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lunareiitic · 5 months

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HSR 1.6 SPOILERS AHEAD BE WARNED

I saw a discussion on Reddit earlier where someone talked about how gracious Herta is to Ruan Mei and felt that the plot shows that Ruan Mei is taking advantage of her and I felt like... it's not a bad conclusion to draw from the text but. It feels not correct. Like yes, Herta essentially does let RM do whatever she wants, especially with regards to the space station, and RM doesn't seem to be very thankful for it. (Setting aside the fact that it isn't really Herta's space station. Asta's the one who bankrolls and manages it. It's just got Herta's name on it. Herta is just as uncaring to the researchers lmao) But to call RM a "passive manipulator" (yes, I saw this take too) of her and nothing more I think... overlooks both of their personalities? Taking into account that both of these characters are essentially confirmed autistic (go see the official post about the Genius Society, you can't make this up) their dynamic is a little tragic but very true-to-life.

Herta is loud, pushy, and bratty. She's like a cat- she doesn't take no for an answer and the moment you try to get her to do something she doesn't want to do she goes limp and useless. She admires Ruan Mei because she's nothing like her. And RM would never push Herta to do anything. RM doesn't push. She doesn't even really manipulate. The woman cannot lie to save her life. All she did was ask Herta if she could use part of the space station and Herta obliged, and it sounds like she'd been waiting for Ruan Mei to finally ask her for something. RM doesn't really have a malicious bone in her body. That's what makes her so terrifying. People are often just willing to do as she asks and she makes no pretenses or illusions about herself, her motives, or her life. The closest she gets to lying is just not answering when pressed. She is so socially inept she has to drug the trailblazer into silence so they'll help her. And I think this is... out of embarrassment? If it were me, an autistic bitch who cannot lie to save my life, I would want to do something similar. She knows she's gotten herself into a situation because she left the incubator on too long and then the space station got attacked, but admitting that to Herta would wound her pride and also cause friction between them. You can tell that she brought the Trailblazer into that Genius meeting because she was afraid Herta and Screwllum had caught on to her, and once she realizes that it's just them debating about (in her eyes) nothing, she lets the Trailblazer go. I've seen people call that "callous", as if she was dropping them as soon as they were not useful to her. But she says why she does it basically immediately- she thinks it would bore us and she has something else more important that she needs our help with.

I think the part of Ruan Mei's character that people are overlooking right now is that Ruan Mei does care. Look at the story bit for Genius' Repose, where she serves machine oil in a teacup for Screwllum and promises to send a box of homemade sweets to Herta's flesh-and-blood body. She's the kind of person who is actively thinking of her mother and her grandmother and their little home in the snow every time she eats something sweet. Her creations are literally desperate with love. Love, love, love, love. Love that feels alien to her, love that she can't put into words, love that her alexithymia won't let her ascertain and compartmentalize. Love that is as elusive and vexing and important as that spark of the divine soul she's been chasing all this time. She loves and she loves deeply, to the point of obsession. But she's in love with the past as much as Herta is- their signature light cones both have them reflecting on a past version of themselves that they know they cannot have back. She quite literally brought her mother back to life because she couldn't bear to break a promise to her late grandmother (who... somehow, is still waiting for her... somewhere). She's a deeply sentimental person. Haven't you ever looked at other people and felt, even for just a moment, that you are apart from them? That they have something you lack? What if you let that feeling consume you? Ruan Mei yearns for a world that she cannot touch because she's lost the trees in the greater forest of her mind. She feels the need to become god because she feels so utterly alienated from the world around her. But she can't escape herself, no matter how far she runs.

I guess what I'm trying to say, is that Herta and Ruan Mei are friends, even if Ruan Mei doesn't feel that she's capable of it. It makes a lot of sense that they're both ice too, element ruled primarily by The Remembrance. I wonder how they both feel about that?

#hsr #honkai star rail #hsr spoilers #ruan mei #herta #this got away from me but I have been thinking about her nonstop for two weeks now

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sergle · 6 months

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People are failing to realize that clothing, and cameras for that matter, can be fairly deceptive. I don't wanna say deceptive because it carries a certain connotation, but I hope you'll know what I mean. I look fairly "thin/avg" with a shirt on, but without it it's rolls and folds lol

Furthermore, it's wild to assume someone who's pretty passionate about accurate plus-size rep would be stick thin. Maybe their metric of "average" is skewed or something, but it's still weird to just show up in a strangers Asks and assume things about them and their bodies.

sorry for answering an ask about this like 4 days later but I'M STILL THINKING ABOUT THIS... this person is talking about these asks btw.

FIRST OF ALL, thank you so much for the ask, it really is good to know that other ppl are aware of the Covering Of Fat With Clothing. Like. hi. my body is obscured. people are just noticing my torso for the first time bc there isn't 5lbs of breast tissue hanging off of it. SECOND OF ALL. This is still making me insane. I am still thinking about it so I'm gonna completely just do a brick of text to talk about it. Like, there's the first part of this, right? The fact that, all of these people who were sending asks like these, are the same people who came to my account because they liked the body positivity stuff or they related to the proportions of the girls I draw, right? And yet somehow managed to miss that ALL OF MY ART IS ME. So you're relating to MY body, AGREEING that this is plus sized art, then turning towards moi and saying, okay but you're skinny though. HUH? HMM??? I literally made a 12-part series of self portraits that have been like, my most seen, most stolen, reposted, enjoyed, stolen again, pieces. And I've been so crystal clear that these are literally me. Once again, I'm pointing at the aforementioned MATERIAL.

Pictured above: a thin, skinny woman who just happens to have large breasts, ig! And outside of those, which are *literal* self portraits, I've spoken lots of times before about how I make girls of a certain size and shape because I'm modeling them off myself. Or as close as I can get, depending on how good/bad I feel and if I took a photo to ref or not. It really couldn't be clearer that this is obviously me being self-serving, I do it when I feel like I need to see it. So the thing being implied here, or flat out accused in a handful of messages, is that I'm drawing fat girls forrr clout? AWESOME. I didn't want to dignify every message but that did seem to be the rough consensus. BUT I WANT TO TALK ABOUT THAT ONE TOO. WHEN would it become a bad thing for a skinny person to draw body positive art? In a positive light? Even if it was for clout? Am I going insane? That would be Good. It honestly might be even more meaningful than what I'm doing now. If I was actually 115 pounds soaking wet, if I looked like that one girl from ANTM with the like 14 inch waist, and I was out here making the exact same art, would that make the art LESS meaningful to other fat girls? That someone who doesn't have this body type or relate to it at all found it beautiful enough to draw it so many times, treating the subject with respect? Fat people being the subject of art again? The cycling of a trend that's been gone too long? That is, I thought, what we've literally been begging to see. I have been thinking about this. And finally, the last part of it that's been vexing and haunting me:

Is it supposed to be my responsibility that someone gets dysmorphic LOOKING AT ME. HUHHHH. On the art account where I draw a lot of Me. HUH. I was meant to anticipate this? Looking at pictures of me. And that makes you feel dysmorphic. and that is my fault. I'm just double checking. On the account where I draw bodies that I relate to, that you followed because you relate to. And then seeing me. Makes you dysmorphic. Whew. Got it.

I'm putting a bow on my insane winding ramble about this. Or at least trying to, now. It is wild to have my body commented on so much. This year, bc of the breast reduction, comments on my body have increased a hundredfold. Positive, negative, passive aggressive, predatory, all of the ways it can go. There was a really obvious way to rebuff these particular comments, which would be to post a picture of myself where my body ISN'T mostly obscured. But hey, those aren't free. The art will have to do for now. I wouldn't be that surprised if half the messages were jokes meant to see if I'd post pics "proving" that I look how I look. I also thought briefly about like, what if my body did change that drastically? Would some ppl's immediate reaction be betrayal, disgust, anger? I've been sick in my life before and lost weight at alarming speeds. But I've still been fat all my life. I've gotten sick and gained weight at alarming speeds. Does my presence as a "body positive artist" mean that my body gets to be put on trial anytime it changes? Does the switch flip from "your fat art means so much to me" to "you're not in the club anymore, since you got rid of your breasts, you look different"

Anyway I thought it would be funny to draw a thin girl "drawing" a scrap sketch I already have on hand. And imagining someone's response being fully negative, bc a thin person drawing fat ppl would be somehow dishonest lmao. Look how evil this bitch is. Her body doesn't match her art.

#IGNORE ME it does not matter. but I wanted to talk #sergle.txt #I wanted to talk SO BAD.#sergle answers #long post

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finn-writes-stuff · 1 year

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Omg could you do that “chronic” headcanon but with grog, pike and scanlan? As someone with chronic pain I absolutely loved the other headcanons💕💕💕

Chronic (pt 2)

It is always easier to fall asleep with their arms around you. The request from the original post: are you still accepting headcanon requests ? if yes, please can I request having an s/o who has pain issues due to an old injury and struggles to sleep alone? with Percy, Vax and Vex if possible 🥺

Grog, Pike & Scanlan x Reader

Fandom: The Legend of Vox Machina/ Critical Role

Format: Headcanons

Gender Neutral Reader

Masterlist

I'm glad you enjoyed!! -Finn

Grog

You have never met a man who is a better cuddler. His arms are gigantic in order to hold you properly, he gives off heat like a furnace, and he is essentially an oversized teddy bear.

There is nothing more comforting than falling asleep wrapped up in his arms while he sleepily tells you about the latest fight he was in.

Depending on the nature of your pain, he may have advice that can help! He has taken more hits than he can count, and he hasn't always had people around that can heal them magically.

Look at the size of his hands and tell me he doesn't give the best massages. You would be lying. Sit in front of him and tell him about your day while he gives you a massage, he will be perfectly content.

He definitely has the desire to coddle you a lot when the pain gets too bad, but if you tell him to give you your space, he will. When he comes back, he will have some of your favorite food. This is the compromise.

Pike

Pike wishes so desperately that she could just fix the pain as she does with the party's injuries. There's some part of her brain that feels that if she can't help the person she loves the most, then what are her powers even for?

She makes up for this by looking into everything that might help you deal with the pain. Magical or mundane remedies, whatever you tell her helps you.

Falling asleep in your arms is something she really cherishes. It reminds her that you're safe and it gives her somewhere to feel safe herself.

She will stay up late just quietly chatting with you while you both fall asleep. Trading stories and laughing in a sleep-heavy voice.

Pike runs warm, and with the way she cuddles close to you, it's like having a heater in bed with you. It's incredible on cold nights.

Scanlan

"I"ve got something to take your mind off of it, baby" You have heard him say this far too often. It is his go to response and it is always accompanied with the most over dramatic, sleezy, wink.

He actually loves being able to just hold you though, so despite all the awful jokes he will make if you ask him to stay the night with you, he will relish the chance to cuddle with you if that's all it is.

Scanlan is the type to just draw shapes on your skin when you're laying with him. If you pay attention, you'll sometimes notice that he's tracing letters. Either sappy little messages for you or dirty pickup lines.

Lay on his chest and listen to him hum, it adds years to your life and it'll make him blush if you tell him how much you enjoy it. (Genuine sap and affection just does him in every time.)

The only problem of sleeping curled up with Scanlan is that he will sometimes shoot up to write down lyrics or music. Inspiration strikes as it will. He does his best not to disturb you.

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mariana-oconnor · 8 months

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The Dancing Men pt 3

Last time things took a turn for the decidedly worse with our client dead and his wife suffering a bullet to the brain. All because of the idiosyncracies of British public transport and Holmes dislike of giving away any hint of what he is thinking until he has all his ducks in rows.

Also he sent a 'youth' with a message to a murderer.

If any visitor were to call asking for Mrs. Hilton Cubitt no information should be given as to her condition, but he was to be shown at once into the drawing-room. He impressed these points upon them with the utmost earnestness. Finally he led the way into the drawing-room...

“I think that I can help you to pass an hour in an interesting and profitable manner,” said Holmes...

There are so many ways a sentence like that could end...

👀

...spreading out in front of him the various papers upon which were recorded the antics of the dancing men.

Ah, yes... puzzle time again. What else could he have meant?

And now we are having a code-breaking lesson. Love a good code-breaking lesson. Really it's their own fault for not using a more complex cypher; simple substitution cyphers are always going to be easy to break. You need to make it more complicated. Like, every six letters the symbols move one letter earlier in the alphabet or something like that. Or muddle the letters up in a prearranged pattern.

"...it was probable from the way in which the flags were distributed that they were used to break the sentence up into words."

I understand that these encrypted messages led to death and misery, but this is adorable. The letters at the ends of the words carry little stop flags.

"It might be ‘sever,’ or ‘lever,’ or ‘never.’"

Or defer or deter or meter or Peter or Meier or vexed...

“I expect him here every instant.” “But why should he come?” “Because I have written and asked him.”

Bless his heart. Got to wonder what Inspector Martin thought Holmes was doing by drawing out a lot of little dancing men and then sending them to the person he just named in his little explanation.

It's not a massive leap of logic.

"I may have threatened her, God forgive me, but I would not have touched a hair of her pretty head."

My dude, you literally told the woman to prepare to meet her god. I do not know why you are surprised that people would think you wanted to hurt her. That is not the sort of thing you send messages about when you don't want to hurt someone.

"I tell you there was never a man in this world loved a woman more than I loved her. I had a right to her. She was pledged to me years ago. Who was this Englishman that he should come between us? I tell you that I had the first right to her, and that I was only claiming my own."

That is not how love works.

“You wrote it? There was no one on earth outside the Joint who knew the secret of the dancing men. How came you to write it?”

Dude, it's literally just a substitution cypher.

“It is my duty to warn you that it will be used against you,” cried the inspector, with the magnificent fair-play of the British criminal law.

“First of all, I want you gentlemen to understand that I have known this lady since she was a child."

I used the beheading gif too early. I memed too far, too fast.

"I wrote to her, but got no answer."

Some might say that is an answer.

"Of Mrs. Hilton Cubitt I only know that I have heard she recovered entirely, and that she still remains a widow, devoting her whole life to the care of the poor and to the administration of her husband's estate."

Glad she recovered, sad for literally everything else.

