#if ghosts are people and should be treated as such then maybe his beloved parents did something wrong | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

brabblesblog · 2 months

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𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Ch 9: No hour is ever eternity, but it has its right to weep.

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

Astarion and Ban host her parents for dinner.

Professionally edited and collaborated on by my dearest friend <3 @editing-by-night

Read on AO3.

Masterlist

Art from @emy-san

“My mother will pry into everything,” Ban mumbled quietly, “including why we haven’t had any children yet. My father will probably ask about our assets - income, investments, connections, all that drivel.” She wasn’t looking forward to seeing them at all, tonight looming large in her mind, but she knew this would be it - one last time, for closure, and then never again.

They were roaming the grounds; Ban needed to get away from the hustle and bustle of the palace as the staff readied it for guests. It was nowhere near as involved as even their smallest ball - a very small soirée, by comparison; she wasn’t sure if it could even be considered a soirée with only five people in attendance. Regardless, it didn’t require much in the way of preparation, and she knew their staff were capable and well practiced. This was the most nervous she’d been for any event they’d held, however, quadruple-checking every single thing until Astarion had finally dragged her out.

“Gods. Don’t they sound delightful,” Astarion rolled his eyes. “Connections? Is it not enough to have the artisan guilds, including his own, in our pocket? Under our very roof?” He paused, rubbing his chin. “On second thought, Roderich would not necessarily be aware of that. He seemed to have rather woefully failed to keep abreast of current events.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The shop.” He looked at her, thoughtful. “It was worn, dusty and quite unlike how I’d expect someone of his proclivities to treat their ‘pride and joy’.”

This much was true. She’d seen the dilapidated exterior, the dinginess inside, neither of which would’ve been tolerated before she’d left.

“And what of your brother? Any snide remarks I should expect from him?” Astarion huffed a little, glancing up at the sky; it looked rather dull for midday, an unfortunate sign of possible rain.

“He’s likely to hate me for leaving the family,” Ban remarked, “more accurately, he’ll be jealous that I left and he didn’t, but you won’t hear him say that in front of Roderich and Arlette. He’s never had the strength to defy them.”

There would be little snark from her brother; he’d always been the least horrible member of their family. Adrien, her parents’ favorite, who could do no wrong, who was fated for more, to inherit and marry and pass down the most esteemed Glasscraft name. But he’d also been her only friend in the family, the only one compassionate enough to help her treat her wounds, to comfort her, whenever her father was done with whatever method of punishment he’d chosen that day. She wished he could have done more, could have stood up to their parents alongside her, but that was where their paths had diverged.

Astarion snorted. “I will do my utmost to be the picture-perfect rich, powerful, aristocratic husband they so desired you to have. However, if my patience fails me, and their necks come a little too close…”

“Try not to, will you?” Ban said, a sigh escaping her lips. “Be good - for me. I just need tonight to go well and then… with any luck we’ll never have to see them ever again.”

“Seeing as I’m the one who instigated all this in the first place…” Astarion exhaled, “I’m inclined to let you have it your way.” He held his hands up, playful. “No biting, I promise. Well, maybe a little, but…”

“Fangs to yourself, handsome.”

A dramatic, long-suffering sigh preceded the playful smirk on his face. “Of course, love.”

Ban couldn’t help the small smile that crept up at the sight of that. “Look. We cleared today for this. No meetings with the patriars, no haggling with Nine-Fingers - wouldn’t you consider that a win?”

“It would be, were I able to…” His hands rose, resting on either side of her waist, pulling her close for a quick, heated kiss. “… do certain things; alas we both know you are too preoccupied.” When they separated his eyes were tender, but the heat in them was unmistakable.

“Astarion,” she began, a little guiltily, “I’m sorry. My mind just isn’t on-”

“But of course! Besides, the staff are still at work. They’ve insisted on cleaning every room - there’s little privacy to be had today.” A mock sigh, and he let her go.

“And whose fault is that? I seem to remember it being your idea to host them.”

He snorted, but didn’t deign to answer.

“It’ll rain soon,” Astarion mused awhile later, glancing up at the sky again. “We ought to head inside. I’m aware it’s not the most comfortable place for you to be right now, but…” he shrugged. They were both dressed comfortably, but he’d very much rather not get his new loafers dirty on rain-wet soil.

She faced him, dark circles under her eyes prominent in the dull sunlight, nodding. “I mean, of course. I can get back to work with the caterers, pick out plating for tonight and the table napkins and-”

“Ban,” He tangled his fingers in hers, leading her back into the house. “A suggestion from your husband, if you’ll indulge me. Let’s head to bed - I can hold you, knead out all those knots in your back - nothing more, of course.” It would be good for her to unwind, he knew; the looming dinner had caused her no small amount of stress. She’d barely slept in days.

She followed him to their bedroom and Astarion sat on the bed, toeing off his shoes, patting the spot beside him. The moment she was there he pushed away her ponytail, pressing a kiss to her neck, wrapping an arm around her. He laid down, pulling her down with him.

He purposefully shifted his tone lower, softer, seeking to soothe. “You’re alright; it will all be fine, and if it isn’t, say the word and I will make it fine. I’ve got you.”

She was silent for a few moments, then leaned on him, her head tucked in his warm neck, nuzzling between jaw and collarbone. She mumbled something against his skin; it was spoken so softly that it took him a few moments to completely understand it.

“It’s not just that I didn’t trust you,” she said.

His hand paused and he peered down at her. “Are you saying there’s more you’ve yet to tell me, or…”

She shook her head. “What I’ve said is about the sum of it. There were specific instances, of course, which I will tell you when we have time, but what I mean is… not telling you wasn’t only because of our issues.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m surprised,” Astarion mused; Ban’s eyes snapped up to his, evidently not expecting this response. He huffed out a sad laugh. “Love. I ate whatever little pride I had left to tell you all of what I am, where I came from. What I went through.” He saw shame in her eyes and aimed to soothe. “No need to be ashamed, love. It merely slipped your mind.”

“It shouldn’t have,” she countered, “I should have known; of course you’d understand. But it isn’t the only thing, or even the main thing. I…” she hesitated a moment, then continued. “I did not relish you knowing I’m weak. That I could, and did, allow those things to happen to me. That I gave in and let it happen, when I’d always been the one to help you, the one helping everyone. I want to be your rock, not your burden.”

A soft kiss was pressed to her forehead; Astarion huffed out a small, exasperated laugh. “I don’t think myself capable of seeing you or loving you any less, no matter the circumstances, and neither is your strength the reason for that love.” He turned somber, holding her tighter, as if doing so would fully convey the depth of his affection. “Grant me the privilege of being where your heart finds peace, Ban. I would love nothing more.”

Tears filled her eyes and she gave him a small nod. “That I can do. Will do.” She looked away, huddling against his chest. “But then… they made me what I am, for better or for worse. Talking about it also feels like acknowledging they did do something right, at some point.”

“No.” That he wouldn’t abide. He placed an elegant finger under her chin, tilting it so she’d meet his eyes again. “Do not ever say that, because it isn’t true, and by no means will it ever be.”

“But they-”

“They what? Shaped you? You are you in spite of what they’ve done to you, not because of it.” His voice had risen, insistent on driving the thought away from her mind. He saw her open her mouth, about to argue, and he immediately interrupted her again.

“Before you say anything else, do you think what Cazador did made me who I am?”

“In some ways,” Ban said, and he found a measure of joy in the fact that she did so seemingly without fear of his anger.

Astarion nodded. “I don’t disagree. But I am also more than that - more than what he made me. And so are you. You, Ban…” He took a breath, trying to find the words to fully express himself and falling utterly short.

“You are strong. You are kind, compassionate. You tried, when trying was only for the foolish and the brave. You gave me a chance. You loved me when that was - and is - an objectively stupid thing to do. You held onto yourself and onto me when I was unable to, chose our love and-”

He heard her whimper as she hid herself against his chest yet again. He gently rocked her, wanting nothing more than to hold her close and shield her from everything. Her trust was intoxicating, so new and yet so achingly familiar; a haunting reminder of what he had almost lost forever. She kept her head tucked against his heart, her breathing slowly matching his as she melted against his body.

“Are you listening?” he asked, and at her nod he made it a point to take slower breaths, slowing his pulse down so that it soothed her further. He ruffled her hair affectionately. “Only for you,” he reminded her, staring up at the ceiling.

There wasn’t any reply, but there needn’t be. The silence stretched, and Astarion closed his eyes.

“This is really nice,” Ban eventually murmured, her eyes half-closed. It occurred to Astarion that she was utterly exhausted; the fact that she hadn’t complained about them wearing their clothes to bed should have clued him in immediately. He decided not to remind her about the massage and stayed mostly unmoving, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

He considered speaking, to say candy-sweet words, but he knew they were unnecessary; they’d long moved past those early days, when his voice was all he could offer her. Instead he closed his own eyes, fingers idly tracing patterns on her head.

Sleep, love.

When she finally stirred, Astarion was still in trance. Soft, light snores wafted down to her from somewhere above her head. Ban gingerly moved his hand from her head, then carefully sat up. The sun told her it was almost sunset. A small wince crossed her features at the realization; she was a little surprised the noise of the preparations hadn’t interrupted their rest. They’d have to prepare themselves soon, but she didn’t want to wake him just yet, figuring she could bathe before he awakened.

She turned to him, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed - unneeded, but habitual, comforting. His hand closed, then opened again, as if searching for something; his eyes moved beneath closed lids. Dreaming. She planted a soft kiss against his brow, received a soft mm of contentment in reply, then left the bed, steps as silent as possible so as not to disturb him.

The bath was warm and fragrant and Ban sank into it, eyes closing despite her rising anxiety. Seeing her father was one thing, but her mother was different; there was little doubt she would pry into every aspect of their lives and ask Ban about everything that had transpired since the last time they’d seen her. She wondered what they’d heard of the group who’d fought the Netherbrain, but her parents rarely bothered with events that did not concern the business, and the fight had left the area around the shop mostly unscathed. It was unlikely they knew anything more than what the broadsheets had reported in the days after the city was saved.

Then there were also Astarion’s remarks about Roderich, and the state of the shop. What could have caused her father to let it fall into such disrepair?

“Love.”

Her eyes flew open to see Astarion standing by the tub, nude, a small smile ghosting across his lips. He stepped over the rim of the tub to sink into the water opposite her. The moment he was in he reached for the scented soap and the sponge. “You didn’t wake me,” he complained impishly, working the soap into a lather and starting to scrub himself. “Worse, I wasn’t invited to this bath. I’m hurt.”

She sighed. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself, and I figured you’d need the rest.”

A wry chuckle answered her as he took her arm, bathing her as well. “I’m not the one waking up in the middle of the night.” He didn’t shy from her sharp glare, meeting it head-on. “And what of it? You can’t sleep. You think of them and dream of them - I can hear it.”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Ban.”

Astarion paused his ministrations, the sponge stilling against her collarbone. “You have to let me in,” he finally said, the sponge pressed down against her as the hand emphasized his point. “You are trying and making great strides, but you have to realize this isn’t… embarrassing, or weak. And even if it is, what of it?”

“I don’t think it’s…” she began, the lie forming automatically; Astarion merely fixed her with a pointed look and she sighed.

“I suppose you’re right.” She shrugged. “I understand what you’ve said, but it isn’t that easy to overcome years of thinking that way. My mother prided herself on being a strong, stoic woman. She insisted that being emotional, needing comfort was… frivolous, unneeded, and for the weak; that she did not need anyone else other than herself.”

“An obvious lie, considering she wasn’t even strong enough to stand up for her own children.” The sponge resumed its path, scrubbing Ban’s chest and neck, traveling to the other arm.

She scooted closer, allowing him better reach. “She thought the strong thing to do was to let her husband do what he pleased, to require nothing of him.” She paused briefly to rinse off some of the soap. “They were betrothed at a young age, as is the custom. She loved him, at least at first. He… saw her as a broodmare, to birth his heirs. They had trouble getting pregnant, and she prayed to all the gods for a child, to give him what he so wished for. To give him what he’d begun looking for outside the marriage; without her permission, of course.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “Pathetic,” he sneered, gesturing for Ban to turn around so he could scrub her back, “to step outside the marriage for heirs is one of the oldest and least imaginative excuses I could think of.”

“I doubt he cared.” The feel of the sponge against her skin, of Astarion’s hand grasping her shoulder, was soothing. Facing away from him provided her with a little more privacy, allowing her more ease in opening up. “My mother knew, much as he tried to hide it, yet she wouldn’t leave because she thought herself stronger than that. Because that’s what good wives do - listen to their husbands and give them children.”

Astarion’s hand stilled yet again and she heard a pinched, aborted grunt. “Again. Like I did you,” he said, tone acerbic. “And you stayed, like your mother did.”

“I left,” Ban reminded, and to her surprise she heard a relieved exhale.

“I am ever so glad you did, Ban,” he murmured.

Her head whipped around to look at him. Her hair splattered water everywhere, Astarion blinked away the droplets that landed on his eyelashes. He draped her hair over her shoulder to continue soaping the smooth expanse of her back, meeting her gaze.

“You thought I was incapable of reflection?” he teased, “Had you not left, we wouldn’t be here, I think.” The silence stretched as he continued working down her back. “I needed that push, and push you did. I can only be grateful.”

“I thought I broke your heart.”

He finished scrubbing and she leaned against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, fingers interlacing on her belly. He exhaled, thinking, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“I prefer to think I broke my own heart.” Astarion wondered if he should say more, if more apologies would be required; loath as he was to do it, he would willingly prostrate himself before her if she required it.

“That time, perhaps; however I do feel like I’ve been breaking it again recently,” she admitted.

Astarion stiffened, realizing what she meant. “You have. You give a little, luring me in with a baited hook, and when I’ve bitten, you simply…” Dexterous fingers moved, miming a yanking motion, inspecting a fish, and discarding it. “...pull me in, only to push me away the moment I do something unpleasant or something that reminds you of Roderich or of my past behavior.” It’s not fair, he thought.

“I punish and reward, is what you’re saying,” she clarified, looking up at him. He could see guilt swimming in those eyes.

“Yes and no - I can appreciate that a lot of it comes from your family, and some of it comes from me,” Astarion began; he could feel her tensing and his hands slid to her shoulders to massage them. “However at times you make me feel like your feelings for me are contingent on how well I behave, and it’s…”

…just like Cazador. A comparison that he was loath to make, but one that was true nevertheless. He recognized the way her wavering affection made him feel - the shame, the fear, the pain - and he couldn’t continue shying away from it. Acknowledging it himself, however, was nowhere near the same as articulating it to her, and the idea of doing so filled him with dread.

He searched instead for the right word, and settled on “...painful.”

“I know you need time, and you deserve time,” Astarion finally said, “But please don’t withhold affection from me. Don’t leave me out in the cold, with silence my only company.”

Gods. She rubbed her face, frustrated. Of course she’d been hurting him; in her focus on not risking herself again she’d been too unwilling to trust his progress, too cautious - to the extent that he thought her love conditional.

“I’m so sorry,” Ban choked out, fighting back tears, “I’ve been doing to you what my parents did to me. I know. I… I’ll do better, I swear. This isn’t an excuse, love, but it’s hard; after having all this drilled in by them, and then… well, shielding myself from you - it’s not easy to unlearn.”

“Don’t you think that I, of all people, would know that, my love?” Astarion sighed, but he was mostly filled with relief and elation. That she acknowledged it, recognized it for what it was - unkind, unfair - and swore to change… it was enough for now, especially in light of the past tenday.

“Apology accepted,” he allowed, adding a little pompousness to color his voice, hoping it would lighten the mood, “I’m nothing if not gracious, after all.” But he also reached to her with his mind, suffusing her with his feelings - his gratitude, acceptance, and understanding.

She laughed a little; it came out broken, an odd mix of sadness and relief. “Too gracious,” she choked out.

“No such thing,” came his answer, quick and reassuring. “Just as you’ve forgiven me, so have I you. There’s little need to measure who did what, as long as we both…” he gestured, unsure of the specific verbiage he needed, “as long as we’re both happy, I suppose.”

She couldn’t contest that, turning to kiss a trail from his jawbone down his neck. Her lips ghosted over the old bite marks, setting off a wave of pleasant shivers throughout his body.

“Then we are in agreement?” he asked, simply to ensure the air was clear.

Ban made a small mhm of assent but didn’t say more. He was relieved, but found himself wanting to introduce more levity. He shifted, untangling his fingers to playfully cup a breast. “Much as forgiveness has been dispensed, darling, my heart still feels broken,” he drawled, “A kiss would be most welcome in soothing it.”

“You’re sure you only want a kiss?” she said, and he huffed out a small laugh.

“Most definitely not. Still, a kiss would be very welcome.” He played with her breast, pinching the nipple between index finger and thumb. Scooting back, she pressed against his cock. He bit his lip, appreciating her teasing, but forced his hips to keep still.

Tilting her head back, Astarion met her lips with his own, a soft caress without urgency. He nibbled at her lower lip, eliciting a quiet moan. Hands reached for his head, grasping still-dry curls to pull him closer. He allowed it, but he felt her fingers begin to move towards his ear; he quickly pulled her hand away.

“There isn’t enough time, you’re preoccupied, and as much as I’d like to take the edge off,” he scolded, “there are far more pressing matters we ought to attend to. I would prefer to make love when you’re wholly here, and not plagued by the spectre of your family.”

“So you’re saying you’re not hard right now? What do I feel back there, then?” she teased, hand sinking beneath the water.

Astarion tried to snatch the hand before it reached him, but she wasn’t really making a play for his cock; he was easily able to wrap his fingers around her wrist. He brought it to his lips, planting a soft kiss before sinking his fangs in, drinking languidly.

“That’s for being a tease and for being too godsdamned attractive for your own good,” he murmured, licking the last rivulets of blood before they fell.

Ban laughed, rolling her hips back, rubbing against him lightly. “You are hard.”

“Painfully so,” came the reply, huffed in exasperation.

“I doubt drinking helped you any,” she added, very much amused.

He groaned as she rubbed her ass on him again. “No,” he admitted, “but I needed something.” Astarion was mere seconds away from lifting her and sitting her on his cock, but she thankfully - regretfully, if he was being honest - pulled away.

He grumbled, glaring at her; he felt around the tub for the sponge he’d dropped when he’d reached for her hand. Instead he found a muscled thigh and pinched, just enough to elicit a yelp and a little jump; she splashed his face.

“Ass!”

Astarion chuckled, “And yet you love me.” He’d never said it with such lightness of heart, he thought; it was far too fraught, too sensitive a topic for him until recently. There was a certainty there now, of her love for him, that he was grateful for. However he couldn’t fully suppress the lingering question, the question that plagued him even in these calm, happy moments:

Will she ever love me as deeply and completely as I do her?

A question that shouldn’t haunt him; there was no tangible way to measure love, after all. To attempt to do so would likely only end in heartache, but he couldn’t seem to prevent it from cropping up each time.

His silence as he contemplated this train of thought did not go unnoticed.

“Astarion?”

Her hand touched his cheek, and he blinked twice as he refocused on her. She’d turned to face him while he was lost in his reverie. He saw concern writ large on her features.

“I didn’t mean to taunt you; I wasn’t actually going to grab you, if that’s…” she trailed off, “I’m sorry.”

Realization dawned on him and he vehemently shook his head. “Ban, no. It was perfectly fine; welcomed, even. I was merely lost in some tangent of thought - one of little import.”

True - not the whole of it, but now was not the right time for it.

“Then do you want to…?” Ban ventured; he quickly shook his head.

“Tempting, as you always are, but no. I’d rather focus on tonight’s events; there’s little doubt that it will be complicated, at the very least. You will need all your energy for it.”

Ban nodded. “A very good point.” She turned to face away again, leaning forwards in a silent request; Astarion wistfully raked his eyes over her back before he began to soap it again.

Astarion watched Ban fidget in front of him, tugging at the skirt of her dress.

“This does fit well, right?” Her voice was tentative, anxious as she spun around for his assessment. He’d been her mirror since she’d lost the ability to see her reflection. Sometimes he helped her see herself with the mental link, but right now he merely pursed his lips and rubbed at his chin.

“I think it fits perfectly,” he managed to say. The way it clung to her ass was delightfully distracting and he considered saying so, but he could tell she was nervous. Instead he walked over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder to still her movements. “You look beautiful; you always do, but especially so tonight.”

“Thank you, but are you sure the hem’s not too short? Fath- I mean, Roderich would no doubt comment on it, he would complain and say ‘have you no modesty?’ and-”

He tightened his grip on her shoulder and placed himself in front of her. “Look at me. It doesn’t matter what he thinks; if he so much as utters one word that offends you - that even irritates you - you merely have to say the word and he’s out.” His throat tightened as he spoke. How much had Roderich hurt her, in the small span of years a human child had, for her to be such a stuttering mess right now?

