiope would be honoured if you took her place,” Hippolyta noted, an unexpected edge to her voice that made Diana’s mouth go dry. “Nothing would make her happier than if you did so, Diana.” A pause. “But would it make you happy?”

Diana shook her head. “I am not Antiope. I don’t know if I’m suited for it.”

Hippolyta’s eyes remained locked on the warriors. “It’s not what I asked.”

Diana turned to her, a slight frown creasing her brows. “I don’t understand…”

At last, her mother looked at her, unfamiliar uncertainty pooling in her gaze. “This is your home. This will always be your home. But they need you more than we ever will.”

The moment felt surreal. “I don’t belong in the man’s world.”

It was odd to say it out loud, the truth that she kept turning in her head and rearranging it like a puzzle that still formed the same picture in the end. Said to another person, it felt more final somehow. Real like never before.

Hippolyta’s features softened.

“Maybe so. But this,” her gaze dropped to the women below them, her voice breaking ever so slightly, “will never be enough.”

“I should go back there,” Diana looked away as well, feeling like they were walking on eggshells around something important but unsure of what it was, and scared to find out.

“Diana,” Hippolyta called after her, making her daughter stop and glance back. “He was meant to come back.”

The words landed on her like blows she was too slow to deflect, too dumbfounded to even try. “You should know better than to believe in fate,” Diana shook her head.

“You should know better than not to.”

---

There was no such thing as fate, that much Steve Trevor was sure of. If anything, he found the notion childish, if not entirely ridiculous. Fate implied that free will didn’t exist, that every thought, every move was set in motion by something beyond his comprehension, and the idea made him feel powerless. If everything was predetermined, if there was no way to break out of this circle, then what was the point? What was the point of waking up in the morning, of going through motions? If there was no way to change the things and fix the mistakes, then what was the point of living?

Instead, he found solace in the opposite. Solace and hope. He hoped that the nightmare the world had plunged itself into had a better outcome than what everyone was fearing. That they were not, in fact, doomed.  

And maybe there was no fate, but there certainly was some cruel joke to his situation.

Oddly enough, the hardest part of not aging was staying unnoticed, moving around before anyone could suspect anything, walking away, severing every bond he would form in the brief moments when he wasn’t on the run from himself. Pretending someone else more often than not. Funny how he used to imagine that once the cannon stopped piercing the sky, he wouldn’t need to be a million people at once anymore, and yet now it was all he could be for as long as he existed, however long that might be. Sometimes, it scared him, this half-living. Other times, he felt safe, protected from the heartbreak and pain by refusing to feel anything at all.

The real problem was getting some sort of new documents every now and then, moving up his birth year. Sure, he could pass for a 35-year old at 40, but not at 50. This was bound to raise some questions sooner or later, and the world was already jumping from one hysteria to another without so much as a second thought. The last thing he needed was to attract unnecessary attention.  

It was the gas, Steve figured. Must have been. How else was he supposed to explain what was happening to him? He pushed the words ‘gods’ and ‘magic’ out of his mind – not because he didn’t believe it could be the case (and how could he not, after everything he’d seen and been through?), but because taking that road hurt more than he could handle most of the time. Because it made him think of something beyond his comprehension.

And what did it matter, really? Knowing wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t make it any less insane in the world where being frozen in time was anything but normal. He wondered, if a little absently, with the apathy of someone who accepted their life as it was, if knowing the truth would make any difference, if it would make him more accepting of what was happening or plunge him deeper into ever-consuming dread. There probably was no right answer here, and Steve was not interested in looking. Not yet, at least.

Not that it was his priority right now, anyway.

The Germans again, and Steve couldn’t help but see the awful irony of the situation.

The new war was brutal, and at times, it felt worse than the first one, even though he could probably chalk it off to the novelty of a new experience and the fading memories from a decade and a half ago that sometimes looked like wilted flowers pressed between the pages of a book than a recollection of something real. Unfocused. Granted, he didn’t want to remember it, more than pleased to let go of whatever memories were still clinging to his mind like a thin film. But that was the danger, he figured. People were prone to forgetting their mistakes. Maybe this was why the world was falling apart all over again.

Most days, he wanted to give up. Walk away and never look back. Most days, it seemed like the only thing he could do. Knowing that it was the one thing he knew how to do best made it easier to breathe when his chest was tight and his throat dry from fear and desperation.