Yeah, this is a sad one. And so dumb... like... get over yourself. She's married to someone else and she's not replying to your messages. Just move the fuck on. Wow.

#Letters from Watson #Sherlock Holmes #The Dancing Men #long post

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bellewintersroe · 1 year

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Can I get a BoB ship please? Love your writing btw.

I’m 5’9 broad shoulders, Im plus size but with an athletic build. I have curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and a ruddy skin tone. I’ve been told that I have an intimidating resting rbf.

Personality wise I’m pretty shy and anxious until you get to know me then I will talk your ear off. I have a bit of a temper, especially when it comes to someone doing me or the people I care about wrong. I’m super loyal and family oriented.

I work at a daycare as a teacher but I went to school for welding technology. I also help my dad do demos for his contracting business.I do a lot of things that would be considered men’s work. I love going on hikes and going camping. I also play the bass. I also love history especially history about the working class. Im super pro union and blue collar worker. Sorry I suck at writing this kinda stuff. Thanks so much!!!!

thank you so much for your request!

I ship you with… Dick Winters!

Wooohoooo the man himself. I immediately thought of Winters when I read your info!

I think Dick would immediately be taken back by your beauty, he’s kinda go all quiet and get a little smile on his face when he hears you talking.

this is a daily occurance, even if you two are good friends/ know each other well he’d smile to himself every single time you walk into the room. Without fail.

of course if you’re a little shy and anxious at first, plus if you have a resting bitch face at times (relatable) Winters might be a little taken a back? Maybe he’s a little worried you don’t like him? But I highly doubt that would last for long, Winters is sooo gentle and kind, that I can imagine you’d open up to him super quick.

loves listening to you talk, he’s definitely a listener, and adds into the conversation when necessary.

I think he’d ask lots of questions about you, he’s so interested in what you do as work and it’s so fitting because he thinks you’re so lovely and patient.

You come across very family orientated and this is what really draws Dick to you. He loves hearing about all the times you work with your dad and you two sound like you have a close bond. Just like he does with his parents.

he’s sooo respectful, and blushes a lot because I think he can be a little shy- but being in the army has really built up his confidence, so I think he’d initiate your first kiss- but only after taking you out for a date first.

I think he’d be very traditional, you know with the whole dating thing. He’s not huge on PDA but overtime he grows to become more affectionate.

I think he likes the idea of marriage and settling down with you, after the war he’s experienced so much chaos and trauma that you’re his safe haven. You with children and pets (if wanted) on a plot of land in a peaceful part of the world would be Dick’s dream.

like you he’s very loyal, to you, his friends and his family. He won’t take anyyyyy shit from anybody, whereas you’ve got more of a temper, he’s so cool and straight to the point. I think he outsmarts anybody who says anything negative towards you.

would enjoy taking long walks with you, or just chilling in bed together whilst you’re both reading your books. I think spending time with you after work or on his days off is such a good way for him to unwind.

I think he’d be soooo good at calming you down if you’ve got heated. Let’s say somebody’s said something rude to you at work or something, and you come home vexed, he’s immediately settling you down on the couch, keeping an arm around you or a hand on your lap to soothe you.

gets upset when you’re upset.

finds it super sexy that you do things that’s considered ‘mens work’ he knows your worth, he’d NEVER doubt it for a second, so he’s super proud to be like ‘yeah that’s my girl doing that’.

admires you. You’d turn over and he’d have a hazy gaze lingering over your face, and then he’d kiss you so gently omfg he’s so soft.

never raises his voice, never really does much to make you angry. I think he’d bring out such a peaceful side of you.

I think your hikes would turn into games, like you’re quite athletic and you do it often, but he’s run frickin’ Currahee, so he’d be able to outrun anybody.

races you to the top but let’s you win on purpose just he likes seeing the smile on your face.

#Band of brothers ships

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kxlinthesky · 2 years

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EPISODE 1+2 LIGHT NOVEL Chapter 1-4 English Translation

The largest hall in the museum had been completely remodeled to serve as the auction venue, decorated with brand-new, luxurious furnishings. The fresh wallpaper was decorated with Bachelor’s buttons, broken up by sets of Empire-style curtains framing refined arched windows. A chandelier of iron and crystal dangled from the ceiling. Baroque armchairs of stretched emerald-green velour stood in rows on a navy-blue Baluchi rug, all facing the back of the hall where a section of the floor rose slightly higher to form a stage.

Several staff members were taking turns walking the perimeter and preparing for the auction inside. Voices rose boisterously as they flitted back and forth.

“Oi! That pedestal doesn’t go there!”

“Don’t mix up the numbers!”

“We don’t have enough chairs!”

“Bring some from the warehouse, then!”

Even security guards had been rounded up to help set up furniture. There were a number of police officers also present, reviewing the floor plan while discussing how best to arrange themselves for security.

Amid all the hubbub, Nick spotted someone and pointed. “Hey, isn’t that guy over there some bigwig government guy?” The person in question was a tall, thin man wearing a particularly high-quality suit. Accompanying him was someone who appeared to be either a female secretary or another guard, and he was surrounded on all sides by museum employees.

“Yes, that is Sir Mastema, a high-ranking government official,” agreed Ritz, her tone bright.

“Oh, yeah, Mr. Mastema. I saw him in the papers the other day. He made a huge donation to an orphanage or something.”

“Indeed. He’s an exceptional man who has been quite proactive in welfare assistance. He’s honest, popular… and he’s also made contributions to churches and schools, but he takes no pride in his accomplishments. Rumor has it that he’s next in line to become Leader of the House of Commons.”

“Is he also taking part in the auction?”

“Yes, as a special guest. He plans to solicit funding from the other guests in order to establish a hospital in the suburbs.”

“Huh, is that so…?”

Ritz absentmindedly sighed, “Truly an exceptional man….”

They watched the young politician, Mastema, speak to the museum staff with a soft, refreshing smile. The others laughed every once in a while at something he said – presumably, he was peppering his conversation with jokes. He gave off a decidedly favorable impression.

“You like guys like that, huh, Ritz?” Nick hummed. “Seems about right, I guess.”

Ritz jumped. “N-Now hold on! Where did you get that idea?!”

“Want me to go ask what his taste in women is?”

“Stop that!” Nick was grinning as Ritz began smacking him, face flushed scarlet.

Ignoring the two yet again, Owl slowly turned in place, surveying the scene. “There are a lot of windows, which means a lot of infiltration points….” He approached the nearest window and peered outside. The hall was on the fourth floor – higher than even the curator’s office. “Don’t think he’ll be able to escape this way,” he murmured.

He pulled the curtain fully back, intending to open the window, but he suddenly paused. With a questioning hum, he pulled the curtain closer for a better look and took a whiff. Then he released it and turned his inquisitive gaze to his palm.

“Excuse me, Mr. Owl?”

Owl glanced up at Ritz’s voice, attention momentarily diverted. “Yeah?”

“You said earlier that the phantom thief infiltrated the museum several months ago, correct?”

“I did.”

Ritz lowered her voice. “Does that mean that the thief may be among us at this very moment?”

“... Who knows?” Owl certainly didn’t. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t.

Ritz pressed, “Is there any way we could draw him out? Perhaps something I could do?” Her fist trembled; she clenched it tight. The vexed girl wanted Owl to say something, anything.

But he paused for a moment, and when he did speak, his tone was hesitant. “Ah… um, sorry.”

Ritz’s head flew up, shocked by the sudden apology. “What?”

“I know that at a time like this the right thing to do would be to say something sensible that wouldn’t hurt your feelings –"

“Huh?”

“– but I’m not good with flowery words like that, so I end up coming off pretty direct. So, sorry, but let me hold off answering for now.”

Owl’s troubled response left Ritz flabbergasted for a moment, but her surprise soon gave way to irritation. “What you mean to say is, ‘there’s nothing I can do,’ right?” she demanded with a glare.

Owl glanced around, looking anywhere but at the annoyed girl. “Well… yeah, basically,” he mumbled.

“... Is that so.” Ritz’s indignation suddenly gave way to resignation. Her gaze slid to the floor, shoulders slumping. “It’s always the same,” she muttered. “I can’t do anything. I want to be a police officer, I want to help people… but I can’t.”

Owl and Nick listened silently as for the first time, Ritz’s composure started to crack.

“I worked hard, I studied hard, I skipped grades to enter the police academy, and I finally became a trainee, but everyone looks down on me because they think I only made it as far as I did by my father’s good graces. What the baron said, about how women can’t do police work… I get that a lot. Even now, the thief might be right in front of our eyes, but I can’t see him.”

Ritz bit her lip. Owl stayed silent, but he threw a glance Nick’s way that was clearly begging for help. Nick, for his part, shrugged indulgently, slapped them both on the back, and suggested, “Hey, so, we can’t really get that much done with all these people around, so d’you wanna go get a coffee or something in the meantime?”

■■■■■■■■■■

“So your dad’s a real bigwig police guy?”

“Well, yes.”

“Huh, that’s pretty cool.”

“… I suppose so, yes, though that doesn’t apply to me as well.”

The trio had left the auction hall and were taking a small break in the museum courtyard, though the term “courtyard” was rather misleading given that there was no yard, just white cobblestone paths and sculptures set up in every corner. Nick had popped out and gotten everyone meat pies and coffee, which he passed to the others before plopping down on the nearest bench.

“But still, having a distinguished family member must have some perks, right?” pressed Nick.

“No. The opposite, actually.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Ritz’s gaze was fixed on the ground, her meat pie still unwrapped in her hand. “No one acknowledges my efforts. Even when I accomplish something, everyone chalks it up to my father’s influence.”

“You don’t wanna use your papa’s connections?”

“Of course not! I don’t want anyone to think I got where I am unfairly. Wouldn’t you hate it if someone told you all your achievements were actually because of your parents and not your hard work?”

Nick hummed and glanced over to Owl, head tilted. The detective dipped his head in agreement, but Nick said, “I don’t really know. Not like I have parents to bank on.”

“Huh?”

Ritz paled ever so slightly at the implication, but Nick didn’t look particularly bothered. He offhandedly continued, “If they had some pull, I think I’d be fine taking advantage of it.”

“I wouldn’t.” In just two words, Ritz made her disgust keenly apparent. “I want to become a police officer on my own power!”

“But isn’t your dad’s power also part of your power?”

“What?”

“I mean, yeah, if you were doing it just to be mean or trick people, that’d be unfair, but you’re not that kind of person – you’re way too uptight for that. So I think it’d be fine if you used your dad’s power, as long as it was for the right reasons.”

Ritz stuttered at his reasoning, utterly baffled. She hadn’t thought anything so encouraging could come from the mouth of the same person who had so relentlessly teased her for being “in training.”

“See, look at this!” Nick got to his feet and stood in front of Owl, holding out his own meat pie with a smile and a wink. “Owl, the pie’s gone all cold and now it doesn’t taste good. Please?”

Owl glanced up and sighed, “My abilities aren’t for making meat pies taste good, you know.”

“But you can, and it’d be a waste not to!”

Owl considered Nick’s bold declaration in silence for a moment. Then he sighed, straightened up, and took Nick’s pie. He held it out and whispered a few words.

“Transmute – wave molecule.”

A golden glow twinkled to life in front of his eyes.

“What –?!” Ritz reflexively leaned away from the sudden light. For a brief second, she thought he must have struck a match, but she was wrong.

Owl blew on the shimmer, which instantly expanded into a blazing ring, then two rings, then three, all layering on top of each other. Patterns and formulas sketched themselves out in midair between the lines. The air began to pop and crack like fireworks. Owl reached out with a single finger and began to trace through the air.

“A magic circle...?” Ritz breathed unconsciously. The brilliant design floating in the air resembled the summoning circles wizards used, but those were stories in picture books told to children, not real. She vividly recalled reading stories of sorcerers summoning dragons from the circles they drew… but Owl’s was too small for that. Dumbstruck, she watched as the golden rings encircled the pie in Owl’s hand, then gradually broke apart and dissipated without a trace.

“... Here.” Once the light had fully vanished, Owl handed the pie back to Nick.

“Thanks!” Nick took the pie and cheerfully turned to show it to Ritz. “Here, see for yourself!”

“Eh –?”

“Pretty cool, right?”

Ritz’s eyes shot wide open. Somehow, the pie was now steaming hot. The once-cold crust had turned a delicious-looking roasted golden-brown, and sauce dribbled down the sides like grease, as if it was fresh from the oven. It was perhaps a bit scorched in places, but otherwise it looked quite appetizing. Her gaze flicked back and forth from Nick’s hot pie to the cold one in her hands, and then she turned to Owl and asked in a voice so high she was almost screeching, “You were a wizard this whole time?!”

“Not a wizard.” Owl bit into his own, still cold, pie. “An alchemist.”

“Is that not the same thing?”

“They couldn’t be more different. Magic is using spells to conjure supernatural effects. Alchemy is a science.”

“But, just now, that circle –!”

“That was a specialized chemical formula.”

“It was glowing!”

“So anything that glows is suddenly magic? Even streetlamps?”

“Why did you hide this?!”

“I wasn’t. You just didn’t ask, so I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, because you don’t normally think to ask someone you’ve just met, ‘Hey, can you use magic?’”

“I’m telling you, it’s not magic.”

Ritz enthusiastically held her pie out to Owl. “Heat mine up, too!”

“... Don’t treat me like an oven.” Still, he took her pie and once again whispered, “Transmute – wave molecule,” and the glowing formula appeared and revolved around his hand again. Ritz watched the whole process, so enraptured she forgot to even breathe, earnestly burning the image into her brain.

“Owl’s really good with alchemy that uses heat,” Nick commented, stuffing his face with his hot pie. “He came up with a whole bunch of new alchemical techniques. Some of ‘em are even in the textbooks they use at the Royal College.”

Ritz started. “The Royal College? The highest learning institution in the country? The one that takes ten years to graduate?”

“Yup. Owl graduated top of his class.”

“Wha –?” While Ritz was lost in her amazement, Owl’s circle faded away again to reveal a fresh, juicy meat pie, which he handed back to her. She stared at it, thoroughly impressed. “… Amazing,” she murmured.