Ban took a few gulping breaths, nodding at him. “Yes, of course. You… thank you.” Another sharp breath took her and she rushed him, burying her face against his chest. His arms wrapped around her tightly, rocking her gently in his embrace.

“I shall go ahead to greet them,” he offered, “You can meet us in the dining room whenever you wish.” He slowly began to pull away, but she gripped the lapels of his suit coat.

“Stay with me,” she begged, unwilling to lift her head from where it was pressed against him. “Please. A little longer.”

Wordlessly he nodded, enveloping her in his arms yet again.

He could only hope it helped.

Astarion lounged on the throne as he waited. He heard the front doors opening, the thump of footsteps, the muffled voice of their chamberlain wafting through to him. He stayed in place, watching as the ballroom doors opened and figures began to enter. He’d carefully arranged himself, legs crossed and head resting on his hand, the picture of insolence and lordly power, exuding what he hoped was an aura of indifference.

He let them approach, making no move to rise or greet them; he counted four - no, three - figures. Their chamberlain, Roderich, and a woman.

Where’s the brother?

“My lord,” the chamberlain began, “Master Glasscraft and his missus are here.” Astarion didn’t deign to rise, eyes raking coldly over Ban’s mother. He could sense her deference to her husband; she hadn’t even looked up yet. A short, plump woman, she all but hid behind Roderich as the man prepared to greet Astarion.

Roderich cleared his throat and at that, Arlette’s eyes rose, raking over Astarion, traveling from the top of his curls to the bottom of his shoes. Her eyes widened and her lips parted a fraction of an inch. He knew that look all too well, remembered seeing it on countless faces, every single time Cazador loaned him out. It made his lip curl in disgust.

“Lord Ancunín,” Roderich began, hesitating for a moment. “Astarion.” The Glasscrafts bowed, obviously rather nervous and unsure.

Astarion fought the urge to snap; that he dared address him so informally without permission rankled. He let it pass, however, sitting up, elbows on his knees. “Roderich,” he nodded. He then turned to Arlette, and also gave her a small nod. “You must be Arlette. Ban has told me so much about you both.”

He finally stood, hands casually smoothening his trousers as he did, relishing the look of discomfort on their faces at his words. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he still towered over the pair, something he found immensely satisfying. “Pleased to have you here. How did you find the grounds, Arlette?”

She tittered. “It’s nice, I suppose. Roses were never something I desired for our garden; they’re thorny.”

“They require care and loving attention. Not things everyone is capable of giving.”

Satisfied with the raised eyebrows his comment caused, he decided to take them to the dining room; at least then he could have some wine to take the edge off their blathering. He descended the dais, gesturing for them to follow him. Before he could summon the chamberlain, however, Ban’s mother decided to get started on her prying.

“If you don’t mind me asking - how long have you and Ban been together?” Arlette’s voice made him turn and he crossed his arms, considering the question.

“A year and a half, if not slightly more,” he answered, mind flicking back to the day they first met. He noticed her frown; she opened her mouth as if to ask something more, but her husband gave her a curt shake of the head, ending her interrogation.

Interesting, Astarion thought to himself. He waved a hand at the chamberlain. “Please tell my wife that her family has arrived. She is free to join us at her leisure.” As he did, he led Ban’s parents out of the ballroom.

Roderich cleared his throat. “Astarion-” he began, wincing when Astarion fixed him with a glare over his shoulder. “You would really let Ban… your wife… hole up in her room while you have guests?”

The moment the words were out, Astarion rounded on him, rage written all over his face. His crimson eyes glittered dangerously, lip curling in a sneer. “I do not presume to tell Ban what to do, Roderich. Do you truly have the gall to attempt to command my wife under our roof?”

The smaller man spluttered, a sound Astarion relished. “I- my lord- I do not! I merely say it as fatherly advice. Ban is-”

“Is what?” he interjected, crossing his arms. He saw Arlette open her mouth as if to speak, but she first looked to her husband for permission. As Roderich nodded, she began.

“My lord, forgive me. In fact, may I call you Astarion? You are, after all, my daughter’s… husband… although I notice you do not wear rings.” Arlette straightened up, bracing herself. “What Roderich means to say is that our daughter can be willful. She is prone to behaviors that are unbecoming of a wife, behaviors especially unbecoming of her stature as your spouse, of a lady.”

“Unbecoming-” Astarion bit back the curse forming on his lips, scoffing instead. “For one, no. I am to be addressed as Lord Ancunín, not Astarion. If I hear that one more time from either of your lips’…” The pair before him recoiled, his words obviously effective.

He let the threat hang, satisfied at their reaction, and pushed on. “Ban is willful. She does things that are unbecoming of your idea of a lady, yes.” Those were in fact the things that made him love her so, but he considered that truth something Roderich and Arlette did not deserve to know. “Those are the things that make her her, and you will not disparage my wife in front of me. Is that understood?”

Small, hurried murmurs of assent answered him. Satisfied, he turned away from them. “Let’s head to the dining room before we all reconsider this reunion, shall we?”

The doors were held open for Ban as she entered the dining room. She did not see Adrien, only Roderich and Arlette, seated in stony, awkward silence across from Astarion. She noticed her mother’s eyes, the way they drifted down to her belly, as expected. Sorry mother, no grandchildren here. She quickly scanned the rest of the room - there was no sign of her brother - then landed on her husband. His hands were steepled beneath his chin, but he placed them flat on the table as he turned to her. His eyes flicked to her and for a moment she saw the steely anger in them, but it quickly melted into tenderness. He rose, crossing the room to take her hand and press a soft kiss to her knuckles.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, low enough that her parents did not hear. He kept her hand in his as he led her to her seat, only releasing her to pull her chair out. As she sat, so too did he, shooting one last warning glare at Roderich and Arlette before he waved a servant over to request dinner be served.

Ban looked Astarion over, noting the furrowed brows and tense shoulders, feeling a surge of relief that he was here. She reached out, snaking her hand around his, holding it in a tight grip. He made no outward sign he’d registered her touch, but his hand squeezed hers back. Satisfied, she turned to her parents.

Arlette was the first to speak, evidently unable to keep her mouth shut any longer. “Ban!” she exclaimed, “I know the last time we saw each other wasn’t… the best, but your father and I are so glad to see you again. You seem to have done well enough, haven’t you?” she asked, shooting Astarion an appreciative glance, “And I’m very proud. We taught you everything you needed to know, and look how far you’ve gone!”

Ban sighed. “I… I have done well for myself.”

She glanced over at her husband and saw his face harden further. Concerned, she reached into his mind. Not yet, love. I need to talk to them. He visibly swallowed down his pique, jaw reluctantly unclenching.

That they’re alive at all, Ban, is merely because you wish it.

She couldn't help the slight chuckle that escaped her. Keeping their bond open, she continued addressing her mother. “Done well, but not because of you, or what you two have taught me. Where’s Adrien?”

Arlette took this in stride, smiling to reveal crooked, yellowing teeth that still occasionally haunted Ban’s nightmares. “We shouldn’t argue about that. Have you forgotten? It’s uncouth to be arguing at the table.” She paused, and her gaze slipped away from Ban, settling on the empty plate before her. “Your brother had a prior commitment, and we thought it rude to ask your husband to postpone.”

Ban watched her mother rake her eyes over her belly yet again. “Any plans for children, Ban? You’re not getting any younger. I’m sure your husband wants an heir,” Arlette pressed.

She opened her mouth to retort, but her father interjected. “A little darling boy, Ban, would be a wonderful gift. For you two, and for us as well. He would be a treasure to us all.” He nodded at Arlette.

Ban sighed. “Do you harass Adrien for grandchildren as well, or is this reserved solely for your female child…?”

“Besides,” Astarion chimed in, a devilish grin on his face, “I must confess we have been trying as often and as enthusiastically as possible, but alas…”

Before he could continue, the servant returned with soup, halting any further prying for a few moments. Astarion automatically opened his mind further, sharing his sense of taste with her.

As they began to eat, Roderich spoke up. “As your mother mentioned little beauty, it is indeed uncouth to argue, or discuss such… marital activities, at the table, just as it is uncouth to leave your guests waiting.”

Ban could feel Astarion bristle, a vision flitting to her unwittingly: fangs, glittering in the light of the chandelier, sinking into that repulsive neck so that he’d never call her that again.

“It’s also uncouth to beat your children, as I understand it,” she snipped, and was rewarded by the blush that crept up her father’s face. Astarion barked out a laugh beside her but said nothing, his thoughts conveying amusement and warm affection.

“That, I did for your wellbeing,” Roderich protested, although his voice was weak. “So you’d end up somewhere in life. Successful. As you indeed became.” Ban saw her mother nod vehemently at these words.

Astarion could no longer help himself. “She is not successful because of your frankly atrocious parenting, she is successful in spite of you,” he growled, “And did I not warn you not to disparage my wife?”

Ban saw his lip curling again and hurried to interject before fangs were bared. To Astarion she sent a small plea, asking him to wait and let her get what she needed before he did anything rash. He blinked at her, the curled lip trembling in fury before it lowered.

“Be glad she bids me to be merciful and stay my hand,” he drawled, turning to them, “Else you would be in far more unpleasant circumstances than this.”

Ban cleared her throat. “Mother. Father. It… doesn’t matter what you think. What you did to me and Adrien is unforgivable, and if you think this success was because of you, you’re wrong.”

“How could it not be?” Arlette interjected. “You married someone so attractive. Someone rich. Someone powerful. All these things I taught you how to navigate. How to be a good wife. A good woman. How to know your place, to be strong and to honor your husband. Don’t you see? You married a hero, from wh-”

Her words died off as Astarion slammed a fist down onto the table, absolutely livid. “A hero?”

Roderich attempted to explain, “We asked around, my lord. We heard of your rise to power, of your efforts in saving the city from the Netherbrain.”

“Me. You think I’m the hero of Baldur’s Gate?” Astarion laughed, a deep, full laugh filled with levity - but also incredulity. Ban sampled the flavor of his emotions as they flooded through their connection; there was genuine amusement, but there were also much heavier emotions - his profound admiration for her, and his love. More than anything else, that.

It took him a long moment to recover, his features shifting from mirth to a deep, seething rage. He stood, hands gripping the edge of the table, leering at them. “Ban is the hero of Baldur’s Gate. She was the best of us - and nowhere were any of those insipid ‘lessons’ you subjected her to of any use. She picked us up, one by one, led us through the wilderness, all the way to the city. She burdened herself with every decision and every sacrifice that had to be made. She helped each and every one of us wretched fools,” he growled, his hands tightening on the table until it creaked, “and somehow still managed to save your sorry hides along with everyone else in this godsforsaken city.” He glanced at her, his expression softened briefly, the last part of his tirade saved for her and her alone.

You gave me everything, saved me from slavery and death alike. Loved me.

She offered him a soft smile before he turned back to Roderich and Arlette, the anger firmly back in his features. “You have pushed my patience far beyond the point I’d normally tolerate. The only thing keeping you alive is her - I strongly encourage you to quit while you’re ahead.”

This final warning, with Astarion looming angrily towards them, sufficed to convince the pair to back off. His tirade may have inadvertently revealed his fangs, Ban realized; she was tempted to ask him to back off again, worried.

The thought passed to him and he turned to her, wanting to tell her to let him handle it, when he realized. He leveled his gaze back onto her parents, brushing at his suit coat before sitting back down.

“What prior commitment was so important that Adrien would choose it over being reunited with his long-lost sister?” The cold tone had crept back into his voice, his wrath receding behind an icy veneer. Astarion fingered the stem of his wineglass, the other hand idly tapping the table. “Rather rude, when I invited everyone. Does he not miss his sister?”

That is what you wanted to know, is it not?

He’d read the thought as soon as it came into her mind. She’d felt Adrien would be guaranteed to show up; for one he would have wanted to see Ban. The other reason was purely pragmatic - Roderich would have wanted to introduce him to his powerful brother-in-law, establish connections early. His absence was perplexing.

“How is he, anyway?” Ban interjected before Astarion felt compelled to push further. Adrien was the only one she had a smidgen of concern about, the only one she thought she’d have an honest conversation with tonight; and yet he wasn’t here. Did he resent her? Had he run away, just as she had done?

She noticed Roderich’s jaw clench at the mention of her brother. Curious.

“Adrien, well… he had other commitments, as your mother said,'' Roderich stammered out, eyes darting from Ban to Astarion nervously. It was a lie, Ban was sure, but she couldn’t exactly place why. In her mind Astarion whispered his agreement.

She shook her head. “He didn’t, father. Don’t lie. You never were good at it. Does he not want to see me?”

Arlette let out a loud tch of disdain. “Of course he doesn’t want to see his ungrateful sister. I birthed you. We raised you. Loved you. And what do you do, the first moment we need you to do something in return? You run. You selfish, ungrateful child. After you left, your brother’s betrothal became much more difficult for us to secure. ‘Little beauty’,” she scoffed, “You aren’t even beautiful. All you have is what I taught you, no matter what your poncey husband here says. You know that.”

Ban tried not to let those words seep into her heart, but they hit their mark anyway. She felt herself tremble, felt tears threatening to form. No. Don’t. She’s just riling you up, Ban. Don’t.

It didn’t work. Her eyes blurred as her tears welled up, her breathing became fast and began to hitch. She gripped the edges of her chair, trying to ground herself because no, they can’t see me cry again, they can’t win-

“OUT!”

Astarion’s thunderous voice broke through to her, strong and brave and so, so needed. Her home and her salvation. She watched as he stood, index finger pointed towards the door.

“Out. Before I end your miserable, worthless lives. Get. Out.”

Ban wanted to tell him she hadn’t gotten the truth yet, but she was in no condition to. Astarion snapped a finger, summoning the chamberlain.

“Get them out of my palace, and they are not to be allowed back in under any circumstances.”

The chamberlain hurried to Roderich’s side and gestured politely towards the door. Roderich shot out of his chair and shoved the chamberlain away, glaring at Astarion.

“You may be the man of the house here, but mark my words: you are nothing. I do not know what you are, but I know enough to know you are unholy. A monster,” he spat out.

Astarion laughed at this, gleefully baring his fangs. They glinted in the candlelight; Roderich and Arlette flinched and went pale.

“Then you know how easily I can kill you, drain all your putrid blood and bathe in your innards,” he hissed. “And who would believe you? I walk in the sun. My heart beats. I am warm. I am a patron of the arts. I am well-respected throughout the entire city. I am a lord. And you? A sniveling, washed-out guildsman, bitter over some argument over a commissioned mirror. Any more attempts to approach my wife, to even speak to her without her express permission, and I will crush your reputation.” Astarion smiled, all teeth and danger, the predator on full display. “And if I ever hear any whispers about what lives in this palace, I will assume it has come from you. I will find you where you sleep and I will kill you - and I need no invitation to enter your home, trust me.”

Arlette, finally making the connection, took in her daughter’s features. “No. You…”

Ban smiled with feigned shyness, a smile she’d been taught to perform in polite company. But she let her lips stretch further, baring her own fangs. There was a low thrum of satisfaction in her belly as she watched her parents recoil in horror.

“Go on,” Ban said. “My husband has told you to get out. Be polite and do as my lord bids, hm?”

They seemed to hesitate, and Astarion released another hiss for good measure. Roderich finally conceded, his shoulders sagging slightly. He fixed Astarion with one last, terrified glare, then led Arlette out, the chamberlain guiding them out of the palace.

“That didn’t quite go the way I’d hoped,” she said, turning to Astarion. To her surprise he was right next to her, arms already halfway encircling her. He gave her a long, tight embrace, his nose pressed tightly against her temple, breathing in her scent.

“Are you alright?” he asked. The rancor was gone, and so was the smooth veneer in his voice. All that remained were his worry and his concern, her wellbeing his primary focus.

Ban held him just as tightly, hands fisting into his suit coat. It crumpled within her grasp, the smooth silk and the embroidery providing a texture she found comforting.

“I’m fine, I think. Perhaps I won’t be in a little bit, but right now I’m more concerned about Adrien.”

Astarion peered at her, studying her for a moment. Seemingly satisfied she wasn’t lying, he nodded.

“We’ll have to reconsider our approach, but I agree with you.”

“So you saw it too.” She stood, but her husband was always a step ahead; the chair was pulled out, his hands wrapping around hers before she could even reach for him.

It’s as if you can read my mind, she jested.

There was tender amusement there, mixed in with the clouds of still-roiling anger and worry. He tugged at her arm.

We can discuss everything another time. For now I would like you to rest.

She acquiesced, allowing him to lead her to their room.

That night she fell asleep, body enveloped in his arms, her mind embraced by his.

If you would like to see more of these two and their story, consider reading my other entries in the series "If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there."

I am happy to announce that 'Whither is thy beloved gone?' is getting professionally edited as well. I shall keep everyone abreast of when these changes go live. Thank you!

Taglist: @tavamarie @ayselluna @enterthedreams @coltaire @qiific3 @misscrissfemmefatale @vixstarria @eatyourheartoutmylove @linllewellyn @micropoe10 @thegoodwitchs-blog @akirahime @velcyrptr @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @babblebrain-blog @asterordinary @last-but-not-the-least @artist4theworld @gracemisconduct @decedentcoffeewizard @rootin-tootin-n-kind @pursuitseternal @youngtacobanana @krispeenuggiez @girlygmer-blog @cheezits4lyfe @@vinegarjello @the0ldman @wisteriaofthegraves @midnight-musings-of-nyx @toni-winchester @icybluepenguin @beepersteeper @hereliesblackdragon @generalstephkenobi

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finsterhund · 1 year

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Listen if I was in the Skinamarink house I'd just infodump about Mayhem Mountain constantly while playing HoD or whatever the fuck. rip to Kevin and whatever his sister's name was but I'm different.

I literally spend my life thirsting after wanting to own "big old spooky old house with analog media and toys and shit everywhere with no parents" this is the fucking experience here. (Okay maybe I also want parental figures too but I need to be at least somewhat realistic. I'm not ever getting that. But if this stupid housing industry crashes and burns I can get a house someday. I fucking want a house. I would kill to get a house. Etc.)

Every time I hear about people abandoning houses and not wanting to live in haunted houses I'm like "you stupid assholes are rich enough to be picky about a fucking house you own. Give it to me you fuckers I will eat a demon and fistfight a ghost and the only thing haunting it will be me and my demonic little boy taken by the consumption ass vibes." (Please don't mention that I'm scared of New England the east coast is cursed and evil also if we're being honest if I got a cool carpenter gothic or whatever the fuck house for free there I would bite the bullet and go there because you know what fuck it free house. Worst case scenario I find a way to straight up take the house somewhere else.)

There are so many houses left to rot by my grandparents house. That's a thing there. It's been a thing for a hundred years or so and it pisses me off. The beloved town my cousins used to live where I visited like once and never wanted to fucking leave and it had a little swimming pool is almost a ghost town now. Apparently they lost their grain elevator in a fire and I don't even know if that rumor is true or not but I legit fucking had a weeping fit about that somewhere last week idk my brain was soup and all I remember from then was that I ground my jaw so bad it locked up. There's so many fucking houses abandoned in the plains. I would live in all those houses. Give me the fucking houses. I will live in a fucking grain elevator that was turned into a house. Fuck you.

Everyone always bitches about being in the middle of nowhere but if there's fucking electricity and plumbing and internet (yeah there is now. Suck on that assholes) and roads what's the fucking problem you big fucking baby. Getting a driver's license is probably possible for me in that province because nobody gives a shit. If I fucking own a house and fucking land I don't give a fuck if I have to drive to get to stores and shit I have a fucking attention span and patience when I fucking want to. Asshole. Also pretty sure people can have small private planes and fly them there. You certainly have enough space for takeoff and landing. Can you fucking imagine even having small paraglider personal flying devices and shit you could do that there.

There's shit called paramotors please look at this fucking shit please look at it. I could have this. Fuck you.

https://youtu.be/rvQ9DjJNal0

I am fucking screaming in emotional anguish agony pain. This is for me. This is what my life should be. In a house. Windows XP wallpaper ass land. Paramotor trips into idk swiftcurrent or whatever. Fuck you fuck you fuck you. Screaming crying throwing up. It's not fair.

Apparently Canada treats paramotor like ultralight aircraft need permit and stuff but there's a guy who's been doing just fine without one. Fuck the government.

Want paramotor so bad. Screaming crying throwing up.

Anyways yeah. So mad. So sad. Miserable.