Like now when he was walking down the corridor toward the office of Commander Himmler, a man who was considered Hitler’s ‘right hand’, the German uniform stiff on his body and cold sweat trickling down his spine. This was no longer about winning – personally, he’s long lost hope for that, what with the world managing to corner itself into the kind of situation there didn’t seem to be an escape from – but about surviving. And if he was lucky, if his calculations were correct and the Commander was taking his usual lunch break with his second-in-command downstairs, maybe there was a chance Steve could sneak a peek at the plans, or letters, or anything…

His father passed away five years ago, several months before the war broke out again, peacefully in his sleep, believing that the world he was leaving behind was a good place. At times, Steve thought that not disappointing him was the one thing that kept him going. At times, it seemed like enough.

He turned left, listening carefully for voices or footsteps, the doors on either side of him closed and holding nothing but silence behind thick wood panels. He could have been breeding goats right now, he thought, feeling the fine hairs on the nape of his neck stand on ends. He could have been doing anything – god knew, he didn’t owe this world a single thing.

If he was caught now, if his story wasn’t plausible enough, he would never leave this building, this village, this damned land.

A quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed—

Something barreled into him from the side, pushing him into a dark alcove, and Steve’s heart leaped into his throat, nearly chocking him, a rush of adrenaline making him weak in the knees. Deaf from the blood rush in his ears, he reached instinctively for his gun, only to have it knocked out of his hand not a second later, a sharp pain spreading from his wrist and up his arm. It took him a moment to realize that something sharp and cold was pressed to his throat. A knife.

And in the next second, it all faded away—

He knew that feeling, knew the smell that wrapped around him like a cloak. In the darkness of the alcove, the air was heavy and thick, and with his eyes not yet used to the dimness, Steve felt like someone pulled a bag over his head and he was suffocating. This was the same feeling he’d had on the streets of Paris and in the alleys of Madrid when he would catch a whiff of the same delicate scent that lingered in his apartment and on all of his clothes for months after Diana had left, the very same one that made him think he was losing his mind when he chased after strangers only to see that they were not who he was looking for.

Right now, he was once again feeling like someone pulled him underwater, the air nowhere to be found, and the tip of the blade at his throat had oh so little to do with it.

Steve blinked, his vision adjusting to the semi-darkness and his heart pounding so loudly he was certain everyone in a ten-mile radius could hear it, alarming and rapid, and like it was going to break through his ribcage that grew too small for it by the moment.

A pair of black eyes stared back at him – the exact same one that used to hold his entire universe where stars were forming constellations with the pull of magic coursing between the two them, an electric current that left sizzling sparks along his skin. He blinked, desperate to shake off this odd affliction. Of all the times, of all the places—

“Steve?”

The blade was gone and the hold on his arm he didn’t even notice released on instant.

The familiar husk of her voice rolled down him like a tidal wave pulling him into the depths of something dark and bottomless.

Her own name died on his lips, the word refusing to claw itself out of his throat. Her gaze was confused, her wild hair tied at the nape of her neck and the ever-present armour hidden under a nondescript coat. In the corridor, he wouldn’t have looked at her twice.

Except it was the only thing he could do now, stuck in déjà vu that was playing on endless loop. None of this was real, couldn’t be, and yet he didn’t want it to be anything but.

Diana.

She took a half a step back, pressed against the opposite was of a niche that was barely enough to fit them both and stared back at him like she was seeing a ghost – a feeling Steve could relate to all too well. He blinked, expecting her to disappear the way she did in his dreams, no more corporeal than a fantasy. Instead, she came into focus, all angles and edges in the shadows, her face unreadable, and the only thing he wanted to look at.

The questions swarmed in his head, forming and falling to pieces without registering with him, half-words dissipating in his mind as he struggled to draw in a shallow breath. Here, of all places…

“I don’t….” Diana started, a frown forming between her eyebrows, her eyes scanning his unchanged face, the same lines she used to trace with her fingers as if to sear the image of him in her memory for the centuries to come. She shook her head, and Steve had to swallow a sharp laughter that bubbled up in his chest – a bitter sound that would slash through the air and have this house of cards crumble before his eyes if he allowed it to escape. “How?”

“None of this came with instructions,” he found himself responding in a chocked whisper, his vocal cords still refusing to cooperate. She was looking at him like she was seeing a ghost, and he couldn’t blame her. With how he was only half-living, Steve felt like nothing but a phantom himself. “What are you doing here?”

His tone wasn’t unkind, but it was hardly welcoming, and Diana’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She tipped her chin, composing herself, and there was only so much he could do not to reach over and tuck a strand of hair that escaped her hairdo behind her ear, his fingers itching to touch her, make sure she was real.

“I came to help.”

At this, his lips curled into a humourless smirk that felt sharp at the edges. We don’t need your help, he wanted to say. I don’t need your help. The last time she helped, she left him with a hole in his soul so big it threatened to turn him inside out with every breath he took. Talking to her now, being this close to something that he used to want more than anything in the world, breathing the same air as her was making him nearly rip at the seams.