Owl shared none of her fascination. He took a sip of his coffee and said, “It’s nothing. Right now I’m just a no-name detective being used as an oven.”

“You always get so wrapped up in your cases and experiments that you turn the office into a scorching hell, so you can deal with this much.” Nick puffed out his chest, clearing his throat proudly. “Better yet, aren’t I awesome, using Owl’s powers so effectively? I am, right?”

Astonished, Ritz asked, “Why do you think that?”

“You get to enjoy a delicious, piping hot meat pie because I showed you what Owl could do, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“And that makes you happy, right?”

“... I mean, I am happy about it, yes....”

“’Cause Owl’s alchemy is really amazing. But if he hadn’t used it, your pie would still be ice cold! So Ritz is happy because! Of! Me!” Nick’s opinion of Owl’s, and by extension his own, greatness was unwavering.

“What kind of logic is that...?”

“And you can do the same, Ritz.”

“Meaning?”

“Your papa might be the amazing one, but the one using his power properly, for the right reasons, to make someone happy, would still be you.”

“... Eh?”

“I know you’re serious and that you’re a real hard worker, but by not using what you’ve got, you’re not helping everyone you could be helping,” Nick reasoned with a wink.

Ritz stared blankly at the meat pie in her hand. She took a bite and swallowed, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. Slowly, the tension in her shoulders bled away, as though melted by the heat. Her field of view had widened while she grappled with a point of view she hadn’t even come close to considering before. Her gaze turned to Nick once more, and she haltingly said, “Perhaps your train of thought… has… some merit?”

“It sure does.”

“How should I put it… I feel like I’ll need some time to come to terms with such a flexible way of thinking.”

“Ehh? You think so?”

“I know you were trying to comfort me. I had thought you were rather… well, nasty, at first, but you have a spark of kindness in you, after all,” Ritz huffed, her chin raised.

“Wow,” Nick grumbled. “Coulda just said ‘thank you’ like a normal person. Jeez, you’re stubborn.”

“Unfortunately for you, I inherited my stubbornness from my father.”

“He passed on something he really shouldn’t have.”

“B-Be quiet! My word, you really are impertinent!”

“I’ll have you know my ‘impertinence’ is very popular with the neighborhood madams.~”

“What is with you?! A child like you shouldn’t be tricking women like that!”

Another argument was brewing for the nth time that day. Owl watched them, sipping his coffee. After a moment, he whispered to himself in a vaguely perplexed tone, “Am I really being forced to watch you guys flirt?”

“We aren’t flirting!” Ritz and Nick snapped at him in unison.

“You sure?”

“Yeah!” “Yes!”

Owl drained the last of his coffee while the two loudly asserted that they were definitely not getting along. Then, swirling his cup around, he said, “Hey, Ritz, I’ve got a favor to ask.”

■■■■■■■■■■

That evening, Owl and Nick returned to the office to prepare for the upcoming auction.

“Huh. So you ended up on good terms with that girl after all,” mused Byron

“Yeah.” Owl was taking a quick breather at the counter in Mistilteinn. Byron was chatting with him while polishing glasses. They weren’t alone – there were several other customers behind Owl in the dimly-lit shop, all regulars from the neighborhood.

“Nick’s got a knack for handling women,” Byron commented.

“The mood around them was pretty good,” agreed Owl.

“Now hold on a minute!” Nick tapped Owl on the back with a serving tray. “In what world was the mood ‘good?’ And Byron, table five, beers and a cheese platter.”

“Got it.”

Nick’s lower lip jutted out in a pout. “My type is kind, laid-back older ladies. You know that!”

“Ritz is older that you.”

“I mean, maybe, but she’s not really a lady....” Nick considered for a moment, spinning his tray on one finger. “Honestly, she’s got more of a ‘little sister’ vibe.”

Owl’s shoulders shook in a quiet chuckle. “You’re not wrong, I guess.” He couldn’t find a way to refute Nick.

“Right? No matter how you look at it, she really doesn��t look older than me. Though maybe I’m just too used to you, Owl, since you look like a proper grown-up.”

As Nick muttered about how Owl and Ritz didn’t look the same age at all, Byron set out two mugs and a plate, calling, “Table five.” Nick placed them on his tray and darted off. Two drunk working-class men sat before the table he was heading for, and as he passed they called out, “Hey, keep goin’ with that story you were tellin’!” laughing good-naturedly all the while. Nick had a talent for getting adults to treat him nicely and capitalized on it to gather information all over the city to great effect.

While Nick was occupied, Byron leaned over the counter. “So, d’you think they’ll catch that elusive phantom thief?” he whispered to Owl. “If you’re figured something out, lemme know.”

“Hm?”

“Hude Lou, that’s his name, right? Did you figure out how he’s gonna break in, or what trick he’s gonna pull to steal whatever he’s going after, or what?”

“No idea,” Owl placidly replied, raising his palms in a shrug.

“Huh?” Byron was taken aback for a moment before his shoulders slumped. He groaned, “Seriously, what’re you gonna do about your rent…?”

“I’ll pay you back physically.”

“As in ‘you’ll pay with your body?’”

“Yes.” Owl pointed at Nick, indicating he would also work as a waiter.

Byron’s face fell, however, as he saw the potential nightmare. “You mess up orders, you annihilate any dishes you try to wash, you lose track of what order goes to what table… no. No, there’s no way in hell, there’s not a single job down here I could ever leave to you, you dumbass.” The bartender ground his knuckles into Owl’s forehead, adding, “Seriously, how can you remember complicated scientific formulas but not a simple order?”

Owl averted his gaze. “That’s a shame,” he said in a rather indifferent tone.

“That’s my line. You do realize that if you can’t pay your rent, I’m gonna have to kick you out, right?”

“That’s a little hasty of you.”

“You really don’t get it, do you? It’s a pipe dream, isn’t it, thinking you’re actually gonna pay me.”

“Naturally. A detective’s work only begins after a mystery appears. You can’t solve what hasn’t yet happened, in the same way that you can’t put jam on bread before you bake it.”

“... Cheeky brat. I might’ve gone easy on you if you’d looked even a little concerned.” Byron flicked Owl on the forehead and retreated back behind the counter. However, he returned after a moment and asked, “What’re you gonna do about dinner?” as he placed a basket of bagels on the counter.

“Dinner?”

“I can at least make you a bagel sandwich.”

“You sure?”

“Might as well. I got asked to make other stuff, too, so it’s no skin off my back.”

“Ahh... that college student you’ve been looking after. I think you said he was at the Royal College?”

“That’s right. It’s exam season, so he’s been pestering me for dinner.” Byron casually flung a chunk of ham in the air, caught it, and then set to work carving it up.

“I want a scrambled egg one!” Nick had returned at some point and put in his own request with a raised hand.

“Scrambled egg, got it,” agreed Byron. Nick pumped a fist in the air with a cheer.

“I’d like blueberry and cheese,” said Owl.

“You can make a special request after you learn how to properly wait tables,” Byron rebuffed coldly.

“Nick gets all the affection….” Owl tossed Nick a stare, lamenting the unfairness of it all.

Nick, however, gave a serious nod. “There’s no helping it, since I am pretty cute. What you need to do, Owl, is to come up with some kind of alchemical formula to make yourself cuter.”

“... I see.” Owl slid off his stool, fully intending to go do just that, heading for the stairs leading up to the second floor.

Byron’s scolding trailed after them as they left. “Don’t get any ideas, you damn strays,” he called. “You can be as cute as you want, you still gotta pay rent!” The two ignored him.

As they passed through the pub, one of the drunk regulars hailed Owl, holding out a cigarette. “Heeey, Owl, spare a light?”

“If I lend you one, will you return it?” Owl held out his gloved left hand and snapped his fingers.

In an instant, a flame roared to life from his fingertip, setting the drunkard’s cigarette and bangs alight. The man let out a yelp and fell off his chair from the shock.

“… Sorry. I misjudged the output. You don’t have to give it back.” Owl headed up the stairs, staring at his hand in surprise.

original written by Nagaya Kawaji here

#kotonoha project

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iliveiloveiwrite · 3 years

Text

an artist’s eye // Benedict Bridgerton

Summary: Benedict Bridgerton was an artist, even if his inspiration had no idea of what he feels.

A/N: I promise to slow down with the fics! I go back to work in a couple of days anyway so I’ll definitely slow down. I hope you all like! It’s shorter than my last few fics so I’m sorry for that!! My taglist is open so if you’d like to be on it, let me know and I am considering opening my requests for Bridgerton fics... considering.

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of food and drink, pining, mutual pining, sketching, art, drawing (I am not an artist, I cannot draw a stick man so I apologise in advance), kissing.

Word count: 1.8k

The graphite point sits heavy in his hand as Benedict struggles to remember the lines he needs. With only his memory to aid him, Benedict struggled more with the portraits he preferred to draw than the landscapes that were growing increasingly popular among the highest of London society.

Sighing, Benedict presses his fingers to his eyes as if it will help jumpstart his memory to bring forward the correct image he needs. He regrets the action as quick as he had done it when he thinks of the mixture of graphite and charcoal coating his fingers.

Rubbing his face with the sleeve of his shirt, he feels a moment of pity for the servants who would no doubt grumble and complain at the state of it. However, as he glances down at the sketch – the arch of his subject’s smile, the depths of their eyes – he cannot bring himself to care too much.

It wouldn’t see the light of day. Once complete, the sketchbook would be tucked away in the drawer in his desk. If it was to fall into the wrong hands, then as much as he is confident of his artistic talent, he would not recover from the fallout. Benedict worries for the day that the look in your eyes changes; once you realise the extent of his feelings for you.

He hadn’t meant to fall in love with you, but he had. There were a lot of things in Benedict’s life that he hadn’t meant to do and has regretted completing such an action once done. However, he cannot find it in himself to feel bad about falling in love with you even when he had not meant to.

As much as he puts on airs and graces, he would not approach you with his feelings. He wasn’t ready though you made his heart sing like no other.

One day, he tells himself as he finally remembers the swoop of your neckline. One day he will tell you as he picks up his graphite point and charcoal once more.

Not yet, however.

------------

The drawing room remains quiet as Benedict silently adds to his sketch collection. His mother sits across the room, content with a stitching pattern for the arrival of Daphne’s new baby. Eloise lounges on the couch, a book in her hand and a box of chocolates on her stomach, eyes pouring over the pages hungrily.

The only sound in the room is the roughness of his pencil on the paper. It didn’t matter what angle he approached this drawing at, he could not get it to look right. It was going to vex him until he had bested it.

“Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N) has arrived,” The Butler announces to which Benedict suddenly sits up straighter, closing his sketchbook, leaving it on the table.

“Wonderful,” Violet Bridgerton smiles, “Show them up, please.”

“I didn’t know (Y/N) was calling today,” Benedict comments lightly as the Butler disappears from the room, trying to sound as if his heart isn’t currently pounding in his chest.

“(Y/N) always calls on a Thursday,” Eloise states, voice puzzled. She shares a look of confusion with her mother when Benedict suddenly stands, announcing to them both, “I shall clean myself up a bit, make myself look presentable for our guest.”

The look of confusion soon turns into one of understanding as both women watch their son and brother dash from the room. As if at the same time, a smile crosses both their faces when they realise that their beloved son and brother has fallen in love and with a dear friend of the family too.

They do not get to discuss the topic, however, for you are shown to the drawing room, greeting both women with a large smile and buoyant conversation.

“Help yourself to tea and biscuits, dear,” Violet invites, gesturing to the tea service now being laid on the table. Your stomach rumbles at the sight of the biscuits, unable to turn down the buttery goodness.

“Thank you,” You reply, taking a seat at the table, reaching for a biscuit and the teapot.

It’s then that you see it. A leatherbound book left on the other side of the table, barely hidden by the cake stand of treats.

Curiosity being your besetting sin, you reach for the leatherbound book on the table and begin to flick through the pages. A sketch of a pair of hands at the beginning; they hold a single flower – a rose, though what colour is impossible to tell since the sketch remains firmly in shades of greys and blacks. Enraptured, you turn the page to find a detailed image of a parasol, still sketched in the same greys and blacks as the previous picture. The artist has captured the lace trimming perfectly. The longer you stare at it, you come to realise that the parasol is being held by someone, but it isn’t clear who.

It isn’t until you reach a sketch of your side portrait that you come to realise that the previous sketches – the hands, the parasol with just a hint of a shadow under it – they’re of you.

They’re all of you. Each stunning sketch is of you.

Your breath quickens in your chest when you see who the sketchbook belongs to; when you spy the initials written on the inside sleeve of the front cover. ‘B.B.’ written in his elegant script – an artist in every aspect of his life. Whilst you had observed that Benedict sometimes appeared with smudges to his fingers and paint stains on the cuffs of his tailored white shirt, you had never seen a sketch or a painting until now. He truly had a gift; a talent worthy of being displayed in Somerset House.

You hadn’t been aware of his feelings for you though, but you would not be the first to admit that you found yourself attracted to the Bridgerton. Taught at a young age, you knew it was not wise to share such feelings with others. Instead, you dampened them down, hiding them away where they grew unattended – they rooted in your heart, making it very difficult to find another love worthy.

Bringing a hand to your mouth, you hide your smile, not wanting to give too much away to ever observant Bridgerton matriarch. You turn page after page, letting yourself fall deeper into your feelings for Benedict now that you find there is hope of them being requited.

------------

Benedict’s breath leaves his body in one fell swoop when he returns to the drawing room and he realises exactly what you hold in your hand. He hadn’t moved it upon your announcement; he thought he had, but instead, like a fool, he left it sitting there on the table.

A fool. He was a fool. How quick, Benedict thinks to himself, how quick a life can change – mere minutes he had been gone and now he was to have his love for you outed.

You haven’t noticed his presence yet, and for that Benedict is thankful. It gives him time to come up with something – anything – to explain the numerous sketches of you. His mind is running too fast; he cannot come up with a thought good enough to excuse the sketches in his book. His heart continues to pound in his chest; it had not slowed down since your announcement though at this point it reminds him that is, indeed, alive and not suffering from a night terror.