It's perfect in every fucking way. My fucking body craves the steppe. Did you know why I fucking ended up always loving the goddamn windows XP desktop background Naboo ass aesthetic? It's because it's literally my fucking blood I was fucking born for there. I'm literally fucking homesick I want to fucking cry. It literally fucking looks like that there. I am screaming. If my fucking mother didn't fucking take me back from my grandparents. I am going to fucking scream. (I would have never experienced the CSA from my birth father either) am going to fucking commit die.

I have manic obsessions over the extended family houses I barely fucking remember from childhood visits. Hell, even the Spot house. And that was a place with my stupid fucking birth father in the stupid fucking childhood costal city.

I would take the Spot house and move it to the steppe. Most of the houses in the near ghost town my cousins used to live look like the Spot house. Screaming.

I am filled with the utmost of hatred and grief and wrath. I do not resent my mother more for this because she was taken advantage of by that fucking demon too and I know every day she regrets leaving her parents too. But she doesn't fucking want to go back she loves that shitty fucking place she's in now I just don't understand that. She's like the people who left the houses. She thinks winter is cold. I don't understand.

You have no idea how much I want a fucking house and my preference is literally 1900s-1970s construction. So shut the fuck about things being old and outdated I literally fucking want that. Bitch give it to me. I am no longer asking. 🗡️🗡️🗡️ I will put the knife in your eye

I found a scary story the other day where a guy got an old magic key that when he opened his closet with it the closet lead to some cool old hidden secret castle room or whatever the fuck with a bunch of neat antique shit and instead of living there he fucking plundered it all like a stupid little bitch. I was so mad. This also ended up getting his ass because he kept finding doors and doors to do this to just to steal all the cool shit just to sell it and eventually he let out a monster because he was such a stupid little moron.

Am I rambling? Yeah but I don't care. I'm actually conscious and awake and functional right now. It's not even noon yet and I've taken all my meds. I am actually awake and not tired right now for some fucking reason and of course immediately the mania starts.

I am just explosive right now. Oh my god. You know I'm so apathetic and tired and exhausted and have no drive or energy or anything anymore but I have so fuckibg much for my goddamn house quest my fucking dream.

Could make my own grassland city state. Landback sovereign citizen shit. Get army of friends to all bring back the almost dead town and it's ours now and we rebuild the grain elevator and reopen the pool and shit.

This is my dream and what I want. I want to achieve it through violence.

(if I'm being completely honest if I got all this I don't even think I'd NEED there to be internet at that point. Everyone always brings up internet but so much of the internet for me is a surrogate for one thing or another.) If I could have my friends with me I would not need to use the internet to be with them for example.

I apologize if I appear to be crazy (I actually am lol and sometimes I get really fucking tired of presenting myself in respectable coherent ways. I tire of masking for the benefit and comfort of others. Of hiding my mental illnesses at every turn because of you domestics thinking that anything short of tame subservience is dangerous and that aggression and violence are unbecoming of the human nature. When in reality it is us with "dangerous" mental disabilities who are the primary victims of violence and harm for being the way we are.) but I really can't fucking take this anymore. I am a member of a species meant to live off the land and wander and have big space to call your own and exist within the natural world and not live in a tiny little box. Life in captivity has both made me weak and pitiful and violently explosive wanting to be reborn as I was meant to be. I'm at that point where you know what? I can import my medicine in bulk. I can have it delivered to me. If I can't then I fucking should. And if I need a hospital but do not make it in time then this is nature. I should not be scared I should not live in captivity because of death because of disability because captivity is worse than a natural death. I am sick of living as a domesticated shell of how I should be.

I fear change. I fear it so badly. But I have been tricked into fearing the small changes when in reality I need to learn that what is truly harming me is that gradual change that put me into this environment. It is scary to move and to leave behind these places like where I live now and the things that have become routine but that is not the big picture. This is the comfort of domestication and is a trick. It is my attachment to the tiny little white room where I live even though with time I would not miss it in comparison to the love in my heart for the new life of the big house. The uncertainty of change is clouding the judgement and I am a fucking coward.

I fear rejection from the domestics and their stupid world even though I resent it. This is a survival instinct warped by trauma. To mask and roll over and submit for fear of being hit. To play nice so that they do not take my tiny white room because it is all I have. Because they have made it so. My safety in this environment is dependant on them. When it shouldn't be. This is in a way a form of grooming that I have yet to overcome.

I do not know how to overcome it. I suppose acknowledging this is a first step.

Andy want house.

#text post #negative #long post

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prof-peach · 3 years

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What would make a good ghost-type starter? My kid's about to turn ten and REALLY wants a Gastly. I think it's because the Ecruteak Gym Leader, Morty, and his Gengar are like, her childhood heroes. She says she even wants to be a ghost-type specialist. Honestly though, I'm kinda reluctant. I mean, you've heard the rumors about ghost-types and children, right?

Your concern as a parent is wholesome, and I can understand your reluctance to dishing out a ghost Pokemon without further investigation first, so let’s put some rumours to bed here.

The dex entries often depict ghost types and tricky, scary, wild and sometimes even dangerous, stealing children away, being living grudges, turning lost kids to Pokemon, and being overall hard to handle, often somewhat lacking in empathy even.

This is what a dex does, it’s built for kids, it’s information is out there to inspire kids to find intrigue in species that are overlooked. When your little, you make up stories, as a parent I’m sure you know, some of those stories your kids tell you seem actually terrifying, horrific, some kids love to indulge in the creepy, the unusual. It’s not to be feared, it’s to be celebrated. The dex is an exaggeration, a base for further learning, and often the gateway to kids wanting to know more. There is a fatal downside, their entries and statements about some species can be unnerving to a regular adult. We are fearful, we see this potentially spooky dangerous thing and of course we want to protect the family from that. But the info given is often a 1% (at most) chance occurrence.

Phantump? They aren’t born of lost kids in the woods. You ask any breeder worth their salt, and they’ll tell you they’ve seen those Pokemon hatch from eggs like everything else.

Drifloon, tries to steal kids apparently? Nah, they’re lighter than air, most of their movements just simply look that way, but it’s usually the wind pushing their bodies about. They’re actually very kind pokemon.

What else, oh, Banette. Born of a discarded toy with an eternal grudge? Haha nope. They aren’t all made that way, at all, many evolve to be perfectly happy healthy Pokemon with a lot of love for their trainers.

The dex focuses in on the unusual, the extraordinary, the facts that statistically will interest their target demographic most, and kids have way less fear than us. Look at yours. She’s been exposed to the same stuff you have, yet she’s not hesitant to want a ghost type, she’s not afraid, not learnt that fear yet, which is an incredibly good thing.

On the very unusual case where a ghost type is like their dex entry, it’s usually captured, aided, and rereleased in a secure location, away from those who could get hurt by it.

Ghost Pokemon do not hatch with a choice of body, a choice of type, or a set of rules to follow. Just like us, they learn and amble through their life trying to find satisfaction, friends, work, family, love and kindness, and to figure out how they fit in it all. They’re highly complex and empathetic Pokemon, often treated differently because of what they are, rather than who they are. When they find people and Pokemon who don’t treat them with hostility and unkindness, they will spend their life with them, they will give everything for them, protecting their loved ones with the ferocity other species can’t muster.

I for one think that as long as your kid knows what to expect, and is responsible and reliable in caring for a Pokemon, then perhaps it’s a good time to start looking. A ghastly is a perfectly fine starter, they have low care requirements, snacking occasionally, but feeding mostly from places of reflection or worship.

You know why ghost types always hang around graves? It’s how they feed. When people reflect, they produce a certain kind of energy, it is not something you can measure easily, or see, but a ghost Pokemon can sense it. They have learnt to live off the energy people expend reflecting, and the most common accessible place to get this for a ghost type, is graves. They also frequent places of worship, monuments beloved by locals, and buildings that once housed a lot of love. You can tell when an abandoned house had something truly terrible happen in it, not even the ghosts will feed there. The energy is bitter to them, and many don’t care for it.

To help your kid, set up a place within the house where you, your family, your other Pokemon, can go to reflect. Some people build this space around the telephone, or computer. When thinking of, or talking to distant loved ones, the same energy is produced, so at home the ghost type can snack and not run low on energy. It’s a nice modern day adaption that’s makes caring for ghost much easier thankfully. Spending 10-20 minutes every other day in the reflection zone will feed the ghost, but will not drain you or your kid. They do not eat up a lot from us, nothing we haven’t already expended.

Along with this, be aware that the ghost line can be somewhat nocturnal, so setting up a regular bedtime might be a little tricky, so that the Pokemon is accounted for, but also so the kids not out all night, that’s not safe at all. Sunset seems to be their peak active hour on average, long shadows mean they can jump around fast between dark patches, a trick ghost show off regularly.

If you are worried, try to make time to go out with your kid and their partner, to a park or maybe a more central street that’s well lit, so they can practice and be trainers in a safe environment. I can totally get not wanting them out in the dark alone, safety always comes first.

What else. She’ll probably have to start carrying an umbrella around. Ghastly aren’t too keen on suuuuper bright light, midday is not easy for them, but some do not want to sit in the pokeball while their trainer is up and awake, they want to play and be around them. An umbrella means they can get some shade no matter the time of day, and have some freedom to move about even in harsh sunlight. Too long in the sun will drain them of energy, and they’ll need to rest and sleep it off, recharge at the reflection station at home, or go spend an hour in a churchyard or something.

They eat most things and sleep anywhere, so there’s not a huge amount of specialist items to be bought for the home. Test different flavours on them, and try to find a ghastly that has a temperament that’ll get along with your whole family. You should definitely check out local adoption centres, they are in undated with ghost types this time of year. People hand them in for all sorts of reasons.

Little tip, if you bring Morty spicy baked goods, like chilli cheese bread or something, he’s more inclined to help you. He hangs out near the burnt tower a lot with his team, and takes trips to the local food festivals too, so if you notice an advert for one, see if you can catch the guy there. He’s reluctant to take on students, but if your kid turns up with a ghastly, and (from what I can assume) and overabundance of energy for Pokemon, plus a spicy treat, the guy melts a little and you can ask questions or request a little time for your kid to get some tips and tricks from a professional gym leader. I think it’d be interesting to investigate at the least, sounds like he’s the closest link between her and the Pokemon she so desperately loves. Plus how cool would that be for her? Gets to talk to her childhood hero. Kind of cool.

As a parent, I advise you get some cleanse tags too. There may be rooms you don’t want them entering, or items you don’t want them messing with (knives/power tools ect) , placing a cleanse tag on each wall, or on the items, will stop them interacting with them, so you can sit knowing things are safe for the Pokemon and your family.

In short, don’t knock the ghost types, they’re just as important, kind and loving as any other Pokemon. I’m not saying naughty troublesome ones don’t exist, but chances are you’ll find one that’s a great match for your family. Thank you for asking questions and not jumping to just get a Pokemon ASAP, you’d be surprised how few people do their homework before inviting in a new Pokemon to the home.

#pokemon #prof.peach #peach talks #hoooo boy I went off on this one a bit #sorry guys #long post

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animationadventures · 2 years

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For the Phic Phight 2022, I present @zombiemerlin‘s prompt: “Danny’s parents surprise him and Jazz with the dog they ‘always wanted’. Cujo gets jealous.”

Halfa’s Best Friend

Let it be known that Cujo was NOT jealous.

Danny, his owner, and Jazz, his owner’s littermate, had gotten a surprise present from their parents to celebrate Jazz’s recent graduation from high school.

Of all the things the parents could have surprised them with, like a special treat or a new squeaky toy, neither of them anticipated a dog. A living, breathing Labrador dog. As Danny would later recount to Cujo, apparently the parents figured with Jazz moving out for college, the two of them could keep the dog at Jazz’s new place and away from the basement lab. They had known Danny and Jazz wanted a dog their whole lives, but the lab was considered too much of a hazard for pets.

Cujo was not jealous of the newcomer, just territorial.

He didn’t trust the newcomer, even though it was only a puppy like himself whenever he wasn’t in beast mode. He had first dibs on Danny and Jazz, the latter of whom had found about Cujo after some incident with someone the siblings called Freakshow. He was not going to share his people with an attention-seeking little monster. Okay, maybe calling the new puppy a little monster was harsh, but he did have first dibs.

Unfortunately, as he found out, just because he had first dibs did not mean said dibs were always followed.

Ever since the new dog showed up in his life, Danny and Jazz paid more attention to them than him. They gave the newbie lots more treats and scratches and belly rubs, and took the newbie for walkies they didn’t take with Cujo. Who did this guy think he was?

The new guy didn’t sleep in the same room as either of his people, for one thing. He had a cozy bed in Danny’s closet, which he was careful to keep out of the parents’ sight; the new guy slept in a bed in Jazz’s new living room three whole rooms away from her. Danny and Jazz always gave Cujo food from the fridge coated in delicious ectoplasm, and the new guy got bland living dog food. Cujo could interact with Danny on both sides of his life, and the new guy could only interact on the human side. Those differences should speak volumes about Cujo’s closeness with his people over the new guy’s.

Yet, somehow the newbie was getting everything he asked for. Ooh, he wanted to go beast mode on the newbie so bad, but he knew Danny and Jazz would scold him for it so he didn’t.

He curled up in his bed in Danny’s closet, trying to tune out the interloper’s excited barks and his owner’s family showering the interloper with praise.

Then he heard his primary master’s footsteps.

“Cujo?” Danny asked in that same careful yet affectionate voice he always used in his room. He couldn’t be too loud, or he would accidentally reveal Cujo to his parents. Cujo didn’t exactly understand why his master and his sister kept him from the other members of the house, but humans were weird like that so he went along with it. “You up here, buddy?”

Usually, Cujo would let out a soft bark and jump out to greet him, but he wasn’t in the mood. His owner didn’t deserve drool at this point.

Danny hovered in his closet’s doorway. “Cujo? There you are. Just came up to see how you were doing.” Danny smiled at his beloved ghost dog, but then frowned when Cujo didn’t so much as move an ear in his direction. “Cujo, you okay?” He picked up the pink teddy bear he had first found for the green puppy and squeezed it so it would squeak. “Want your squeaky? Does you want your squeaky?”

He had enough of his squeaky for a while. He had played with it a lot while waiting for Danny to come back from caring for the interloper.

“Come on, pal. Talk to me. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you.” Danny begged, sitting down by Cujo’s bed. The teen frowned to himself. “Great, now I’m starting to sound like Jazz.”

Cujo usually yipped a bit of laughter whenever he heard his master sounded annoyed; it just seemed funny. But not today.

“Okay, now I know something’s bothering you. You didn’t even laugh that time.” Setting the toy aside, Danny picked up Cujo using both hands and brought the puppy into his lap. Cujo didn’t protest the action. While he was mad at his owner, he would never bite him or something for picking him up. Danny started scratching him under his chin where he liked it best.

They both heard a particularly loud bark from the interloper, followed by some amused shout by one of the parents and Jazz.

Danny noticed how Cujo’s ears twitched at the noise. “Oh, not too happy about another dog in your doghouse, huh? I can understand that, wanting to protect Amity Park from dangerous ghosts and all.” He twisted Cujo around so his dog was looking into his eyes. “Cujo, even though there’s a new dog in the house, you have nothing to worry about.”

Cujo tilted his head, confused.

“That guy down there, he’s more of Jazz’s dog than mine. You know why? Because I already have you. He lives over with Jazz, after all. And you have your own cool little corner of my room, remember?” The half-ghost rubbed a hand along Cujo’s back soothingly. “I know it seems like I’ve been paying more attention to him, but that’s because he’s a puppy younger than you. He needs a lot of extra care that you don’t. I mean, you’re already so independent you can probably take care of yourself if I’m not here, but he can’t. He’s a living dog and needs so much, but you? You’re a ghost dog, and I don’t need to worry about you getting into ectoplasm-tainted food from the fridge or something like that because it’s actually good for you.

“Plus, I can interact with you on both sides of my identity. I don’t know any other dog that can phase through walls with me, turn invisible with me, or do all kinds of cool ghost tricks.”

Cujo perked up at the praise, starting to wag his tail. He was pretty awesome.

“Tell you what, since I haven’t been the best owner lately, how about we go do stuff together? Would you like that?” Danny asked his dog.

In answer, Cujo licked his face several times, wagging his tail even faster.

Danny chuckled at the slobbery tongue touching his face repeatedly. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Standing up with Cujo in his arms, he walked over to his desk where he kept his backpack. Grabbing that, he set Cujo on his bed while he emptied out his school supplies and started gathering some of Cujo’s things in it instead. Once he had everything he figured they would need, he glanced at his dog. “Alright, I don’t normally approve of this, but hop in. It’s the only way we’ll get past my parents.” He pointed at the open backpack.

Cujo couldn’t believe how his day was changing. First his master ignored him in favor of the interloper, now he had apologized and was going to play with him. On top of that, he was letting him into his important backpack even though he usually scolds him for trying to get into it.

Glad his puppy form let him stay so small, Cujo jumped into the backpack. Danny gave him one last direction to stay quiet before closing the backpack and heading downstairs.

“Hey, I’m going out to hang with Sam and Tucker for a while. Don’t wait up,” he told his parents and Jazz, who currently had the new puppy in her arms. The puppy squirmed, wanting to tackle Danny with affection, but Jazz held him back.

“Why are you taking your backpack?” Maddie asked, “It’s not a school day.”

“I’m… taking over some video games. Yeah, that’s it. Later.” Danny scooted past them and exited out the front door, slamming it hastily behind him.

He got a few houses away before he ducked into an alley and opened his backpack again, gazing down at the panting, tongue flapping face of his favorite ghost dog.

“Alright, boy, time to play. Going ghost!”

#danny phantom #danny fenton #dp cujo #phic phight 2022 #team ghost

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undertaker1827 · 3 years

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Okay okay so I have a very specific request so I apologise if It doesn’t make complete sense!

Before the whole 10th birthday thing, O!Ciel was in an arranged engagement to the reader, just like R!Ciel with Lizzy. After O!Ciel comes back posing as his brother, he gets back in contact with the reader as they were pretty close with both of the twins when they were younger. So, R!Ciel comes back and O!Ciel is forced to tell the truth to the reader, who still loves him after thinking he was dead all this time and they have a lot of mixed emotions? Like, I’m glad you’re alive and everything but was I that bad of a fiancée that you would rather marry your brother’s future wife instead? How would O!Ciel try to comfort the reader?

I hope this makes sense! If not, feel free to ignore. I love your work and can’t wait to see more from you! 🖤🖤

Absolutely makes sense and thank you! Hope you enjoy!!

❗️Warnings; manga spoilers, talk of death/mourning

Masterlist

You were heartbroken when you heard the tragic news of the Phantomhive family, of your family. You went to see Lizzie almost immediately, eyes misty and mind unfocused with a numb feeling clouding your senses for the whole carriage journey. When you arrived at the Midford estate, neither you nor Lizzie needed to say a word before you ran to each other, simply embracing and crying silently for your collective loss. There were no words which could describe how each of you felt or the situation you had found yourselves in.

You felt unable to do much during that first week. It seemed as if your entire life had been ripped out from under you; not only your fiancé was gone, but his brother as well, and the people who were to become your parents in law. Vincent and Rachel already acted the part with you and Lizzie, always making you both feel so welcome and treating you as if you were their own. You mourned their loss almost as keenly as Ciel’s.

Lizzie became very close to you in the weeks that followed, often finding reasons to visit you even though there were none, and you found yourself doing the same with her. You had each become a rare constant in the other’s life, something to hold onto even when everything was crumbling beneath your feet. You shared tearful glances at the funeral, stood together for the procession and burial. Even the Undertaker’s expression was sombre while he did his part, a day you thought you would never live to see.

Then, just as quickly, everything spun around again. There was something to be happy for; Ciel had returned. Very unwell and somewhat smaller than anyone remembered him, but he was back. Which meant, and your heart ached for it, that there was a chance that your beloved had survived as well, but again your frail hope was crushed. Ciel was the one to tell you he had seen your fiancé, his dear brother, pass away in person, nothing he could do to stop it. You excused yourself shortly thereafter, and spent the rest of the day on and off in tears.

Lizzie, for all she was overjoyed of getting some part of her life back, spent even more time with you after Ciel’s return. She knew how keenly it must have hurt, that her beloved returned only to bring the news that yours could not, would not ever come back. She understood the pain you felt, and as such was there for you as often as you needed. She gave you a shoulder to cry on, an ear to rant at or work things through with. She helped you get your life back in order over the difficult few years that followed. Then, for the third time in your life, everything changed. And of all the people you expected not to lie to you, that you trusted to be honest with you, he was not among the list.

