Tumgik
#I wish I didn't have to write this
juicysnoop · 5 months
Text
Tumblr media
watched like 7 seasons of buffy in half a month something is wrong with me anyway ... him
542 notes · View notes
Text
I know this is just a silly bad quality random screencap of a screencap that I found on facebook lol, BUT it's a succinct enough image to easily describe the concept in a quick/accessible way hopefully :
Tumblr media
-
(and of course, feel free to elaborate in tags, etc.! (especially elaborating about other senses as well.. can you "hear" in your mind just as well as you can "see"? taste? etc.) It's an interesting topic to me, as someone who's like a 4.5 at MOST lol. I'm curious what option will be the most common :0c )
#tumblr polls#hrmm... a little poll perhaps.. about a subject I find interesting.. since this image came across my facebook today#still really not feeling that well. no longer shaking violently and such but I still feel weird and weak much more than usual#They did say my markers for like infection or inflammation were elevated but that they werent sure of the cause so hopefully#it's nothing too serious. they did also say a lot of different things can cause that thing to be higher than normal but didn't go into spec#fics of what. maybe some of them are relatively benign or something. I still havent felt much back to normal since#I got really sick that one time though. I feel fine on and off but then little bouts of feeling weird and sick happen. hrmmm#ANYWAY.. looking for small ways to be productive. such as little doodles on evil ipad or editing game videos#or posting polls or cat pictures or some other like not very labor intensive things#I WISH I COULD FOCUS on writing HHRGGhh... I need to finish my game.. it would be so freeing.. a project that's been looming#over my head for like 5 years even though througouht that 5yrs I've probably spent a total of 3 months working on it lo.. ANYWAY#I still partially really cannot beleive that people CAN see stuff in their heads. There's always part of me that's thinking like. well mayb#e everyone DOES see the same exact thing but we just describe/conceptualize it so differently that we think we're talking about#different things when we're really not. But I have been assured by people I've talked to about it that they can GENUINELY really see#stuff in their heads like as vivid as an actual picture in real life or something. And the other senses are neat too. Like for exmaple I#can hear in my head much better than I can see imagery. I still CANNOT hear vividly like as if I were listening to actual music out loud..#but I think it's developed more than my sight. AND interesting how this varies the creative process. a friend I was talking to on the phone#said they write by literally just watching stuff play before them like a movie. where my process is COMPLETELY different. AND that affects#the content/what details we focus on as well as our individual styles of writing have differences that can be traced back to that.. hrmm
523 notes · View notes
vickdoom · 2 months
Text
me and the pathetic loser I pulled by being a pathetic loser myself.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
84 notes · View notes
stevethehairington · 5 months
Text
really fucking sick and tired of people who really fucking love the eddie book jumping on people who don't like or are even remotely critical of it's posts and like crusading their opinions around from the top of their high horses and shoving it down our throats.
if you like the book, great! that's awesome! love that for you! i am genuinely glad that you were able to find good in it and enjoy it!!
but not everyone did, and not everyone is going to agree with you. so, instead of going on some grand crusade where you find every single post that includes anything even remotely negative or negative adjacent or even neutrally critical and spending ALL this time and effort trying to provide unwanted rebuttals to every single thing, maybe you should just stay in your lane and find people who DO like the book and chat about it with them.
because i can PROMISE YOU, none of us appreciate it when you come onto our posts and start accusing us of "hating on" the author or "being rude" about her and her work and RIDICULOUS shit like that.
being critical of something and pointing out it's flaws is NOT inherently hating on it. i, frankly, do not know where people got that notion, but it's not fucking true so can we fucking quit assuming it is? and, critiquing something is also NOT the same as saying this is shit and it sucks and the author is a piece of garbage. again, where the fuck that came from is beyond me. you can be critical of something and still enjoy it. as soooo many of you love to point out, it's not perfect, why should it be perfect? so D U H. of course that means criticism can and should arise???
also. hot take (by which i mean ice fucking cold because it's NOT a fucking hot take), but going around toting FALSE facts as part of your "defense" does not make you or your argument look good. you, like the author, should maybe do a basic fact check first. 🙃
tldr, if you like the book, that's genuinely great, but stay in your fucking lane and stop seeking out posts from people who didn't like it to start shit in the notes.
#flight of icarus#stranger things#this has happened to me and to so many of my friends and im fucking SICK of it#i didn't even hate the book either!! i thought it was just okay#and yet i STILL get all these book lovers jumping down my throat about things i say about the book#things that - HONESTLY are not even like that scathing!!!!!#like god damn all im asking for is a little BASIC effort from the author and they all think thats me asking for her head on a platter#its NOT#i have no problem with the author#she's whatever to me honestly just a vessel through which the book was given to us#ALSO she is some nebulous blob way outside my orbit. AS IN any critiques i have of her and her work are NOT direct assaults on her???#like i dont fucking KNOW her#im not saying any of this to her face#she is a published writer she should KNOW the risks she is taking when she publishes her writing#not everyone is going to like it! there are going to be people who are critical of it! there are going to be people who hate it!#critiques and pointing out mistakes and wishing for things to have been different is not a fucking direct attack#those things are actually pretty fucking common responses to ANYTHING#and a lot of times theyre actually meant as useful helpful things geared towards improvement and not something to tear someone down with#some people on the internet need to go touch grass and learn how to CRITICALLY THINK again#the world is not as black and white as you think#n e ways. rant over. if you stuck around through all of that kudos to you. i am just. at the end of my rope with this bullshit.
97 notes · View notes
coffeebanana · 8 months
Text
istg half of the post-s5 finale fics i see have some sort of disclaimer in the tags or summary (or i even just saw one in the title!!) saying the fic was written because the show sucks or the finale sucked or they just hated everything about it
and it's frustrating because i probably would have enjoyed a lot of these fics! but now i'm not even going to touch them because i don't want to engage with people shitting on the show
167 notes · View notes
garbashedump · 1 month
Text
Valentines special!
How TFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF DID I MAKE THIS!?!?!?!?!?! i have no mf clue cause either I was given God's hands or I sold my soul to the devil and forgot
tsk, tsk, tsk! look at the mess they made! how are they gonna get those lipstick stains off thier clothes! Man teenagers what to do with them
Tumblr media
Dw, dw i made sure there was enough to go around for everybody so take ur pick!
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
I guess you can say... they got the KISSES THE HOLIDAY AFTER
yall know the drill, oc's belong to @chaosaliien! go check them out they're an amazing artist and should enjoy lots of chocco along with other mutuals!
also the refrence used:
Tumblr media
58 notes · View notes
dolokhoded · 10 months
Text
my one season 4 complaint is Where The Fuck Was Aneesa
#never have i ever#i really wish her and fabiola had stayed together them not working out didn't rlly serve any purpose to the plot for the new season#fabiola's new relationship was barely rlaborated upon. as expected.#and aneesa was basically written out she was barely even part of the group#plus that scene of them at the staircase talking about fab's robotics team. they still have so much chemistry and they were literally just#talking about robotics#i understand she's not a major character and she can't have a separate plotline to herself but she wasn't even involved in anyone else's#her and fabiola were cute together and she would've at least been part of the plot if they were still dating#allison was barely a character what was the point of writing some random new partner for fabiola when she already had a perfectly good#love interest#it just doesn't make sense to me. whi decided it would be a good idea for them to break up#was it just an opportunity to shove in a nonbinary character who had no personality and was just there as someone's s/o and call it#representation#cause there are Many better ways to have nonbinary rep than this#but ofc mindy kaling wouldn't give a shit about this.#n e ways for this support my nonbinary aneesa hc . it's real.#fabiola torres#aneesa qureshi#OR AT THE VERY LEAST SHE SHOULD'VE GOTTEN WITH PAXTON. SHE HAD THAT NICE HOT JOCK LINE AT THE END OF SEASON 3#im fabneesa 4 life but i would honestly be haply with her dating paxton. they're both cool and they'd be fun together. and she deserves a#nice hot jock boyfriend.
253 notes · View notes
chayannesegg · 5 months
Text
red team definitely loves lore and acting, but I really think it's be understated how much blue's actions are in-character. a major upset for red is how blue and green could just betray them immediately and start playing the game, but from blue's perspective this was completely logical and justified. from blue's perspective, this is a game that they are going to play (and try to win!) and the deaths don't mean anything to them bc it's part of the game. it's not a personal thing or a moral question for them. have bad, tubbo, pierre, tina ever shown a particular value for player deaths? no. and all of them have been quite willing to do adapt their approach with the circumstances and their needs.
tina tried being nice and it didn't work? she'll work with bad then. bad can't get his eggs back? he'll start kidnapping workers until something happens. fred's been kidnapped? tubbo is going to unravel quackity. with tina and bad, the easily shifting morality makes sense. they are both demons (or demonlike i know tina was iffy on what canon she wants for herself). with pierre, he's very used to be being a pawn in the federation's games at this point, this is just another game he has to play (idk much about ayrobot sorry).
tubbo is also used to playing the game. he has always reacted futilely to the federation's whims even if he didn't want to! look at his quest to fix ramon's machine. he and phil fought over that, bc phil couldn't understand why tubbo would just give in and break ramon's machines, betray his side? but from tubbo's perspective there was nothing he could do. feds were insistent, he was powerless, and the damage was already done by him being asked to do it. and this game is no different!! he's brought this mentality to pac too. who would otherwise be having a crisis about killing fit and losing everything. tubbo really helped him out by pointing out it was the futility of the game. pac gets to enjoy having a purpose and play the game even players like missa, who haven't participated in killing, have adapted to the game shift well. missa gets to feel useful and like he's not been left behind! he's enjoying himself and wants to participate! most of blue team was lonely, isolated, and purposeless. now they have been given a team, a purpose, and a reason to talk to people! of course they've taken well to this change! why wouldn't they?