As if finally sensing the extra person in the room, you glance up. Your eyes meeting the deep blue of Benedict’s, and you freeze in your spot. Violet and Eloise glance between the two of you. Violet, not one to usually ignore tradition, hurries her daughter from the room – knowing the conversation that was about to take place.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper at the click of the door shutting. You close the sketchbook, placing it on the table as far away from you as possible to keep your temptation at bay.

“I think I should be the one apologising,” Benedict confesses, taking one more step into the room. He tucks his hands behind his back, ever the picture of grace and elegance as he thinks of how long he has left without before your opinion of him changes forever – artistic talent or not.

“I knew you were an artist; I had seen the smudges on your hands, but I didn’t think…”

“What?”

“I didn’t think you were drawing me.”

“Surely you know?” He asks, voice loud in the quiet room. When you remain silent, he continues, “Surely you know of my feelings for you?”

You shake your head, eyes glancing between the taller Bridgerton and the leatherbound sketchbook lying on the table. “I didn’t know,” You whisper, voice breaking as you take in the distraught look on his face.

“Well,” Benedict murmurs, clearing his throat, “You know of them now.”

“I do,” You murmur,

“I hope I haven’t offended you,” Benedict remarks, “Those sketches were not meant to be seen by anyone else.”

“Only if I haven’t offended you by looking through them.”

Benedict shakes his head, “You could never offend me.”

“Then I am not offended either. I’m quite flattered, you’re very talented.”

“Thank you,” Benedict says graciously, nodding his head slightly.

“You need to know that your feelings are returned, Benedict,” You declare suddenly and plainly, displaying your feelings for all to see.

“They are?” Benedict asks, voice awed as if he didn’t take into account this reaction.

“They are,” You state firmly, meeting his gaze proudly as if you could ever be ashamed of your feelings for the brunette.

Benedict stalks across the room; tradition and etiquette be damned as he reaches for your hand to pull you from your chair. His hands settle on your waist as you tilt your head back to look at him. A silent question reflects in his eyes to which you answer with a nod of your head.

His hands move from your waist to cradle your face as he dips down, pressing his lips to yours. It isn’t hurried; it’s perfect as Benedict takes control of the kiss, groaning softly at the feel of your mouth and your body pressed against him. You smile into the kiss as your arms wrap around Benedict’s neck, pulling him ever closer to you.

Benedict’s mouth brushes against yours as he asks, “Would you like to accompany me to Lady Danbury’s ball next week?”

“As in you would court me?”

Benedict chuckles softly, “Yes. I would like to court you, is that okay?”

“More than okay,” You smile before pressing a kiss to the corner of Benedict’s mouth and stepping away.

Turning back to the sketchbook, you open it to image that had kickstarted your heart into an irregular rhythm. Benedict stands by your side as your eyes pour over his sketch; each line and angle, each section of shading. “You truly have an artist’s eye,” You say quietly, tangling your hands together.

“Thank you,” Benedict whispers, bringing your entwined hands up to his mouth whereupon he lays a gentle kiss to the back of your gloved hand.

“Will you show me more?” You ask, turning to face the man that had turned you into a work of art.

“Darling, I’ll show you them all.”

***********

Bridgerton Taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore @dreaming-about-fanfictions @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @janelongxox @aspiringsloth20 @wallwriterstuff @magicalxdaydream

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict x reader #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton imagines #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton imagines

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bestworstcase · 3 years

Note

I like your thoughts on how Rapunzel was handling things wrong in “Rapunzel: Day One.” The episode tries to imply that Cassandra is wrong for not sharing her feelings with Rapunzel, but is a Rapunzel really the person Cassandra should be opening up to? Rapunzel never respects Cassandra’s boundaries. Cassandra’s a private person. Rapunzel doesn’t respect that. And just because Cassandra doesn’t want to open up to everyone doesn’t mean that she’s bottling things up.

ok so this is gonna be a long one bc tbh i like. fundamentally disagree that RDO, the narrative of RDO, in any way positions cassandra as the one at fault for the emotional conflict between her and raps.

to digress a bit - while tts is not immune to Aesop Episodes (e.g. rapunzel's enemy or you're kidding me) wherein the characters close out the story by talking about What They've Learned, ultimately i don't think tts can or should be read as a morality play. it's a story where sometimes characters just... fuck up and the narrative doesn't waste its time on hand-holding or spoon-feeding us the moral.

anyway, i submit that RDO is what i'll call a False Aesop Episode. it follows the basic structure of an Aesop Episode (protagonist acts badly -> protagonist learns a lesson) but the lesson rapunzel learns is a bad one. it's like if you took... say, "an apple a day keeps the doctor away" as an aesop, the False Aesop here is rapunzel confidently eating a rotten apple and then being blindsided a few months later when the doctor who kept begging her not to eat food with maggots in it steals the moonstone from under her nose and runs off into the night with her new demon pal--

and that metaphor got away from me a little bit but you get the idea.

#1: constructing the conflict

the episode opens with cassandra. she's training; we see the sword fly out of her injured hand; lance suggests she take a break, and she answers, "thanks to rapunzel's little trick at the great tree, i have to relearn everything using this hand, so breaks aren't really an option."

she isn't harsh about it. her demeanor isn't all that different from her normal self—she even segues into a very typical concern (that the woods are dangerous and they should all be on their guard) and banters with lance a bit.

what this communicates, immediately and succinctly, is that:

1. cassandra's injury is severe. it's disabling. she's either in immense pain or she's lost all the strength in that hand or both.

2. cass is really upset about this, and not happy with rapunzel.

3. nevertheless cass is keeping her feelings more or less in check; the worst anyone could say about her is she's being a bit more curt than normal.

which is to say, she's acting quite reasonable. she's not taking out her hurt feelings on anyone else or being mean or lashing out, and she's not hiding her injury either. the most concerning thing about her behavior here is actually that she's focused on training so she can do her job instead of on healing or resting or taking care of herself.

then there's a pan over to rapunzel, who is angrily watching this play out while venting to pascal. "i get why cass is mad at me," she says. "she told me—" huge disdainful rolling of eyes here "—not to use the decay spell back and the tree, and i did, and she hurt her hand. but if she had just listened to me and stayed out of it, this all could have been avoided! and i feel like we could work things out, but she refuses to talk about it!!"

line this up against cassandra's behavior and spot the differences.

cass is focused on her injured hand. cass is upset because rapunzel accidentally mutilated her in the great tree. that's what this conflict is about for cass; her injury, and how she feels about being injured.

by contrast, rapunzel thinks the conflict is about them not listening to each other. she does acknowledge that cass was injured, but 1. she puts the blame on cass, and 2. has shoved the fact of the injury to the periphery of the conflict. it's not important, it's just a natural consequence of the real conflict, which is cass being mad and petty and refusing to talk to her about how she's unfairly blaming rapunzel for something that wasn't rapunzel's fault.

[i will add here that this behavior from rapunzel is 100% not knowing how to handle guilt and externalizing it as anger, and this thread of rapunzel burying her guilt gets picked up again in rapunzeltopia; it isn't that rapunzel doesn't care that cass is hurt, so much as she's just not emotionally equipped to process these feelings in a healthy way so it mutates into...this.]

and where cass handles her feelings in a pretty reasonable way, rapunzel rants and raves and draws cass as a literal monster with fangs and claws—she's stewing in her out of control emotions and concludes that she just has to find a way to force cass talk to her, which she does shortly thereafter by ordering—not asking—cass to come with her to search for parts to fix the caravan.

#2: the breakdown of communication

i've said it before but it bears repeating: cassandra might not be perfect, but she's a good communicator. in s1 and the front half of s2, she shares her feelings with rapunzel readily and frequently. when she tries to set boundaries with rapunzel, she's able to be clear and specific about what she needs. when she expresses frustration with eugene or her dad or rapunzel, she's very articulate about exactly what she's frustrated about. she can recognize when politer, softer refusals are being ignored and become blunter and more specific to ensure the message is getting across.

the moments when cass struggles to communicate are noteworthy because they're not normal. they signal that she's in acute crisis. think of how her unhinged rant about adira in RATGT heralded a complete emotional breakdown. she clams up in RDO because it's the only thing she can do to protect herself. because rapunzel is an inexperienced nineteen year old who learned all her social "skills" from a manipulative, egotistical abuser and nowhere in the series does that show more than in RDO.

rapunzel knows cass doesn't want to talk about the great tree, so she isolates cass from the rest of the group with the intention of forcing her to talk about it anyway. she's passive aggressive at first: chattering about inanities and trying to bait cass into 'opening up,' and acting vexed and guilt-trippy when she finds out cass brought owl along. she broaches the subject by going "too bad there's not an open-up-to-your-best-friend-about-the-thing-you-guys-are-fighting-about wand, huh?"

then she leads with "i know you're mad at me, but i did the right thing. i didn't have a choice," which... what can cass even say to that? she acknowledged cassandra's anger in one breath and followed up with "but you're wrong tho" in the next. that statement makes cassandra's feelings about her debilitating injury into an argument about Who Was Right.

this is a game that cass tries very hard not to play. "look, if you feel that way, then it's fine. we're good," she says, which is a statement that is not true at all on its face but - what it means is that if rapunzel wants to turn this into a debate about Who Was Right, cass will concede because that's not an argument she's invested in. cass does not want to put her feelings on trial so rapunzel can pick them apart and decide whether she deserves to have them or not.

so she disengages. the sun sets. they camp. rapunzel pokes her again, this time with a more direct approach: "cass, i need to talk about what we both know is going on between us."

and that's when cass throws up a WALL. prior to RDO, when cass is pressed on her feelings, she either: 1. opens up and explains to the extent that she's able (e.g. under raps or RATGT), or 2. flatly shuts the conversation down (e.g. cassandra vs eugene). but in RDO?

"there's nothing to talk about."

"i never said i was upset."

"what makes you so sure that you know how i'm feeling?"

this is cass falling off the end of her rope. this is a cass who spent the last year and a half with rapunzel running roughshod over every boundary cass exhausted herself trying to set. this is cass maybe a few weeks out from rapunzel screaming at her in front of all their mutual friends and then telling her "i am going to make decisions you don't agree with and i need you to be okay with that" when cass tried to open up about her deepest insecurities. this is cass spiraling into despair because she's seen that her best friend cares more about assuaging her own guilt and exerting her authority as a princess than she does about cassandra's feelings.

this is the moment when the friendship dies.

#3: the memory wipe, cassandra's apology, and the false aesop

the details of the tangled-but-cass shenanigans are not super important for the purposes of this discussion. suffice it to say that cassandra lashes out in the heat of the moment, seriously harms rapunzel by mistake, and spends the rest of the episode trying to repair the damage, then apologizes to rapunzel for hurting her. this is, obviously, the correct thing to do when you hurt someone, even if it was an accident.

you see the parallel here, yeah?

rapunzel hurt cass with magic by accident, and then made cass's hurt feelings all about her, blamed cass for the injury, twisted the facts to justify her own indignation, picked a fight about Who Was Right and invalidated cassandra's feelings, and pushed and pushed and pushed until cass blew up and lashed out at her.

cassandra also hurt rapunzel with magic by accident, and then she set aside her own hurt feelings from the argument they were having before to focus one hundred percent of her energy on brewing a cure and keeping amnesiac rapunzel safe, readily admitted her fault, and offered an earnest apology for losing her temper as soon as she could reasonably do so.

if RDO were a true Aesop Episode, this would be the lesson, and rapunzel would of course learn from cassandra's good example and reciprocate by apologizing for the accident in the great tree and her abysmal behavior afterwards—and in a reflection of how cass shared how bottling up her anger allowed it to erupt in a catastrophic way, rapunzel would probably confess that her demanding, selfish behavior came from a place of feeling awful about what happened and terrified that it would ruin their friendship.

but RDO is a False Aesop Episode. rapunzel isn't emotionally equipped to handle the intensity of her guilt, and she lacks the social insight and empathy to draw comparisons between what she did to cass and what cass did to her, so she can't connect the two situations in her head to understand what she's doing wrong. the true aesop flies right over her head, and instead what she learns is this:

1. she was right about cass being upset

2. backing cass into a corner fixed the problem

3. friends really do "just know"

4. being pushy and forceful was the right thing to do.

because the thing is, when cass apologizes for the accidental memory wipe, she truthfully explains why she acted the way she did—she's furious and she didn't want to talk about it, so she held it in as long as she could and then exploded when the pressure became too much—and for rapunzel, i think the explanation and the actual apology get conflated. meaning, cass says "i'm sorry for what i did out of anger" and what rapunzel hears is "i'm sorry for being angry."

and because of that misunderstanding, from rapunzel's perspective her own indignation has been validated and her behavior justified, because she was right all along and cass shouldn't have been angry with her in the first place and now everything is fine--

but it's not fine.

we're not supposed to share rapunzel's perspective here, because she's flat out wrong. nothing is really better and nothing has really changed, except that rapunzel got the talk she wanted and stops putting this intense pressure on cass. so as we enter the house of yesterday's tomorrow, rapunzel is taking it for granted that things are fine with cass, and meanwhile cass is still injured, still angry, still as aloof as she can be without getting rapunzel breathing down her neck again... and then she meets zhan tiri, who gives her everything she needed and couldn't get from rapunzel.

like, to my mind, this is the entire point of RDO, that rapunzel makes this catastrophic mess of trying to patch things up after RATGT and comes out of that mess wrongly thinking she succeeded. the episode is presented through the lens of rapunzel's perspective, but the lines are very wide and i absolutely think the intention is for the audience to read between them and understand the reality that rapunzel has sort of blinded herself to.

#tts #rta #interpersonal conflict......good #theres also a whole separate layer of stuff going on in RDO w the class dynamic #this fight coming on the heels of raps pulling rank in RATGT and all but ordering cass to shut up and deal. like -#in RDO cass is Literally Doing What Rapunzel Ordered Her To Do #being okay with the decisions rapunzel made that hurt her #except that's not what rapunzel wants really. rapunzel wants cass to be her friend #but cass learnt in RATGT that her friendship can't transcend her servitude #she knows now that when push comes to shove rapunzel will treat her like a servant so... she acts accordingly #er #long post

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novelconcepts · 3 years

Note

Jamie & Dani short prompt- Online Dating au meeting online and being from bad past relationship. Thank u

This is probably a bad idea. It is, isn’t it? Almost certainly.