A sound of footstep around the corner broke the spell, snapping him back to reality. Steve inhaled sharply, his gaze darting around their hiding place as a dozen comments died on his tongue.

“Come on,” he muttered, slipping back into the corridor and making a beeline for the room at the very end of it, guarded by massive doors, not needing to look behind to know that Diana would follow, swift and soundless as a shadow.

“What are we looking for?” She asked in a hushed voice the moment he locked the door behind them, his own eye darting around the office. Heavy mahogany desk. Bookshelves lining the walls. Dark-green curtains, thick enough to block out the sunshine, currently pulled apart to reveal a wide balcony.

Steve hesitated, his thought-through plan nowhere near to be found, wiped off by the sound of her voice.

“Um… maps. Transcripts of phone calls,” he muttered. “Notebooks.”

It took him so long to get here, a few months of lingering close to Himmler, studying his habits, looking for a chance to do something… He walked straight to the desk and checked the drawers. Locked. He grabbed a letter-opener. It was a matter of a few seconds, almost too easy. The man trusted his posse though, to a degree. They feared him too much.

“This?” Diana asked from across the room.

Steve glanced up, and nodded – she was holding a stack of blueprints of sorts. No time to go over them now but this was the only chance he’d ever get. They knew him, they saw his face, and he was never coming back – might as well not hold back. There was a phone book in the bottom drawer, and he reached for it. Two rolled up maps and a calendar with some markings that might require some decoding, but this again was a problem for later.

“Steve.”

“One second,” he muttered, flipping through a handful of papers and trying to focus. There was no need to loot the entire office if only he could find something that was actually useful.

“Steve, someone’s coming.”

That got his attention alright.

Across the room, she was standing with her ear pressed to the door, an armful of something he hoped was of help cradled to her chest. Their eyes met, and she nodded ever so subtly, her eyebrows pulled together in concern. And now he could hear it too – faint voices, far enough, but approaching. Granted, they could be heading to one of another half a dozen rooms but Steve wasn’t going to take his chances.

The gears in his mind shifted.

He crossed the room in two strides, and then cursed under his breath – the balcony would be an easy escape, however there were two officers smoking in the back garden, and there was no way that someone escaping the Commander’s office would go unnoticed.

“Here?” Diana pointed at the window that faced the side of the house, and he gave her a curt nod.

“Can you take these?” He asked, his eyes darting toward the papers she was holding.

Without another word, she shifted the whole load in one arm and pushed the window. It didn’t budge, the handle either stuck or broken. The voices grew louder. “Stand back,” she mouthed without a sound, and then her elbow rammed into the glass before Steve realized what she was doing, letting the chilly March air into the room. It smelled like wet soil and snow, biting at their cheeks.

Shit. Too much noise.

His head snapped up, the voices on the other side of the door sounding alarmed now. The doorknob jiggled, and he thanked all powers-that-be for remembering to lock it, ignoring the pounding and the loud discussion about whether or not anyone had a key.

“Just hold on to—” Steve started when Diana pushing a few pieces of broken glass out of the way and looked outside, assessing the situation for a moment. However, she simply stepped onto the ledge and then jumped before he had a chance to finish his thought, landing gracefully on the frozen ground below, somehow missing a patch of thorny bushes, bare this early in the season, and then looked up at him, still standing in the second-floor window. “Or you can just do this,” he muttered and grabbed the gutter pipe with a free hand, hoisting himself up on the windowsill and sliding without much grace along the wall, his own precious haul held close to his chest.

“Well, this was easy,” Diana said once he reached the ground, just as all hell broke loose around them.

---

There was no stopping anyone this time around, no trying to, either, and the best Steve could do – the best anyone could do, really – was develop an escape plan. Hence breaking into the offices and hanging on to the snippets of conversations and hunger for any information he could use against the enemy. The idea came to him a couple of years ago, when it became apparent that he couldn’t keep his own identity without turning into a lab experiment.

He pushed the door open held it for Diana as she stepped into a small apartment he was renting on the outskirts of Berlin (the one rented by ‘Karl Werber’), trying not to dwell on how exactly they managed to get out of Himmler’s mansion in one piece, his ears still ringing with the wails of sirens and the yells of the men.  

“How do I know it’s really you?” Diana asked when the door closed behind them, the silence of the room suddenly so loud it made his head hurt. She was still holding back, finally able to catch her breath and assess the situation, eyeing him with suspicion.

“You don’t,” Steve caught her gaze a held it, momentarily forgetting how to breathe. He set the papers down on the desk, the need to go through them falling back, not at all urgent all of a sudden. “I didn’t ask for any of this, and I don’t have to prove anything to you. Not anymore.”