104 notes · View notes
razzle-zazzle · 2 months
Text
Brothers
9650 Words; Between AU, pre-canon
TW for death
AO3 ver
Gristle Junior was seven months and eleven days old on the day of his first Trollstice.
Or rather, he was seven months and eleven days old on what would have been his first Trollstice, were it not for the lack of trolls. And the day had started so well, too, anticipation electric in his veins as he bounced around his father’s room. He had been so ready to taste true happiness!
But the Trolls were gone, fleeing underground despite the best efforts of Chef’s underlings. Not a single Troll had been recovered, Gristle had been told, and from what little he had been able to see of the commotion—from the swinging shovels and pickaxes he had glimpsed in the plaza as he was being shuffled away from the action—supported that notion. Surely, if Trolls were being found, then surely there would be much less frustration.
But the day passed without a single Troll eaten. Gristle’s father, for who he had been named, had taken him aside to calmly explain that with no Trolls, Gristle would never be happy. Not ever. Nothing else could possibly work.
To a Bergen less than a year old, such words were absolute. And why should Gristle doubt his father? The King had lived for decades, an extent of time which felt like an eternity to Gristle Junior. Surely, if there was anyone who could know everything, it would be the King.
Gristle was seven months and eleven days old on the last chance he would ever have to know true happiness. The date clung to his mind, the damnation of eternal misery heavy in his chest. To a Bergen so young and inexperienced with the world, there could be nothing worse.
Chef was disgraced. Not a single Troll recovered, in all of that mess? Her exile was quick and loud—Gristle watched from the castle door with his father as Chef was bodily thrown through the gates, shouting curses he strained to hear. With a sigh, Gristle moved to turn away from the door, prepared to ready himself for bed.
“Your Majesty!” Two Bergens hailed down his father, bowing the moment the King’s eyes were on them. “We found…” The Bergen on the left had his hands cupped together oddly, perfectly concealing whatever would be inside. With a nudge from his partner, he bowed again, holding out whatever it was to the King. “We found this at the tree’s edge.”
Gristle Junior turned back towards the door, pressing against his father’s legs to peer at what was so urgent it couldn’t wait for daylight. The air was thick with anticipation as the Bergen’s fingers slowly parted, revealing what was delicately clasped in his hands.
It was a Troll.
Gristle’s eyes widened. His father inhaled sharply, peering down at the tiny shape curled in the palm.
The Troll stared up at them with wide eyes, curled in on itself and shaking. It was so small. How did creatures that small even exist?
The King hummed, leaning in further. Gristle Junior was quick to imitate, peering at the tiny Troll even more intently. This brought to light a detail that had been previously overlooked—a detail that seven month and eleven day old Gristle had no filter against pointing out.
“It’s gray.” Gristle said, peering down at the thing. Tiny, too. Could something so little really bring him happiness? “Is it sick?” He poked at the Troll, and it flinched back with a hiss, tail clutched in its paws.
“Inedible.” Gristle Senior growled out. He turned bared teeth to the pair before them. “Your effort is appreciated.” He said, “But there’s no use for a Troll that’s gone bad.” The King sighed, moving to reenter the castle. “Do as you wish with it.” He dismissed. “My son and I…”
Gristle Junior reached for the Troll. “It’s so small.” He whispered, staring down at it. Small and gray and baring blunted teeth in an approximation of a snarl… He looked up at the pair, eyes wide. “Can I have it?”
The Bergen holding the Troll hesitated, before tilting his hands towards Gristle. The Troll squeaked as Gristle scooped it up, voice tiny. Gristle squealed, clutching the Troll and running back inside, the rest of the world forgotten.
The Troll turned bewildered eyes up to Gristle. It trembled, shouting as Gristle turned a corner, but Gristle paid no heed to anything but the sheer novelty of his idea. His very own Troll! There was hardly much of a plan in the toddler’s head, but a simple idea was all Gristle really needed at his age.
Gristle bounced into his bedroom, Troll in hand. He moved to set the Troll down on the desk—
“Son!” Gristle Senior’s voice was seldom so loud—but when it was, it commanded attention from everyone in the area. And indeed, Gristle Junior turned his attention to his father, the Troll still squirming in his hand. “What are you doing?” Gristle had never heard his father at such a loss.
“Keeping it.” Gristle Junior said.
Gristle Senior walked across the room and peered down at the Troll on the desk, trapped between Gristle Junior’s hands. “A pet is a lot of responsibility, son.” He pointed out.
“You say the same about being Prince.” Gristle Junior responded.
Gristle Senior jolted slightly, taken aback. “That… is true.” He conceded. “But it’s a Troll.” He poked the Troll in question, sending it stumbling backwards onto the ground. “It will just get eaten.”
“But you said gray Trolls are inebidable!” Gristle Junior lifted the Troll—his Troll, up with cradled hands, pressing it against his chest. “That they’ve got no use, which means that eating them can’t do anything!”
“Inedible.” Gristle Senior corrected gently. He lowered down, to be closer to his son’s eye level. “Son, be realistic. The kingdom just lost all of its Trolls. Trollstice has been a tradition for more than a century. The shock of no more Trollstices will make the people desperate.”
The Troll stared up from Gristle Junior’s hands with wide eyes. Tiny claws too small to do any damage dug into Gristle Junior’s hand.
Gristle Junior huffed. “But they gotta listen to you, Daddy. You’re the King.” The people had listened when the King declared Chef exiled; Gristle had witnessed just that less than an hour ago. “If you say that my Troll is inedidible then nobody will eat it!”
The King sighed, tired and heavy. “You’ll need something to keep it in.” He advised. As his son cheered, he turned to the door, and made his way across the room. Once Gristle Senior reached the doorframe, he turned back to his son one more time.
“If I wake up tomorrow and find that thing is running around the castle, I will feed it to Barnabus.” He threatened. His face immediately lightened, and he left the room with a single, cheery, “Goodnight, son!”
Gristle Junior nodded at the closed door with the utmost seriousness. He turned back to his Troll, who he set on the desk gently. “Hear that?” He asked. “You stay in here, or else.” With that, Gristle propped his face up in his hands, leaning forwards. “My name’s Gristle. Yours?”
The Troll crossed tiny Troll arms and glared up at him. “I’m not telling.” It said, in a voice that reminded Gristle of the mice Barnabus ate.
“Then I’ll just give you one!” Gristle chirped. “How about… Trolly!”
“No.”
Gristle frowned. “You’re getting a name, no matter what.” He huffed, poking his Troll in the side. The Troll stumbled a bit, but remained standing. “You’re so grumpy.” Gristle noticed. “Just like… a Bergen…” He trailed off, something approaching realization creeping up his throat.
The Troll snarled. “Not a Bergen!” It insisted, tail smacking the desk.
Gristle stared. “You…” His eyes lit up. “You and I are gonna be best friends.” Gristle decided, poking his Troll again.
The Troll’s response was simple. Gristle yelped, yanking his hand back. The Troll fell over, rubbing at its mouth with tiny paws, and Gristle stared at the tiny teeth marks on his finger.
The Troll glared mutinously, as if daring Gristle to come within biting range again.
Gristle nodded. “Yep! Best friends!”
+=+=+=+=+
Gristle Junior was nine months and two days old when he learned the Troll’s name. He had been poring through a pet care magazine, oo-ing and ah-ing over the different kinds of pets that Bergens kept. From alligator-dogs like Barnabus to even frog-crows!
He had hit the section for small pets, though none of the kinds commonly kept by Bergens were as small as a Troll. He looked over at the custom cage his father had had commissioned for his Troll, from the pod taken from the abandoned Troll Tree to the sandy substrate in the basin. As usual, his Troll was down on the substrate, pressed into the corner while it worked its way through safflower seeds.
“Look!” Gristle held the magazine right up against the cage bars, pointing at the circled bird perch. “How does a swing sound? I bet you’d have a lot of fun with it, Trolly.” He didn’t expect a response—the Troll rarely ever spoke back, content with glaring and darting away when Gristle reached into the cage.
Which meant it surprised him all the more when the tiny creature spoke. “Branch.”
Gristle opened his mouth to continue speaking—stopped. “What?”
“Branch.” The Troll repeated. “My name is Branch.” Its eyes were locked resolutely on the sandy substrate, shoulders hunched and tail thwap-thwap-thwapping against the corner.
Gristle gasped. “Oh!” He’d never thought—he—Branch—
“That’s a weird name.” Gristle finally decided, leaning in. “Are all Trolls named like that?” He couldn’t quite read well enough to digest all the books he’d found about Trolls (or that had Trolls on the covers), so his only real source of information was what former Troll-handlers Chad and Todd (or was it Todd and Chad?) could tell him, when he saw them. Which wasn’t often.
Branch gave Gristle a deer in headlights look, a helpless sort of “how-would-I-know” conveyed through body language alone. Paws clenched and unclenched against the seed held between them.
Gristle shrugged, and went back to the magazine. “So,” He said, “You never said if you wanted a swing.”
“Don’t bother.” Branch huffed. “I won’t use it.”
+=+=+=+=+
Gristle Junior was five years old when his father led him into his study for the first time. The younger marveled at the book-filled shelves and neatly organized desk, at the candle holders set into the wall and the banners hanging down—this room was his future.
“My son,” Gristle Senior began. “What you will be starting today is a time-honored tradition of Bergen Royalty.” His voice had a practiced lilt, a deep timbre made of years of self-assurance. “For no Monarch rules Bergentown alone—it is the duty of Princes and Princesses to run the kingdom in concert with the reigning monarch.”
“Whoaaa…” Gristle Junior hopped up and down to see atop the desk. “I’m a Prince!” He realized, whirling around to face his father. “So I have to help you run!”