Why is she here?

Dani Clayton has been playing this particular set of thoughts--bad idea, terrible idea, why would you do this?--on repeat for three days. Ever since setting up that dating profile. Ever since realizing there isn’t much use in setting up a dating profile if you’re not going to use it.

Oh, it’s all fun and games, building the thing. Find a photo that accentuates all the best parts of your face--Dani, after an hour of careful consideration, wound up going with one that accentuated her hair, more than anything, but she suspects the same idea counts. Then, the profile. What do you like? Teaching, long walks, new experiences, bad coffee. What don’t you like?

Men, she’d thought, and snorted aloud into her wine before settling on: Deep water, accordion music, expectations, being called Danielle.

A little more flourish, tipsy keystrokes, a casually-framed short-version of her life. Perfect. And then...well, then you hit the publish button, don’t you? You decide, for better or worse, to jump off this diving board and see just how far you can stand to swim before the energy gives out on you.

The faces appearing before her hadn’t been bad, certainly. Pretty, most of them. Interesting, a few. Still, she hadn’t swiped right on any--once or twice, because she’d forgotten which way meant yes please, but mostly because no one seemed quite...right. Which, she’d thought, was silly. The whole point of an app like this is to cast as many nets as possible and see what comes up. The whole point is to have fun.

But every time she’d hovered over a promising image, a woman who likes dogs, or plays the violin, or goes rock-climbing in her spare time, she’d thought of him. Eddie. Who had taken one yes to a single date, and tried to make a whole life with her out of it.

Eddie, who had taken her two decades to pull away from.

What if the women here were the same? Not Eddie, exactly, but--presumptive. What if they believed a swipe-right was as good as a marriage proposal? What if she got bound up in conversation, and then a date, and then a relationship with someone else who just didn’t fit right?

Left. Left. Left.

And then: the mistake.

She hadn’t meant to swipe right. Exactly. She hadn’t planned, maybe is the better way of putting it, on swiping right. She’d only wanted to look at the woman’s profile a little longer. Only wanted to inspect the facets this woman had put out on display with almost resigned simplicity.

Some people, Dani had by now realized, wrote poetry and paragraphs to describe themselves.

Jamie Taylor had bullet points.

“Gardener. English. Likes: Plants. Stories. Tea. Dislikes: Bullshit.”

The end. That had been quite literally the sum of it. Gardener. English. No bullshit.

But the picture, somehow, Dani hadn’t been able to look away from. Not because of carefully-arranged lighting, not because of a curated model-clean image--but because the woman appeared to have posted the photo almost under duress. It came in profile, as though someone else had done the job, her head turned toward the camera as if interrupted. Her hands were buried in a flower pot. Her clothes were simple--a tank top, a silver chain resting against the jut of collarbones, a pair of worn-looking jeans with holes in the knees. Her eyes--some fascinating color Dani couldn’t quite place--looked somewhere between amused and irritated.

She looked real.

Stupid, Dani thinks now--because that was probably the idea, wasn’t it? This woman, Jamie, had planned to look exactly this way. Real. Vexed at the idea of putting herself out there. Reluctantly available.

It was a ploy, certainly--but one that seems to be working, because not only did Dani accidentally-not-accidentally swipe right, she found herself texting the woman. For hours. She’d expected much less, had figured this Jamie person would be as brief in text as she had been in bio, but...

Jamie had talked to her. Willingly. Teasingly, with more humor than truth, maybe, but with no sign at all that she was sick of Dani’s questions, bad jokes, nervous assessment that I really don’t do this, I honestly don’t get it.

I don’t, either, Jamie had replied, and that had felt like enough of a reason to keep testing the waters. Enough of a reason to keep the conversation going back and forth, back and forth, until nearly two in the morning.

Shit, she’d said. I need to be at work in four hours.

Shame, Jamie had replied, her tone already searingly familiar over text. Own your own business, make your own hours. Far wiser approach.

I’ll make a note of it for when I found an elementary school, Dani had replied, laughing. She hadn’t said she’d already been in bed for an hour, the phone resting on the pillow beside her head so she wouldn’t miss the buzz of a new message. It had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time, with wine-warmed blood and the happy haze of good conversation. Jamie made her laugh. Jamie put her at ease. Jamie might not have been real, but she felt real, and that was good.

Better than anything she’d felt in years, if she was honest with herself.

Still, when the next day had come and gone with no message, she’d thought, Fair enough. Jamie had been good virtual company for one night. It was more than she’d expected to get out of this app.

Far more than she’d expected, particularly when Thursday night rolled around and her phone buzzed.

Teacher, yeah? No school on Saturday?

Correct, Dani had replied, as amused by the out-of-left-field text as she was irritated with how her stomach had flipped over upon receiving it. You have figured out the complexity of the American school system.

I am a genius, Jamie sent back, followed quickly by: Drinks tomorrow night?

Drinks. A thing that people do. A thing that adult people do for date reasons.

She isn’t real, she’d thought, even as her thumb was punching back: How’s 8? Miller’s?

A mistake. Definitely a mistake. Because the app had been a lark, and the conversation had been too easy, and the fact that she can’t quite pick out the colors in Jamie’s eyes from a single photo is making her crazier than she’d like to admit.

A mistake, saying yes. A mistake, suggesting the local pub-like establishment around the corner, whose beer-and-burger specials had kept her fed on too many evenings spent working late. A mistake, because once this goes south--as it’s absolutely bound to, as everything Eddie-shaped always has--she’s going to lose her favorite hangout in the deal, too.

And yet: here she is. Standing at the door, wondering if the outfit chosen for the evening festivities--tight jeans, pink blouse, hoop earrings--is too much or not nearly enough.

What am I doing here?

Maybe, she thinks with mingled alarm and hope, she won’t even have showed up. Maybe it’s all part of the ruse: look approachable, look human and normal, look a little too beautiful in the most grounded way possible--then, cheerfully, invite a woman to drinks and just don’t show. A fun story for whoever comes next. Can you believe she thought I’d want to meet her after one night of texting?

“Dani?”

English, Dani thinks with a sudden rush of heat. Right. Somehow, she hadn’t quite been prepared for the accent, which--coming out of this woman, draped with languid ease at a table--is truly a little more than Dani thinks she can handle just now. The accent, combined with the mess of curls dragged back from her face, and a dress sense that manages to be both casual and deeply attractive at the same time, is...

“Jamie,” she says, her voice a little lower, a little more hoarse, than is truly necessary. The woman pushes up from her seat, a small-framed figure in a black button-down, suspenders, ripped jeans. She’s pressing a hand toward Dani, offering a firm shake as though they are business partners, not an off-the-cuff bad idea of a date. “You look--”

“Never been here before,” Jamie says, almost apologetically. She gestures for Dani to sit before dropping back down in a sprawl that implies exactly the opposite of what her mouth is insisting. “Wasn’t sure about the, ah, dress code.”

“You--you did fine,” Dani tells her, wishing suddenly she’d gone for a dress. Or a different human body altogether. She feels too tightly-strung, too anxious for the easy smile on Jamie’s lips. “Um. You’re very. In person.”

“Very,” Jamie repeats, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. “Is very American for wish I’d gone left, after all?”

“No. No. Absolutely not. That.” Bit too forceful, she suspects, judging by the smile spreading into a grin. “No, it’s just--your picture didn’t--tell me you’d be so...”

“Clean?” Jamie suggests innocently. She raises her hands, wiggling her fingers in a small wave. “Scrub up fine, when I need to. Seemed to call for it.”

“And you...sure did answer,” Dani says stupidly. “The. Call, I mean. I’m sorry, I really don’t do this often.”

Something seems to soften in Jamie, her smile less teasing as she leans across the table. “Hey, no worries here. Same person you were talking to the other night.”

Dani nods, embarrassed, and flags down a server. Drinks ordered, she draws in a deep breath.

“I mean, I haven’t done this in years. Or. Ever, I guess.”

“A first date?” Jamie asks. When Dani doesn’t answer, she adds in a knowing tone, “A date with a woman?”

“Both,” Dani says honestly. “My last relationship was--well, I mean, we were engaged--”

Jamie whistles under her breath, reaching up to scratch her head. “Blimey. What happened?”

“He’s...him.” It’s too much to go into on a first date, too much to explain, even though talking to Jamie over text had been so dangerously easy. “My best friend growing up, but that was...growing up.”

Jamie nods thoughtfully, tilting her chin in thanks when the server deposits two full pint glasses and a basket of fries on the table. “Rough time, sounds like. I can relate. My last relationship also did not go well.”

“Was he also a man who thought you’d be all too happy to quit your job and take care of a bunch of babies?” Dani asks, perhaps a little too bitterly for the occasion. Jamie flashes another grin, sipping her drink.

“She was a woman who thought I’d be all too happy to take the fall when she got busted for possession.”

Dani gapes. “Oh. Oh--I didn’t know--I’m so--”

Jamie shrugs. “She wasn’t wrong. I was nineteen, and deeply stupid. Live and learn, as the poets say.”

“Which poets?” Dani asks, smiling a little. Jamie’s brow furrows.

“John...Lennon, possibly? Hard to say. Anyway, relationships are a chore and a half, but the greatest people in the world tell me thirty is too old to play musical bedframes, so. Here we are.”

No bullshit, thinks Dani approvingly. For what little she’d put into her profile, Jamie evidently hadn’t been lying about that.

“You haven’t been in a relationship since you were nineteen?”

“In my mind, I was still in the relationship at twenty-four, when they let me out. She didn’t agree. Found out she’d been married two years, by then.” Something darkens in Jamie’s eyes for a moment. She sighs. “Like I said. Not my finest. But I am, as they say, a shining beacon of reform these days.”

“Now, when you say they,” Dani teases, grinning. Jamie nods decisively.

“John Lennon. Definitively.”

There it is, thinks Dani, watching Jamie pop a fry into her mouth. There, the easy roll of conversation from the other night. As though they’ve known each other forever. As though two people who have thus far failed irrevocably at relationships make a perfect match.

Easy, she thinks. Don’t go wild, now.

“So,” she says, when the comfortable silence between them has grown a bit too comfortable for the setting, “who are the greatest people in the world? The ones who tell you thirty is too old for...did you say musical bedframes?”

Jamie laughs. The ring of it curls gently around Dani’s head like a soft hand, a sound she’ll find herself replaying later with a skipping heart.

“Not many willing to put up with a grump of my caliber, but Hannah and Owen fight the good fight. So long as I at least pretend to try.”

“Let me guess. They set up the account for you?”

Jamie makes a sort of gesture in the air with the hand not holding her glass. “Threatened to bury me in puns and children, respectively, if I kept putting it off. Owen’s still grumpy about the photo choice.”

“I liked it,” Dani says without thinking. Jamie raises an eyebrow.

“Well, you did swipe as much. Mind if I ask why?”

Walked into this one. Still, she doesn’t mind as much as she probably should, not with the genuine curiosity in Jamie’s eyes. “You looked--don’t laugh.”

“No promises,” Jamie says, but with the gentle tone of one who knows exactly how much to tease before it’ll hurt. The idea warms Dani in a way she’s not quite ready to look at yet.

“You looked real,” Dani says. “Like you weren’t going to play games, or waste anyone’s time. Like you just wanted to be happy in peace.”

“That is,” Jamie says, holding out a fry for Dani to take, “sort of the idea, yeah.”

There’s an almost puzzled cast to her smile, like she didn’t entirely expect this answer, and is pleased by it at the same time. That same sense from the photo sweeps over Dani now--that this woman is authentic, even if she’s not always shiny, that she’s kind even if not entirely clean. That she doesn’t have any interest in muddled expectation or living a comfortable lie.

“And me?” Dani asks. She doesn’t entirely mean to--but she’s sure, in asking, that Jamie will answer. Jamie is unlike anyone else she’s ever met, the first person she’s ever known to meet each question head-on.

“Honestly?”

Dani nods. Jamie seems to consider it, turning it over in her head as she twists a fry between her fingers like a cigarette.

“All of it.”

“That’s,” Dani begins to laugh, “that’s not--”

“No,” Jamie says, and she isn’t smiling, exactly. Her eyes have a sort of shine Dani likes very much, but there is no hint of teasing in them now. “Really. All of it. You’re...very pretty, and that’s--but the way you described yourself. Like you didn’t care to be anyone in particular. You like new experiences, and bad coffee. You hate being called Danielle. I...I wanted to know why.”

“It’s not my name,” Dani says simply. Jamie gives a brief laugh, her hand moving across the table to lightly brush Dani’s fingertips.

“I wanted to know why all of it. Why do you like bad coffee--”

“It’s the only kind I know how to make,” Dani says automatically. “Just sort of leaned into it.”

“--and teaching--”

“I want to make a difference,” Dani says.

“--and where you most like to go on those long walks--”

“Anywhere I can breathe,” Dani says. Her fingers are hesitant, tracing the tips of Jamie’s. There’s something electric about this, about barely touching, about barely knowing someone and still wanting to give them neatly-packaged secrets shaped like the mundane.

Jamie is smiling. “See, that. I like that. All of it.”

It’s nothing, Dani thinks reflexively. A collection of details. A sparse approximation of a life. Eddie knows all of this, and then some, and never matched up to knowing her.

But this woman, leaning across the table with one hand outstretched, looks so different. Watches her with steady interest. Is listening to every word Dani says, though the bar is growing crowded around them, and soon, conversation will become a task instead of a gift.

“Would you,” Dani says, feeling certain that some mistakes are not as bad as they seem, “like to take one of those walks?”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah. Tonight.” Emboldened by the smile, by the curl falling into Jamie’s eyes, by the knowledge that she still can’t quite make out what color those eyes are, Dani takes her hand. It’s so easy, she thinks she could do it even without looking. “Right now.”

No bullshit, she thinks. No expectations. Just Jamie looking at her like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. Dani can’t blame her. This isn’t at all what she’d thought she was getting, walking in tonight.

But there’s something about it--something about the feeling that she’s been here before, or should be here forever, or will always find her way back to a woman who looks at her just like this--that almost makes her feel brave. Almost makes her feel wonderful. She rises from the table, laying cash beneath her half-empty glass, and feels a pleasant jolt in her chest when Jamie follows without another word.