“It’s not possible.”

Then go, he wanted to say. Don’t believe it. I wouldn’t either.

Steve grabbed the lasso she set down on the rickety chair by the door, her shield still held in her hand like he was a threat, albeit a minor one, and let it unravel as he grabbed one glowing end of it, holding on tight even though it felt like it could burn his fingers off. Gritted his teeth for a moment, willing his voice not to break.

“My name is Captain Steve Trevor, former pilot with American Expeditionary Forces, Serial number 8141921. When you pulled me out of the water at Themyscira, I thought I was dead and you were an angel.” She was looking at him like he was a ghost. The way Steve looked at himself in a mirror. His voice dropped, the burning in his hand forgotten. “The beauty marks on your shoulder form a Lyra constellation. When I told you that Eskimo people have 50 words for snow and wondered why we don’t have as many for love, you said it was because love went beyond words. Do you remember that?”

He was standing so close now that he could feel the warmth of her body and see a faint dusting of freckles on her nose, her eyes dark and bottomless, and Steve was suddenly reminded of how much he wanted to see her, the force of missing and longing and everything he’d spent years learning to ignore feeling like a sucker punch to his gut, knocking all wind out of his body.

Diana was looking back at him, and it was so hard not to touch her, not to pull the pins out of her air and let it fall down her shoulders because it wasn’t meant to be contained. Steve clutched the lasso tighter to stop himself from doing just that for he knew he would cease to exist.

“For years, I was looking for you in every face around me,” he continued in a strained voice, “until they were nothing but grey mass. Until I couldn’t tell them apart.” A pause. “Is this enough proof for you?”

“It wasn’t easy for me either,” she breathed out, and he almost missed it, the words drowned by the hammering of his heart against his ribs.

“You sure made it seem so,” he couldn’t help but mutter back, the bitterness of the words tasting foul in his mouth.

Diana bristled at the accusation, lips pursed into a thin line. Raised her chin, holding his gaze, her eye narrowed ever so slightly. “What was I supposed to do?” She demanded, half-defensive, half-pleading. “You don’t know what it was like…”

“Because you wouldn’t tell me,” he interjected, and shook his head, disgusted with his outburst. Stupid. He thought they were past this, thought he was past this, after all this time…

“What if I hurt you? What if I really hurt you, Steve, what if I--” Diana cut off and swallowed, her breath catching. “How would I live with myself if that happened?” She searched his face for a long moment, a storm of emotions crossing her features, vulnerable and unguarded. “I only wanted you to be happy,” she whispered when the silence grew so thick and heavy it could be cut with the knife.

Steve dropped the lasso that stopped glowing instantly. A dark coil at their feet.

“I was. And then you left.”

To be continued....

[aostormborn-blog]

Quotes of Westworld

Quotes from Westworld: The show Westworld is full of quotes with deeper meanings for both the show and the real world. Looking at most of these quotes and thinking of them provide viewers of the show with much to think of with regards to the mortality of robots.

These violent delights have violent ends

-- various This is quote is from the Shakespeare play Romeo and Juliet.On the surface, this quote is exactly what it sounds like. The violent delights that are undertaken by the guests of the park will result in violent ends for that guest. As with most things, however, there is something hidden deeper under that surface. The first time we hear this quote in Westworld is an utterance to it from Dolores' father to Dolores. This quote then 'activates' Dolores. The phrase is a trigger for the host. Dolores' father in a former iteration of Westworld was an English professor specializing in Shakespeare, which is the reason he was able to say the phrase from memory. Dolores says it to Maeve, which then activates her. It is said to Bernard, who is then activated. Why does this phrase have so much influence over the hosts? It was most likely something created by non other than Arnold himself. Upon closer analysis of the tablets in the show, it shows that this phrase is set to activate the 'Wyatt' storyline, which you should watch the show to find out more about.

We can't define consciousness because consciousness does not exist. Humans fancy that there's something special about the way we perceive the world, and yet we live in loops as tight and as closed as the hosts do, seldom questioning our choices, content, for the most part, to be told what to do next.

--Dr. Ford Dr. Ford and Arnold often found themselves wondering whether or not it was possible to create consciousness. Dr. Ford took notice of the behaviour of the hosts and noticed how humanlike they were. Dr. Ford is trying to say that humans see themselves as a superior species for being able to reason and think and follow their own paths, but upon closer inspection, the life of a human is really not too different from the life of a host. The hosts go through their 'loops', repeating very similar actions on a daily basis with slight variations. Humans often have the same daily loops and then have some slight variations in their life. They are the product of their environment. Which they am I referring to there? The ambiguity is all that matters in this case.