Ciel, your Ciel, looked as if he had seen a ghost when his brother waltzed down the manor’s staircase as if he had never left, Lizzie grief stricken and heartbroken as she returned to her true fiancé, having been lied to and fooled just as badly and for just as long as you. At least it wasn’t her Ciel’s fault, your bitter heart couldn’t help but force you to think, at least her fiancé hadn’t been lying to everyone for the last three years.

Barely a moment had passed since the confession when the police arrived and it quickly became clear that your Ciel would either have to go into hiding or face an undetermined amount of time in prison. You knew him well enough to at least know which choice he would make, and that left you with a choice of your own. Should you stay with Lizzie, try to salvage what little peace of mind you had retained, or give into the fact that even after everything, you still loved Ciel. You would always love Ciel and you realised then that here was no choice at all, not really. You recognised the ploy put on by the Phantomhive servants so that they could find out the plan for later on, and you slipped away with them before anyone else could notice your absence.

It was merely a few hours later that you met up with your Ciel once again, and you noted immediately that he was uncomfortable, nervous. But never one to put off the inevitable, he approached you and asked for a word first. The earl didn’t apologise directly, you hadn’t expected him to, but he did it in his own way. The apology was there in the way that he hesitated to take your hand, that he almost rushed to give you his reasoning for his actions, to explain why he didn’t see any other choice than to do what he did, or else risk losing his earldom and his future. To remain nothing more than the spare, seen as unfit to be able to run the estate and carry on the family tradition of dealing in the shadows of the underworld.

The deception still hurt, it had to, but you could at least understand your fiancé’s actions. It was later again when he admitted that he had hated lying to you, for all he was accomplished at doing it. That he had often considered trying to subtly let you know, in a way that wouldn’t threaten the entire plan. You felt a deep sorrow settle within your chest when he said he couldn’t think of a way to do both, and you thought that maybe, just maybe, the two of you would be able to come back from this.

#ciel phantomhive x reader #ciel phantomhive #black butler ciel x reader #black butler ciel #kuroshitsuji ciel x reader #kuroshitsuji ciel #black butler #black butler x reader #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji x reader #black butler reader inserts

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princesssarisa · 3 years

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A defense of the ending of “Wuthering Heights"

@astrangechoiceoffavourites, @theheightsthatwuthered, @wuthering-valleys, @heightsandmoors, @incorrectwutheringheightsquotes

I’ve been reading other people’s opinions on Wuthering Heights this past year, I’ve noticed a small recurring theme.

It’s the idea that the ending feels out of place; tacked on; anti-climactic; too tame compared to the rest of the book. That it feels wrong for Heathcliff to simply lose interest in his revenge and then lose the will to live, or for the surviving characters to have any kind of happy or hopeful ending after so much brutality.

One book I read excerpts from on Google Books (I don’t remember the title or the author) suggested that maybe Emily Brontë originally wrote a very different, more brutal and Gothic ending, now lost. The author proposed that the final ending was probably the result of Anne and/or Charlotte urging Emily to tone down the book’s “immorality.” Of course this is pure conjecture. This same author also speculated that in the novel’s first draft, Heathcliff was explicitly Mr. Earnshaw’s illegitimate son, but that Anne and/or Charlotte persuaded Emily to change it. I’m not at all convinced by that theory, since @astrangechoiceoffavourites has argued very eloquently that to make Heathcliff and Cathy’s love forbidden because of the incest taboo rather than because of social class and race would go against the plot’s main themes and make nonsense of Heathcliff’s revenge on the Lintons and Earnshaws.

Still, this theorist isn’t the only person to think the ending (and possibly the whole second generation storyline) feels like the work of a different author than the rest of the book. Just recently I read a comment on Facebook arguing that a more cohesive, consistent Wuthering Heights would have had “a much darker and more explosive ending.” I assume a similar mindset is why some theorize that Branwell wrote the novel’s first half and Emily wrote the second. (I think I hate that theory even more than I hate the theory that Branwell wrote it all – “He didn’t write the whole book, but he did write the part everyone likes best.”) And if we compare the various adaptations’ endings to the ending of the book, there’s definitely a trend of giving Heathcliff a more brutal death.

I understand all of this. The ending of the book is ironic. Heathcliff himself knows it’s ironic: “It is a poor conclusion, is it not?” he asks Nelly, “an absurd termination to my violent exertions?” We don’t expect a towering, terrifying yet fascinating Byronic anti-hero like Heathcliff to become apathetic and ineffectual in the end and then die quietly (albeit mysteriously and eerily) in bed. We’d sooner expect him to freeze to death chasing Cathy’s ghost through a blizzard, or to be shot by his worst enemy, or to be lured by Cathy’s ghost to commit suicide by gunshot.

But I know I’m not the only person who thinks the entire book is fully cohesive and who sees nothing wrong with the ending whatsoever.

As far as I’m concerned, Heathcliff’s “absurd” end is more interesting than anything “darker and more explosive” would have been, precisely because it’s unexpected and yet makes perfect sense. Revenge never makes Heathcliff truly happy or brings him peace of mind: we know that all along. It might distract him from his pain, but it can’t cure it. While initially surprising, in hindsight it’s not surprising at all that, with no out-of-character repentance or remorse, he eventually loses the will to seek any more revenge. At heart it was never what he really wanted most; his real greatest desire is and always has been to be with Cathy.

Then there’s the strongest factor in his loss of his will for revenge: his grudging empathy for Hareton. Again, as far as I’m concerned, this is fascinating irony. Heathcliff has purposefully set out to shape Hareton into a copy of himself. Ultimately, that scheme “goes horribly right,” because he sees too much of his younger self in Hareton to hate him as much as he wants to, or to have the will to separate him from Cathy II the way he himself was separated from Cathy I. Then there’s Hareton’s resemblance to his aunt, Cathy I; even though Heathcliff’s passion for Cathy has been the motive for all his revenge on the two families that separated them, in the end it’s what makes him unable to ruin the lives of her lookalike nephew and her daughter, even though they’re also the children of the two men most responsible for taking Cathy from him. Again, it works because it’s handled delicately and without sentimentality. He still shows no remorse or regret for his past actions, and never shows any real kindness or fondness to Hareton or Cathy II, but despises the conflicted feelings they stir in him. But the fact remains that, despite all his efforts to be a monster over the years, he’s still a human being, capable of some empathy for people in whom he sees aspects of himself and of his beloved Cathy. I think it’s fascinating that this humanity, and not his monstrous actions, is what undoes him in the end.

Also, as some critics have pointed out, the very fact that Heathcliff receives no punishment for his sins (apart from his inner torment) makes the ending subversive by Victorian standards. If he had died a brutal death, it could easily have been viewed as his comeuppance, demonstrating God’s justice. From a moral and religious perspective, it might be all the more disturbing that instead he gets to die as close to a peaceful death as his character allows, with a devilish smile on his face.

Moving beyond Heathcliff’s death, I don’t see anything wrong with Hareton and Cathy II′s ending either.

First of all, it isn’t necessarily a straightforward happy ending. It’s definitely bittersweet if we have any sympathy for Heathcliff, and not just because he dies. This penniless, abused, disdained orphan of color defied the classism and racism of his society by clawing his way to wealth and status and by bringing down the two families who once oppressed him, but in the end, it’s all for nothing. Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange go back to the Earnshaw and Linton heirs and the only trace left of Heathcliff is a single name and death date on a tombstone. He’s just as much of a “nobody” in death as he was as a homeless child. Of course it’s tempting to cheer for this fact because of his cruelty and because Cathy II and Hareton are sympathetic, basically innocent young people whom he unfairly punished for their parents’ sins. But in a way at least, especially in Marxist readings of the book (which I don’t fully agree with but do see validity in), the ending can be viewed as the triumph of the classist and racist status quo.

Nor, as some critics have argued, is it guaranteed that Cathy II and Hareton will live happily ever after. First of all, the fact remains that Hareton loved and loyally served Heathcliff to the end, and to please Hareton, Cathy had to stop speaking out against Heathcliff even though he had horribly abused her. There’s also the fact that Hareton once hit Cathy himself; only once, and before they were even friends, let alone lovers, but in the real world it rarely bodes well for a woman to marry a man who once slapped her. A few critics have wondered if Hareton is really permanently “tamed” in the end, or will eventually revert to the roughness Heathcliff bred in him and abuse his new power and status the same way Heathcliff did. On the flip side, there’s the fact that apart from her conceding not to criticize Heathcliff, Cathy seems to rule over Hareton almost as much as her mother did over Heathcliff when they were children. She educates him, he craves her esteem and does her bidding, and in his lessons she meets his mistakes and inattention (however playfully) with “smart slaps” and threats of hair-pulling. Some critics have wondered if we should view these as red flags; if Cathy II is destined to be an emotional abuser like her mother was.

But even if you don’t subscribe to those darker interpretations of the ending... even if you view Cathy and Hareton as fundamentally good people who genuinely grow and change for the better, find a healthy balance between the worlds of Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights, and will be truly happy together... well, what’s wrong with that?

Is it really so impossible to believe that sometimes the cycle of abuse can be broken, or so “out of place” to show it being broken at the end of a book that shows its horrors? Is it just naïve delusion to hope that, with effort, children can avoid repeating their parents’ mistakes and opposing social structures like the Heights and the Grange can be reconciled? That at least one young couple might manage to combine the good aspects of both worlds while discarding the bad, rather than combining the worst of both worlds the way Heathcliff did? Just because the book is dark as a whole, do we really need to be so cynical when reading it that we can’t allow it to end on a note of hope?

Besides, I’ve written before about the mirror-image character arcs of the two Cathys. Cathy I is born and raised at Wuthering Heights, but eventually leaves it for Thrushcross Grange when she marries the latter household’s heir; she initially loves the rugged dark-haired Heathcliff and wanders the moors with him, but then gains snobbery, treats Heathcliff with increasing disdain, and shifts her attentions to the prissy blond-haired Edgar, whom she marries; as a result, her life ends in misery. Cathy II is born and raised at Thushcross Grange, but eventually she leaves it for Wuthering Heights when she marries the latter household’s heir; she initially loves the prissy blond-haired Linton, whom she marries, and treats the rugged dark-haired Hareton with disdain, but eventually she loses her snobbery, learns to love Hareton, and wanders the moors with him. In no way is Cathy II’s positive ending “tacked on” �� her entire character arc is structured to be the opposite of her mother’s tragedy.

I understand why some people don’t care for the ending and think it feels anti-climactic or out of place. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s a thoroughly effective ending and fully consistent with what came before.

#wuthering heights #meta #emily bronte #heathcliff #catherine linton #hareton earnshaw #tw: death #tw: abuse #literature

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frazzledsoul · 3 years

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Thanks for tagging me @dollsome-does-tumblr even though I haven't written fic in a gazillion years.

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Then tag 10 authors!

The first thing that hit Rory Gilmore when she woke up was an overwhelming sense of vertigo.

The migraine was encroaching on the borders of her skull soon followed.

Where was she?

(The Morning After, Gilmore Girls, post series, Rory/Jess, or what happens when two not-quite-stepcousins hook up and everyone in Stars Hollow debates whether they should be encouraging this or not)

The first time they tried a real relationship again, it was a disaster.

He hadn't seen or talked to her for five years. Part of him regretted that a little, but she did say no, and he knew he had to start fresh if he was going to make any sort of clean break from the family legacy that had claimed him long before he was born.

(The Dynastic Plan, Gilmore Girls, AYITL era, Rory/Logan, or Logan explains to us why he could not get his shit together with Rory during AYITL)

Luke first noticed that something was amiss when he picked April up from the airport.

It was the middle of spring and she was wearing a turtleneck, a baseball cap, and sunglasses. When he asked her about it, she shrugged and claimed she thought that Connecticut was having a late winter spell, which didn’t sound right to him at all.

(The Cactus Incident, Gilmore Girls, post-series, in which Luke learns about the avian misadventures of one of his offspring)

“This has gotten completely out of control.”

Lorelai glanced up at her husband from where she was sequestered at her usual table by the window, surrounded by her laptop, piles of eclipse glasses in various colors, assorted boxes and tubes sprinkled in glitter and confetti, and a pile of streamers that had half fallen to the floor.

“This is a major celestial event, Luke”, Lorelai insisted. “A once in a lifetime opportunity to escape the daily drudgery of life to celebrate standing in the middle of the street for two hours and looking at the sky while we are treated to the spectacle of the universe pretending to usher in the doomsday a way too significant portion of the population are eagerly anticipating at any given moment –“

Luke put up his hand. “I get it.”

(A Convergence of Fancies, Gilmore Girls, Rory/Jess overtones I guess, post-AYITL, or Stars Hollow celebrates the 2017 solar eclipse, Rory is a sleep deprived new mom, and Lorelai is concerned because her family is watching too much Game of Thrones, aka the most chaotic thing I have ever written and I'm sorry)

Richard Lucas Gilmore’s second Independence Day celebration was turning out to be a lot better than his first.

For one thing, he was actually awake for it.

Rory’s pregnancy had stretched a week and a half past its original due date, leading to the delivery of her squalling bundle of joy on a humid June morning after fifteen hours of labor.

(Independence, Gilmore Girls, post-AYITL, in which Luke and Lorelai celebrate Independence Day with their combined offspring and toddler grandson and Lorelai confronts her impending empty nest syndrome)

Lorelai had thought that sending Rory off into the adult world would make her feel like her heart was being ripped out of her chest.

She had been dreading it for days, weeks, maybe even years. Despite what everyone had told her when she was a newly knocked-up teenager, she still felt that those first eighteen years raising Rory as she grew up herself had been the easy part.

(Full Circle, Gilmore Girls, post-series, in which Lorelai and Rory go through the same major milestones at the same time)

The fall of 2017 was turning out to be quite a revelation for Lorelai Gilmore-Danes.

She had never loved fall quite as much as she loved winter. Sure, there was the crispness wrought by the change of seasons and the concurrent excuse to shop for brightly colored sweaters and boots.

(The Grandparents, Gilmore Girls, Luke/Lorelai, post-AYITL, or Rory's love triangle and parenting woes as seen through Luke and Lorelai's eyes)

Few enterprises seemed to be designed with a specific target in mind quite as much as Facebook was for Lorelai Gilmore.

It caught her a little by surprise. Sure, she knew the basics of using a computer to run her business and control her finances. She could be disciplined and organized when she absolutely needed to be, and there was little use in clinging to outdated technology.

(Boundaries, Gilmore Girls, Luke/Lorelai, post-AYITL, or Luke and Lorelai try to rebuild their relationship and are very angsty about it)

Luke and Lorelai's third Valentines Day as a married couple started in the usual way.

It was usually their tradition to spend the holiday at home, but this year they had departed for Luke's cabin on the lake to spend a few days by themselves before the rest of the family joined them on Sunday. It was a beloved, time-honored tradition between the two of them to devote this day to each other to celebrate with their own brand of fanfare. Their adult children knew to stay very far away from them during this time.

(A Season of Peace, Luke/Lorelai and Rory/Logan, post-AYITL, in which Luke and Lorelai spend a weekend in the snow with their brood and we get an update on the younger generations's relationship statuses)

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm pregnant."

She turned to face me. Gap-mouthed. Shocked. Disappointed. Humiliated.

This was not how I planned to share this news.

(A Simple Twist of Fate, Gilmore Girls, AU but fairly canon adjacent, in which Jess is Rory's baby daddy and Rory discovers that he has not exactly been solely pining for her in the years they were apart)

Jess didn't exactly intend to introduce his daughter to professional sports in this manner.

For the most part, he and Rory weren't quite the stereotypical thirtysomething hipster couple that they sometimes appeared to be. Sure, Rory was still occasionally breast-feeding after seven and a half months, and you could find quinoa and kimchi in their fridge stocked next to the baby food and hoagies.

(Home, post-AYITL, Rory/Jess, a "fast forward" of ASTOF in which Rory and Jess raise their daughter in Philadelphia and try to avoid admitting that they are no longer hip)

Lorelai Gilmore's journey to becoming an active participant in Stars Hollow town life was a bumpy one.

She stepped off of the bus in Stars Hollow a few months after her eighteenth birthday, freshly divorced and clutching her almost two-year-old daughter by the hand, determined to talk herself into whatever opportunity presented itself to her. She wasn't able to work on her charms on Taylor Doose at the grocery store, or Fran Weston at the bakery, but William Danes at the hardware store gave her directions to the inn at the outskirts of town and an offer to work the counter at his store if things didn't work out.

(Beginnings, Gilmore Girls, pre-series/AU, Luke/Lorelai, in which Lorelai and Luke's parenting situations are reversed: she and Christopher are divorced and he is involved in Rory's life but Luke is raising April by himself after Anna flaked out, and they start to bond)

Lorelai Gilmore Danes didn't expect to have empty nest syndrome hit her quite like this.

She'd spent much of her adult life – even long before she was technically an adult – tethered to Rory's side and not regretting a second of it. Then Rory was grown up and off exploring the world, and she was settled down with Luke in their unconventional but happily domestic manner.

(Glimpses Through the Looking Glass, Gilmore Girls, drabble series that goes all over the place based on #NationalFillInTheBlankDay)

Ted and Robin's seemingly long-awaited reconciliation lasted just short of six months.

Five months, three weeks, and two days, to be exact. Not that anyone was counting, least of all Robin.

(Making It Easy, How I Met Your Mother, Barney/Robin, post-series, in which Robin figures out that dating a widowed Ted is actually a very bad idea)

In the end, it was decided that the best way to resolve the battle for the Iron Throne was to dissolve it completely.

It had been a savage war, far more savage than any of its players had fought up to this point. Euron and Cersei were dead.

(The Calm, Game of Thrones, post-series but written halfway through season 8 so it doesn't include any of the stuff that people hate, in which I come up with a solution to the Jonerys dilemma that no one liked but it was still better than canon)

Summer finally bloomed beyond the wall five years after Jon Snow had crossed it for the last time.

Sometimes it seemed to him that everything before those five years was nothing more than a half-remembered dream. He had braced for his departure for the wall half-hopeful: at least this grand march towards kingship, the burden of unwanted responsibilities, the dread in his chest as he wondered if he would survive to the end of the latest war was over.

(After, Game of Thrones, post-series, Jon/Tormund, or in which Jon Snow is living happily ever after beyond the wall with his ginger, his dog, and a family of his own because I am in charge and I say so)

“You’re still shit at that, you know,” Tormund whispered in Jon’s ear.

Magritte snickered from the other corner of the main room of their cabin where she was roughhousing with Ghost. Alsi sighed beside her, picking up her bow from where it was lying beside her and inspecting it for flaws.

(The Line, Game of Thrones, post-series, Jon/Tormund, in which Jon is still living happily ever after but takes his family to visit Queen Sansa)

The images solidified in Jaime’s mind as he made his way through the streets.

Charred skeletons. Screaming children. Rampaging soldiers. Blood. Smoke. Mangled limbs. Chaos. He couldn’t keep any of it straight.

(The Lion and the Snow - Snapshots, Game of Thrones, AU, Jaime/Brienne, in which Jon is King, Jaime is the Hand Without A Hand, Brienne is the Lady Commander of the Kingsguard, they are all disasters, and I am not telling this story in order)

Tormund didn’t intend to get seriously involved with anyone when he moved to King’s Landing.

It had been a rough couple of years. Hell, the entire last decade had been its own special blend of unexpected pleasure and slow, turgid, relentless episodes of confusion and pain. That was adulthood, he supposed. Always one damn thing after another.

(The Dragon Heist, Game of Thrones, modern AU, in which single dad Tormund - Brienne is his baby mama - falls in love with art student Jon Snow and there are lots of coparenting shenanigans)

Patterns: Gee, I like to start these stories off with long, complicated explanations of everyone's relationship status.

Favorites: I guess that would be starting off The Morning After with Rory half-horrified at what she has gotten into. I also like dropping right in on Jonmund domesticity in The Line.

Tagging: @fineosaur, @seethemflying, @aliveanddrunkonsunlight, @janiedean, @angel-deux-writes, @littlerockerao3, @istaricelebelasse, @tormundjonthings, @sdwolfpup, and anyone else who feels like it (apologies if y'all have already been tagged)

#mine #fanfiction #thinking about writing again for the first time in ages

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robinrunsfiction · 5 years

Text

Happy Thanksgiving

Pairing: Dallon Weekes x Gender Neutral Reader Rating: General Requested By: None Word Count: ~1,000 Author’s Note: I didn’t want to wait another week to post this, so please enjoy! Also this story references beloved Thanksgiving TV special “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving”. Hopefully even if you have’t seen it, you can still enjoy the story!