Gristle Senior chuffed. When he spoke, there was pride in his voice. “And that is exactly what you will start learning today.” He lifted his son with one arm, sitting down behind the desk and settling Gristle Junior in his lap. “Now,” He pushed a stack of books from the edge of the desk to the center. “Here are the best volumes to start with…”
The lesson continued on throughout the rest of the morning. After lunch with his father, Gristle Junior returned to his room with the stack of books he had been given, ready and willing to learn. He pushed open the door, and made his way over to the desk right next to his bed.
“There’s so many books I need to read!” Gristle lamented. “How am I ever going to learn it all?” He’d have to, though, to be a proper Prince of Bergentown. And he would! Bergens were tough, and royal Bergens were said to be the toughest of all! So Gristle would be the best Prince! No book could defeat someone as tough as him!
He was starting with history. But there was so much! He held out the book to Branch’s cage, showing off just how thick it was—and it was all pre-Trollstice, too!
Branch squinted at the tome, then returned to his digging. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. Which was weird, because Trolls were supposed to live in trees—every book Gristle had read on them said so. But the pod in Branch’s cage—taken directly from the Troll Tree, no less—remained just as empty as it always had. There was even dust building up along the top!
“I mean, how in the world am I ever going to remember all this?” Gristle slammed the book down on his desk, prying it open. He was glad for Branch—the Troll was a good listener, in the five year old’s eyes.
The Troll in question poked his head back up, ears twitching. “Are you going to read it, or are you just gonna complain?” He asked, before going back to the hole.
“Right.” Gristle turned his attention back to the book. Slowly, he began, sounding out the words as best he could.
“The first re-cor-did history of Bergenkind dates back to… three… fow-sand years ago.” He began. “When Fow-ler the First wrote the… the first ever Law.” He continued reading, stumbling over words while Branch continued digging. Gristle let the history wash over him, entranced in the task set before him. Hours passed, and Gristle found himself being called down to dinner before he even registered that so much time had passed.
Three days later, Gristle found himself staring at a worksheet in frustration. He was supposed to fill it out without looking at his books, and he was struggling.
“UGH!” Gristle threw his head back, clutching at his hair as he seethed. “How can I remember the name of the first Bergen to write a law but not when?!” He smacked his head against the desk, groaning in frustration. The urge to go to his shelf and pull out the relevant book itched down his spine—but he had to hold strong! A good Prince knew how to look things up, but a great Prince could recall whatever detail was needed when it was needed.
Oh, how was Gristle ever supposed to be a great Prince?
“The first recorded history of Bergenkind dates back to three thousand years ago.” Branch said, casually breaking the frustrated silence. “That’s what your book said.”
Gristle looked at Branch’s cage, where the Troll was busy jotting stuff down on a scrap of paper. Gristle then looked over to the book on his shelf. Slowly, he pushed out his chair and went over to the shelf, opening the book to the first page.
“That’s…” He turned back to Branch. “You’ve got a good memory.” He said, returning the book to the shelf.
Branch muttered something that Gristle didn’t quite catch. Gristle shrugged, and went back to his worksheet. He’d have to read aloud to Branch more often, if Branch could remember stuff so well.
With a hum, Gristle continued on with the worksheet. It probably wasn’t in the spirit of the challenge to have a friend who could remember a lot of words, but Gristle wasn’t concerned at all with that notion.
He continued to talk to Branch as he worked, something light in his chest with the knowledge that Branch really was listening.
+=+=+=+=+
Gristle Junior was six years old, and he and Branch were having a real good row. The kind of row that, had they been proper siblings, would have only been able to be settled by some proper Bergen roughhousing, with weapons and property destruction. A real riot-causing dispute.
It was hardly their first disagreement—Gristle had the faint bite scars all over his fingers to prove it. But it was certainly frustrating, born from weeks of buildup over a simple fact.
“It’s not healthy! Trolls are supposed to sing!” Gristle gestured to the book in his hand, which was way more useful than all the cookbooks he’d found. It actually went a bit into Troll health and growth, detailing all the ways and times that Trolls could become inedible. As Branch was, and had always been gray—or at least, as long as Gristle had known him—the book in question proved very useful.
“Well I don’t!” And that was the crux of the situation, the simple fact from which all of this had spawned. “And I never will!” Branch’s stand was resolute, unshakeable, even in the face of all of Gristle’s Princely Rage.
“But you have to!” Gristle insisted, gesturing again to the page he had the book opened to. “Trolls that don’t sing—this book isn’t very nice about them!” He was fumbling, he knew, but he didn’t know how else to say it. The book said that gray Trolls were to be removed from the Troll Tree and disposed of immediately. It didn’t say why, and Gristle was still a child—he didn’t question the words presented as fact. As far as he could tell, a Troll that had gone gray was just… it wasn’t right!
“You’re supposed to be happy.” Gristle pushed. “You’re supposed to sing, like a regular Troll.”
“Never gonna happen.” Branch insisted. “I’ll stay unhappy, just you watch!” He crossed his arms with a huff, tail twitching angrily.
“That’s not good!” Gristle responded. “You have to get your color back eventually!” The book said nothing about whether Trolls could regain their color after losing it. But it wasn’t right, for a creature so intertwined with music to never make a single note. And if the book said to get rid of gray Trolls…
Gristle cared about Branch, more than he could feasibly admit. The castle staff were fine, and his father was his father, but Branch—Branch was a friend. Someone Gristle could talk to who would actually listen, no matter what it was.
The book said it wasn’t healthy for a Troll to go gray. Gristle was going to be King someday, in the far distant future, and he’d be responsible for all of Bergentown. Even sooner, he would be a fully fledged Prince, responsible for helping his father with Bergentown. If Gristle couldn’t even take care of one tiny troll, then what were his chances of ever being good at what he was literally meant to do?
“And then what?” Branch gripped the bars of his cage, rage in every inch of his body. “You’ll eat me?”
“Of course not!” Gristle could never! Branch was… Branch was his friend! Inedible by Royal Decree! Gristle would sooner eat Barnabus!
“You’re lying!” Branch yelled back. “The moment I become edible you or some other Bergen will be serving me up on a silver platter!” His tail lashed about wildly, tears bubbling up at the corners of his eyes. “Because that’s all Trolls are to you!”
Gristle flinched back. He… he refused to admit it, but Branch had a point. Trolls were the only way that Bergens could ever be happy, and they had spent generations with a holiday dedicated to that very thing. But…
“You’re different.” Gristle insisted. Branch was his friend. “You’re not… you never sing and you’re always unhappy.” He huffed. “It’s like you’re barely a Troll at all!”
This time it was Branch’s turn to flinch, tail falling flat against the ground. “Maybe you’re right.” He said quietly, turning away from the bars.
“Branch, I—” Gristle reached out, only for his hand to fall back down when Branch glared at him.
“Fine, then.” Gristle grumbled. “We’ll just be unhappy together.” Between the two of them, Branch was the only one who had even a chance to ever be happy—Gristle would never get to eat a Troll with all of them gone, but Branch… Branch was a Troll. If anyone would ever get to be happy, it would be the creature who was quite literally made of the stuff.
“Fine!” Branch sat down hard on the substrate, arms crossed and turned away from Gristle. “Unhappy together!”
It felt like a promise, like a finality.
It felt like Gristle was failing hard at this whole “taking care of others” thing.
+=+=+=+=+
Gristle Junior was seven years old with a form in his hand. He stood before Branch’s cage, expanded over the years to include deeper substrate and a small climbing tree. The… well, it felt weird to call him a Troll, when he was nothing like Gristle’s books, but what else could he be called?
A Bergen. At least, that was what he’d be if Gristle’s idea went through.
“I’ve been learning about law.” Gristle began, with no real preamble. Branch looked up from his orange slice, ears twitching, but made no comment. “And I found out something interesting.” He took a deep breath, and glanced at the memo in his hand. “Adoption Laws, Section Two. In the case of a non-Bergen being adopted by a Bergen or other being of Bergen citizenry…” Gristle hurriedly looked at the memo again, “They are considered, in all aspects of the law, a Bergen, with all of the rights and restrictions that such a designation entails.” He let the memo flutter down to the floor and looked down at Branch, who was staring up at him with wide eyes.
Branch clenched and unclenched his paws against the half-eaten orange slice in his lap, tail flicking behind him. “...what.”
“Listen.” Gristle leaned in close, holding up the form in his other hand. “If I adopt you, then you wouldn’t be in any more danger of being eaten!”
Branch squinted. “Aren’t you a little young to be a parent?” He asked, orange slice seemingly forgotten in his lap. “And I’m older than you.” He pointed out, somewhat bitterly.
“Ew! No! Not as a son!” Gristle waved his arms wildly, then pressed the form against the bars again. “As a brother.” He clarified. “Because… you’re more of a friend than a pet,” Gristle explained, “And it’s not fair to keep treating you like one. A pet.” He carefully gaged Branch’s expressions, watching as his face flickered through a series of emotions. “All you’d need to do is sign on this line…”
“It can’t be that easy.” Branch groused, tail flicking faster. “Bergens don’t do ‘easy’.”
“Well,” Gristle rubbed at the back of his neck, “We would have to get approval from Dad for it to go through.” He rallied, clenching his free hand in a fist. “But that’s easy! I mean, he let me keep you!”
“As a pet.” Branch stressed. He set the orange slice aside, brushing off his paws as he stood. “That’s totally different.”
“And that’s why I want to do this!” Gristle unlatched the cage door, not bothering to reach in—he had long since learned that Branch hated being picked up unexpectedly. Better to let Branch come out of the cage on his own terms. “Because what kind of Prince treats his friend like a pet?”
Branch’s expression fell, his shoulders hunching. His paws clenched and unclenched in the rhythmic way they often did, his tail flicking. Carefully, slowly, Branch clambered out of the cage, climbing down the flipped out door to settle on the smooth wood of the shelf. Gristle held out his hand, palm up, and Branch hopped onto it, letting himself be lifted over to the desk.