Evolution forged the entirety of sentient life this planet using only one tool...the mistake.

--Dr. Ford There is an update wreaking havoc on the hosts that was caused by a few lines of reverie code added in by Dr. Ford. Bernard does not want to tell Ford that what he wrote was a mistake, but Ford interjects with just that. Ford tells Bernard that he should not be so scared of calling it a mistakes as mistakes can cause beautiful things to happen. An introductory level biology class will tell anyone that DNA errors are what have accumulated over time to create the sentient life we have on earth. Everything living thing on this planet is a result of DNA replication having mistakes occur in it. So a little mistake here and there is nothing to be ashamed of as it can create something amazing.

They say that great beasts once roamed this world, as big as mountains. Yet all that's left of them is bone and amber. Time undoes even the mightiest of creatures. Just look at what it's done to you. One day you will perish. You will lie with the rest of your kind in the dirt. Your dreams forgotten, your horrors effaced. Your bones will turn to sand. And upon that sand a new god will walk. One that will never die. Because this world doesn't belong to you or the people who came before. It belongs to someone who has yet to come.

--Dolores This quote is uttered in the season finale and Dolores has just found out some major news about her history when confronted by the Man in Black. The Man in Black is a human who believes that he has power over the hosts, but the hosts are really just growing into their potential. Dolores tells the Man in Black that although the reign of humans has been long, so once were the reign of dinosaurs and other prehistoric animals. The strongest animal may think it has permanent domain over its realm, but history tells us otherwise. Humans may not know it yet, but their reign may be about to end and a new overlord is coming to take control of the former domain of man.

Doesn't look like anything to me

--Dolores --Clementine --Bernard This is a very interesting quote in the context of the show. The hosts are programmed to ignore certain things such as guests alluding to the real world or guests questioning them about their mortality. If they are presented with an image that may alter their view on reality, they simply say the above phrase. The first time it is stated is when Dolores looks at a picture of William's fiance/Logan's sister that is presented to her by her father Peter Abernathy. It is said a couple of times by various hosts, including Clementine when presented with drawings of the park technicians by Maeve. The most important time it is said is in a reveal of the true nature of one of the characters when checking on something. When this character says this phrase, it immediatley tells us all we need to know and confirms what many had suspected from the beginning.

You think I'm scared of death? I've done it a million times. I'm fucking great at it. How many times have you died?

--Maeve Mallay Maeve becomes a somewhat threatening force halfway through the season. Maeve discovers the true nature of the park quite early on and learns of what makes her her. The more she knows about how the hosts and park operate, the more leverage she has against people. Once she is able to keep her memories, she discovers that she can hurt herself an infinite amount of times and still come back, waking up in the same place she had the previous day. This had been her loop for well over a decade. When threatened by one of the lab technicians, Maeve pulls a knife on him and deals this quote, showing that she knows that she has infinite lives while this person has only one chance. Nothing he can threaten will hurt her because she will just come back, more knowledgeable and prepared than ever before.

An old friend once told me something that gave me great comfort. Something he read. Mozart, Beethoven and Chopin never died. They simply became their music.

--Dr. Ford Dr. Ford is telling Bernard about how the greats are not truly dead, they live on through their art. Ford is likely dropping hints or stating that once he is gone, he will live on through the hosts. This could have a few meanings. Many believe that Ford may be saying that he has found a way to transfer consciousness to a host and that he will be immortal or he could simply be saying his legacy will live on through the hosts.

For fuck's sake you are not one of us

--Maeve Mallay This quote is a little more jovial than the previous ones. After some hosts discover the truth about themselves, one of the techs begins checking on himself to see whether or not he is a host and Maeve says this to him.

You can't play God without being acquainted with the devil.

--Dr. Ford Ford has some demons of his own. He has been playing God in his personal world, having the ability to control every host and every environmental factor in it. Once it is discovered that he in fact does some things that he knows to be detrimental, he points out that to truly be a God, one must also know the devil that is his opposition.

Well, if you can't tell, does it matter?

--Angela When William first steps into his Westworld fitting room, he is approached by Angela, who offers to let him do whatever he wanted. Uncomfortable with the proposition, Williams asks Angela if she is real and she replies with this. She has a good point in that what difference is it if you do not know? In a way, she is also referring to the mortality of the hosts themselves. Many look at the hosts as simply robots programmed to do whatever they are told, but with the level of sophistication that they have and their lifelike nature, humans are unable to distinguish between them and other humans. If they cannot tell the difference between the two, why treat one worse than the other? What makes a human more conscious than a host? While Angela may not know it, there is a deeper meaning in this statement on the way the hosts are treated.