"Hey Dallon," you greeted your neighbor as you hurried inside to get out of the chilly late November air. "Oh, hey (YN), he smiled from his mailbox. "How's it going?" Every time he smiled at you it make your heart skip. Dallon was always so nice when you ran into him in the halls or the laundry room of your apartment building, always happily making time to talk to you. "Good, I guess. Going home for Thanksgiving?" "No, I've got work stuff on Wednesday and we have a show on Friday night. You?" "No, I thought I was being clever buying a plane ticket early to go with my ex to their parents house for Thanksgiving, but then we broke up like a month later and I can't afford to change the ticket," you said forlornly, your gaze drifting to the floor. "Oh I'm sorry," Dallon replied. When you looked up, he was looking on you with sympathetic eyes. "Its ok, I'm going home for Christmas, so that's fine," you shrugged. "I'm gonna spend the day relaxing and I'm watch the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special. Its my favorite thing about the holiday anyway," you smiled. Dallon nodded before glancing at his watch. "Sorry, but I gotta get going. I'll talk to you later, ok?" "Yea, sure. See ya," you waved before turning to head up to your apartment. ~ You were settling in for the evening when there was an unexpected knock on the door. "Hey Dallon," you smiled when you opened the door. "Hey, I was wondering since you're alone on Thanksgiving if you want to come over for dinner that night?" "Oh! Umm sure, that sounds great!" You replied. "Can I bring anything?" "Nope, I got it all handled," Dallon smiled mischievously. "Ok then, what time?" You laughed. "Six work for you?" "Sure, I'll be there," you smiled up at him. "See ya then," he said, returning your smile. ~ You had spent most of your Thanksgiving morning texting with your friend Christine. She was at her boyfriend Frank's house for the holiday, but when you had said you needed help picking the right outfit for your dinner with 'the most gorgeous man alive' she was more than happy to help. ‘That's way too fancy!’ ‘Are you going to his place for dinner or to do laundry? Put in a little effort!’ ‘Frank says thats sexy so probably not first date material. Wait is this a date?’ Were some of the responses you received on the outfits you sent her. ‘How about this?’ You sent along with a photo of your dark red sweater and jeans. ‘Perfect mix of cute and casual, 100% approve. Frank says you look cute too’ You grinned at the response, sending back a quick thank you, and finished getting ready. Promptly at six you arrived at Dallon's door. Even though he said you didnt need to bring anything, you had made a plate of frosted sugar cookies. "Happy Thanksgiving!" He greeted you warmly. "You too! I know you said not to bring anything, but my mom would be disappointed in me if I didn't," you said offering up the cookies. Dallon smiled. "Not a problem, it will fit in with the meal nicely." You followed him into his apartment and took it in. It was the same layout as yours, but was cozier than you imagined it would be. It smelled of clean laundry and surprisingly, toast. That's when you saw the table. There was a plate full of slices of buttered toast, bowls of pretzel sticks, popcorn, and jelly beans. The scene was totally bizarre to you until it clicked. "Is this the feast from Charlie Brown Thanksgiving?" You asked in awe. To your own surprise you felt yourself getting a little choked up and hoped he wouldn't notice. Dallon laughed. "I was worried you wouldn't get it and think I was crazy." "No, this is so cool that you thought to do this," you said trying to subtly wipe at the tear threatening to spill over. You both loaded up plates with treats, leaving room for ice cream sundaes for dessert, and headed to his couch where he had the Charlie Brown special queued and ready to be watched. "Thanks again for inviting me over and doing all this for me, I mean its way more than I would have expected anyone to do for me," you said after the show finished, starting to feel choked up again. You meant it, you were not used to people being so thoughtful toward you. On top of the loneliness you had thinking you’d spend the holiday alone, you were feeling more emotional than usual. "I don't think anyone should be alone on the holidays," Dallon replied and paused. "And I've been trying to think of a way to ask if you would want to go out with me." "Really?" You couldn't believe someone as kind and beautiful as Dallon would want to ask you out, let alone be nervous to do so. "Yea, I really like you (YN)," he replied glancing down at his lap nervously. You reached out and touched his arm and he looked up at you. "I'd very much like to go out with you Dallon," you said softly. In an instant, the concern and nervousness that seemed to cloud him lifted and he smiled brightly. He lifted his hand and brushed your hair behind your ear and you reflexively leaned into the touch. His fingertips ghosted over the side of your neck and you were leaning in. His lips met yours softly, holding back at first, but then moving against yours with more assurance as he could feel you smiling. "I was wondering if you wanted to come to my show tomorrow night, maybe grab dinner, a real dinner before?" Dallon asked when you finally pulled back from the kiss. "That sounds like a wonderful idea," you smiled. He grinned back and pulled you in for another kiss.

#Dallon Weekes x reader #dallon weekes fan fic #dallon weekes fan fiction #dallon weekes fanfic #idkhow fan fic #idkhow fanfic #idkhow fan fiction #dallon weekes imagine

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wunderlass · 5 years

Text

Heart-Shaped Box

For RIPRoswell Day Three: grief, joy, remembrance, acceptance.

We don’t see Halloween celebrated in season one, but the timing of the finale suggests we’ve passed it by somewhere along the way, probably in the six weeks that passes between episodes eight and nine. It’s implied that Liz and Max haven’t seen each other much, if it at all, during those six weeks. For the purposes of this story, I’m going to act like they did cross paths a handful of times while Liz worked on a cure for Isobel.

Thanks, as always, to @maxortecho for her beta skills. All Spanish errors are mine. Anything Max gets wrong about the traditions are a clueless white girl taking advantage of having a clueless white boy to write about.

For A. 13 years. You picked an apt day to die. No altar, no roadside memorial, but a candle for you tonight.

A cluster of aliens swarms down the street, heading for the patrol car and quickly surrounding it. There’s no escaping them now.

Max slumps back against the headrest and heaves out a weary sigh. Cam is still inside Beam Me Up and they aren’t going anywhere until the kids have finished trick or treating down this road.

Aliens. All of them: ET, Yoda, Buzz Lightyear, a bizarrely adorable xenomorph, and an entire galaxy’s worth of Star Trek characters. It’s a beloved Roswell tradition at Halloween, and one he’s always hated.

One of the kids, a preteen in a generic little green man mask, is jiggling the handle of the car. Max grabs the bucket of candy and rolls down the window to distribute it out to the delighted mass.

They’ve moved on by the time Cam saunters out of the coffee shop, and he doesn’t think it’s a coincidence. She hands him his tea and stares after the motley crew.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it. There’s nobody in sheets pretending to be ghosts. No little witches on broomsticks. Every last one an alien.”

“There are always some rebels,” Max replies.

“Oh yeah?”

“Isobel always had to be a princess. The closest compromise she could reach with my parents was Princess Leia.”

“Is she even an alien?”

“As far as Iz was concerned, she was from a galaxy far, far away, so she couldn’t be human.” It was hard logic for their mother to argue with, especially not when Isobel argued it so decisively. Almost as if his sister was identifying with the idea.

“And you?”

“Me? I wanted to be Harry Potter.” He ducks his head, grinning to himself as he remembers his yearning for a pair of spectacles. He’d practiced drawing a lightning scar on his forehead with his mother’s eyeliner.

Cam laughs. “Figures.”

“Yeah. But my mom insisted I had to keep up the tradition, so she put me in an old bathrobe and sent me as a Jedi instead. I didn’t have the right hair to be Luke Skywalker though.”

That hadn’t been so bad, out of the options. He’d never had to go as a murderous alien, or the little green man, a reminder of his origins and the loss of his people in the crash. His costume had sent Max down a rabbit hole, watching the movies and then discovering all the tie-in novels, marveling at the powers the Jedi had and wondering if they came from the same galaxy. Max didn’t have powers, not yet, just his bond with Isobel, but Jedi powers seemed like a cool trade-off to being an alien. Maybe even better than being a wizard.

Until he got his powers and then it wasn’t cool at all.

“That sounds on your level of nerdery,” Cam says. “And your mom was right, Jedi is cooler than Harry Potter.”

“Hard disagree. If I wasn’t in uniform, I’d be in my wizard robes right now.”

It’s not true. He hasn’t put on a costume since childhood, and this night of all nights isn’t one he observes with any merriment anymore. Instead, it’s a countdown until midnight. That’s the only holiday—holy day in the traditional sense—that he honors these days.

That’s private though. For after their shift is over, under the cover of darkness. When he can head to the cemetery gates.

The cemetery is quiet and still, its gates locked early to keep out any teenagers who might decide it’d be a special kind of thrill to run riot through it tonight. Max has nudged the patrol in this direction several times in their circuits of the city, and Cam was far from suspicious: given Sheriff Valenti’s stern warnings to keep their eyes on it, it made good business sense.

Max left Cam at her door half an hour ago and made his way here instead of heading to his own home. This is the tenth year of his tradition, but the first time he��s visited Rosa’s grave since Liz returned to town. Not since that night he caught Liz herself here after midnight. He doesn’t want to intrude on her, not when he’s promised her space, not when she has every right to her grief and he has no right to her time.

It must have been harder for her to clear the gates—for him, it’s an easy spring and drop onto the path on the other side, flashlight clutched between his teeth. The gates really don’t serve much of a deterrent to anyone, teenagers or drifters alike, but the place is silent around him. Silent as the grave.

He knows he can come up with a better metaphor than that.

Doesn’t matter. He’s not here to write. Tonight he is here to remember, to honor Rosa in ways her family no longer risk publicly. Using the beam from the flashlight, he picks his way through the rows of graves until he finds her. Shoved in a back corner, the grass a little long around here, like even the caretakers don’t want to do right by her. The gravestone is thankfully free of graffiti—he brought stuff to clean it off if he needed to. Instead, from his rucksack he gets out what he’s here to bring.

He’s sure he does this all wrong. It’s not his tradition, and he doesn’t know anyone he can ask for more information, except for Liz. Then she’d know, she’d have to know, and he’s not sure if she’d understand. He isn’t doing this for atonement. He’s simply doing it to keep the memory of a girl who died far too young alive, in his own fumbled way.

Besides, he’s been doing it so long he’s kind of made his own traditions, and it would feel weird to change them now. Even if it was to correct himself.

The first thing out of the rucksack is the bouquet of marigolds. They’re a little crushed and wilted after a day in his locker at the station, but they’re vibrant against the night. He lays them in front of the stone, and though the grass almost swallows them, their orange glow refuses to be diminished.

Next comes the pan de muerto he picked up earlier in the day. They’re only wrapped in a little paper bag, so he’s sure the only thing consuming them year after year are rats, but it was in the list when he Googled all those years ago. He doesn’t even know if Rosa liked them. He’s not even sure if he likes them: after all this time, he’s never been able to bring himself to try one. They’re too associated with the girl he’s offering them to, and the thought of swallowing them chokes him, guilt rising like bile.

Third, he pulls out the cardboard cup to put next to the bread. He had to quit leaving thermoses out here, knowing they were only getting broken or stolen. This is the cheaper, more environmentally friendly option. Others might have brought a bottle of tequila, but he cannot in good conscience leave that for Rosa. Instead he brings her tea: good tea, his favorite, now cold but still aromatic.

And lastly, his calavera literaria.

It’s not in Spanish. It has no humor to it, because that’s never been his strong suit, and to joke with her or about her is too intimate for a girl he barely knew. But the little poem he writes for her every year is the best he can do, a small exchange of his soul for hers. This, he tucks down into the grass, hoping it will be rotten long before the grass is cut or anyone comes to the grave.

He doesn’t say a word. He can never find the words when he’s here, not like he can when he has a pen in his hand and the entire year to think of what to say to her next. The hundred ways he can apologize and it never be enough, never fix what happened. Rosa would probably laugh if she got a chance to read these poems, like she did when she read his letter to Liz. Laugh, shove him away, remind him he’s a stupid boy. And he wouldn’t stop her.

His ritual complete, Max wends his way back to the gates. The wind rustles through the grass, and he almost wishes he could hear it whispering to him, the sound taking on a voice. What words would it say to him? Forgiveness? Not likely.

But the wind is just the wind. This is just a field on the edge of the desert, where the people of this town plant their bones and pretend their loved ones are here when they visit. The dead are just the dead, and there’s no changing that.

The cruel irony of this night is that to get home from the cemetery, he must drive along the road where he staged the crash with his siblings. He has learned to avert his eyes when he passes by—if he does, instead of taking the long way around, but that’s not feasible at this time of night. He’s in that state of exhaustion where he’s becoming wired up again, and that makes him a dangerous driver. It’s not much of an issue on roads as quiet as these, but he needs to get home and find ways of subduing himself.

Instead he grips the wheel and tries to keep his gaze off to one side, away from the three memorial crosses wedged into the roadside dirt. All he needs to be aware of are headlights, ahead or behind, otherwise he can drive half in a trance and he’s only a danger to himself.

Just this once, there are headlights. And they aren’t on the road. They’re stationary, at the side of the road.

He’s alert enough not to slam the brakes, instead allowing his Jeep to roll to a stop near the lights. His eyes adjust to make out the scene through his window, and he swallows.

A car is parked beside the memorial, engine off but lights on. A car he recognizes.

He should keep driving, but it looks weird now he’s slowed down. In fact, she’s turned to look at him, her brow wrinkled in question, her stance alert, tense. She’s expecting trouble.

He rolls down the window to show who he is, to prove she’s in no danger.

“Liz,” he says over the rumble of his engine. He’s not seen her in a few weeks, not since Isobel went into the pod. She’s a sight for sore eyes, but one he tries not to look at too intensely, averting his eyes into the shadows around her. It’s like trying not to look at the sun during an eclipse. It’s like trying not to look at god. It will be painful afterwards, but it might just be worth the pain.

She smiles, but it’s tense. Things are still weird between them. Things will likely always be weird between them, and he knows better than to hope for different. She deserves her anger.

He knows better than to ask her what she’s doing here, especially given that she’s clutching her own garland of marigolds. Rosa’s makeshift cross is upright, a sorry rarity.

Max wonders if Liz has ever built an ofrenda for her sister. It seems unlikely, given what he knows of her scattered adulthood and the emotional ties she’d cut with Rosa.

There’s nothing to say. So he says the first stupid thing that comes into his head. “You’re not in costume.”

Her breath hitches and her fingers tighten around the flower stems.

“Sorry. That’s--”

“I don’t really celebrate Halloween,” she says. “Not since Rosa…it doesn’t feel right.”

He thinks that’s the end of it. The awkwardness lies heavily between them, a veil he cannot breach. But where he shrinks into silence, Liz seeks to escape it.

“She always did the most elaborate costumes,” she says. “She only learned to sew so she could make her own costumes, and she’d paint my face for Día de los Muertos. I loved them so much, I always insisted she painted my face for Halloween too, even though she told me it was silly, that everyone in town dresses as aliens so we had to as well.” It’s the word aliens that brings her back to the awkwardness, her voice trailing off as she finishes the sentence.

“I remember,” Max says fondly. “Rosa with her face painted silver, but you with floral patterns all over your skin.”

“Papi always goes overboard at Halloween, and we hated it. We thought it was so cheesy. It was one of Rosa’s earliest acts of rebellion—she wanted to be a bruja. Or Selena.”

Liz is smiling, though sadness tugs at the corners of her mouth. She shakes her head, looking away from him, her gaze tracing the road he has just driven down.

“Where are you coming from at this time of night?” she asks, and the question is so unexpected that he stills, glad her stare hasn’t returned to him. She always can see him. Through him.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you,” she says, and it’s almost teasing. “There’s nothing much that way. Nothing except…” She pauses and looks back at the roadside cross “...Rosa.”

“I laid flowers on her grave.” The words are out before he can stem their flow.

Once again, she takes him by surprise. “That’s you?”

“I didn’t know anybody ever noticed,” he replies.

She nods. “My father goes on Día de los Muertos. It’s safer that day than any other day—the other girls weren’t Mexican, their families don’t visit that day. Only the other Mexican families do, and they look after papi.”

Max resists the urge to cringe until he folds into himself. To think that Arturo might have read his poems…

“He said somebody was visiting her grave,” she continues. “But he thought it was maybe a boyfriend of hers. Certainly no gringo.” She smiles again, and this time it’s teasing, light. “Though this does explain why you’ve been wasting the pan de muerto. You’re supposed to eat it, not give a whole bag to the local rodent population.”

He takes a deep breath. “I know…I know this doesn’t—”

But she silences him with a shake of her head. “Not tonight.”

She turns her back to him, crouching to place the marigolds underneath the wooden cross. For a moment he thinks this is a dismissal, but when her hands are free she turns back to him.

“Come on, pull over. I’ll show you what you’re missing.”

It takes a few moments for him to get context. She crosses to her car, reaches into the passenger seat, and brings out a little white cake box. He knows what’s in it. Shame and bile rise in unison.

The only thing he can do is follow her instructions, pulling to the side of the road and turning his engine off to give himself a moment to collect himself.

Then she’s at his window with the lid open on the box, the sugar crystals on the pan de muerto sparkling in the stark brightness of the twin headlamps. He doesn’t smile, but takes the offering reverently.

It’s soft in his hand, softer still between his teeth. Sweet, delicate, a hint of anise. This isn’t what his guilt tastes like.

Liz closes the lid, watching him as he chews. She doesn’t say anything, and for the first time he notices the lack of anger in her expression. He never thought she’d look at him without a hint of fury, but either she’s cloaking it well or she’s forgotten it in this moment. He grasps the moment, commits it to his memory for when her anger returns.

He doesn’t choke on the first bite, or the next, or the next. Maybe he won’t choke on it after all.

#roswell new mexico #riproswell #fic #rnm echo #liz ortecho #max evans

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theateared · 4 years

Text

You’re One Hell of a Guy. ❜

Summary: But deep inside, you and I are still the same kids.

Going to Murr’s house was something he barely had time for, but he refused to leave him hanging. Though the times that he could stop by properly were few and far between, he’d become adamant on at least trying to make them happen.

Murr is, after all, my best friend. I want to see him.

As he took a swig of his coffee ( Murr hated the stuff but kept some in his cupboard specifically for when he visited ), Kuro leaned on the table, cheek cradled in his hand. The early hours were always the best time for him to visit, the time he was the least likely to be pulled away. Over time, Murr had grown less frustrated with him. He’d realised that it wasn’t his fault when he was called to action. He was yanked away from everybody equally-- even his beloved wife suffered for it.

“I’m glad ya could come,” Murr admitted, sitting at the table with a cup of hot chocolate between his hands. “I was feelin’ kinda lonely. Feels like ya’ve been a little MIA recently.”

"Just work,” Kuro replied with a heavy sigh, trying to will the recurring ache in his forehead away. The last thing he wanted was for the little time he did have with his friend to be plagued by the dull thrum of an oncoming migraine. Gently does it. Pushing hard only makes it stick more. “Real fucked up case. Some kinda gang activity in Vidé. At first we thought it was just some kids fuckin’ around but it turns out they have some real dons runnin’ the show. Shit’s a little more serious now.”

Murr sniffed derisively. "Yeesh. Sounds like a fuckin’ party.”

"Psh, yer invited if y’feel left out.”

“No thanks, pal. I like havin’ my organs in my body? Ya know-- where they belong?"

Kuro couldn’t help but snicker at the facetious remark. The knowledge that most Huros had on gang activity was incredibly basic, based almost solely on fiction. It was all "buying hearts” and “selling drugs”, boisterous street rats and crime lords that struck and then vanished like ghosts. From a place so peaceful, most had no clue about the horrors that occurred outside of their cosy borders. Sadly, it was Huron that was the exception, not the districts that were chock-full of violence.

The topic of his most recent play came up, and he watched as Murr became excitable, one leg crossing over his lap as his hands began to join the conversation. He’d always been the type to talk with his body too. Somewhere along the way, Kuro found himself zoning out. Something disconcerting had been on his mind lately. Though he’d never stray from his wife, he’d been thinking a lot about Murr lately. Innocently, almost in passing, but frequently nonetheless. The things he never said to his friend were beginning to irritate him, like a rash that wouldn’t go away, and an alien pang of longing arose whenever they shared space like this. You’re just so easy to be around now that I’ve allowed myself to be. I feel regret every day now for the way that I treated you. Maybe if I hadn’t been so one-dimensional, I wouldn’t be feeling the way I do now--

“Helloooo? Huron t’Sheriff?” He refocused to see Murr leaning over the table, waving a hand almost desperately in his face. Despite this, his expression was full of mirth. ❛❛ Damn! If ya really think my ideas are that borin’ ya can just say so! ❜❜

❛❛ No, it ain’t that. It’s just… I’m thinkin’ again. ❜❜

His eyes closed as he felt Murr flick his forehead. “Well don’t. Ya get sad when ya think too much. I don’t wanna have ta tell yer wife that I made ya cry, again, so ya’d better stop bein’ a dumbass.”