Gristle laid out the form. He’d double-checked every word to make sure it was exactly what he needed, and all that was left was to sign it and have it approved. Gristle had already signed it, his name penned in only slightly messy ink. Penmanship win!
Branch pulled a tiny quill from his hair, hopping up to gently dab it in the inkwell on the desk. As Gristle watched, Branch kneeled down in front of his line, and carefully signed his name.
“Think that’ll be enough?” Gristle asked.
Branch hummed. “Maybe…” He tucked the quill away and went back to the inkwell, hopping up and leaning so far in that for a moment Gristle feared he’d fall in. Branch kicked the side and lifted himself back and out, clambering over to the form and slapping right next to his name with his paws.
Two inky paw prints, right next to his name. “That should do it.” Branch decided, satisfied.
Gristle nodded, offering his hand again. As Branch hopped onto his palm and clambered up Gristle’s arm to his shoulder, Gristle grabbed the form carefully, blowing a bit to make the ink dry faster.
“Let’s get this done!” Gristle declared, running off to go find his father. It wasn’t the first time Branch had left Gristle’s room, nor the first time that Branch had ridden on Gristle’s shoulder. But it was the first time since the belled harness had been made that Branch had left the room without the jingle of bells signaling his every movement. Gristle realized it was weird, actually, to feel the weight on his shoulder and not hear the sound of bells he’d come to associate with that weight. But the harness was from when Branch was still a pet in everyone’s eyes—it wouldn’t do to make Branch wear it now.
And really, Branch was like a Bergen, in a lot of ways. He never sang or danced, he was disagreeable—even the gray of his short fur was similar to the average Bergen’s dull tones. Whenever he had something to work on, be it the den he’d dug or even old worksheets Gristle tried to downsize for him, he took to working on it just like a Bergen: with a grumble and the focused spirit that allowed Bergens to create sturdy walls and buildings. And he had interesting insights, too—Bergens disliked great heights, so even the castle couldn’t get very tall, but it was Branch who gave Gristle the idea to suggest subterranean expansion when the King presented the age-old issue of expansion logistics. Which was just funny, because Trolls lived in trees—yet Branch never once touched the dusty pod hanging in his cage.
Branch settled down on Gristle Junior’s shoulder, tucked just below Gristle’s ear. Gristle found a sudden bounce in his step, a mix of anticipation and excitement in his veins. Yeah, this whole adoption thing was a great idea! Maybe even the best Gristle had ever had!
Finding the King was easy—it was just before lunch, so King Gristle Senior would be just finishing up with the final petitioners in the biweekly levee. Normally, Gristle Junior would be sitting in his own princely throne beside his father, to listen and watch and get a general idea of how a levee worked—but he had… kinda skipped it, what with how eager he was to try out the adoption idea. Not that that was a major issue—Gristle Junior wasn’t meant to fully step into his duties as Prince until he was ten.
Still…
“Ah, there you are.” King Gristle Senior groused, shifting slightly in his throne. “Care to explain why you missed today’s levee?”
Gristle Junior stopped short, nodding his head in a bow. “My apologies, Father.” He kept his tone careful, regal, like he’d been taught. “I found something that needed attending to.” He explained, head still down.
Gristle Senior snorted. “Well, out with it, then.” He waved his hand encouragingly as his son looked up. “What grand idea did you come up with this time?”
Gristle Junior’s mouth pulled back in an odd way, and he fought the strange expression off of his face. With a simple flourish, he drew out the form, holding it out towards his father. “This.”
Gristle Senior took the form, glancing it over. His expression remained neutr—his eyes widened, as the contents of the form properly registered. The King’s expression scrunched, turning thunderous, before going down to mere annoyance. He turned that annoyance upon his son, and all but sputtered out, “What in the name of Berg is the meaning of this?!”
“It’s an adoption form.” Gristle Junior explained, pressing his hands together. He felt Branch shift slightly on his shoulder, and he held out a palm. Branch took the offer, sliding down Gristle’s arm to stand upon his hand, small and gray and steady.
“I can… see that.” Gristle Senior hissed through ground teeth. “But…” His expression became just as lost as the night that Gristle Junior had first met Branch. With a deep sigh, Gristle Senior looked down at his son and the Troll.
“Letting you keep a Troll as a pet is one thing,” The King began, “But adoption? Of a Troll? Are you insane?”
Gristle Junior felt oddly gobsmacked. “It makes sense.” He tried, unable to keep childish uncertainty from his voice. “Branch is the most unTroll Troll ever, he’s just like a Bergen and I think it’d be best if he was called as such, because then nobody would even think to eat him!”
Gristle Senior sighed, heavy and tired. “That’s not a good enough reason.” He started. “Son, do you have any idea what would happen if that… thing were to become your brother?”
“It’d be a serious crime to eat him.” Gristle Junior responded easily.
Gristle Senior brought up his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, grumbling too low for Gristle Junior to make out the words. “...of all the—” With a rumbling groan, Gristle Senior regarded his son with a firm—but not wholly uncaring—expression. “You’re a Prince, my son. You can’t just go adopting every creature you see fit.”
“It’s just Branch.” Gristle Junior pushed back, “He’s already close enough to a Bergen, what’s adding the legal distinction going to do?” He shook his head. “This will all work out, Dad, I know it. I just need you to trust me.”
“Son, be realistic.” The King groused. “If that thing becomes your brother, then that makes it a Prince. There’s no way a Troll could be a Bergen Prince! Trolls are all about loud parties and sugar and silly games—they’re simply unsuited to laws and regulations and the hard work required to run a kingdom!”
Gristle Junior’s mouth opened—to say what, he wasn’t sure, but air was being forced up from his lungs and defiance was roaring in his heart, ready to burst out what would surely be a useful and clever retort—
“I can do it.”
As one, Gristle Junior and Senior turned to look at Branch. Branch took the combined attention with hunched shoulders, his tail clasped in his paws. “You want me to learn how to help run a kingdom? Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll learn.” He dropped his tail and crossed his arms, expression firm.
“I don’t want you doing anything of the sort.” Gristle Senior growled, but Gristle Junior was already rallying.
“He can! Branch is smart, Dad, he’s where I got the idea for underground expansions from! He remembers all the stuff I read, and he listens, and he’d make a good Prince!” All of his reasons were true and proven—which meant a lot, for seven year old Gristle Junior.
“Preposterous!” Gristle Senior began—
“If you think it’s so preposterous,” Branch’s voice cut through the room like alligator-dog teeth through mice. “Then why not bet on it?”
Those three words echoed in the sudden silence of the room, bouncing off the vaulted ceiling and tangling up in the eaves. If there was one thing Gristle Junior knew his father could not resist, it was a wager.
Indeed, Gristle Senior’s face had turned contemplative, his hands steepled before him. “A bet, you say?” Something like satisfaction slithered its way onto his face. “Hmm, I think I see what you mean. A trial period, of sorts, is that it? To find out if you could even come close to being a Prince?”
Branch nodded.
“Yeah!” Gristle Junior agreed. “If Branch can prove himself then you have to let the adoption go through!”
Gristle Senior snorted. “Sure, fine.” He waved his hand dismissively, before turning his attention to Branch. “But when that little creature fails to keep up the pace, I’m burning that form and you’re going to put any wild ideas of adopting Trolls out of your head for good.” He glared down at the pair, lips curled in a derisive snarl.
“You have three weeks.” Gristle Senior declared. “Better get started.”
+=+=+=+=+
Gristle Junior was seven years old when he became a brother.
The wager had been… not as hard as Gristle expected. Branch had thrown himself into the challenge with a fervor that was only seen with master artisans undergoing hefty commissions. It had taken a lot of work, in those three weeks, but at the end of it all—
The cage had to be redone, renovated into a proper bedroom. The castle staff found itself expanded by two—Bernice and Groth, who had been hired to aid in the fiddly and sometimes frustrating art of turning tiny, Troll-sized writings into something that could be read by the average Bergen. Branch needed new clothes, and a proper bed, and a shelf for all of the Troll-sized copies he’d made and was making of the various books on Law and history and regulations, and had to attend meals and levees and lessons with Gristle, and—
It was so much. Gristle had known, when he had drafted that first attempt at an adoption form in the castle library, that things would change—but he had never quite imagined the sheer scope of it all. Suddenly, his brother was accompanying him everywhere, riding on Gristle’s shoulder or flinging himself through the halls with his hair. Gristle had heard some of the staff discussing pathways for Branch, where he’d be safe from being stepped on—
There was so much.
But…
Gristle had never had a brother. He had had a friend, in Branch, but it had taken so long for them to really get there. And now, despite how it had felt like the world was ending on that fateful failed Trollstice, all those years ago—
Gristle couldn’t imagine that day going any other way. He didn’t want to imagine a world in which he never met Branch, who was surely a Bergen in Troll skin. Branch was his friend—no, his brother.
“Hey, Branch?” Gristle rolled over and looked at the shelf that Branch’s things currently resided on, at the cage hurriedly covered with a sheet in an approximation of a proper room with real privacy. Late at night, in his unlit room, it barely looked like a cage at all. “Do you ever think about the day we met?”
Branch’s voice filtered down from the shelf. “Not really.” He admitted. “Why should I?” There was something oddly bitter in his voice. “It’s the day I was left behind. Again.”
Gristle Junior wasn’t sure how to unpack that. Or if he ever should. “I won’t leave you behind.” He promised, “‘Cause brothers stick together.” It felt like such a simple truth, to the seven year old Bergen.
There was silence from the shelf. It stretched on, almost uncomfortably so, feeding into the static of the darkness filling the room.
Gristle huffed. “You really are just like a Bergen.” He commented, “Always miserable.” He chuffed, something light in his chest that he didn’t fully register. “And that’s why you know we’ll always stick together.” He said, staring up at the darkness clinging to the ceiling.