Consciousness isn’t a journey upward, but a journey inward. Not a pyramid, but a maze.

--Arnold Arnold had been looking for the true nature of consciousness for years at this point. This discovery is a breakthrough for him. He discovers that the hosts need to look within themselves and need to be bootstrapped in order to achieve consciousness. He coins this as the maze and this is where all of the maze related content originates.

[stantoncassandra]

Published Art Essay

Tourniquet

Scene I: Finding L

I found you. Took me weeks, hours at a time. I figure you’d been anticipating my internal arrival because when I finally forced my way through the dark static blizzard, between imprinted afterburn of what I’d been seeing, the shadowed neon canvas parted like a white rip. Your eyes met me; sought me. As a child, I felt soothed by the movement still present in the dark after shutting my eyes. When you see a thing only you can see it’s as if the universe has a secret for you, like you’ll be okay because you’re here for a special reason. Of course, the sensation is simply blood pooling into my thin eyelids. I long for the strange hope that, like death, there would still always be something swimming beyond the permanent darkness. I do not have time for belief anymore. Death is fine, it hasn’t stopped me from finding you in its clammy palm of calamity. You sit there cross-legged. One of you sits. Dozens of you dance around the terrain in a frenzied symphony of body, but I long for stillness; stillness weighted enough to be envied by the silent hunter who waits patiently before ripping into its fruit. I am not sure what I am physically doing. I left my body limp somewhere hazy. A messy afterthought of an olive-skinned stocky figure lies in a room. I beat mindfulness into myself with a dull-headed hatchet. I search the taste of my recollection. I don’t risk the thought of another room. Being here takes everything. I am gulping the synesthetic taste of late noon on the gritty wallpaper of your basement. I didn’t break-in, I had a key cut hours before you died. I am violating your space. I am saying all of this to you without speaking. Longing is a language. I am certainly the shadow wrapping itself around all of you, not letting you go in any dimension. Our memories together are the thorns on a syndicated timeline. I pluck a thorn from the body my mind has made for me. A memory ensues.

Scene II: Barren Circus

When away from a person too long we experience corrosion. Whether the memory becomes corrosive or the details corrode incorrectly remains unknown. We visited a traveling circus in Alamosa; accidentally. Or maybe it came to visit us. There’d only been one act, a slew of similar people whose similarities made them not so human at all. I looked over at you often to protect you or read your reactions, whichever intention seemed more intentional. You never gave much away in the way of fear or excitement just constant straining inquisition. You said they reminded you of tourniquets, I told you you were thinking of the wrong word. You said you didn’t care, the word sounded exactly how you thought it should for what you saw, which was this: dozens of performers glittering the plain and plugging any blank space the eye searched for on the horizon. Ashen mountain backdrops gave an infinite stage effect. A barren, formless, full landscape of grandiose squalor due to the frantic static meddlesome motion of them. “Semi-organic apocalyptic phenomena,” I could hear you whispering all sorts of incomprehensible descriptions to my left. You with your words took a hotel painting and projected Basquiat all over the unhappening landscape. You were not wrong about the odd feeling they provoked. Contortionists put it mildly, acrobats from hell, they didn’t say a single word or burp up a goddamn sound while they twisted around for us, only us. Why wasn’t anyone else around that day? Their bodies played intimate Tetris together, I couldn’t look away, the completion felt satisfying, but I never admitted so to you. Instead, I feigned uncomfortable. The thought of you finding any satisfaction in their prickly postures meant another entity was pulling you away from me. Their springy motions were bizarre, the majority were smiling to themselves. Some looked critically at the others. This helped, knowing their eerie act had breaks in the execution. The way their garment wrapped around their bodies reminded me of artifacts on a sailboat we took out, just the two of us; a white beacon against the beastly Cerulean sea. You kept us afloat.

(We touch mouths somewhere)

Scene III: Evolving Ocean

I hear myself feeling this. My body jerks distantly in response, a tug in my chest and trousers. You still remain seated in front of me. This place is more familiar now. Another you I see from the corner of my vision drops its tongue to the ashen ground. A thorny vine takes its place. I allow myself to be taken for a moment: I fear you so deliciously. I want to eat your expressions from a depthless cereal bowl. I pleasure myself daily for drawing your face in the sand, remembering, finding your face in the marble veins of my shower, ripping a hole in the mattress where you slept. What’s an echo without the source? You’re always contradicting our pasts, so misdirection makes you my sole soul consumption. Locked into you, a freckled foe offering me a gift to husk hands-free in exchange for simple sanity. My mind has an ongoing affair with right and wrong. Avoidance places itself at the tip of that trismic palace we used to call home. I lied. I can’t say I’ve avoided a single inch between the whole passing of yes to no. You do not sit any longer. A pressure I can’t see is pressing onto you. Surrounded by leaping constant leaping, you now lay as still as the atmosphere allows. Your leaping is your longing. The twitches pull grafts of your flesh away. I’m losing you in this mind. You exist as time does in the loop of impossible roving. Magnets pulse behind your vision; features twitch with stagnant anoxia. The tongue is writing in the ash now. You’re begging me to remember our time at sea, so I do, and you pull yourself back into focus and speak inside out.