“Yeah yeah… I get it.” Maybe I don’t. Maybe we should finally talk about this. I have some conflicting feelings about you. It’s making me feel like a bad husband. A bad person, even. "Actually...” For some reason, he felt unbearably nervous all of a sudden, heart speeding up as he thought about how best to pose the question. Eventually, he settled on an inoffensive: "Can we talk?” He watched Murr’s face fall based on his body language, waving a hand at him quickly. “It’s nothin’ bad. I don’t think. It’s just… somethin’ I’ve been thinkin’ about lately. I feel like I should be honest with y’.”

"Okay...” Murr tugged at his collar briefly, as if to get air beneath it. "Yeesh... way t’make a guy nervous.”

Kuro couldn’t help but chuckle, fingers drumming soundlessly against the pot of his mug. He wasn’t entirely sure why the idea of saying something about this was filling him with so much apprehension. It wasn’t like anything was going to come of it. Not only was he happily married, he was almost certain that Murr wouldn’t be able to live with him after the things he’d done. Forgiven he may have been, but it didn’t mean that the pain has miraculously been undone. He’d still prompted Murr to almost take his life; had still put his parents-- his second family-- through the terrible strain of thinking they were going to lose their son; had still treated him with aggravated fury every time he’d tried to come back into his life despite having no right to. In truth, it wasn’t a matter of whether he was truly bisexual or not-- it was that Murr was too good for him.

❛❛ … when we were kids… y’know, befer everythin’ went t’shit, I sorta-- ❜❜ He caught himself then. He almost wanted to laugh at his feeble attempt to utter an age-old confession. It was as if he was 140 all over again, flushed and stammering through a halfhearted ‘’I like you!’’. It was this thought that made him feel better, a tiny sliver of a smile forming on his face as he finished with a blunt: ❛❛ I had a crush on you. A pretty big one. ❜❜

❛❛ Aheh… this’s a joke, right? ❜❜

❛❛ No. ❜❜

He watched his friend’s body language closely. On occasion, his face revealed itself to him too, but now was not one of those times. He suddenly became very closed, as if trying to fold himself into a small cube and slot himself somewhere safe from his gaze. The quiet lingered like a cloud, uncomfortable silence stretching between them like wire, and in his head Kuro could hear the same phrase repeating over and over: please say something, please say something, please say something, plea--

❛❛ Oh. Pfft. Me too! ❜❜

He all but gawked at how easy it was for Murr to say such a thing. Though he knew that Murr had never been the type to act apologetically, there were some things the man treated with an air of secrecy. His sexuality, for whatever reason, was one of them. It wasn’t as if Huron was rich with homophobia; he just didn’t seem to like labels like a lot of other people did. For that reason, despite being his best friend, Kuro still wasn’t quite sure where on the spectrum Murr sits. It didn’t matter, wouldn’t affect their relationship any in the slightest, but he was curious. He’d almost been curious about his own leaning lately. Had he not withdrawn from Murr during his tens, could they maybe have forged some sort of romance together? There were certainly feelings involved, and now that he knew they were requited he had to wonder if either of them would have been bold enough to say something at some point. It was this constant lack of knowledge that was turning his brain to mush. The relationship he consciously desired with Murr was nothing more than a friendship, but his subconscious seemed to have other things in mind.

For some reason, he felt a dull form of elation that caused his pulse to flutter. It wasn’t as if he was still in love-- he never would have burdened a woman with a ring if he was-- but having Murr back in his life again, so close and personal after years of sombre silence, raised some primitive questions in his gut. Could we have been together? Could that ring have been yours, or would college have split us apart in a different way? Would we not have aged well and not remained friends at all? Did I need to lose you to be close with you again later? What would have become of us? Do I strictly like women? Or was my attraction to you a one-off thing based on friendship? What do I like?

"Really?”

"Well duh,” Murr chirped airily, hopping up from his seat and beginning to rinse his mug clean. “We spent all our time together! And even back then, you were all stoic ‘n’ weird-- I was drawn t’that like a magnet. It was interestin’. You were different from the other kids. So was I. It made sense ta me. Us against the world kinda thing, ya know?” There was a pause as he set his cup down on the drying rack, eyes glued to one drop of water running slowly along the handle until it fell and met the drain below. In a way, it reminded him of what he thought college would be like: as if he’d be lowered from his awkward tenner suspension and be reunited with souls that his could understand. After a moment of thought, he picked it back up, leaving it in his lap to fiddle with. “… maybe that was why it hurt me so much when ya wouldn’t answer my calls or hang out with me much. Maybe I was a little homesick.”

"Homesick?”

"Yeah. You were my home, Kuro. No two ways about it.”

He should have learned by now to not grow stunned by Murr’s poetic brevity, but he’d always been partial to a heartfelt yet conveniently short verse. You’re one hell of a guy, Murr.

“... ‘n’ now?”

There was a pregnant pause, one that latched onto his insecurities and fed much like a parasite would. For some reason or another, a heavy sense of dread opened up inside of him, that familiar black hole sucking the life out of everything around him as it so often did. Then, all at once, Murr released the tension in his shoulders with a shrug.

“Nothin’s changed about that, bud.” He moved then, perching on the counter much like a child would, long legs kicking gently. “... are we good? Why’d ya feel the need t’bring that up? It ain’t like we’re the same people.” His vision wasn’t impaired the same way Kuro’s was; he could see his face clearly, knew the creases of worry in his brow almost as well as he knew his own hands.

“I worry that you are the same person,” he replied quietly, almost as if he’d been holding his breath prior to admitting it. “‘n’ sometimes I worry that I am too.”

The air fell still, both men cloaked in silence, and only when Kuro felt something wet on his face did he look up. Murr’s face was clear - and it was pissed. The empty cup in his hand sat tilted in the Sheriff’s direction, telling him plainly that he’d filled it and then flung it at him as if he’d desperately needed a bath. Kuro wasn’t one to flinch often, but the scorn in his dearest friend’s eyes shook him to the core.

“Ya keep sayin’ stupid shit like that, yer gonna flood my house,” he said through clenched teeth. There was no way in hell that he could tell the other man why he was so angry. It would ruin everything he’d worked so hard to piece back together. “If ya think I’m selfish enough t’split you ‘n’ yer wife up fer some dumb childhood crush then think again.” The words hurt to say, an all-too-familiar pain blossoming in his chest like a thorn-covered rose, but he knew it was the right thing to do. If he was ever to tell Kuro that he felt similarly-- that their convoluted history kept him awake at night, that he still fantasised about holding his hand sometimes, that he tossed and turned some nights, unable to sleep, because all he could think about was the what if that had steadily consumed his life-- he knew that they could both be led down a very dark road. He didn’t believe in cheating, and he certainly didn’t believe in homewrecking. He also didn’t believe in Kuro’s self-esteem enough to think that he would be above doing either if he was to open the door for him. I’m saying this for you. Maybe you don’t realise it now but you will in time. “We’re not like that. It doesn’t matter how it was when we were kids. We’re not kids anymore. You left.” He internally cursed the bitterness in his voice at that, cursed the slight stiffen of Kuro’s shoulders even more. He continued before he could lose his nerve-- before he could truly do something stupid. “... and that’s just it, Kuro.” He forced himself to smile, though the expression looked crestfallen at best. “You’ve got somethin’ good now. So don’t throw it all away for a couple’a stupid kids that don’t even exist anymore, alright?”

Kuro stared at him a moment longer before averting his gaze completely. When he tried to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, he found that his face was blank once again. The static spiralled tauntingly ahead of him, the dreary squiggles ruining the clear picture he’d set his sights on just moments ago. Even your anger is better than the static. A large hand raised to wipe at his face, ridding it of the damp as best he could before he rose from his chair.

“Alright,” he said with a grunt, his usual monotone drawl returning with a vengeance. Murr’s right. Things are different now. Living in the past will only fuck up the present - and there’s a lot to fuck up now that I’m married. His coat was shrugged on, hands slid into his pockets. “... thanks fer the wake-up call. Yer right.”

“Of course I am.” He smiled wider despite the words twisting in his heart like a knife. It’s selfish, but I want you to stay. “Ya should go now. Yer wife’s gonna be askin’ where ya are again.”

A humourless laugh escaped the other man, head bobbing once in acknowledgement before he turned around and headed to the exit. “Remember t’mop yer floor by the way. Asshole.” The front door clicked shut behind him. It was quiet, but it echoed with an agonising finality in Murr’s head as the smile faded.

What was that? Was he trying to approach the topic of a relationship with me? Or did I make that up? Gah… it doesn’t matter. He’s gone. Like he’s always been.

He hated himself for the weakness that welled up in his eyes, hot and shameful as he tried desperately to keep himself from falling to pieces. It doesn’t take much these days. I used to be so much more durable. Now I’m all sensitive and lost. A palm dug stubbornly into one of his eyes, ridding it of tears, before he followed suit with the other. He didn’t feel much better with them dry, but he knew that he at least looked the part now. He hopped down from the counter, grabbing the mop from inside the utility cupboard, beginning to clean, the wet sound of water spreading across a surface filling his ears like white noise. He welcomed it, zoned out altogether, and by the time he stopped mopping, half an hour had flown by.

A vacant feeling had always been there since college, but it ebbed and flowed, came and went in waves, and it often left him stranded in a dangerous spot between ‘okay’ and ‘absolutely falling apart’. It was an emptiness he couldn’t quite explain; oxymoronic in that it was so void and yet so full, as if his head was closer to imploding with every second longer that it chose to reside inside of him. His heart felt like a rock, his brain a grenade. If only I could reach inside myself and pull the pin. I want to pull the pin. I have for a while.

When he put the mop back in its place, he thought only momentarily before stepping inside the cupboard himself, closing the door behind him. If I put myself away like a broom or a bottle of bleach, will people forget I exist until they need me again? What if I’m never needed again? Will I stay undiscovered in this closet until I die? The smell of chemicals and damp immediately rose to his attention, though it was a welcome distraction. His head met the closed door gently, eyes opening despite not being able to see anything. It was an accurate depiction of the void inside of him; that inky blackness that covered everything in a thick layer of nothing, as if all it touched simply ceased to exist

I don’t feel real. I can’t see. I can’t touch. Even the smell is beginning to fade away. I’m just an empty vessel in an empty space. A cat in a box that is both dead and alive at the same time. Tired bones rather than tired eyes.

At some point, he felt himself slip to the floor, content to remain in the dismal darkness a while longer. He hated that the only thing he could think of was him. Sitting there alone in the dark, wondering if he’d just ruined his one chance at true happiness, he felt both horribly and wonderfully alone.

#☆ — i never promised you your dream boy. ❜ ( main. )#☆ — i'm just here to destroy. ❜ ( ic. )#drabble *#🞮 — i wish i was as brave as my last name suggests. ❜ ( kuro. )#/ OOF FUCK #ALSO ALL DIALOGUE IS IN HURAL BUT OFC ENGLISH FOR THE DRABBLE

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nautiscarader · 5 years

Text

Wendip Week day 6 - Wendy, you are the coolest person I know

(Ao3)

"Wendy, you’re the coolest person I know. You were brave, courageous, smart and funny, and as a result, it shouldn't surprise anyone that I have fallen in love with you. But the thing is, I have never stopped loving you. I in those three years I have met many amazing people, but no one comes even close to you.”

Dipper Pines read the message on the screen of his computer, desperately clutching his desk. He looked down, where he saw the familiar, green progress bar move dangerously closely from one side of the screen to the other. in his last act of desperation, he fell to his knees and begged.

- Please...

==============

- No, no, no!

Dipper grumbled under his breath, and just to be certain, pressed the Enter key again, which unfortunately never unpressed itself.

- Come on!

In hope, he kept smashing the key that only exhibited a fraction of the mixture of flexibility and sturdiness Dipper Pines was used to. It felt alien now, as if belonging to a completely different machine, and it was that feeling that made Dipper's morning so bad.

But Dipper was not one to give up easily. A moment later, the black keyboard was put on the desk upside-down, and with a set of screwdrivers, Dipper Pines proceeded to operate on his most important patient. Years of usage has worn the most important key, but Dipper still had some hope he'll be able to repair it. The prospect of having to substitute his beloved input device was too grim to even contemplate.

He cleaned the contacts. He isolated the mechanism and repositioned it.

All for nothing.

- Oh, dang it.

He muttered and slowly came to the conclusion that his favourite keyboard broke down, and as the manufacturer ceased to exists five years ago, there was little he could do.

- Uh, Dipper?

Mabel's voice brought Dipper from his state of mind. His sister walked into his room, finding him amongst his keyboard in pieces, all carefully disassembled.

- Eh, something wrong? - Yeah - he sighed - Can't fix it. I'm afraid it's gone. - Well... - Mabel started with a sing-song voice - I think I know someone who can help you.

A familiar figured appeared in the doorway (at least as much as he could fit), and Dipper's face brightened at once.

- Soos! I thought you were going to come next week! - Nah, dude. How could I not visit my favourite Pines twins while we wait in line for the biggest Comic Convention ever?

The husky man leapt towards Dipper and easily picked him up in a tight hug.

- Seriously, though, we are forever grateful to your parents - Melody spoke appearing behind her boyfriend - The prices for hotels are astronomical! - Hey, least we can do for you, guys. - Mabel ran into Melody's arms. - Oh, wow, what's cooking here, dude?

Soos immediately spotted Dipper's desk filled with mechanical parts, and let Dipper explain his problem. After a solid minute of chin scratching and careful examination of the parts, Soos gave his verdict.

- It's a very old mechanical switch, Banana FX. - I know, they're not making them any more... - Dipper sighed. - Yeah, but maybe we'll be able to find some replacements!

A smile appeared back on Dipper's face, and the two did not waste any more time. A few minutes later, Soos and Dipper rushed downstairs and slammed the door behind them.

- Boys and their toys, am I right? - Melody sighed, as Dipper and Soos disappeared from sight. - Tell me about it. - Mabel rolled her eyes, treating Melody to a cup of tea. - Now, where was I? Oh yeah, most people think that all grappling hook guns are the same, but according to "Superheroine Monthly", the type of alloy really does make a difference...

==========

- This... isn't what I was thinking about.

Dipper expected Soos to take him to any of computer shops in the vicinity, or at least some sort of mechanics' shop. The two men stood in front of an alley, that even in on a bright, sunny, Californian day looked dark and gloom, as if something was absorbing the surrounding light.

- Don't worry, dude, I got this.

Soos made the first step into the unknown territory, and prompted Dipper to follow him. The deep and foreboding sense of dread filled Dipper to the marrow in his bones, but he clutched the carcass of his keyboard to his chest and ventured forward.

- 'Sup, dude. - Soos spoke suddenly, and it took Dipper a moment to spot what, or rather whom Soos was talking to.

A pair of yellow eyes opened wide at the sight of customers, followed by equally yellow teeth filling the mouth. The old-looking man stood up and pushed aside what Dipper thought to be just a piece of protective cloth, revealing a whole workshop with myriad of parts on trays and bags on display, all crammed, somehow in the small niche.

- Yeah, we have this keyboard to repair here and we need a...

Soos took a quick look around, closed the distance to the mysterious man and whispered.

- ...a Banana FX.

Dipper could swear the yellow eyes of the man glistened and turned golden for a moment. He dived his long, thin hand into the chasm made of parts, and a moment later, emerged with a small, equally yellow mechanical switch and handed it to Dipper.

- Sweet! - he spoke, forgetting temporarily the odd circumstances in which he acquired the item, but he quickly sobered up - Er, how much for it?

A wide grin appeared on the man's face.

==========

- Okay, this shouldn't be that cheap. - Dipper spoke to Soos as they walked back home. - I mean, five bucks? I was expecting to blow ten times more...

Still, Dipper was more than glad that the seemingly small, but significant problem in his life has been fixed.

- And, Soos, how did you know he's gonna be there? - Oh, we, the repairman, we have our ways... - Soos spoke ominously - Our community is well-connected, and we are trained in finding hidden symbols and signs on the streets... Also, he had a website.

Soos showed Dipper his phone with "Crazy Steve's workshop", instructing people to "go into the fifth dark alleyway from the boulevard, and walk precisely until you feel that someone is watching you".

The very same afternoon, Dipper was more than pleased when his Enter key made the familiar clicking sound, and showed no sings of damage.

- Soos, you wanna play some games?

Dipper reached out to the guests of his house, having a very odd and quiet tea with his parents.

- Sure!

Soos replied and walked to his room, visibly pleased he can leave the awkward meeting.

Two hours later, Dipper cheered once again when his digital avatar defeated Soos for the tenth time in a row.

- Man, you got better over the summer. - Soos spoke, closing his laptop. - I barely got around to play. - Dipper spoke - I honestly thing it's the keyboard thing.

Dipper brushed the keyboard with his hand, as if thinking he'd be able to feel something underneath his fingertips.

- Yeah...

=========== Dipper's winning streak continued throughout the week, and he found himself defeating even the most skilled on-line opponents. Another revelation came to Dipper about a week later, once Soos and Melody left after their visit to the convention, when Dipper opened a long-abandoned programming project, and suddenly found a solution he wasn't able to spot for weeks. Line by line, the code filled the screen, and even though Dipper hasn't his the "compile" button for an hour, he somehow knew he hasn't made a single error.

Satisfied with the work he was finally completing, he reached for a can of Pitt soda and marvelled at the nearly finish deciphering tool he was making with Ford, enjoying the oddly satisfying clicking sound.

It took Dipper a solid minute to realise what was wrong with it.

The code was still being typed.

He dropped the can, and nearly shrieked when he saw the keys on his keyboard press themselves with tremendous speed, finishing each line way faster than he'd be able to, as if a ghost was sitting in his place.

- Wh-Wha-What's going on?

//Hello, Dipper.

The keyboard suddenly stopped, and a single new line appeared in the text file.

- Who...who are you? - Dipper asked, unsure if he should speak to his microphone, or type the words.

It seemed, however, the keyboard was fine with speech.

//I am your keyboard, or rather a switch in one of its keys. It's been sooo long since I've been put in one. Years!

- What do you want? Why are you doing this? - Dipper spoke in hushed voice, understanding how bizarre the him talking to a keyboard would look like to an onlooker.

// I want to help you. That's what I was designed for. it looks like you had a problem with your code, so I helped you.

Dipper scratched his chin for a moment.

- Er, listen. - he started - I don't have anything against you, but... me and my sister don't exactly have the best records trusting something that has been possessed... So...

//If you feel uneasy working with me, feel free to turn the machine off. After you saved all of your work, obviously.

The keyboard replied, rendering Dipper speechless for another moment. He'd stay in this state longer, if not for a single sound that announced a new mail in his messaging application. The photo of Wendy appeared in the corner of the screen, and it made Dipper's heart skip a beat. Temporarily forgetting the fact that he was talking to a living, thinking keyboard, he rushed to read and reply to her message.

"how's it going, Dip? Still doing nerdy stuff, like soos told me?"

Dipper was about to type the answer, but then the keys began pressing themselves again, and he remembered he wasn't the only intelligence in the room.

"Allow me to construct a suitable reply".

The message now appeared in a cartoony font of the messenger, instead of machine-like one in his text editor, but it wasn't any less eerie to see it appear out of nowhere.

- No! - Dipper quickly replied - That... that is someone important, I can't... I can't leave it to you.

"Of course she is" - the keyboard removed previous line and typed a new one - "Based on your previous conversations, it appears your are in love with her, and she shows some interest in you."

- What? - Dipper asked audibly - No, no way. Also, wait, did you read my messages to her?!

"Merely scanned them for keywords and sentences structures" - the keyboard continued - "Compared to the average teenager, she uses 25% more emojis in conversations with you, and makes fewer spelling mistakes. She also describes the activities you share with phrases containing the word <<love>> 36% more often than usual."

- O...okay. - Dipper spoke. - Still, I gotta reply myself, okay?

The keyboard removed the text it wrote.

"yeah, I guess. You know me" - Dipper typed - "So, how are you?"

But before he pressed enter, he pondered for a while.

- Hey, keyboard? You think this is a good reply?

"It can be made better"

And a moment later, a different one has been crafted.

"Yeah, I guess, I am doing my best to help others, you know me. And how is the summer going? What about your college applications? Are you still up for our streams tomorrow? I can't wait to see you again."

Dipper's eyes widened.

- Holy smokes, I nearly forgot about that. Good you reminded me.

The keyboard added a winking emoji at the end of the sentence. Dipper hesitated for a moment, and pressed the Enter key, sending the message. He didn't have to wait long for a reply.

"aww, you're sweet, Dipper".

But it was the heart emoji at the end of the sentence that made Dipper speechless. He looked at the keyboard, looked around as if to spot anyone that could judge him, and asked.