“Unhappy together, then.” There was something soft in Branch’s voice—he must have been tired after such a long day.
Gristle sighed. Unhappy together. It sounded like a promise, like a finality.
It sounded like he was finally getting the hang of this whole “taking care of people” thing.
+=+=+=+=+
Gristle Junior was ten years old when he was properly crowned Prince.
The day had been rife with tradition, from a breakfast banquet stocked with imported delicacies to the event itself out in the plaza. The old Troll Tree, withered from its abandonment, stood tall in the center of the space, dominating the whole scene no matter how Gristle Junior tried to look at it.
He fiddled with the clasp on his cape—his Princely cape, paired with his new crown to signify the change in status. The festivities weren’t exactly celebratory—the whole ceremony amounted to more of a town meeting, but with the best catering the royal kitchens could provide. Bergens of all kinds wandered about the plaza, taking advantage of the free food while Gristle Junior—Prince Gristle Junior watched on from his father’s side.
Branch—no, it was Prince Branch, now—stood to Gristle’s side, on a small platform made entirely for the occasion. His own blue cape and silver crown had to be custom-made, instead of passed down, but neither of the brothers were bothered by that fact.
“I still don’t understand how Glixry managed such tiny details.” Gristle commented, focusing in on the silver metal of Branch’s crown. “It even has tiny metal leaves!”
Branch reached up, touching the edges delicately. “It feels so weird.” He decided. “But… not bad.”
“Of course not! You’re a Prince now!” Gristle assured him. “Stand tall and proud, like a proper Bergen.” Gristle commanded, repeating the words he had heard so many times.
“Yeah…” Branch let his paws fall back to his sides, almost hidden under the edges of his cape—but Gristle didn’t miss the way they clenched and unclenched repeatedly.
Branch was older than Gristle, true. But the fact remained that he had started learning later, so it had been decided to crown them both when Gristle came of age, and not a moment sooner. So here they were, brothers crowned together, all of Bergentown around them.
There would be so many more responsibilities, now—Princes helped the reigning monarch run the kingdom, after all. They’d still have to learn as they went, but—
Gristle breathed in deeply. The Bergens—his people—they were all miserable. But they were hardworking and honest, and Gristle would do his best to be the Prince they deserved.
Gristle turned to look back at his brother, who was fiddling with his own cape clasp. Glixry had repurposed one of the bells from Branch’s old harness for the clasp, and even now it still faintly rung as Branch slowly paced around his little platform.
There was an odd expression on Branch’s face, satisfaction and an oddly melancholy contemplation firming his brow. Gristle huffed, snapping his little-big brother from whatever thoughts he was lost in. Gristle offered his hand, and Branch rolled his eyes before hopping onto Gristle’s palm.
As Gristle lifted his brother high above his head, something proud surged in his chest, light and electric in his veins. His face twitched in that odd way it sometimes did, but Gristle ignored the feeling in favor of looking out over his people once more.
He was going to be the best Prince Bergentown had ever seen! He and his brother both!
+=+=+=+=+
Gristle Junior was eleven years old when Branch finally pupated.
His book on Troll growth said that Trolls pupated when they were twelve or thirteen. It also went on about how Trolls were utterly inedible in this state, wrapped in their cocoons as their bodies changed and matured.
That Branch’s pupation had come late according to the books was worrying. That it had come at all was a stark reminder of the fact that, for all of his Bergen-like traits, Branch was in some small way still a Troll.
Gristle peered at the dark gray hair cocoon for the umpteenth time. None of his books said anything about whether Trolls could still hear in there, or even what really happened to them outside of “maturation”—all the book really cared to go over was how to identify a pupation cocoon, and that they couldn’t be eaten.
“Even if you can’t hear me,” Gristle began, settling back down with an interesting book he’d found—some kind of romance novel where none of the characters actually got together in the end. He’d heard the librarian going on about how it was a contemplative piece about the nature of connections, so he’d picked it up to go through. “But if you can’t then I’ll just read this book to you all over again when you’re out.”
The cocoon gave no discernible response. Gristle decided that that was fine, and began to read. He made it through a chapter and a half before being summoned for dinner with his father, and he gave the cocoon one final glance as he left the room.
“I see your… brother isn’t joining us again tonight.” Gristle Senior commented, as the first course was brought out.
“I told you, Dad, he’s pupating.” Gristle Junior huffed, licking sticky roe off of his fingers.
“Yes,” Gristle Senior nodded. “Trolls do do that, I’ve heard.” He went silent as the second course arrived, digging in with royal fervor. A few moments later, and he spoke again. “Hopefully this whole thing doesn’t set him too far back.” He commented airily, dabbing at his face with a napkin.
Gristle Junior scowled over his plate as a servant exchanged it for the bowl of soup acting as the third course. “Branch always keeps up.” He asserted. “And we won that bet fair and square, so you can’t go back on your end no matter what.” He sipped from his spoon with a pointedly royal slurp.
“And I have no intentions of backing out.” Gristle Senior slurped just a little harder. “I’m just curious.” And with that, the conversation was over.
Gristle stared down at his soup. Branch would keep up. He would. He always did.
+=+=+=+=+
Gristle was eleven years old, and he was getting concerned.
Nineteen days. The books said that Trolls only pupated for a week, tops. But it had been nineteen days since Branch had disappeared into the spun cocoon, eyes glassy and unfocused. Nineteen days of a silent cocoon.
Gristle had long since finished that first romance novel, and the book on fence safety regulations, and was almost halfway into a book on the history of anchovy farming. And the cocoon still remained!
The worry was starting to affect his Princely duties, too. Maybe it was because he was used to working alongside Branch, and the absence was getting to him, but there was no denying it: Gristle was concerned. But what if trying to crack the cocoon open early ruined everything? What if he was supposed to crack it open, and he’d missed the deadline? What if being gray really was bad, and Branch…
Gristle didn’t want to think about it. He really, really didn’t.
The sun had long gone down when Gristle finally put his books away and retired to his bed. He glanced at the cocoon one last time before extinguishing the lights, worry like a rock in his gut.
The night passed. The sun rose again, creeping into Gristle’s bedroom through the window until it smacked against his eyes. With a groan, the eleven year old sat up, shading his eyes with a hand. He glared at the offending celestial body. “Every day.” He muttered. “Every day, you do this.” He was about to continue—
“Are you yelling at the sun again? Really?”
Gristle yelped, jolting hard enough to fall off of his bed entirely. He flailed wildly, scrambling to clamber back to his feet, frenetic energy in every inch of his suddenly-impossibly-awkward limbs.
“Branch!” Gristle leaned up against the shelf, examining the shredded remains of the cocoon through the door of his brother’s room. His little-big brother stood beside it, already having pulled on some pants. “You’re okay! You were in there for really long!”
Branch shrugged, walking over to his wardrobe. “Well, I’m here, so you can quit your whining.” There was a fondness in his voice that had Gristle rolling his eyes.
“Your tail’s still gone.” Gristle noticed. A lump settled in his gut, hard and heavy. “Branch…”
Branch turned around, twisting to look and confirm Gristle’s words. “Eh.” He shrugged, and turned his attention back to his wardrobe. “‘S not like it matters.” He decided, picking out a shirt to wear under his cape. “Bergens aren’t supposed to have tails anyway.”
Gristle winced. It was true, Bergens were tailless—but if they had tails, they certainly wouldn’t—
Gristle shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that. “Sooo,” He started, as Branch was securing the belled clasp of his cape. “How do you feel?”
Branch carefully placed his crown back upon his head, then walked in a small circle. “I don’t know, stronger?” He tried, holding his paws out in front of himself and examining them. “I think my balance is better, actually.” He noted. As if to illustrate the point, he did a twirl, his cape flaring slightly with the motion. “My face feels kinda… hm.” Branch pressed at his jaw with his paws, before shrugging it off. “Whatever. Are you gonna get ready, or am I doing all your work for you today?”
“Oh!” Gristle whipped back around, running for his own wardrobe. “Right!” As he shrugged on his own cape, clicking the clasp into place, he turned back to glance at the shelf holding his brother’s room.
Gristle sighed, all of his worries abated. Why would he ever worry? His family was just fine, and would be for a long, long time.
+=+=+=+=+
Gristle Junior was thirteen years old when he finally had to admit it.
He’d always hoped he’d get his father’s height, that he’d be able to stand as tall as the average Bergen in his adult years. But it had become clear that he would always be half average height, always doomed to needing steps to get onto the taller chairs.
It wasn’t the end of the world; Bergens could come in a range of shapes and sizes. That Gristle was so short wasn’t that big of an issue.
But Berg, did it feel like it! Gristle had spent his whole life looking up to his father—metaphorically and literally! And he was probably going to be stuck looking up forever!
“What are you moping about now?” And there was Gristle’s little-big brother, padding along one of the many paths set into the castle walls. The masons and carpenters had done good work with those paths—when Branch wasn’t running along them, they looked like simple wall decoration. It was real classy.
“I’m never gonna be tall.” Gristle grumbled, allowing himself a moment to lean against the wall in despair. Then he remembered who he was talking to, and hurriedly pulled away, flailing his hands as he tried to recover. “I mean—not that being short is a bad thing—”
“Okay, I’m gonna stop you right there.” Branch groused, holding out a paw. “Because from where I’m standing, you are not short.” He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms in front of him.
“I am, though.” Gristle lamented. “Most Bergens are twice my size. I mean, just look at Dad!”
Branch rolled his eyes. “At least you’re not Troll-sized.” He hopped down from the path along the wall to land atop Gristle’s head, just next to the crown. “Gotta count your blessings there.”