If this a mistake, she thinks as they step out into the brisk evening air, it’s one she’s hungry to make.

#fanfiction #ficlet #the haunting of bly manor #dani x jamie #damie #okay I liked this one way more than planned #it's sort of nice doing a modern AU under a million words long

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reawritesthings · 4 years

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Ratatouille | JJ Maybank

(GIF is made by me. Credit if used)

Summary: JJ Maybank is a clever little rat. Always stealing and never getting caught. Until, he finds himself in the presence of your own home and you finally catch him.

Note: It’s been a hot minute since I’ve released something so it might be a little iffy but, i really hope you enjoy it + feedback is appreciated

"Have you heard about the little rat who keeps stealing our food? Just the other day, my finest roast chicken was taken. I bet it's those dirty Pogues." Mrs Andrew's who resident three doors down complained to a few other figures, who slyly had there eye on your mother's newest trinket.

"You should take it as a compliment, Mrs Andrew's. It means your cooking is divine." You endeavour into her daily rant hoping she could see this in a different light.

Mrs Andrew vexed at your attempt to see the light in this particular theft, " That piece of chicken costs me 30 dollars. I don't pay for my food to be taken, young lady."

You threw your head back, squaring your shoulders with charismatic movement whilst hearing Mrs Andrew's bicker about a false accusation that you might be seeing a Pogue. As the daily neighbour meeting elongated into hours of constantly whining, you decided to seek refuge into a certain Cameron.

You constrain your body to accompany Rafe, your trusted advisor and best alcohol dealer. "Rafe. I need alcohol, pronto."

Rafe disapproved your request, seeing you suffer was a blessing and a curse to his sicken mind, "Mrs Andrew's giving you a hard time?" You nodded, freely motioning your head to rest into his chest.

"She's claiming I'm sleeping with a Pogue because I defended the 'rat' that steals her god damn chicken." Even the mention on the claim provoked you making you feel slightly uncomfortable that you had that potential to sleep with a Pogue.

"Don't you fancy the Maybank kid?" Rafe's eyebrow furrowed knowing too much about your personal life.

"I don't fancy him. I just see him delivering my groceries." Rafe prompted attacked your false claim by falling your emotions further.

"So staring at him for three minutes straight and, finding it hard to say 'thank you' really gives the ' I don't fancy him' vibe."

You awarded Rafe with the finger, gravitating away from his presence before you do something you'll regret.

✿✿✿✿

"JJ, A chicken? Really?" Kiara was slightly miffed by the actions that her best friend accomplishes the night before. JJ rose from his worn-out deck chair that somehow stayed afloat giving the circumstances of the holes present.

"What are you on about, Kie?"

Kiara watched JJ fumble his way towards her, his walk was mistaken for zigzags which only met she had to handle a drunk JJ. "You stole Mrs Andrew's chicken and many more things."

JJ remotely failed to make a face to the name, shrugging his shoulder he twirled away from Kiara, "Mrs Andrew shouldn't be so worked up about a fucking chicken. If I did take the chicken, shouldn't she take it as a compliment?"

"You didn't have to steal it, JJ. You could have just asked me and I would have gotten you groceries." Kiara abbreviated JJ's response, hoping the statement she announced stayed in JJ's mind the next time he decides to steal.

Stealing for JJ was like breathing. He didn't need to, of course - but, he needed to survive. It was like a curse his father placed when he turned to alcohol for pleasure. His friend tried to make him stop, but he couldn't break the curse. He always saw stealing as the only sensible way to survive in the Cut. In this Pogue life, you worked two jobs and were lucky enough to earn a tip. JJ wasn't going to rely on just an hourly income for himself and his drunken father, he needs cash, immediately.

It started with small items, food to help him function for the day. But, as he successful outsmarted Heyward, he thought bigger and placed his icky nose on the other side of the island known as 'Figure 8.' Figure 8 was JJ's dream, a dream that one day he would go full Kook and have a golden statue of himself.

"Noted." JJ bluntly responded but Kie wasn't remotely sure if JJ even took anything she told into account.

JJ watched the sea, lost in the rhythmic percussion of the harsh waves crashing onto the sand. His eyes watched the sunset, spreading into its last ounce of orange rays before twilight awakes. His lips bear the semblance of a smile, just enough to show that he knew what house he wanted to enter, whatever the consequences he was adamant to have another decent meal. JJ landed in Figure 8, a town he knew well from his kleptomaniac days. Since he got the heads up that Mrs Andrews was on the hunt, he vowed to take the beachfront.

His stomach commences into a harsh growl, the pain was noticeable and so was a house. It was three downs up from Mrs Andrews, a typical white framed fence with artificial flowers and wide backyard. JJ's wandering eye teleported him towards the gate, a gate he began to familiarise when his hand touched the newly painted wood.

"Mrs Y/L/N House..." JJ whispered to himself. When JJ's movement came towards the garden he noticed the door left ajar, a scent rushed out of the house and suffocated JJ's nostrils making his belly flip with joy. He knew he couldn't get into trouble due to the door being already open which was odd for Figure 8. JJ approached the door and scanned the ghost-like kitchen to see if anyone was awake.

No one was seen.

JJ pushed the door and it swung open with ease, a blast of air-conditioned of a cold streamed past him, with light jazz escaping through the night. He tiptoed inside, squinting his eyes shut as he didn't want to draw attention to himself. He shamelessly headed from the double magnetized fridge covered with pictures of you and magnets from different states.

"Why do Kook's have beautiful children?" JJ murmured, haltingly placing his hand over the handle letting the momentum of the fridge open revealing a whole stack of food.

"Tempting. What do you fancy tonight, JJ?" He asked himself, fiddling around with the products making sure everything was neatly stacked the way he found it. JJ took out a plate of half-eaten cheesecake, along with a bottle of coke with some fruit on the side.

"I found dessert, but I need dinner. C'mon pretty girl, what did mama make ya?" JJ eyes darted around the island, checking if there were pots present or even a plate visible to him.

"Bingo." JJ teethed with joy as he noticed a pan neatly resting on the stove. "Come to JJ."

As JJ swayed his arching body towards the stove, he smelt the rich scent evaporate around him causing him to gag a little, "This has to do..."

JJ tasted the dish, it looked like someone effortlessly threw random vegetables onto the pan and called it a day. "This is fucking disgusting."

"Tell me about it." You chuckled, repelling the smell of your mother's failed attempt of Ratatouille, and amazed that a boy with the same age demolished the meal in three gulps. "Of all things you could eat, you choose that?"

JJ froze insight, ceiling his eyes shut with a combination of a curse word leaving his lips, "Please don't call the cops."

"I wasn't planning too, Maybank." He was stunned by your response and the mention of his surname.

"How do you know me?" JJ dumbly interrogated the girl, trying to form a vision but the darkness around them forbade him.

You chuckled, as JJ tried to figure out a time where he would have met you."You deliver my groceries every Sunday. You are friends with Pope Heyward, I usually give him a can of beer whenever he is alone."

"Beer girl? No fucking way."

You bowed letting out a quiet laugh. "I'm guessing you are the person who stole Mrs Andrew chicken? and, If you really are that hungry I can make you mac n cheese?"

JJ hurled when the name entered the room, "The ungrateful bitch. She should be glad I stole her chicken. She's hella of a good cook, better than your ma's."

"Anything is better than my mother's cooking. I sometimes ride down to the Wreck for a decent meal. Mr Cerrera's food is the best." You praised the Cerrera's talent whilst you attempted to make Mac n Cheese for the hungry boy.

JJ sent a smirk to his fond smile, "I'm best friends with their daughter. Even though, I'm not their cup of tea... I still get scraps that ungrateful Touron's don't finish."

You envied the Pogue life, even more now as JJ began to blabber on about his adventures of surfing during the hurricane's, going to Mrs Crain's and Rixon's Cove. You liked being a Kook, you had everything you wanted and more but, something was missing. You had friends, Rafe mainly when he wasn't trying to get into your pants and his sister, Sarah but, It wasn't nearly as great as JJ's friends.

"You okay there?" JJ snapped your train of thoughts, placing his hand over yours.

You gave JJ a cramped smile as he took charge of stirring, "Yeah. I was daydreaming."

JJ didn't say a word, knowing it wasn't just a daydream thought. "Cute. How about you come and hang out with us? As for us, I mean the Pogues? But, If you want to hang out just us two..." You cut JJ with a light kiss to his cheek causing a heat of pink to arouse him.

"Taking that as a yes."

You laughed, scooting him away from the stove. "You are my guest. Sit down and I'll give you your food."

JJ did as he was told, hearing your bossy attitude take charge aroused him. "Yes, chef."

You delivered JJ his meal, watching him devour as if it was his last. The small moans escaping from his lips gave you confidence that you weren't a bad cook. "JJ, slow down. It's not going to run away."

"I think you have scored the best cook of Mac n Cheese. I'm definitely coming here, again."

You were meaning to question the boy on how he cleverly entered your house, "How did you even get inside? The alarm was on."

"Simple. the back door was open slightly. Someone must of-" JJ stopped when a gasp escaped your lips.

"Fuck. I forgot to close it." JJ chuckled at the clumsiness of your mind. He managed to figure you out in 10 minutes, which he didn't mind doing.

"It's okay. Maybe you forgot for a reason?" JJ tried to flirt his way into the situation, but you were more infuriated with yourself.

"You saying we were destined to meet, Maybank? I thought a Pogue and Kook don't get along or date." You translated the rules of the two tribes made by Rafe and, JJ.

"Fuck the rules. I tend to break them." JJ shrugged looking around as he proved his point.

"I see. Well, my mother is making spaghetti bolognese tomorrow? I'll leave you a plate outside." You winked, gathering his empty plate.

"And if it all fails, I'll treat you to a nice dinner at the Wreck. My treat..." JJ rambled not wanting to leave your house but, he knew he had too.

"You mean, free food at the Wreck?"

JJ pouted at the response. He was hoping for a simple nod.

"It's a date, Maybank."

masterlist | taglist

#outer banks #outer banks imagines #jj maybank fic #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank fanfiction #jj maybank fluff #rafe cameron x you #outerbanks imagine #obx fluff #jj maybank #rudy pankow #obx one shot #jj is remy #disney x obx #outerbanks masterlist #rafe cameron #obx jj maybank

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yesokayiknow · 1 year

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I posted 1,144 times in 2022

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I tagged 1,137 of my posts in 2022

Only 1% of my posts had no tags

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Longest Tag: 139 characters

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My Top Posts in 2022:

FOR PEOPLE SAYING THEY MADE VELMA A LESBIAN BC SHE'S TOO UGLY TO ATTRACT MEN: GO APOLOGISE TO LINDA CARDELLINI RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!!!!

1,823 notes - Posted October 7, 2022

i've never really got this site's obsession with pathetic men before like no shade to anyone who loves them i just never really understood it? then i watched the sandman & i get it now. i want to put that wet play-doh kitten of a man in the washing machine and then hang him out to dry on the line. i want to put him through a pasta machine and serve him with a freshly tossed salad. i want to tumble him in a mixer filled with rocks for several hours then buff him with progressively smoother sandpaper. i get it now.

2,109 notes - Posted August 20, 2022

2,315 notes - Posted March 4, 2022

BORIS JOHNSON'S RESPONSE TO BEING FORCED TO RESIGN AFTER MONTHS OF SCANDALS, ILLEGAL ACTIVITIES, AND HIRING A KNOWN SEXUAL PREDATOR WAS THEM'S THE BREAKS FOLKS YOU CANNOT MAKE THIS UP

3,938 notes - Posted July 7, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

well,

6,588 notes - Posted November 21, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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melanielocke · 3 years

Text

Lost in the Shadows - Chapter 21

AO3

Taglist: @nott-the-best @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite @a-dream-dirty-and-bruised

Previous Chapter: Chapter 20

Next Chapter: Chapter 22

Cordelia returned to the entrance with the dead werewolf for a second time when Alastair had figured out how to operate the water mechanism. It was confusing, apparently there was a sewer system, but it was closed off and that’s why the flood water didn’t recede. Now it was, and Cordelia realized there were even more doors and corridors where the water had been. Perhaps the flood had been on purpose. Solving this couldn’t be impossible, but it could be a pain and Tatiana had probably designed it in such a way that it could take some time to solve.

‘Lucie, are you still up there?’

‘We’re alright!’ It wasn’t Lucie, but Thomas calling back down.

‘We solved the water mechanism and can now access the lower floor!’ Cordelia called back. ‘Alastair is in a different room, he’s trying to solve a puzzle to reveal… I don’t know what it will reveal but we figured it was important. Also, we found a few keys but for some reason they break after opening a door with them. Most so far led to dead end rooms with another key.’

‘Ah, that’s annoying,’ Thomas said. ‘Probably part of the puzzle though. I think it’s common in game dungeons that you can use a key on any locked door in the area but only once.’

Cordelia frowned. ‘That makes no sense,’ she called back.

‘I guess she could have made different keys for every door as well, but this works. Good luck, and come here if you need anything!’

Cordelia hesitated. ‘Is Lucie alright?’

‘Yes, just taking a nap. She reversed the changes but it’s tiring, so she’s trying to conserve energy. Right now, everything is as it was when we entered, but I’ll keep watch.’

‘Alright, I’ll be back,’ Cordelia called up.

‘Good luck.’

Cordelia returned into the dungeon. Alastair was no longer in the room with the puzzle, instead he was standing in the corridor that was formerly flooded. It smelled disgusting down there, and Alastair seemed quite vexed by it.

‘The bloody thing broke again!’

‘What?’

‘The key! I solved the sliding block puzzle, which was more of a physical effort than a mental one considering the blocks were heavy to move, but the only reward was another bloody key. So I figured I’d be careful with it and open this door here, and the key broke again.’

‘Thomas thinks that might be part of the puzzle design,’ Cordelia said. ‘Every key can only be used once. What’s behind that door?’