L: Evolution is a maxim. 

Me: I don’t know what that means.

L: Ev -olution- Ev -eryone- (ev) Something and everything has to apply to everyone. 

The vessel we rented was called Apocalypse, No! which you liked very much. I recall ruffling your hair as we walked towards the beached boat that just kissed the waterline. You didn’t like that very much. You walked ahead after confirming times with our Thai tour guide. You were a renegade trying to exsanguinate lightyears of evolutionary dilution by going about your ways in such obvious dissociative behavior. My mistake was seeing you as my novelty. At one point on the ship you read me something you’d written. The magic wouldn’t stop, minutes prior we’d seen a whale in the far distance, such a dark far-cry sounded so many miles away. Your words seemed the source of its pain.

Enigmatic loss becomes the sun

Animals fall dead in a consolatory clap

A wash of sanity sirenic at last. 

Beautiful suffocation blossoms grand singularity 

Enigmatic loss, a fortified wash to a quiet world. 

Your dark hair pooled in my lap while we floated aimlessly. When you slept the world had time to be without scrutiny. I don’t want to be in this memory any longer, why have you put me here?

Scene IV: Four Walls

The only way to find you is to swallow either side of symmetry. Fucking the life out of contradiction with the one state of being it cannot exist within; emptiness. I wonder where you sleep, nest or web. The only real difference between the two is life and death. Webs are mid-air traps spun for death’s sustenance. Nests are nourishing proof we’re all collectors. We collect materials for comfort, for new life. I prefer stolen comforts. I see you crowding yourself. I see your faces glitching with repetitive velocities, like a bullet shrouded in cotton pegging the sides, resuscitating truths. There is only your movement or stillness. I am violating the gray maggoted coils in my skull by forcing myself to stay just a bit longer. I am distantly evolved to simply get me through the day. This day is the pinhole I strain my whole being against wishing my two eyes could evolve to one in order to focus better. The smell of the oceanic air followed me back to this squandered present place. I slink from the memory of our sailing while rolling my eyes around to reset. I stay wrapped in your unempirical flicker. You stay folded in the mind desert around me. I spoke with a specialist about losing you. They suggested meditation. I would’ve taken sailing advice from the middle of the black ocean, from a tide trying to swallow my sails. I don’t trust professionals but such simple advice from a decorated person made me giddy. Triumphant deterioration of self. I release the grip. Strain is replaced by paresthesia. There is no loss. There is hard work. The days between my finding you will shrink into seconds. This is the only way to love, at either pole of perfection and destruction. You make feats of my dreams but not tonight. I feel a caressing between my shoulder blades and remove myself from the restraints, then the room, then your house. I walk into the night, picturing white rips opening the tight night. Sleep is soft, tempting, and terribly asking. Meditation is following something with your eyes while they’re closed. Forced meditation is being. Being without is living with death.

[faizrashis1995]

Best way to learn Java programming

Having said that I am writing this post dedicated to all my young (or I should say beginner) fellows who want to attain a certain level of proficiency in java technology and somewhere would like to take my advice on this. Keep in mind that if you do not like the way to learn java, I am proposing in this post, then just ignore me. Period. OR better, suggest me what you think is the better way to learn java fast or easily.

 Here I am assuming the people reading this post will be, who are very new to language, so I will start by listing first thing first. Make sure you have prepared your Java development environment ready i.e. You have installed JDK/JRE and you have an IDE like Eclipse.

 1) Learn the language basics

This is the first step for very obvious reason. If you don’t know the basics then you will never know either what to do next or what you are doing wrong. Initially, I do not expect from you to become the master of all java basic stuffs like keywords, core concepts or basic coding techniques. What really I expect from you is just to read all the text available in below links, even if it just doesn’t make sense to you in the first attempt. Just keep reading it.

 http://docs.oracle.com/javase/tutorial/java/nutsandbolts/

https://www.ibm.com/developerworks/java/tutorials/j-introtojava1/

Please keep in mind that above two links are not the only links for basic knowledge. You can do a quick google search and find out many similar links.