“I dunno,” Gristle started, swiping at his brother as the tiny Bergen pattered about on his head and ruffled his hair, “Maybe being Troll-sized would be nice. I could ride Barnabus around the halls with you.” He didn’t fully mean it—being the size of a Troll in a castle made for Bergens constantly forced Branch to find workarounds to even the simplest of things. But if anyone could manage it, it’d be Branch.
And Gristle had to admit: the idea of being able to ride on an alligator-dog, even one as old as Barnabus, was really cool. But Gristle was too big for that, and too big for his old trikes—all while being too small in so many other ways. It was like he was caught between, stuck at a size that would annoy him forever.
Branch dodged away from Gristle’s hand easily, chuffing when Gristle accidentally sent his own crown flying down the hall. Gristle growled, running after it, shaking his head in an attempt to throw Branch off. But his brother held on easily, always infuriatingly good at roughhousing despite his size.
It just wasn’t fair.
But, as Gristle replaced his crown on his head, and as Branch slid down to settle on Gristle’s shoulder, Gristle brushed away the annoyance.
It wasn’t the end of the world. Not by a long shot.
+=+=+=+=+
Gristle Junior was fifteen years old when the unthinkable happened.
His father, King Gristle Senior, who had always been an unshakeable force, strong and proud in a kingdom full of strong and proud Bergens—
Gristle Junior couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be true. It just—it wasn’t supposed to happen like this!
But there was nothing that could be done. His father had fallen ill three months ago, and, despite every effort from every doctor in Bergentown, despite all of the King’s strength—
Gristle Junior was fifteen years old when his father passed from illness, gone overnight like a snuffed candle flame. Gristle Junior was fifteen years old when the title of King passed onto him, far too soon—he should have remained a Prince until he was a proper adult, until he was married with children who would become the Princes and Princesses that would help him run the kingdom—
Gristle Junior was fifteen years old when his world shattered for the second time. The funeral was held out in the plaza, barely a week after his father’s passing. The same plaza as Gristle’s first and final Trollstice, as his and Branch’s official crowning as Princes. It felt as though every major life-changing event in Gristle’s life happened here, the caged tree looming over it all like a shadow.
It still… it just couldn’t be possible. His father couldn’t just be… gone.
Gristle returned to the castle in a daze. Some distant part of him knew that he would have no choice but to take up his father’s crown, and soon, but—
The rest of him was sinking slowly, the grief thick in his throat and veins and head. The fog was all-consuming, pulling Gristle into depths of unhappiness he’d never thought possible.
Gristle had believed his first and last Trollstice, the day where he lost any chance to ever be happy, would be the worst day of his life. Oh, how wrong he was.
Gristle didn’t know how long he laid like that, staring up at the ceiling of his room without seeing anything at all. It was as though the world around him had well and truly shattered, and now the pieces had all fallen away out of his reach. Gristle floated on the nothing for what felt like an eternity and now time at all, the mire in his head growing thicker with every passing second.
“Hey.”
Gristle rolled over on his bed, pressing his face into the comforter to block out the rest of the world.
“Hey.”
What was the point? Gristle was never supposed to be King at fifteen. He’d probably mess it up, bungle the whole thing, and then all of Bergentown would be just as dead as his father.
“Hey!”
Gristle groaned, shoving his face into the comforter. He didn’t have the time or patience for this, his whole world was falling apart, why couldn’t he have a good cry about it in peace—
Something small landed inches away from Gristle’s head. He didn’t even need to look to know who it was—only his little-big brother could land so lightly.
“Hey, idiot.” Branch pushed at Gristle’s chin, lifting the Bergen’s head off the bed by a few inches. “Chin up.” He demanded, baring his teeth.
Gristle forced his head back down onto the comforter. “Leave me alone.” He growled.
“Mm, nope.” Branch declared, moving around to pull at Gristle’s ear. “You’ve been in here long enough,” he sniffed, “And you need a shower. C’mon.” He pulled, and Gristle had to put effort into staying in place.
“No.” Gristle grumbled. “Just let me rot.” Every inch of his body ached with the grief clinging to his bones, and the very thought of getting up and doing anything made him want to vomit. The whole world made him want to vomit.
“Can’t let you,” Branch said, his voice edging into genuine worry. “C’mon, at least eat something?” He tugged at Gristle’s ear again, darting away as Gristle irritably swiped at him.
“I said,” Gristle pushed himself up ever so slightly, just so he could look Branch in the eye, “leave me alone!”
Branch shook his head, paws clenching and unclenching. “You’ve been alone.” He said. “I can’t leave you. Brothers stick together.” There was something heavy in his words, some deeper meaning than a childhood promise.
“And how are you supposed to help?” Gristle asked, sitting up fully. “What could you possibly do to make this better?”
“Not let you smell like a rotting carcass, for one.” Branch snarked. His expression immediately softened. “You need to take better care of yourself.” He urged. “Letting yourself rot only makes it hurt worse. Please.”
“And what would you know?” Gristle accused. “You and Dad barely even liked each other!”
“You think I don’t know what grief feels like?” Branch spread his arms wide, tears beginning to bubble up in his eyes. “My Grandmother was eaten on Trollstice before you were even born! DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO GRIEVE!”
Gristle flinched back. All of his vitriol drained as Branch panted. “You…” Branch never talked about that, about those four years he’d spent in the Troll Tree. Gristle’s throat tightened as a wave of emotion hit him anew, his eyes beginning to sting.
“It hurts.” He sobbed, for lack of anything better to say.
Branch’s anger melted away. “I know.” He said, sitting down. “It hurts, and you want so badly to just curl into a ball and wish the world away—”
“But you have to pick yourself back up.” Gristle finished. “Because people are counting on you.”
“Because nobody else will.” Branch added softly.
Gristle sobbed, breathy and uneven. “I miss him so much, Branch.”
Branch nodded. “I know.”
“I’m not ready to be King!” Gristle’s face was wet, now, hot and sticky with snot and tears.
Branch nodded again. “I know.”
Gristle sobbed again, his whole body shaking with the motion. He opened his mouth, but no words came.
“It’s not okay,” Branch offered into the silence, scooting forwards, “And that’s okay.”
“It hurts.” Gristle whispered.
Branch nodded. No more words came, and Gristle continued to cry. All of his misery poured out, raw and real and painful, and Branch remained right in front of him the entire time. When Gristle finally ran out of tears to cry, he flopped back down onto the bed, and two paws pressed against his cheek.
The silence stretched.
Slowly, Gristle breathed. In, and out. His chest was still strung taut and raw, his face was cold and sticky, and his throat stung from the effort of crying so much. He had never felt so low. He knew the grief was far from over.
As Gristle breathed, Branch clambered up onto his chest. He kneeled down, and held out a paw.
“Unhappy together.” Branch offered. “Shit sucks, but it sucks less when we work together.”
Gristle inhaled, his breath choppy and uneven. “Unhappy together.” He agreed, offering his finger for Branch to shake. He sobbed again, and Branch wrapped his arms around as much of Gristle’s hand as he could manage.
Gristle Junior was fifteen years old when his father died. And it sucked, and hurt, and Gristle wasn’t sure he’d ever really stop grieving.
But, at the very least, he wasn’t alone. It wasn’t much, but that simple fact helped.
+=+=+=+=+
Gristle Junior was twenty years old when Chef returned.
The day started as any other, really. Wake up, get cleaned and dressed, find his brother already awake and poring over details from the latest construction updates in the new quarter. Have breakfast, Branch darting about to steal off of his plate as he stole from Branch’s, like proper brothers would do. Go through the castle halls greeting everyone, Branch walking along the various small walkways lining the walls and arching up across hallways like tiny bridges. Prepare for the biweekly levee in the throne room.
It was as the final petitioner was leaving that it happened. A Bergen that Gristle only vaguely recognized emerged from behind a potted plant, swishing her cloak ominously as she all but marched towards the throne.
And then Gristle recognized her. The chef’s hat, the lavender tint, the wicked gleam in her eyes. He glanced to the throne beside his, and anxiety germinated in his chest at the sight of Branch still as a statue, eyes wide and locked onto Chef.
“Were you behind that plant the whole time?” Gristle asked, for lack of anything else to say. He realized immediately how stupid that sounded—but Branch made no comment on it, which was so unlike him that Gristle’s uncertainty ratcheted up another notch.
Chef grinned as she reached for the zipper on her fannypack. Slowly, she opened it, and a sweet harmony emerged from within.
Gristle gasped, the rest of the world forgotten. If Branch had any reaction, Gristle didn’t notice it, too entranced with the sight before him.
For in Chef’s fannypack was a handful of Trolls, bright and colorful and singing.
This… this could change everything.
No—this would change everything. For all of Bergentown! Finally, Gristle Junior could live up to his title, could be the King that brought happiness back to his people!
If he had bothered to look back at the thrones, he would have seen Chef glaring daggers into his back.
More importantly, he would have seen the look of utter uncertainty on Branch’s face.
36 notes · View notes
bumblingbabooshka · 1 year
Text
Thinking about Vulcans prizing “calm” over “happiness”. 