The key mechanism was a bit odd. Cordelia had tried to cut down another door, but there had been another magical barrier there. A key had been able to open it by sticking it into the air, which made no sense. Then the key had broken. None of the keys had opened the former door to Grace’ skin though, but if the design of this thing made any sense, she suspected there would be a special key. Cordelia hoped sticking the special key into the magical barrier would do the trick.

‘Another room with another puzzle. Come see.’

Cordelia took the ladder to descend into the lower floor and entered the room Alastair was in. It was a room lit by torches, one door on the other end. Along the walls were thick green vines that had overgrown another door. There was a table in the center with a cauldron, several bottles of differently colored liquids, and a recipe on a piece of paper.

Cordelia guessed it was a good thing there was another door, several of the previous rooms had been dead ends, with another puzzle to reveal another key. She suspected this one would take them deeper into the dungeon, which she imagined was where they needed to be.

‘I think we’re supposed to make a weed killer here.’ Alastair said. ‘We could probably bypass this with cortana.’

Cordelia wasn’t so sure. ‘Every time I tried to cheat with cortana, there was still a magical barrier. It looks like all the ingredients are here at least. All we have to do is follow the recipe.’

Following the recipe was not as easy as it sounded. Not all bottles were labeled, and they had to compare pictures. Some of the bottles looked very similar and were hard to distinguish on the drawing. Still, Alastair seemed sure of what he was doing. Cordelia not so much.

‘You’re not supposed to add that yet!’ Cordelia yelled.

‘Yes, I do,’ Alastair groaned. ‘It’s right here.’

‘No, that’s this bottle,’ Cordelia insisted.

‘No it’s not.’

‘And after that, you add exactly three petals of this flower,’ Cordelia added.

‘You do it then,’ Alastair said, putting down the bottle and stepping away from the potion.

Cordelia thankfully took his place and added a different bottle which she believed was the correct one. Not much later they were having a similar discussion, arguing about which of the two remaining bottles needed to emptied into the cauldron and which one was to be discarded.

‘You’re so bloody stubborn,’ Cordelia groaned. ‘Can’t you just accept that I’m right?’

‘I would if you were actually right,’ Alastair said in a superior tone. ‘As it is, I’m absolutely certain you need to use this bottle.’

Cordelia checked the instructions once more and guessed maybe Alastair was right. The drawing was inconclusive to say the least.

‘Alright, I’ll try this one. But if it all blows up, I’m blaming you.’

‘I can live with that. Just do it.’

Cordelia took the bottle Alastair believed was the right one, and emptied it over the cauldron, stirring three times counter clockwise as described.

‘This should be it.’

‘It didn’t explode,’ Alastair said. ‘So I’m hopeful that means it works.’

‘Help me carry this.’

Cordelia was quite strong herself after years of training with cortana, but carrying an entire cauldron of this stuff to the vines was a two person job.

The vines receded, allowing them to reach the door and open it. Cordelia was very thankful this door could simply be opened and was not dependent on another key.

‘This is turning into a bloody maze,’ Alastair said, looking into the next corridor.

He had a point, the door led into a corridor with several others branching off. The pathways were much narrower than before, just wide enough for the two of them, and dimly lit by torches high up.

‘We don’t happen to have a thread, do we?’ Cordelia asked.

‘No, but we can find our way through,’ Alastair promised. ‘You just need to stay with me Layla.’

‘I’ll go warn Thomas first,’ Cordelia said. ‘That we’re entering a maze and it might be some time until we make it through.’

Cordelia climbed up to the first room as quick as she could and shouted upward. ‘Everything still alright there?’

‘Lucie just did the spell again, but she’s getting really tired, she’s taking another nap. I’m not so sure she could do it again.’

‘The next room is a maze and we’re not sure how long it will take,’ Cordelia called back.

‘Are you sure you won’t get lost?’

‘With Alastair’s memory, we can retrace our steps. He can draw a map in his head.’

‘Alright, good luck!’

Cordelia returned to Alastair, who was waiting in front of the door, and the two of them entered the maze together, Cordelia staying close to her brother.

‘I already checked this corridor and it’s a dead end,’ Alastair said.

‘We can try that one,’ Cordelia said, pointing at a corridor to the right that seemed to branch off in several other corridors.

Cordelia followed her brother and it didn’t take long for her to have no clue where she was or how to get back. The maze was dimly lit by torches and Cordelia wondered if those were magic too, or if someone had lit them recently. Their pace was slow, Alastair glancing around, careful to take in enough information to keep track of the location. There were decorations on the wall, old Corinthian style pillar like structures. They weren’t quite pillars as they were part of the wall. There was a relief, something Roman or Greek, even though they were in Scotland and the Romans had never made it here. Perhaps Tatiana liked the classics, she created this right?

Cordelia wondered how someone could create such a structure. It undoubtedly involved making a deal first, although perhaps Lucie had the power to shape things here on her own. Would she be able to make a maze like this too?

They reached a dead end and Alastair turned back, choosing another corridor. Cordelia couldn’t be sure it wasn’t the one they’d been in before, everything looked so similar, but she trusted Alastair knew what he was doing.

‘I must say this is a proper defense,’ Alastair said. ‘Chances of getting lost in here are pretty high if you don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘They say that in a maze, you should put one hand on the wall and follow that wall so that your hand never leaves it,’ Cordelia said.

‘That would work eventually, but takes forever,’ Alastair said.

Cordelia stepped on something hard. ‘Hang on for a moment,’ she said as she bent down, taking the object into her hand.

It was a key, just like the others. ‘That one could have been easy to miss,’ Cordelia said, putting the key in her pocket. ‘Good thing I stepped on it.’

‘Not another key,’ Alastair groaned. ‘How many more of these things are out here?’

‘I don’t want to know,’ Cordelia said. ‘But I’m glad we found it now and don’t reach the exit and realize there we missed a key somewhere.’

‘I think if that happened, I would murder Tatiana, ask Lucie to bring me her ghost and then murder her again.’

Cordelia couldn’t say she disagreed. She guessed exploring such an underground structure would be fun in a video game, but in real life it involved a lot of walking and if you failed at something you couldn’t always just try again.

After some more time of trying different paths and Alastair telling her where to go next, they reached a door with a lock on it. The exit.

Cordelia tried her key and it fit. Once again, it broke off while Cordelia opened the door, rendering the key useless but the door opened.

‘Stupid key,’ Alastair muttered, along with a string or Persian curse words he would never have dared speak in their mother’s presence.

‘At least the door is open.’

The next room was a large dome shaped hall, much lighter than the others. There was an opening to the surface at the top of the room that let light from outside in, but they would never be able to reach it from here. Nor would they fit through, as there were bars blocking the exit.

There were no doors apart from the once through which they entered, and in the middle of the room on an elevated platform was a key.

‘If I were to design this dungeon to keep something of mine safe, this would definitely be a trap.’

‘I agree,’ Cordelia said. ‘But that key has to be the one to Grace’ skin.’

It was a golden key, bigger than the others. This had to be it. If it were a video game, the dungeon would probably end in a fight against some monster who was here to guard the key, but Cordelia had already fought a werewolf, and besides, where would a monster come from here? There was nowhere it could be hidden. But there could be a number of deadly traps on the platform itself.

Cordelia held cortana in front of her and carefully took a step closer until her sword reached the key. She used the dull edge to make sure the key wasn’t harmed in the process, and pulled it towards her, off the platform. She carefully picked up the key from the ground. As she did, the door behind her slammed shut.

‘Now you’ve done it,’ Alastair groaned, turning back and trying to open the door.

Locked, just as expected. She had the key, but now they had no way out. Water started filling up the room, slowly at first, but progressively faster.

‘There has to be a solution!’ Cordelia said. ‘Some way to stop the water and get the door to open.’

‘There’s no time! I knew it was a trap.’

The water reached Cordelia’s waist already. It was cold water, chilled her to the bone. If they didn’t drown, they might as well die from hypothermia.

‘Yes, we both did. But at least I have the key.’

‘Which is no use if we don’t get out of here,’ Alastair hissed. ‘We’ve come too far to drown in gross water.’

***

Thomas was growing worried. He hadn’t heard a thing from Alastair or Cordelia ever since they’d mentioned they had to go into a maze next. Which made sense, going into a maze might take a while and they might not be able to report back as easily anymore. If anyone could navigate a maze, it was Alastair. With his memory, he’d know where he’d been and where to go. He would be able to trace his own route back. They could do this. But Thomas had no idea what else was waiting down there. It seemed to be a rule that there had to be a solution, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any deadly traps.

Lucie was napping. Thomas didn’t think she was really asleep, but at least lying down as comfortably as she could with her eyes closed allowed her some rest. It was becoming difficult for her, Thomas could tell. The wall had changed again, the first sign, but Thomas wasn’t sure if he should wake Lucie already. It was only the first change, it wasn’t coming close to the land of the thief of souls yet.

Lucie sat up for a moment, rubbing her eyes, smudging some dark make up into the corner of her eye. ‘That’s odd,’ she said.

‘What is?’

‘There’s a ghost here,’ she said. ‘Just behind you.’

Thomas instinctively looked before realizing, of course, he wasn’t going to see a ghost.

Lucie tilted her head, her gaze fixated on something behind Thomas. ‘Well, I think it’s a ghost. But it looks like how people portray ghosts in movies, not the way ghosts usually look. White and transparent.’

‘I don’t see anything,’ Thomas said. ‘So that probably confirms it’s a ghost. Can you make them visible?’

Lucie looked into the distance, her gaze fixated on something Thomas did not see. ‘Show yourself.’ There was an air of authority in her voice, she was no longer asking, she was commanding.

A woman appeared in the middle of the ruins. She didn’t seem as Lucie had described, she did not look like a movie ghost, nor was she transparent. She looked vaguely familiar but Thomas couldn’t tell why. She had to be in her early thirties, he guessed. Long brown hair, kind eyes. Upon closer look, they seemed greenish, a rare color. Similar to his father’s eyes though.

‘Who are you?’ Lucie asked.

‘My name is Barbara. Barbara Lightwood.’

Thomas’ mouth fell open. ‘No, it can’t be. You’re not her.’

Barbara was his sister. Barbara was twenty three and had recently graduated as a nurse. Barbara was in Paris with her boyfriend Oliver, and they were having fun. She wasn’t a ghost. The woman did resemble Barbara, but Thomas could tell it wasn’t her. For one, she was too old. Some of the features didn’t match. His sister Barbara had brown eyes, this woman’s eyes were green like his father’s. But he had to admit the resemblance was startling. Then it hit him. His grandmother, Benedict’s wife, was also called Barbara. His father had named Thomas’ eldest sister Barbara in her memory, just like Thomas himself had been named after a close friend of his mother’s who’d died young. This woman was his grandmother, who’d died when his father was five.

‘What do you mean?’ the woman asked. ‘You do not know me, do you? Can you tell me where I am? I need to get home as soon as I can. My children aren’t safe. My husband is up to something and I need to get the children and run before something happens to them.’

‘Do not worry. Your children are fine,’ Lucie said.

Thomas wasn’t so sure that was true, but he suspected Barbara didn’t realize how much time had passed. She believed she had very young children who were with her husband. His father had been around five when she died. It occurred to Thomas that she’d figured out what he was up to. She’d tried to run. Thomas had never realized, he didn’t think his father had either. Was trying to leave why she’d died? Thomas had been told abusive partners were at their most dangerous when one tried to leave.

‘No, they’re not,’ Barbara insisted. She looked terrified. ‘I do not know what it is Benedict’s doing, but it’s bad and I cannot allow him to be around my children. It is not safe for them. I will contact my brother Silas, we can stay with him until I have it all worked out and know we’re safe from Benedict. I had it all planned out.’

‘You died,’ Lucie said. ‘Ghosts do not always realize. You’ve been dead for a very long time. Your children are all grown up.’

Barbara turned to Thomas and took him in. She squinted, taking all of him in. ‘You look so much like him… Is that you, are you my Gideon? I always knew you were going to grow to be very tall.’

Thomas tried to hide the tears in the corners of his eyes. It was all becoming a bit much. ‘No, my name is Thomas. Thomas Lightwood. Gideon Lightwood is my father. And he’s not as tall as me, although he is still taller than average.’

‘Your father… How long has it been? He was five, the last time I saw him. Just this high.’ She held up her hand to indicate how tall his father had been,.

‘He’s forty five now,’ Thomas said.

‘It’s been forty years?’ Barbara’s mouth fell open. ‘I’ve been gone for that long? And my children have grown up without me. I should have been there for them, I should not have left them alone in that big house. Benedict has gone mad.’

‘Benedict died years ago,’ Thomas assured her. ‘We’re all safe from him.’

‘I think it’s the same as with Jesse,’ Lucie said. ‘He didn’t remember anything from where he’d been, and I don’t think Barbara does either. Jesse did realize he was dead, but he could only tell how long it’s been because he recognized me and saw I’d aged.’

‘Where have I been?’ Barbara asked. ‘The last thing I remember is packing up to leave. I had to make sure he didn’t find out, so I hid a suitcase in my closet and secretly packed whatever I would need. He never looks there. I packed clothes, the children’s toys. All my jewelry so I’d have some funds.’

‘What happened after?’ Thomas asked. ‘Did he find out you were trying to leave?’

Barbara closed her eyes, as if she was trying to remember. ‘He did find my suitcase. He realized I planned to leave with the children. He got so mad, I don’t think I’d ever been so scared. I wanted to run, damn the suitcase, but Tatiana was in the nursery and Gabriel was in the play room, and I had to get to them first. I couldn’t leave without my babies. And then he went into his study and although I didn’t understand why, I rushed to my children. I thought I’d get Gabriel and Tatiana, get in the car and go to my brother, and then I could pick Gideon up from school. But I don’t think I ever reached my children. That is the last thing I remember.’

‘That must have been when he made the deal,’ Lucie said. ‘Perhaps he didn’t want to at first, or at least had some doubts, but when he realized Barbara was leaving he decided to make her the sacrifice.’

‘What did he do to me?’ Barbara’s voice broke as she asked that question.

‘Uhm, we’re not completely sure,’ Thomas said. ‘But we think he traded your soul for power. We’re still figuring out what’s going on or why you’re here. We think you can’t remember anything because you were with the thief of souls.’