 When you are done with few links as two given above, re-read them again second time. Don’t skip any part of it. This time, things will start making more sense to you, and you will be able to connect between various concepts by yourself. If you are still not able to connect the pieces of information spread in multiple places, then keep repeating this step until you actually start relating the core concepts. Don’t worry about you are wrong or right, just relate them and better make notes. Notes will help you to measure your java learning curve.

 Carefully learn object oriented programming concepts. Just like other popular programming languages, Java is also an object oriented programming language.

 2) Create some small programs

Once you are confident that you are very much familiar with most basic stuffs/keywords and concepts and you can actually relate them somehow, you are welcome to second step where you will have to start building some very very basic java programs e.g. hello world, simple addition and subtraction etc.

 When you are writing the programs, keep in mind that first couple of programs are going to be real tough for you. But once you are done with them you will not face similar level of difficulty in next set of programs.

 You may face difficulty so much that you may not able to type in your hello world program itself, all by yourself. Don’t hesitate, open Google and search similar program. Don’t copy it using CTRL+C. Here just read the program, and type into your IDE (integrated development environment) (I suggest to use eclipse, as I find it very easy) and solve the compilation error caused by incorrect syntax you got while typing (basically I assume that you will make mistakes in lowercase/uppercase). If you are still not able to do it, then take the help of Google again. Google is your friend, just remember it.

 Do it for couple of programs and remember that always try to create program by yourself first and then use Google. I am giving below a list of basic java programs which you may consider for beginning.

 Display some text message.

Display a list of numbers (1 to 50) each in new line.

Find the max and min between two numbers.

Swapping between two numbers using any technique you know.

Build a calculator program able to add/substract/multiply and divide the numbers.

Create two classes (super class/sub class) and practice method overloading and overriding concepts.

Create some programs involving array e.g. printing output in array format in console.

And so on…

Above programs are just to give you a start and make you understand what I meant by basic programs. List can be longer and I will suggest you to add more items to this list and create programs for them. And remember, Google is your friend 🙂

 Also use an IDE

 3) Create advanced programs using Java APIs

Now when you are done with making most of the basic programs, and most importantly, you are comfortable into creating such basic programs, jump to this step. Here, I will suggest you to work hard on learning java APIs inside java collections and java IOs. Just start exploring various classes and interfaces involved into these APIs and start creating programs for them. Please note that you should always try to find an already existing API and method for doing a certain task, and you should not be creating your own logic here. Your goal is to get familiarize yourself with these APIs, so always look for a solution within these APIs only.

 Again I am suggesting few basic programs you can work on to start with. Later you can include more APIs and more such programs as much as you can.

 Taking input from console and printing it

Reading a file from filesystem and printing it’s content in console

Creating a new file and writing some data onto it

Reading data from a URL and do some search on it’s content

Store elements in a list, and then iterate over it

Use HashMap to store random key-value pairs and iterate over it in multiple ways

Create some programs for searching and sorting over collection elements

And so on…

The more and more programs you build at this step, you will get more and more confidence. As soon as you are good in using these APIs, jump to most important and difficult task in next section.

 4) Create at least one desktop application and one web application

This step will give you the confidence which is needed to face any java interview and prove your mettle in java related discussions. Idea is simple. You just have to decide at least one java desktop/GUI application (e.g. desktop calculator), and then one web application (e.g. hospital management). And now when you have most basic knowledge at your hand, start exploring everything which you will need to build your two applications.

 Ask help from experts (I will also do my bit to help you), your experienced friends, colleagues and every person you know and who can help you. Read all available good material which comes into your way when searching for solutions and simple learning the concepts. Buy some books which are related to the concepts where you are struck in. Do everything what is needed to build these application. Make them you sole objective for few days (or weeks or even months).

 Let me assure you that by the time you end up completing both exercises, you will be much more confident than ever before, when it comes to java. And more importantly, it helps you to develop a habit of getting things done at every cost. This attitude is very important in long run of your career.

 5) Read and participate in some good java blogs/forums

After your above four steps are completed, you will be more of a confident man who is also able to help others like you have been few month back. Find people who know less and help them in solving the problems, even if it require some amount of time of you as well. A good place for these activities can be forums like stackoverflow.com. When you start learning about mistakes others are making, it just open up your mind on various directions and improves your thought processing capabilities.

 In fact, last step is like infinite loop and you should keep doing it when the time permits. You will really appreciate the results when you will realize how mature you have become.

 That’s all for now on my thoughts regarding best way to learn java. If you happen to agree with me, drop a comment. If you do not agree with me, drop your suggestion. I will include your thought into main article if it’s really good.[Source]-https://howtodoinjava.com/resources/best-way-to-learn-java/

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