Like how humans look back on their childhood and remember how happy it was - joyful days spent running around in the sun, getting into a bit of trouble, laughing with peers and family - that’s how they know it was a good one. Meanwhile Vulcans might look back on their childhood and remember how peaceful it was. Quiet days spent studying, the warm glow of candlelit lessons in caves, getting along smoothly with ones peers - that’s how they know it was a good one. Humans typically chose their friends and romantic partners based on if this person makes them feel happy above all. The question of “Do you like being with them?” is interpreted to mean “Does being with them make you feel happy?” But since Vulcans don’t experience (or strive for) happiness there would have to be some other parameter. So I was thinking about like, what is a good relationship to a Vulcan? There’s obviously a big emphasis on ‘togetherness’ in Vulcan unions. The Pon Farr ritual Tuvok does with his [hologram] wife involves them committing to becoming “Two bodies one mind” and it’s stated that they give and receive from each other all that they are. There’s also of course the iconic “Never and always touching and touched”. This is all (as was said during T’Pol & Koss’ wedding) “The Vulcan heart, the Vulcan soul, this is our way.” Vulcans are also (ENT) expected to live together for at least a year after being married - I imagine so that they can bond with and get to know one another. In SNW T’Pring wants for Spock to honor the commitments he makes to her so in that case T’Pring values Spock keeping his word to her and placing her above other things. I see a bit of Tuvok in that, where he prizes his commitment to T’Pel over anything else to the point where he’d nearly rather die than break it: (Even though he eventually agrees to having sex with a hologram it MUST be of his wife and he lets Tom/The Audience know that he will NOT be making a habit of it. There’s no ironclad logical reason for him to react this way as a hologram is not a person but his commitment to T’Pel seems to take precedence and I believe that’s his reasoning. His bond with T’Pel is logical, sustaining and important to him and he’s loath to break it over some bodily need. some desire that will pass even if it kills him.) <- By this way of thinking, betraying T’Pel would be the emotional choice while remaining loyal to her is remaining loyal to his logical self. A strong emphasis on loyalty to one’s mate seems to be a common Vulcan trait. In the beginning this seems to be rooted in tradition but later on its probably assumed that the couple will be loyal to one another out of some sort of actual connection between two people as opposed to pure obligation. In ENT T’Pol says that a certain degree of “affection” is eventually expected to happen within a marriage (though the way she says it makes me think this doesn’t always occur and isn’t necessarily The Goal) and her mother says that she and her husband developed a “deep connection” to one another. All this makes me think that a connection and a sense of ‘togetherness’ or ‘compatibility’ would also be prized over more emotional things like a passion for one another. It’s a partnership above all and that would be prized over a romantic union.  It makes me think of Vulcans’ roots in violence and war. Maybe this commitment to a steady togetherness, two people who don’t know each other being able to work together so seamlessly they nearly become one, is a way to show they’ve moved beyond that despite the pon farr remaining. Vulcans are a naturally very emotional species. Someone who incites that would probably not be seen as someone you should spend your time with. Someone who makes your heart pound, sets you ablaze, fills you with passion - that sounds like a bad Vulcan time v_v  Tuvok says as much when he talks about how he was struck with “shon-ha’lock”. Humans wouldn’t see anything wrong with having a crush on someone (and indeed in that episode Tom only comes to the conclusion that it’s a shame Tuvok couldn’t act on these emotions) but it’s obvious that even a teenaged crush when uncontrolled can become a very big problem to a Vulcan. In one of the Star Trek Novels Tuvok even stops being friends with and talking to a girl because she tearfully admits she has feelings for him and he sees that her feelings for him cause her pain.  Instead of thinking “Oh, she really likes me, good! We’re close friends so maybe we can make this work.” or even “I don’t like her romantically but since we’re close friends we can work through it.”  Tuvok thinks “Oh, she really likes me. That must be causing her to become very emotional and I can see she’s clearly upset. I’ll remove myself from her life so my presence doesn’t incite those emotions anymore.” And while him flat out just cutting himself out of her life might seem weird and kind of cruel and a frankly hilarious reaction to someone confessing their love to you - I also think it’s something he thought of as a kindness. If his presence harms her (stirs up emotions in her) then he will remove himself to keep from harming her. Along that vein, calmness or the absence of strong emotions would be a good relationship and one worth staying in. Not that there can’t be any emotions (Tuvok and T’Les obviously care[d] deeply for their respective spouses) but that they must be controllable and able to be cast aside in the face of logic.  I also think that “knowing” the other person would be considered very important (after marriage of course). If you’re to operate as a partnership, a team, and especially if you’re both telepaths you should be able to know your spouse pretty damn well. I see T’Pring attempt to do this in SNW where she is constantly fighting to get to know Spock which Spock self-consciously discourages since he’s been told/shown that his human side is unappealing to Vulcans.  But yeah man idk...just picturing a Vulcan and a human talking for hours...walking along the beach...sleeping side by side...getting to know one another...and at the end of it all one says “You make me feel happy” and the other says “Your presence calms me” and it means, essentially, the same thing.
384 notes · View notes
lcngdays · 11 days
Note
Positivity anon here! Could I ask you to shout out to your five fave blogs? Just to make someone smile today and let them know you love their blog! Maybe even say a little about why!
Hello Beloved Positivity Anon! Sorry for the late reply, I don't get much done during the week, but the weekend is where I thrive! Now, it's hard to pick JUST FIVE FAVES. So I may have included a few more <3
@plcasantnights // While Corpse isn't active on tumblr anymore, he's still my absolute best friend ever. I love him with my whole heart and we've written countless stories together, we've met irl multiple times, and I just. Don't have enough good to say about this man. An incredible writer, a patient and understanding person, and someone I trust with my whole, authentic self. Long days and pleasant nights, bestie. <3
@cxldblxxded / @yxkanna / @striigon // MOOP!!! A very cool writer with a very keen sense of character creation. I love reading about their silly little guys and I love talking with them ooc! I feel like I can throw any must at them from my EXTENSIVE roster and they're down for it, no matter how silly it is!
@handgiven // WHAT IS THERE TO SAY ABOUT KAI!!!!! emmanuel is SO sweet and SO precious and I hold him so dear in my heart. One of the few characters that can put up with my more annoying characters with a smile on his face, the way Kai is able to write such a beautiful, well thought out angel is incredible. I love reading the eloquence of Emmanuel and love seeing everything Kai puts on the dash
@fangmother // HI HUNTER HI HUNTER!!!! hunter is so fucking cool you guys. they have the coolest posts both ic and ooc and i light up each time they come on the dash with anything new. rainer is so cringefail girlboss and i don't care how many times hunter tells me i'm wrong to love her, i'm still GOING TO!!!
@freekzout / @hungryyheart // VIV MAKES ME NOSTALGIC FOR THE NINTIES AND I WAS BORN IN 1997 SO THAT'S WILD!!! everything about the worlds that Viv has created makes me insane. be it cute little vampiis or straight up government coverups viv is SO creative and so nice ooc! puts up with me even though i forget to answer dms a million percent of the time!! ALSO PUTS UP WITH ANGEL SO A HUGE PLUS RIGHT THERE
@burdenedwithfaith // every day it makes me insane that Prince isn't more popular on tumblr. i don't know anything about the series their character is from and yet and YET I am so so so INVESTED with him! I'm so invested with each little character moment and arc and I love writing with them to see where they're going to take it and take John!! even if you don't know the game their muse is from I highly encourage you to check them out because they're EPIC
@soulmissed // I haven't written a lot with Ruben (YET) but his character is SO well written. Ruben also always pops into my dms when I make a sad/venty post and checks on me and he has no idea how MUCH i appreciate that so i'm saying it here. thank you <3
@mr-pulvis // Ruth. Oh Ruth!!!!!! Ruth has known me since the beginning. Since I STARTED on tumblr! They have followed me through countless blogs, countless cringe, countless silliness and revamping and bad writing. I love Miles to death, I've always loved Miles, but Ruth doesn't get enough credit (from me at least!) for how cool and nice they are and how good of a writer they are. here's to many MORE years of knowing each other!!!
@pistolsister + many more blogs in their pinned! // Even though we've followed each other for a long time, we've only JUST started writing together. AND I HAVEN'T EVEN FULLY RESPONDED TO ANYTHING YET I DON'T THINK IT'S ALL IN THE QUEUE! but mille is very cool, very easy to bounce ideas off of and i love each and every one of their characters. SO well thought out, SO easy to write against and just a sweet person over all!
@wehavefoundthestars // EVE!!!! I LOVE OUR SLOWBURN BOYS!!!! But I also love writing with them with ANY of my characters! we're always in each other's dms after each response excitedly chatting away! a very fun person to write with and be around!
@lovepurposed // hi orion :3 orion and I are also a duo who have known each other for a long while. not as long as some of the people on this list, but we've always seemed to find each other on tumblr some way and some how, despite moving blogs or just falling out of certain fandoms. orion is one of the nicest people you'll ever meet, and I'm looking forward to writing with orion for a long, long time to come.
@amischiefofmuses // NEVER DID I EVER EXPECT TO FIND SOMEONE IN SO MANY OF THE SAME FANDOMS AS ME. homestuck, invader zim, undertale, hazbin, you NAME it we have it in common. magpie is SO fun to write with, and i think they're just RLLY COOL NGL AND SUCH A GOOD WRITER
@spokewar // MARCI!!!!! so good at writing it makes me insane that they even write WITH me. i followed them originally with sass and their sam winchester but things just blossomed from there into an epic scifi adventure with a little alien prince and obi-wan (AND I HAVENT EVEN SEEN STAR WARS LMAO) marci is super cool and super fun to be around and is a very comforting presence when i get worried about wanting to do something new!
@dumbthink // KC i have followed all over tumblr. i love writing with them, i love all the stories they create, i LOVE all their silly little characters and how well they can analyze LITERALLY ANYTHING!!!!
HONORABLE MENTIONS!!!!!
@null-siren / @honeyhogger / @notsohumerusnow / @badmusejail : THE UNDERTALE CREW!!!!! I write with them mostly on my undertale rp blog but i wanted to give all of them a HUGE SHOUT OUT for being so cool and friendly and fun to write with, even though i'm VERY SLOW over on my undertale blog!!!
@bittcnneck / @r-adio / @bloodsalted / @velvetineblue / @swervdcity / @rcjoice / @deceivesthem / @starbeambully / @ourcwnside / @beastbitten / @heaven-said / @thehazbins / @vitalphenomena / @captivates / @ruinedmyself / @miidnighters / @lcve0n / @hellfrozen / + ALL MY LOVELY MUTUAL!!!! // I LOVE ALL MY MUTUAL I LOVE ALL MY WRITING FRIENDS AND I WANT TO GIVE YOU ALL A HUGE HUG AND AWWWWAAA !!!! i could never name everyone unfortunately, but everyone here is a great writer and friend and i'm happy to be hanging out with all of them even if we've only JUST started talking or writing together!!!