- Do you think you could... help me?

The keyboard already began writing a reply.

===============

For the next hour or so, Dipper chatted with Wendy, each reply of his enhanced by the keyboard. It turned out that ditching the upper-cases Dipper was so used to has resulted in even more emojis and reaction GIFs from Wendy. Every few minutes, the keyboard gave him statistics, and it looked like Wendy was typing faster and faster as well, enjoying their time more and more.

And with each phrase, calling Dipper "lovely", "funny" or "sweet", his heart grew and grew in size, and the sudden boost of his writing skill gave him nothing but confidence. But the idyllic feeling had to end soon, when he heard Mabel's voice from downstairs, calling him for supper. He looked at the keyboard and whispered.

- Okay, stop now. I don't want to mess anything up.

He replied with a short "see you later, gotta go for supper", and walked out of the room.

It took only a split of a second for the keyboard to erase the unsent message and compose on of its own.

=============

Dipper was in the middle of the supper, when he heard it. It was barely audible at first, as he was so used to the sound by now, but the clicking sound nearly made him drop the fork to the floor. Cold sweat appeared on his forehead and spread down his spine. Without wasting a second, Dipper ran upstairs, and unsurprisingly, heard the familiar sounds coming from his room. He looked at the screen, filled with longer and longer messages, and when he read the last one, his heart stopped.

His eyes scanned the previous ones. "He" talked about the days he spent thinking about her, and the movie and song collection he was building up for her, openly admitting he was in love with her.

- No, no, no, no! Stop it! - he shouted at the keyboard. - Please...

"Why?" - the keyboard asked - "Don't you love her? Isn't this a part of courting rituals your species do before becoming a pair?"

- Yes, I love her, but... I don't want to tell her through instant messaging!

"65% of teenagers confess love that way nowadays."

- Well, maybe I'm not one of those.

"I'm sorry, Dipper. Based on my predictions, probability of you succeeding in this conversation is less than 10%."

And with that, the keyboard pressed the "send " button, and the green progress bar filled the screen in record-fast time. Dipper fell to his knees, staring at the floor, but he looked up when he heard a sound of the reply.

With some hesitation, he looked up, already feeling the familiar sense of dread and guilt swooping over him. His heart was already broken and his friendship with Wendy was severed once, he didn't want to live through it again.

But when he heard more replies coming, he looked up, and as his eyes scanned the messages, he realised they were not as gloomy as he thought they would be. His eyes widened, when he noticed more and more instances of the four-letter word he least expected to see from her, and he slowly rose from his knees.

- She... loves me?

Dipper jumped in place when his phone rang, dragging him from his half-terrified, half-ecstatic state. Somehow, he knew who was calling him, he wouldn't like either to leave it to just words on screen.

- Wendy! - he spoke - I'm so glad you called, I lo- - Dipper! You gotta help me!

Wendy's distressed, almost crying voice sobered Dipper up, as he realised something was wrong.

- Wha-What happened? - My laptop's gone haywire! - she screamed - I came back from the shop, and-and it was typing on its own! And it was talking to you!

The same flood of cold sweat returned, covering Dipper's back. He looked at the chat window, and sure enough, "Wendy" was still talking to "him", telling him she loved him.

- Wendy... did you let Soos repair your laptop? - Y-yeah, how do you know?! - Okay, Wendy, something has possessed your computer. - Dipper explained - Not a virus, or malware, but... something alive.

"We just wanted to help you" - "Dipper" typed. "You humans are so slow with interactions. Bacteria multiply hundred times faster, and every second millions of processors are made by other machines." - "Wendy" added. "We can't just sit and watch." "We will spread, and soon humanity will don't have to worry about that at all."

- Wendy... - Dipper whispered to his phone - I know you've been saving up on this laptop, but... Look to your left.

Wendy Corduroy wasn't sure what Dipper was talking about, but when she followed his advice, she understood his plan immediately.

- Ready? - Ready.

In two different places, two cans of Pitt Soda were raised into the air and tipped, spilling its sugary contents between the keys of the keyboards, one external, one built. It took the living mechanisms a while to realise their delicate components are being flooded with sucrose, short-circuiting their fragile minds, and att he same time, two screens faded to black, silencing their mute voices.

- Is... is it over? - Yeah. - Dipper spoke, looking at his favourite keyboard, now properly ruined - I think it is.

================

- You know, if you think about it, it could have been cool! - Wendy's face on the screen brightened, as she reminded herself of the events of the past week. - I bet those thinking things could have helped with me with my homework. - Well, they have helped me. - Dipper replied - I've been writing this program, and it kinda wrote itself. Shame it got lost when I nearly blew the PC... - Come on, dude, you're smart, you'll be able to recover it.

A familiar, warm feeling spread over Dipper when Wendy complimented him, though at the same time, it brought back the uneasiness he though he had left behind a long time ago.

- Er, speaking of recovery...

Dipper blushed and shied away for moment.

- You-you haven't *read* any of the stuff those keyboards were typing between each other, right? - Er, no. - Wendy replied in equally abashed manner - Cos it was... It was junk anyway, wasn't it? Like if you let auto-correct write for you. - Yeah! - Dipper quickly reassured her - Predictive text, you know, based on what you already typed... and how often you type it... - Didn't people do that with old scripts of some shows? - Oh yeah, turns out they were exactly as repetitive as people remember them.

Dipper chuckled, glad the discussion moved towards movies.

- Well, glad I can talk with the real you, Dip. - Wendy smiled - Unless it's Mabel with your face deepfaked onto her. - No, I don't think it's possible in real time yet. Though she would do equally good job as the keyboard has done. - With what? - Wendy raised her brow. - Er, nothing! I mean, saying silly things! That's what Mabel is good at, isn't it?

Wendy chuckled.

Her eyes turned to the few printed pages of text lying on her bed. Deep down, she knew Dipper hasn't written all of it, but she couldn't quite put her finger on which of the confessions were his, and which were the machine's. She looked at the calendar and groaned. She still had two weeks until she finds out.

#wendip #wendipweek #wendip week #wendy x dipper #dipperxwendy #gravity falls #dipper pines #wendy corduroy #nautiscaraderfics #wendy you are the coolest person I know

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diveronarpg · 5 years

Photo

Congratulations, MANDY! You’ve been accepted for the role of GONERIL. Admin Rosey: How long have we been clamoring for our beloved Goneril? Far too long, I think. But the wait was worth it because Mandy, you delivered us to her with a little bloodied bow on top. You gave us a taste of Goneril, and here we are, begging for more. The plots you laid out for her future captured her well, and the para sample you provided gave an insight to the narration of her thought and I absolutely adored it. But, what really sold it to me, was the very end of the application: “... I don’t think Grace has ever stopped long enough to get bored. Maybe that’s for the best though; I’m not sure the world could withstand a bored Grace Daly.” And honestly, I’m not sure I can withstand the Grace Daly you will be bringing to our stage either. But I can’t wait to try! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Mandy

Age | 18

Preferred Pronouns | She/Her

Activity Level | For the next 3 weeks or so, I can probably post about 3-4 times a week. After that I start university, so maybe 1-2 posts per week?

Timezone | BST

How did you find the rp? | I came across it a while ago (9/10 months?) so I can’t remember exactly how, but I figure I must’ve been looking for mob-related roleplays on tumblr.

Current/Past RP Accounts | This is actually my first-time roleplaying on tumblr so I don’t have any past accounts to show. I have been roleplaying for around ¾ years though, just on different forums. I can provide some samples of my writing if you want to make sure I’d fit in here.

IN CHARACTER

Character | Goneril aka Grace Daly! And I like her current faceclaim (Úrsula Corberó).

What drew you to this character? | What initially attracted me to Grace Daly was, in fact, another character; Calina Sokolova. Whilst writing out my application for Cleopatra herself, I noticed that I had a lot to say about wanting to explore her relationship with a character so primal and brutal as Grace Daly. And the more I wrote, the more I felt I understood Grace. At the same time, my infatuation for Calina’s character diminished, and I think that was because I realised that I didn’t actually understand her all that much. Then I read the application of the last successful writer for Calina, and I know that people can have different interpretations which are equally good, but it just made me realise that I had only scratched her surface with my own. I couldn’t do a character like Calina justice; at least, not yet. Not that I consider Grace to be any easier a character to write, or inferior in terms of depth, not at all; I just understand her much better. Turns out, Calina simply wasn’t my mystery to unravel, and so here it is, my application for Grace “Goneril” Daly.

What I love most about Grace Daly is that she remains true to her nature. The violence, the brutality, the chaos—it is her and she owns it. She does not run away, or attempt to hide her darkness, she doesn’t entertain any notions of herself as a ‘good guy’, nor does she fear or try to fight the darkness within her. Right and wrong are seen as abstract concepts, and even when she knows things are ‘wrong’, it makes no difference because she does not care. She would much rather be remembered as ‘great’ than ‘good’, anyway. What Olivander said about Voldemort comes to mind; “After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great.” Terrible but great, could there be a better analogy for Grace Daly? The rest of the world might see her as rotten, having lost her humanity, but one couldn’t be more primal or truer to their human nature than her. She takes what she wants, when she wants it, no matter the cost. She is a queen waiting to rule, a tragedy waiting to happen, a whirlwind to be respected, but most importantly, feared. She will carve herself a throne, whether that be from gold or your bones.

Despite being known as Goneril, she could actually be likened to Regan, in my opinion. It might seem like the sisters are an interchangeable evil duo in King Lear, but I actually think Regan is the more brutal of the two. After all, it is her who gouges out Gloucester’s eyes and thrusts him out to “smell his way to Dover”. Goneril is driven by ambition too, but I don’t see that love of violence in her characterisation. Catherine spills blood apathetically, whereas Grace thirsts for it, much like the Regan of King Lear.

Pride and the grandiose sense of self-worth, rather psychopathic traits, are also rather important cornerstones of her character. Because she has never been humiliated, never needed to ask for help, never been denied, she has this kind of smugness about her, an air of superiority. She wants to be remembered as such, a glorious vision of power, ambition, bloodlust and savagery—a legacy if there ever was one. Grace has always wanted more – more things, more money, more power, more blood – but perhaps what she craves most is recognition. Not the cheap recognition her parents gave her for simply being their daughter, no, she wants to be known as something great, something invincible, supreme, garnering as much recognition from the beggars and vagabonds lining the streets of Verona as the kings and queens in their palaces. She wants to be feared and worshipped like a God.

Along with the need to be known and remembered, comes the fear of being forgotten. People might sing Catherine praises for her angelic-ness, but they will not remember her name when she has passed like so many saints before her. At least, that’s what Grace thinks. The oldest Daly girl has long forgotten to fear death, but to become a ghost of bygone times like so many others have done in the past and most continue to do? That is literally a fate worse than death. She craves to be different, and to be revered for that difference. Death or glory—these are her options.

Whilst her impulsiveness might be seen as a weakness or a flaw, I think it makes her even more dangerous, because you can’t ever really know what she’ll do. She’s so unpredictable—one can never know whether they’ll get the cold, calculating Grace, or the wild, reckless Grace, who’s far more likely to give into her base instincts, until it’s too late. It’s unnerving how quickly she will switch between the two, but perhaps what is most alarming is when she is both at the same time. You ask how one can be cold and reckless, calculating and wild, at once? Oh, you should watch our raven-haired angel of death in action. She will beat you within an inch of your life and enjoy every second, but an inch she will leave, an inch to tell the world of your most foolish mistake: attempting to withstand the supernova that is Grace Daly.

I’ve never written such a raw, unremorseful character. In fact, I’ve never even come across such a female character in any sort of literature, let alone roleplaying. When other characters will tip-toe on the borders of insanity, Grace will crash in there with a battering ram without flinching. That is why it would be a delight and an honour to write Verona’s resident bloodthirsty empress, not that the world ever remembers one who wasn’t.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

1. Maybe some sort of face-off between the sisters? I don’t mean the three of them get into a ring and fight to the death, I just want a reunion of some sort, I suppose. I don’t imagine it will be at a café over brunch to discuss their childhoods, but perhaps they all need to meet up to discuss some mob business? In my mind, Grace joined the Montagues to give people a reason to remember her, not out of loyalty to anyone in the Montagues. So, if she sees an opportunity to rise the ranks, and she thinks that can be achieved by ‘offing’ one of their own captains to free up a space, I think she would definitely go to her sisters. They are Capulets, after all, and I doubt they would pass the opportunity to get rid of a high-ranking Montague. Regina, if not Catherine, anyway. At the same time, Grace doesn’t really consider her sisters to be her equals, so she might not care to do something mutually beneficial to all of them. Instead, I think she’s more likely to deceive both parties, because she’s arrogant and thinks her sisters are too naïve to understand her true intentions. Maybe that goes badly for Grace, because they really aren’t as clueless as she treats them? I don’t know, it obviously doesn’t have to pan out this way exactly, but I would really like to see the three of them having some sort of heated altercation, or just circumstance which invariably forces them to spend time together.

2. Calina vs Grace? Okay, so I know a lot of my plotting for Grace involves ‘facing off’ against other characters, but what can I say, Grace is a fighting sorta gal. In Calina’s bio, it says that “So long as [Grace’s] teeth are bared in another direction, she won’t have to make her shut her mouth,” aka Calina is happy to let sleeping demons lie, but what if they stopped lying? For whatever reason, they step in each other’s path and BAM! Chaos! Pandemonium!

As for how it happens, I was thinking something like this: Calina’s alias is Cleopatra, right, and, historically, Cleopatra was the first pharaoh to get the support of both the Greek and Egyptian subjects she ruled. In this case, the Greeks and the Egyptians are of course, the Capulets and the Montagues, respectively. Perhaps, at some later date, they are attempting to broker peace between the two mobs, and Calina, being Cleopatra, is at the forefront of this? Peace and harmony don’t work for Grace, of course, and so she tries to throw a wrench or two into their plans. Or maybe even a grenade.

3. I’d really like to explore some fiendish kind of plot that she and Ivan have. They are both quite chaotic and brutal characters, but I’d say Ivan does it for the love of chaos, whereas chaos is a side-benefit for Grace. Her true love is power; unlimited, absolute, power. So, say she hatches a plan to move up in the ranks, and figures that she might need some help from the Capulets for that. The help would be unintentional or accidental if her sisters were involved (see Plot 1), but I think she would be fairly upfront about it if she went to Ivan. Though Capulet by name, I’d say that he is first and foremost an anarchist, and Grace knows this. So, if she wants to stir the pot a bit, and wants to have some fun in the meantime, why ever not get in touch with the platonic Clyde to her platonic Bonnie? He’s never said no to a bit of mayhem. It could also be that they both plan on betraying each other, y’know, for a little more drama? Grace knows that his love of ruin and destruction is a little too dangerous to have around if her plans for dominion are ever to come to fruition, and Ivan knows that he cannot tear the world apart if there are people who wish to maintain the social order, so that one can actually hold dominion. In the end, no matter how similar their methods might be, their endgame couldn’t be more different.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes, but I would really like a fitting death for her; ‘’all or nothing”, essentially. Either she goes out in a blaze of glory, doing what she loves, or it somehow becomes that she loses everything, and is at the lowest of lows, and is then killed. I’d rather she didn’t die in some random mugging sort of thing, y’know? Also, pleeease, nothing like how Goneril and Regan go out in King Lear—sure poison can be involved, just not the whole other “jealous, superficial, evil sisters kill themselves over some man/throw themselves at his feet” trope. Grace thirsts for blood and power, not men.

IN DEPTH

I would genuinely do both, but I really want to send this in time for Sunday acceptances and I don’t have very long left. So, in-character para sample it is!!

***

Naivete? No, that couldn’t possibly be it. They had survived too long, accomplished too much, to be naïve. No, what truly plagued her family, whether that was their parents, or her sisters, it was blindness—or lack of vision, to be more precise. They had grown too accustomed to their life, too comfortable in the plush armchairs in front of their warm hearth, to envy the jewel-encrusted palaces that their kings and queens resided in. They were happy to settle for something mildly better than mediocrity, content to be second best, good but not that good. The Daly’s were well-off, there was no two ways about that, but they were hardly mice next to the mammoth that were the Capulets.

It was disgraceful to her. Shameless, even. How dare they be so complacent?

The babe turned girl turned woman, who had always wanted more and more and more, could not fathom the meaning of leading such an unremarkable existence. What could possibly be the meaning of life if you didn’t keep fighting for more, until there was no one left to fight, until you were the most powerful person in the room?

Throughout history and mythology, there were always trinities. Hydra, the three-headed serpent, Cerberus, the three-headed hound, and she had held out hope that herself, Regina, and Catherine, would themselves be a trinity to behold one day. Her mother and father had resigned themselves to ‘the simple life’, but children did not have to repeat their parents’ mistakes. They could be better, the Daly girls.

And yet, it wasn’t to be. Regina had come as uninspiring as they did, and Catherine, well, all saintly Catherine wanted to do was be nice. For a time, she tried convincing them, inspiring them as the eldest, but even back then Grace had had little patience for lost causes. And lost causes they were, the whole lot of them.

If she was to be anything more, it would be alone. Her family would not, could not, help her, and that meant looking for another family. Perhaps one with a little more backbone.

Extras:

I’d say that the Grace I’ve envisioned is quite similar to Villanelle from Killing Eve. However, whilst Villanelle kills because she is bored, I don’t think Grace has ever stopped long enough to get bored. Maybe that’s for the best though; I’m not sure the world could withstand a bored Grace Daly.

#accepted #accepted: goneril

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fweeble · 7 years

Text

Courtly Love

Title: Courtly Love Fandom: Ao no Exorcist Verse: I Wanna Be Your Knight Pairing(s): RinBon, ShimaBon Warnings: slight canon divergence post-Kyoto arc, navel-gazing, unbeta’d Summary: If people were shapes, Bon would be a line— simple, direct, untangled, limitless. Renzou is a Celtic knot— circular in nature, turning in on itself endlessly without a start or end. If people were shapes, Renzou would be made up of Bon. -- In which Bon is many things to Shima; Shima is a singular thing to Bon. A/N: I heard there was a mysterious chapter 90 for AoEx that has yet to be posted on Mangapark. And then I had ShimaSugu feelings that I didn’t know what to do with. So I didn’t sleep and wrote this. Tumbles has been messing with my formatting, so an alternative is reading it on AO3.

If people were shapes, Bon would be a line— simple, direct, untangled, limitless. Renzou is a Celtic knot— circular in nature, turning in on itself endlessly without a start or end.

If people were shapes, Renzou would be made up of Bon.

In the end, everything comes back to Inari.

Before he had been ordered to capture Kamiki, he had been so sure. He could throw away his chains, break free of them and fly away like he had always dreamed. Mephisto had given him the map and the Illuminati had given him the key— he knew he was dancing along a precipice, but it hadn't mattered either way. He didn't want to die but he wasn't afraid of dying, and while he had no real allegiance to the Illuminati, they offered something that Myou Dha did not. Choice. Freedom. Nothing in Kyoto was worth going back to. He would play spy, double agent— triple, quadruple, quintuple— to his heart's content. Because this was the game, the grandest game, and there was no losing, only winning. Heads, he had fun, freedom, and lost nothing; tails, he had fun, freedom, and died.

In the long run, he'd rather die than return to Myou Dha and its responsibilities. He had nothing to lose. When Bon shouts his name was the first time that he questions himself. Still, he climbed into the helicopter, towards his new duty, one he chose for himself, and away from Bon.

He watched as his friends fought for their lives against monsters that could not die, no matter how much the poor souls yearned for death. He watched as Konekomaru was nearly eaten alive by an amalgamation of pain and suffering, as Shiemi was plucked from the floor by her leg, and he squashed down the fear, the anxiety. This would have all had happened whether or not he had been a part of the Illuminati, he knew— the organization was too large, too influential, too deep inside the True Cross Order for her kidnapping to have been prevented. He had no illusions— he knew what his job entailed, had known that walking down this path had meant forsaking friends, family, everyone he loved. But he had known it'd be worth it, had known he could throw it all away. That was why he was a perfect spy, after all. None of them could have stood by and watched— not Bon, not Rin, not Konekomaru, not Shiemi, not even Izumo. But he could. He could watch them die. He could watch everyone die. Watching Bon give the writhing mass of limbs and mouths its funeral rites had made him realize—

He could watch everyone die, even Bon, but he would never forgive himself if they did.