37 notes · View notes
blueskittlesart · 1 year
Note
feelings on the ‘link who went into the shrine of resurrection isnt the same one who came out’ theory/hc? apologies if this has already been clarified
sigh. this theory occupies the exact same niche in my mind as the "link is dead in mm" theory tbh (by which i mean its the bane of my fucking existence.) Technically, i believe it is possible within the preestablished lore of the franchise. However, I think the only way you come to a conclusion like this is by deliberately ignoring a lot of the writing of the game.
in my opinion, loz as a franchise is at its best when it functions as a thematic narrative. my favorite games in the series all function as narratives on two levels--the first is the obvious one, the hero's journey story that the player actually physically plays through. the second level is the one that really hooks ME on these games though, and that's the thematic level. oot, for example, is essentially a story about a young boy going on a journey to save his kingdom. But on a thematic level, it's about the relationships between adults and children and the trauma of growing up. breath of the wild functions similarly. essentially it is a story about a boy waking up with no memories and saving a princess from a monster. but on a thematic level, botw is a commentary on trauma and growth and healing.
the gist of the theory you're talking about is that the original pre-calamity link was unable to be resurrected and the shrine of resurrection just made a new one in his place, and that's why he has no memories. depending on how deep into the theory you go, some suggest that everyone the original link knew pre-calamity is in on this conspiracy and are deliberately gaslighting the new link into believing he is the same person as the original. to be entirely honest, i think it technically works on a purely literal level. COULD the shrine of resurrection have probably made a new link? yes. COULD zelda and everyone else be conspiring to convince link he's a real boy? sure. technically yes. there's not REALLY anything wrong with this from an in-universe standpoint. it's all technically possible. but imo the only way to come to this conclusion is to ignore the fact that botw functions on a secondary level as a metaphor.
I think there's a tendency among a certain type of superfan to forget that media is created by PEOPLE, and that writing decisions are made deliberately. especially in a game as vast and immersive as botw, it's admittedly easy to forget sometimes that the world and the narrative were crafted by human beings and therefore narrative and worldbuilding decisions were made for a reason. but if you take a step back and analyze it from a writer's perspective, botw's thematic narrative is almost richer than its face-value story. it's built into the characters, the world, the lore, EVERYTHING in the game is structured around its central themes. this is part of what i believe makes botw such a successful and relatable game. Its central message, that it's never too late for growth, that healing is possible, that just because things are broken doesn't mean they can't be fixed, is woven so beautifully into the very bones of the game. There's a REASON that link wakes up with no memories, and it's not because he's a victim of a kingdom-wide conspiracy about his own death. it's because he is meant to seem broken beyond repair. he wakes up on the near-abandoned great plateau--DELIBERATELY abandoned, because the player is meant to view the world as broken beyond repair at this point in the story, with no memories, no heart containers, no stamina. A shell of the warrior he once was. and the rest of the game is dedicated to the discovery that he can heal. he can find his memories, he can grow stronger, he can form new relationships and he can do better. hope was not lost when he fled hyrule castle 100 years ago. hope is never lost so long as there are people who are willing to keep trying to rebuild. hyrule is not a dead, abandoned kingdom as it first seems when you awake. Hyrule is ALIVE. there are cities and stables and merchants and travelers and people living and dying and continuing on every single day.
to suggest that link didn't actually survive requires you to, at best, deliberately ignore all of that thematic setup, and at worst, retcon it out of existence. if link isn't really link, if the whole world is conspiring against him, then that means that the original link really was doomed. that he can never heal from what happened to him. that he was exactly what he believed himself to be--a failure who doomed hyrule to a century of suffering. it removes link's agency and his impact as the main character of this story--if he was never hurt in the first place, he has nothing to heal from. there's no message there, nothing to be learned. he's just going through the motions of the story because he's been told to--arguably falling into the exact same trap that the original did.
again, is the theory technically plausible? yes. in-universe, the groundwork exists for it to have happened. but if you refuse to look at a narrative outside of its own governing universe, it's easy to forget that people tell stories for a reason. botw is written the way it is because its writers had something to say. Why does link lose all his memories after the shrine? In-universe, this is a mystery, yes. to someone who is only willing to examine that plot point within the confines of that universe, yeah, it seems like a plot hole, and yeah, this theory might explain it. but from a writer's perspective, it's not a plot hole at all. it's a clear, deliberate writing decision. just because a story asks you to suspend your disbelief a little bit for the sake of the greater narrative doesn't mean that the writers are actually secretly plotting a conspiracy and link isn't really link. it means you're being asked to either willingly suspend your disbelief, or examine why you're being asked to do so from a writing standpoint.
179 notes · View notes
woobifiedvillain · 6 months
Text
The premise of fanfiction is actually "hey what if this happened, wouldn't it be cool" not "what if this was canon" or anything like that. By the way. "But but it wouldn't/doesn't happen in canon" literally doesn't make any sense as a criticism or comment or anything else. Yes it didn't! It would not. If I wanted that version....that's what canon is for. The fact that it didn't and wouldn't happen is literally the point. So anyway wouldn't it be cool if it did. Wouldn't that fuck so hard. Let's see!
56 notes · View notes
evilbunnyking · 3 months
Text
today I wrote about 3k on the plane this NEVER HAPPENS
30 notes · View notes
cinistrs · 10 months
Text
a little piece of the night. (kavehxgn!reader)
a/n: literally don't know what got into me. i just felt like writing and things turned... hm, domestic? it's probably bc i'm tired lol.
Once, when watching him from a distance, from your expectations and your fantasy, you had expected Kaveh’s hands to be soft. You pictured the softness of flower petals against your lips as he smiled, thinking that his presence would bring a warmth that could only be compared with the sun.
Instead, the first thing you notice is that his calloused hands are cold.
Kaveh stumbles slightly in the cobblestone street, his red eyes dazed, probably due to his intoxicated state. He holds your hand firmly, and chuckles softly as he calls your name with a sing-song.
“Where are we going, my dear?” He asks.
“Home,” you say.
“Home?” he repeats, and for a second, all his drunken happiness vanishes. “Ugh, please, no. Alhaitham will say something annoying like, oh, so you have money to get wasted but not to get yourself out of debt”
(You make a note not to comment on his predicament, since it seems he doesn’t notice either.)
“He talks to me in such a condescending way, almost like he doesn’t care that I’m his senior!” His pretty lips form a pout as he closes his eyes, probably picturing the scenario. It seems that he doesn’t like the mental image, because his nose scrunches. “Oh, please spare me the headache, dearest,” he says as he pulls your hand close to his face and plants a kiss on your knuckles. “Take me somewhere else, I’m no stranger to night walks. Also, wouldn’t that be romantic?”
So you drag him to the little park that’s a couple streets from your place, which is deserted at this hour. Even inebriated, Kaveh is the genius everyone talks about, after all, and he makes sure the conversation doesn’t falter. He tells you about his latest ideas and when his rambling gets too intense to grasp it with words, he pulls out a pen from his pocket to draw diagrams in his hands. He tells you about his progress with the arts, and that’s how you end up doodling a padisarah in his palm with the best of your abilities.
Whatever you think of the result, it vanishes as you see his eyes light up with your drawing.
“Oh, you’re so adorable,” he says, “allow me to return the gift” and then he snatches the pen from you. Before you realise, there’s a floral garden blooming in your hand as he paints with confident strokes. It is only a simple pen, the cheapest mass produced kind from Fontaine, but it’s the artist before you the one that brings it to life on your skin.
“What do you think?” He asks, and it’s probably the way he shines under the moonlight, cheeks flushed from the cold and the alcohol that led you to act impulsively, out of your mind. It’s the moon, you tell yourself, as you grab his shirt and meet his lips, the garden blooming from your hands to your heart.
Kaveh lets out a little gasp and shivers, and you notice that the cold wind of the night played a part. You mumble an apology as you pull your hand away from the hot skin of his back. “Please, use my jacket” you tell him, already sliding the fabric off your shoulders.
“B-but…” he seems a bit taken aback by the sudden change, his lips swollen and pupils still dilated. You wrap the piece of clothing around his shoulders for good measure. “—what about you?” he says, “I can’t let you go like this while I wear your jacket”
“My place is near, and you’re seriously underdressed.” 
“But—”
“No. If you want to return the favour…” you pretend you think about it, and smile. “Please come stay at my place tonight and have a coffee with me. Or tea. Whatever you want.”
Kaveh seems ready to keep protesting even if his face burns at your words, so you shut him up with another kiss. That works. His hands are still a little cold as you drag him to your home.
Despite all the heated kisses you shared, the first thing you do as you close the door is make Kaveh put on some clothes. There's a cotton shirt that fits him, and some old pajama pants so he can rest on a more comfortable outfit. You sit next to him on the sofa as you wait for the kettle. Kaveh immediately rests his head on your shoulder, and you stay like that until the water boils. Then it’s the both of you chatting with warm drinks and lots of paper scattered over the table as you begin drawing whatever comes up with conversation.
Kaveh falls asleep the moment you touch the bed. He pretends he isn’t tired, but you can tell. He tries to keep up the facade, but you wrap him in your arms and his body relaxes in your touch. Content, you kiss his forehead and close your eyes.
 His breathing is steady, and his calloused hands finally warm.
Tumblr media
can you believe writing this led me to learn that bic pencils are actually from france? (i just typed fontaine bc they're modern and then i got curious. bang! i made life-accurate ballpoint pens for teyvat?!)
93 notes · View notes
Text
lockwood/george/lucy is just ten/jack/martha in another skin. try to convince me otherwise
22 notes · View notes