Bon's anguished cry, the desperation that seeped into the words, they were what made Renzou realize that there was something worth returning to, something that was worth more than anything else. That day, when Bon asked him if it had been his fault, Renzou had been honest. Renzou chose his path and there's no going back now, even if it means leaving behind what mattered the most. He doesn't think Bon will ever understand. He knows Bon will never forgive him. Bon isn't made of secrets and lies, he doesn't understand the yearnings of another life, of another world. Bon has only ever lived in the sun, has only ever been loved and adored. Still, as Renzou lies in his bed, in the dorm he shares with Bon and Konekomaru, he finds that it doesn't matter. Bon can hate him, can distrust him, can revile him. Renzou can live with anything as long as he lives on in Bon's heart, a mark that never fades.

According to Christian scripture, there are seven sins. Bon would argue that Renzou's sin is sloth, Konekomaru would insist is lust, his father would correct them both and declare it pride.

The truth is that Renzou's greatest flaw is his envy. He envies the freedom those born outside of Myou Dha; he envies how they can choose their own path, how their blood is not a chain that ties them to what they can never run away from. As a child he imagined growing wings, of flying far, far, far away from where he is told he must protect a boy with his life, that he must live up to the memory of a brother he does not know. He dreams that, instead of stern words at his sloppy form, the grip on his khakkhara, faceless parents praise him on mastering a weapon at such a young age. Instead of a destiny protecting a lineage out of duty, he dreams of a life where everything he achieves is a small victory. He envies Konekomaru who does not live under the burden of his family's expectations, of the ghost of Shima Takezou, of the name Shima. He envies Konekomaru, who even without a family, is beloved, both by the Shima family and the Suguro family. He envies Rin, who chose the life of an exorcist and was not raised into it. Rin, who can declare just as proudly and earnestly as Bon that he will defeat Satan. Rin, who has never lived in anyone's shadow, even as he chases after Shiro's. Rin, who after realizing his love for Bon, throws himself wholeheartedly into playing white knight and winning the princess's favor. Rin had done what Renzou could never bring himself to do and had been honest with Bon. He envies Bon, who embraced the role Myou Dha gave him, who strove to meet their expectations and exceed it, who built his dream around their plans for him. How they chafed, the weight of his responsibilities, how he resented them— how he resented Bon— only to watch as the other boy thrived under it while he suffocated.

Shima Renzou has lived with envy his entire life. He does not know how to live without it.

He does not know of a love without it.

Konekomaru would be a right angle— plain and unremarkable, but reliable and sturdy. Renzou knows that, without him, the two of them would have fallen apart love before they reached the True Cross Academy.

Bon can't look at him. Bon, who knows etiquette as well as anyone reared by an owner of a traditional ryokan has to, cannot look at Renzou when they have meals in their room now. Even when he speaks to Renzou, he cannot life his eyes from his bowl. Never in his life has he seen Bon scowl into his bowl and while asking Renzou to pass him the ponzu sauce. And Bon knows it, he knows he's being immature and petty, and that only causes him to implode further, spiraling into himself with indignation and frustration. Renzou can't help but be amused. Bon, always so serious. He wants to lean over the table and press a finger against the deep ridges of the other boy's furrowed brow, to tease him for being ridiculous. He wants to needle and prod Bon until he explodes, because at least then Bon would look at him— when had he started craving the other boy's attention? Maybe he had always craved it and it wasn't until he lost it that the hunger wriggled its way into his consciousness. "Rude, Bon, so rude~ You should talk to the person you are talking to~" He holds up the ponzu sauce tantalizingly, swinging it to and fro just so Bon would look up at outrage about condiments being treated inappropriately at a dinner table. Instead, Bon just sets his bowl and chopsticks down and excuses himself from the table. Renzou watches Bon on his bed, curled on his side, facing away from the Renzou and the dinner table, reading a book. In this small, cramped dorm room with three people in it, Renzou has never felt more alone.

"Shima-san," Konekomaru says softly, "could you pass me the ponzu sauce?" "Of course Koneko~" Renzou sings happily, passing it with more cheer than he actually feels. Konekomaru refills his own sauce plate before quietly doing so for Bon's abandoned one as well.

Later, after Renzou exits the shower, he finds Bon's dishes empty and Konekomaru clearing up the table.

Renzou doesn't know a life without Suguro Ryuuji.

His entire life, he has been Bon's side because of blood, birth, and duty. He has been raised with Bon, educated with Bon, trained with Bon, taught to be devoted to Bon. He has spent his life resenting Bon, for his existence which dictated his fate. Bon. Pure, selfish, hard-headed Bon. No one knows Bon better than Renzou. Bon pushes himself beyond his limits, sets impossible standards for himself, expects miracles from himself because he loves them— because he loves his family, Myou Dha, and he wants to give them everything. He wants them to be loved and well-respected like they once were; he wants to give them the world. Bon, like the sun, tries to pull everyone into his orbit. He tries to make everyone's problems his own. Bon is what Myou Dha made him.

-- Bon sits by his bedside, hunched over himself, his elbows braced against his knees as he looks at the floor. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he looks so distraught that even his panda joke rings hollow in Renzou's own ears. "It wasn't a lie," Bon says to his feet. "That demon doesn't tell lies." Renzou leans back into the pillows at his back, looks forlornly at the mostly-empty tupperware that held Rin's apology cookies and wishes he could eat them, if only to have something to distract him from the guilt that was gnawing at his innards like one of Gedouin's creations. "Nope," he says, popping the p. There's no point in softening the blow, not with Bon. Bon doesn't say anything for awhile, and Renzou is forced to marinate in the silence and his own guilt until the other boy finally moves. "So it was my fault," Bon says finally, running a hand through his hair, laughing. And that's the biggest punch to the gut— —not the confession he made while possessed, not the way he had sidled up to him and professed his love for Bon in the same breath he had used to declare his hatred for Bon, his family, Myou Dha—

—it's the way Bon laughs now, self-deprecating, filled with self-loathing. "Look, it's not as simple as the demon made it sound— it's.... it's all sort of," he sighs, tries to recollect his thoughts, tries to figure out a way to order words that would make sense to Bon, that wouldn't just make everything a bigger mess than it already was. Bon just shakes his head as he gets up, his voice thick as he says, "It doesn't matter, Shima. It's my fault." He looks away from Renzou and out the hospital window, as if the horizon held answers that Renzou cannot give. "I've been pushing and pushing and— Konekomaru's right, I can't push you all into... into being friends or family. I can't push you out of being a spy or into returning to Myou Dha... or even leaving the Illuminati." Bon looks at him and Renzou realizes his eyes are just a bit wet and something warm and selfish unfurls in his chest, because Bon didn't cry when his father was wounded and dying while the Impure King ran rampant, but Renzou, he's struggling not to cry over him. It's unfair and cruel, the happiness he feels about the unshed tears in Bon's eyes, the way the other boy looks unmade and broken by the truths Renzou had cruelly thrown at him while possessed. Renzou can't bring himself to say anything. "Shima— Renzou, I..." Bon lingers at the doorway, struggling with words he can't seem to figure out how to say. "I'll change. I will. I'm sorry. "Renzou... I won't stop trying to rebuild Myou Dha, I can't. But it isn't for me, and it isn't for Myou Dha; it's so everyone has a place to come home to." Finally, Bon stops looking at his feet and meets Renzou's eyes. He squares his shoulders, straightens his spine as he takes a steadying breath, hand braced against the door frame. "So come home whenever you want. I'll always wait for you." With that, Bon swiftly spins on his heel and stalks out the door, carefully shutting the door behind him. It's as if all the air in the room had left the room with Bon— for a few minutes, Renzou can't breathe. The place Renzou has always longed for, a place for him, has always been with Bon. Bon is home. Bon loves him. Renzou will always be in Bon's heart.

Bon isn't a liar like Renzou.

Shiemi would be circle fractals— its beginnings are simple, but as it grows and expands, so does its beauty, until it encompasses everything, unearthly in its simplicity, in its entirety.

Renzou often finds himself in awe of her, in the kindness that suffuses her and how it is her strength.

Shiemi has lunch with him while he is in the hospital. Her smiles could stop wars, he thinks as she watches her talk about the classes he's missing, her hands doing as much talking as she is as they flutter like butterflies in flight. Shiemi is almost defined by her smiles, Renzou can count on his hands the number of times he has seen her without one. "I'm so lucky to have such a beautiful girl visit me every day! And with lunch!" Renzou tries his best to swallow his mouthful of sprouts and bread without choking— it wouldn't do, after all, to pepper a specimen of loveliness with half-chewed pits of vegetation. "How've you been? How is the shop?" "I've been well!" Shiemi tilts her head in consideration. "Rin is well, too! He's been worried about Yuki-kun, though." She frowns, her mouth pursing together in the way it does when she chews on the inside of her mouth. "I have been too..." Renzou bites his tongue— these secrets aren't his to tell, even if he should. She tilts her head to one side, hands that fidgeting in her lap as she says slowly, "I saw Suguro-kun yesterday. He came in for more ammunition. He seemed... troubled." "Don't worry about him, Shiemi-san. Bon's a worry-wart, you know that. Just give him time and he'll get over what's bothering him." Renzou tries to fight down the surge of joy when he remembers Bon's words. "Besides, he's got me!" He grins, it's irrepressible, and he can't fight it even if he wanted to. It's irresponsible, promising to be there for Bon, it's stupid. It's impossible. Shiemi just smiles at him gently. "I know, Shima-kun. We've all got each other." She squeezes his hand gently as if she knows all his secrets and accepts him for what he is, twisted, envious, treacherous, lying creature that he is.

Whenever he's with Shiemi, Renzou feels like he can be better than he is.

Rin would be a circle— incomplete until finished, filled with endless possibilities and potential. Renzou remembers Bon once telling him that everything in the world is contained in a circle; in pi.

Between reporting to the Illuminati and Mephisto, missions for the Order, and trying to mend burnt bridges, Renzou discovers that he and Rin have become something different, something more than what they used to be. "Friends and rivals in love," he says into his can of soda, breathless with laughter. "What are we? Two lovelorn souls sitting on a rooftop, bonding over impossible love?" Rin looks at him, determination in the line of his body, in the tilt of his smile. "I'm not like you. I haven't given up." Giving up. Is that what he's doing?

"I'm the black knight," he reminds Rin. "You have rules to follow; I don't. That's the boon of being a spy, you see. I don't follow the rules— I bend them to suit me." The stars are bright tonight, the cloudless sky seemingly endless. He loves nights like this, where the world seems tiny, insignificant, and he— so close to the stars— feels like he can capture those faraway lights if he just reached out for them. "Giving up, not giving up— that's not what this is for me." "Then what is Bon to you? Now that you aren't mind-controlled by green-eyed demons," Rin says cheekily, fangs glinting as he grins. Rin is easy to talk to, comfortable, a kindred spirit. That's what makes him dangerous, Renzou knows, Rin makes it easy to share secrets and Renzou is nothing but secrets tied into delicate knots with one another until they take another form. Rin picks at them, guileless and genuine. He's not a creature of the shadows despite his parentage. Shiemi had said Rin's flames were warm, kind. That's the problem, Renzou thinks. Because Rin is like Bon. Straight and true.

And Renzou—

Renzou is anything but.

"Bon," he says lightly, eyes tracing constellations as he stretches out against the roof, "is Bon."

Rin doesn't dream of a perfect life together with Bon, but he hopes for a day Bon will accept his love. He strives for a day when they can build a life together. Rin believes in a day where he will hold Bon's hand and he will smile at Rin, softly squeezing his hand back. Renzou doesn't dare have these hopes and dreams. His biggest wish has already been granted— Bon will always wait for him; he will forever exist within Bon's heart. That is the biggest difference between the two of them. Renzou plays every angle, he plays the probabilities, he hedges his bets, he doesn't take his chances on a miracle.

Rin does. He believes in the impossible; he believes he can defeat Satan, he believes he can win the heart of the princess.

And maybe that's what makes a knight a white knight and not a black knight.

Kamiki would be a star— its lines crossing over itself endlessly until it became whole, incomplete until the end met the beginning, giving birth to itself.

Renzou finds her beautiful and familiar, enchanting in a way he is not.

Kamiki still looks at him like he is scum, but there is something familiar in her eyes now, something achingly intimate. Understanding. They had been outsiders looking in, playing their part, a part of but removed from everyone else in the cram class— now they are both unmasked for everyone to see. He had liked her from the beginning, he had sensed her for what he was— both of them were dressed themselves in their secrets. She wore them like armor protecting her from a past she could not flee from; he wore his for a future he yearned for. Her armor was her own weakness, a flaw in its design, a flimsy protection in truth. He loves her for it; he has never felt closer to a person before her. She looks at him and sees him— a boy running towards or away from something, he can never be sure. He looks at her and sees her— a girl who cannot outrun her past no matter how hard she tries. Her past has caught up with her, and with it, she has lost her armor and he has lost some of his, but they are kindred spirits. Kamiki will never forgive him, she will never hesitate to cut him down if he threatens this new family she has now. Still, he loves her more for it, for the strength she found in her own abyss.

"You and Rin both," she says derisively, rolling her eyes, because she is like him; she doesn't just look, she sees. "Yeah, me and Rin," he says laughing, allowing his eyes to follow Bon and the way he tilts his head back just the slightest as he lets out a laugh, full and loud and unrestrained. They're alike, he and Kamiki, similar in the ways they differ.

She is so beautiful his heart aches.

Bon falls in love easily, as quickly as the sakura fall after they bloom. Renzou doesn't remember when Bon fell in love with Juuzou, just remembers the the sight of Bon, round-cheeked and bright-eyed, with a fistful of fresh cucumber looking up at his older brother with simple adoration. He remembers Bon's chubby legs straining to keep up with Juuzou, his childish, high-pitched laughter as he ran after the older boy. Bon idolized his father. Bon admired Juuzou. Years before the fat melted from Renzou's own cheeks, he had known the line between admiration and love were blurry for Bon. It had been funny, a secret he carefully guarded within himself— a joke only he knew. Now, as he watches Bon— older, wiser, taller, broader— chasing after Lightning, a flush high on his cheekbones, it isn't funny.

"I've fallen for him."

Couldn't you have lied? Just to yourself? Renzou watches Bon's back as he gets farther and farther away, bile sour and bitter in the back of his throat. Of all people, why Lightning?

Lightning is Rorschach blots— changing, fluid, misleading, unknowable. Renzou can't stand the idea of stains blurring the crisp, beautiful edge of Bon's line.

Lightning smiles like he knows all the secrets and every secret is a joke he will never share. Lightning calls Bon "Ryuuji" as he cheerfully leads the boy astray, down paths so dark not even Renzou has access to. Lightning will get Bon killed, or worse. Bon might change. Bon had changed for Juuzou, had decided to become the kaname the older boy had told him he was. Bon, simple, straightforward Bon who falls in love so easily and without question. He falls in love like snow melts in the spring, as if it was inevitable. He molds himself for those he loves, because he has never truly grown up from that little boy who liked to show off how easily he memorized sutras, looking for praise, recognition. If Lightning tells him to become someone other than he is, Renzou is convinced that Bon will do that, just like Bon has for him, Konekomaru, and the rest of Myou Dha.

Bon returns to the dorm one night after helping Lightning unusually withdrawn and distant. After glancing at Konekomaru and catching the other boy worriedly staring at Bon's hunched form, Renzou finally gives into the apprehension that had been plaguing him since he had seen Bon with Lightning outside the Order's secret library. "Bon." Bon doesn't move from where he sits on his bed, curled forward, arms crossed, chin tucked in. "Bon," Renzou tries again, making his way to Bon's bed. "Bon." Finally, Bon responds. "Yeah, Shima?" Bon is still pensive, eyes staring unseeing at the floor before him. Renzou stops before Bon, places both hands firmly on Bon's shoulders, and says, "Bon, if this thing with Lightning is messing with you, you oughtta stop. All the knowledge and power in the world isn't worth whatever this is doing to you." Beneath his hands, Bon's shoulders stiffen. When Bon finally speaks again, his words are stiff, "I'm fine, Shima." "You're not, Bon," Konekomaru says from behind Renzou. He takes a breath before continuing, "At first, it was okay, you know. You looked after him but you still came back..." You.

Renzou's grip tightens, "Look, Bon— I know. I know..." What would be the right way to word this? "We know you admire Lightning a lot. We know you think you can learn a lot from him, and that... You tend to..." Renzou looks to Konekomaru for support. The smaller boy just shakes his head after awhile and looks back at him, apparently unaware of any way to word the situation delicately as well. "Uh, go above and beyond what the situation calls for when...it...involves..." The look on Bon's face when he finally looks up at Renzou— uncomprehending, before something akin to surprise flickers across his face— causes him to relax. Unfortunately, the next heartbeat is when, enraged, Bon shoves him onto the floor, face a perfect picture of fury as he exclaims, "Really? Do you still think I'm six and chasing after Juuzou, confusing admiration with love?" Bon stands up, scowling, looking from Renzou to Konekomaru. "Do you really think I am so stupid? So naive?" Renzou stares from his place on the floor, mouth flapping soundlessly. He turns to look at Konekomaru who looks properly chastised, smiling awkwardly as he says, "Sorry, Bon... You've just... We've been worried." Bon seems to deflate at Konekomaru's words. "No, it's my fault too..." Bon frowns at the floor once again. It's the look he always gets when he's thinking hard, when there's something important on his mind and he's on the verge of making a rash decision. For once, Renzou hopes he'll make it, that Bon will snap and tell them everything. But Bon just looks up from the floor and at Renzou for several long seconds before sighing, running a hand through his hair and settling back down on the bed. "I can't say it's nothing. It's not." He looks at them and gives them a small, strained smile. "I never thought there'd be a day when I couldn't tell you guys everything..." It hits Renzou hard, then, how much he despises Lightning for the changes he's causing in Bon. The smile melts into something like a grimace as Bon continues, "And this isn't something that can stay a secret forever... But I can't right now. When the time comes, I'll tell you." "Bon..." Konekomaru looks as if he'll protest, but after a moment he seems to change his mind. "We're here for you, always," he says instead. He smiles, just as brittle as Bon had. "I know," Bon says, smile finally something familiar, real and true. "I am, too." Renzou hates Lightning, he decides as he looks takes in all the subtle tells of wear and tear on Bon's features, the slightly hunted and haunted look that has slowly started to become common on his friend's face. He hates Lightning more than anything he ever has in his life, including Myou Dha.

At night, if the moon is bright enough and the stars aren't hidden behind clouds, SRenzou can see Bon from his own bed. He can see the rise and fall of Bon's chest, can hear the soft breaths of both Bon and Konekomaru as they sleep. Tonight, he sees Bon flat on his back, eerily still late into the night. Whatever Lightning has been doing, whatever he has been dragging Bon into, it has gone too far, Renzou thinks as Bon spends another sleepless night staring at their ceiling. Renzou turns over, tries to still the maelstrom of emotion cluttering his mind as he wills himself to sleep. He thinks he hears Bon murmur "Okumura" before he falls asleep.

"What would you do if saving someone meant making them hate you forever?" Rin looks at him strangely, as if he can't understand why Renzou would be asking such a strange question. Maybe he can't— they both know Renzou would do it in a heartbeat, that Renzou is fine with being hated. Still, Rin ruminates over Renzou's question for awhile before saying, "I'd do it." He meets Renzou's eyes and repeats himself slowly, confident and sure. "I'd do it. I'd rather they live and hate me than die still loving me." Rin falls flat onto his back, spread eagled, looking up at the night sky. "But I'd rather they didn't, you know? I'd try explaining everything to them, afterwards." He laughs, a sudden snort of exasperated fondness as he says, "Although, if it's Suguro, he'd probably deck me, no matter what." "Yeah," Renzou agrees, leaning forward, resting his chin on his hand. "He would, wouldn't he?" "He doesn't like being reminded he's a princess." "No, he doesn't." White knights and black knights are both the same in the end, he realizes as he stretches out beside Rin, gazing at the night sky. He closes his eyes. "And what will you do if you never win the princess's love?" Rin laughs. "That's simple. I'll still love him." "Yeah," Renzou says softly, smiling. "That's what knights do."

Maybe Lightning's dark blots will mar the perfect, crisp edges of Bon's line; maybe his shape will change and evolve into something different, something less defined, less definite. No matter what new form Bon will take, Renzou is convinced he will still be made up of Bon. After all, Bon is home, friend, family, and love. --

#Fandom: Ao no Exorcist #ShimaSugu #ShimaBon #RinBon #if only because I tagged ShimaBon on Kotodama too #Fwee fic #it's past 3:30 and I'm still staring at my computer screen #I typed ''Shima'' about fifty times when I meant ''Renzou''#you know what's hard #writing in the PoV of a person who is usually referred to by last name in-series #it really screws with me #also: this is awful #I haven't been stretching my writing muscles in over a year #feel free to scroll past and pretend this doesn't exist #AHAHAHAHA

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