Was that why she’d appeared more ghost like than usual? Perhaps because she’d been in the realm of the thief of souls, and they were in between, so she was only half there. Perhaps by demanding she show herself, Lucie had pulled her through. Would there be a cost if they set her free? Thomas imagined it wasn’t the same as trading him for Jesse, Benedict must have promised his wife and he never remarried so he didn’t have another wife for the thief of souls to take. Besides, Lucie hadn’t made a deal. She’d taken Barbara away from him, perhaps she could take her into their world as well.

‘I don’t understand,’ Barbara said. ‘He killed me, you say? But what then? Who is the thief of souls? Why can’t I remember?’

Thomas frowned, and then turned to Lucie. ‘Could you make her remember?’

‘I command you to remember what happened the past years.’

Barbara stared blankly. ‘I still don’t remember anything.’

‘That doesn’t work,’ Lucie mused. ‘Perhaps if Alastair helps me. Memory is his domain, ghosts are mine, perhaps if we somehow combine our powers we can help her remember.’

‘They haven’t checked in in a while,’ Thomas said. ‘I think it’s because they went into a maze and it takes longer, but I have no clue how they’re doing.’

‘If anyone can do it, it’s them,’ Lucie said. ‘They won’t get lost.’

‘I don’t understand what you are discussing,’ Barbara said. ‘What happened after I died? My husband killed me. But my children, they are fine? He didn’t hurt them?’

‘Mostly,’ Thomas said. ‘They grew up in Benedict’s house, and I think it wasn’t easy for them. They didn’t realize at the time just how dangerous it was what he was doing.’

Thomas guessed perhaps Benedict did somewhat care about his children, perhaps he would be proud that Tatiana was following in his footsteps. Perhaps it was what he would have wanted for his father and uncle Gabriel. But he was also the kind of man who’d neglected his children, expected them to be his heirs rather than human beings.

‘My father found out eventually, with the help of my mother, Sophie. And then Benedict turned into a giant worm, we’re not sure why exactly, and was killed. I think it was difficult, for them, to process, but my father and uncle Gabriel found ways to cope with it and found support.’

Thomas wasn’t sure exactly how much damage had never healed, but he suspected it was part of why his father cared so much about Alastair. Because like him, Alastair had never had a father he could love or respect. What would it take for Alastair to see that Thomas’ father cared about him, and not just his ability?

Barbara frowned. ‘And Tati? What happened to her?’

Thomas wasn’t sure how to tell her this. The last she remembered of her daughter was a one year old girl, a baby. He sighed, there was no easy way to say this but he couldn’t keep it from her. ‘Tatiana had a son. Jesse was his name. And at some point in his life, Benedict had promised a grandchild to the same being he sacrificed you to. The choice came down to me or Jesse. So when Jesse was twelve and I was nearly fourteen, he died. And now Tatiana made a deal to bring him back. We have not been on good terms with her in a long time.’

He heard a sound from beneath the trap door, something he could not make out. Thomas shone down with his flashlight and realized it was water. Water gushing into the hall, slowly flooding the area. Thomas’ breathing quickened. The place was flooding. Alastair and Cordelia were still in there. They were going to drown, and there was nothing Thomas could do about it. But perhaps Lucie could.

‘Lucie!’

‘What is it?’

‘The dungeon, it’s flooding and Alastair and Cordelia are still down there.’

In the distance, Thomas heard a song. He could make out a sweet feminine voice that sounded like the sea and all he wanted was to go to her. He forgot about Alastair and Cordelia, he forgot about his worries. The song, the girl, she was all that mattered. He would do whatever she asked of him, no questions asked. Why should he? There was nothing he wanted more than to serve her, to be near her always. He could not remember what else there was for him.

#Alastair Carstairs #Cordelia Carstairs #Thomas Lightwood #Lucie Herondale #Thomastair #Lucelia #fanfiction #the last hours #tlh

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jumpship90 · 3 years

Note

2 and/or 11 for kisses prompt please

apologies this took forever but I had this whole scene pop into my head for Jaq and Phin and needed a little more time to get it right! It ended up 1500 words, so more under the cut to spare you all scrolling

11 - “welcome home kisses”

Phineas grumbled to himself beneath his breath as he stalked down the corridors of the Hope, the lights about him gradually dimming to a glow as the ship entered its night-cycle. Usually, he paid little heed to the processes programmed into the ship to aid with the regulation of circadian rhythm. His own lab ran on a perpetual day setting that allowed him to work as long and as late as he pleased and he was quite happy keeping to his own schedule. To his displeasure, that had recently become disrupted.

The source of his consternation had started near two weeks ago. It was the first evening after Jaq had returned to their work at the New Hope Centre and he had sought to distract himself from the inevitable homesickness that plagued him after their departure by ploughing ahead with his work. He’d been leant over a microscope when he had realised he was struggling to see the specimen on the slide below. At first, he had blinked in confusion, then he had realised, no, his ageing eyes were not failing him just yet, everything really was suddenly beginning to grow darker, the lights powering down around him in a simulated sunset.

“Computer, lights up,” he barked, still squinting at the specimen.

“I must remind you that the Hope is now entering its approved night-cycle, Dr Welles,” the flat mechanical voice intoned, echoing about the laboratory.

He scoffed. “Override it then.”

“Negative, Dr Welles. I am unable to override the health and security programming for this ship. To do so would be a violation of employee wellness protocol 3.14 subsection a.”

“Nonsense.” He straightened up, hands on hips and glaring at the speaker mounted on the wall. “This is my lab and I am in my personal time. Override.”

“I am unable to comply. This unit cannot overrule administrator updates.”

“I am the administrator!” He tapped his foot in frustration. A warm orange glow now filled the room. He would never be able to work in this.

Phineas huffed and shuffled over to a terminal to check the settings, there had clearly been some kind of engineering error. He tapped through the controls for the lab – air scrubbers, chemical cleaning processes, heating, security logs – ahh, light settings!

*error, password required*

“What in the void?” he muttered. “Computer, who last updated these settings?” Someone was going to regret interrupting his work.

“Settings last updated by; Captain Jaq Evenshaw.”

He sighed heavily at that. He should have guessed. There was little the two of them disagreed upon but his lack of sleep was the main catalyst for the few arguments they had.

Phineas’ fingers flew over the keys as he inputted password attempts. No, it wasn’t their anniversary, nor was it Jaq’s birthday and his own didn’t get him anywhere either. He tried again using variations on “The Hope” until eventually, the screen locked.

*error –too many incorrect passwords entered. Access denied. No further attempts may be made for 24 hours. Please contact your administrator*

“Fine,” he growled. “Two can play at this game.” He would just have to attempt a manual override then.

But when he had made his way to the panel beside the door and popped it open, Phineas had discovered Jaq had done something fiendishly complicated with the electronics that even several hours of tugging at wires and messing with the circuits hadn’t been able to untangle. He’d felt a tiny spark of pride flare even as their work vexed him. It was excellent craftsmanship after-all and it was difficult to be too angry when their heart was in the right place. They worried about his health, he knew. All the same, he would be having stern words with them when they returned. Well, after the two of them had caught up and he’d had them explain the clever little trick they’d pulled.

Defeated, he had given up that first night and been forced to turn in at the ridiculous hour of 20:00 and it had been the same every night since. The enforced curfew was irritating but he had to admit, he had managed to get caught up on his reading and even played several hands of cards with his colleagues that had proved surprisingly enjoyable. If Jaq were here, he supposed it would have given them a little more time to indulge in other activities, though he did pride himself on always ensuring he finished work a little earlier than usual when they were back. A sharp pang of longing gripped him as he made his way back to his quarters. Hopefully, it would not be too long until they returned.

Distracted as he was, at first Phineas did not notice the glow of the lights from beneath his door. He swiped his security pass and stepped inside, halting abruptly at the sight of a familiar tatty rucksack sat beside the wall. His heart leapt in his chest. They were back!

He shuffled into the room, expecting to find his partner sat at the desk typing up notes on their project or perhaps lounging on the bed watching an aetherwave serial. Instead, Phineas was rather surprised to be greeted by a half-naked figure sprawled atop the sofa, a copy of tossball monthly open on their chest and their mouth hanging open, soft snores escaping them. It wasn’t the first time he’d returned to his room to discover Jaq passed out on the sofa but they were usually dressed.

He padded across the room as quietly as he could. Jaq slept quite deeply but they were prone to startling if awoken suddenly – an old habit that he could sympathise with. He crouched beside them and smiled down at their sleeping form. Their skin had tanned a little from their work planetside, darker at their calves, fading to pale at mid-thigh then back to a darker tone across their torso and arms. It must have been hot down there over the last few weeks and he knew Jaq had been focused on getting the dormitories built. He guessed they’d stripped down to their shorts, sweating under the Terra-2 sun, muscles straining whilst they laid the foundations of the buildings he’d seen in blueprints scattered across the desk. That was a rather lovely image, he thought as he settled a hand against their shoulder. He did so enjoy watching them work.

“Jaq?”

They didn’t move other than to give a snort that really shouldn’t have been as endearing as he found it.

“Jaq?” he tried again, running his thumb over their skin, and this time they stirred, bleary eyes cracking open. They blinked up at him several times before their eyes sprang wide and Phineas abruptly found two arms flung about his shoulders and Jaq’s enthusiastic embrace sent him toppling forward onto their chest. He could only laugh as their lips met his temple then left a trail of hurried kisses down his cheek before eventually finding his mouth. Phineas sighed and returned their eager kiss. Jaq’s leaving was always an unhappy necessity of their lives that Phineas’ never relished, but their return was always so sweet it made it that much easier to bear.

“Missed you,” Jaq said eventually, drawing back just enough to press their forehead to his own, keeping their arms wrapped tight about him. Phineas hummed in amusement.

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

Jaq sniggered and kissed him again and he caught a faint hint of toothpaste on their tongue. It seemed they had been getting ready for an early night.

“Whatever are you doing on the sofa?” he asked, disentangling himself a little to get a better look at them.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Jaq said and gave him a sheepish grin. “Only, I guess I was more tired than I realised.”

It was now that he registered the humidity in the room. Clearly they had indulged in a long hot shower before his return. He noted Jaq smelt of his favourite shower gel and the briefs they were wearing were the same ones he had previously suggested complemented their build. Ahh, so they’d scrubbed up in anticipation of an evening together.

Jaq stifled a yawn with the back of their hand. “I’m not sure I’ve got the energy for anything besides watching a serial though, sorry.”

He smirked down at them lounging atop the cushions. Regardless, they were certainly a welcome sight to return to and he appreciated the effort.

“Not to worry. We have plenty of time for catching up. You are staying a while, aren’t you?” he enquired, suddenly concerned this was going to be one of their flying visits. He braced himself for disappointment but to his relief Jaq nodded and stroked at the stubble on his cheek. He’d have shaved if he’d known they were coming home.

“A few days at least,” they replied and grinned up at him. “Why? Got something planned for us?”

Phineas pursed his lips in response, tapping a thoughtful finger against them. “Oh yes, I have some particularly interesting activities in mind for you. Starting with fixing your tampering in my laboratory.”

“It’s not tampering, it’s updating in line with the new government regs on workplace wellbeing,” they said with a shrug. “Sleep is important, Phin.”

“Ha! So says the person passed out on my sofa in their underpants!”

“Because I’ve spent two weeks grafting on a building site,” they shot back. “It’s completely different.”

He sighed. “Fine. But as you have disrupted my work, you’re going to be making it up to me during your visit.”

Jaq grinned at that and he kissed their nose. “Now, off to bed with you,” he ordered with a chuckle.

He rose to his feet, Jaq scrambling up with him and wrapping their arms about his waist. “Only if you’re coming with me.”

#jaq/phin #captain jaq #phineas welles #writing prompt #the captain of the unreliable #my writing

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vexing-imogen · 3 years

Text

the persistence of 5/?

read from beginning | read on ao3

It’s well past dawn when Vex finally wakes, far later than she usually sleeps. It’s Percy’s doing, she’s sure of it, and she’s grateful for it. The pounding headache from yesterday has lessened to a dull ache and she no longer feels so dreadfully nauseous. She’s alone in the room, but she can hear Percy and Keyleth’s voices drifting up the stairs.

She dresses quickly, favoring a tunic and leggings over any of the fancy dresses in her wardrobe. (And it’s still so hard to believe that any of this is actually hers. Even the simple clothes she’s wearing are nicer than anything she remembers owning since Syngorn.) She moves to the vanity to attempt to wrangle her hair, but she’s distracted by the myriad of letters that are strewn across the surface.

The first one she examines is from someone named Zahra. They’re mildly flirtatious, they call her darling or dearest every other paragraph, and they practically beg her to come visit as soon as possible. She feels the urge to agree, despite having no knowledge of this person.

She moves on to the small stack of letters all from Velora. The most recent one speaks of their father, and how he’s all but given her permission to come stay in Whitestone for the summer. Her penmanship suffers for her excitement, her adolescent cursive almost unreadable in places. Her tone grows more solemn towards the end of the letter, where she admits that Syldor refuses to speak to her about Vax, and would Vex mind terribly telling her some stories about their brother?

Most shocking of all, there are letters from Syldor, too. They’re stiff and awkward, as if he doesn’t know what to say to her beyond the expected pleasantries. He tells her of Velora and Devanna, asks after Percy and Vesper, and occasionally someone called Cassandra. (Percy’s sister? Is she remembering that right?) He even asks after Trinket once. But nowhere in any of his letters does he ask after...

“Vex’ahlia?”

She jumps at the sound of Percy’s voice, her hand flying to her chest, and sees him wince in the mirror.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You’re fine,” she says, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t hear you come in. Lost in thought, I guess.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”

She half turns in her chair, holds up the letter she’d been reading. “I’m on speaking terms with my father?”

“Ah, yes, that.” He hesitates. “It’s...complicated. I don’t particularly like him, and there are some days where I don’t think you do either, but you’re both trying?”

“I see,” she mutters, though she really doesn’t.

He comes up beside her, reaches for her hairbrush. “Would you like some help with that, dear?” he asks, gesturing to the wild mess her hair always is in the mornings.

He’s trying to change the subject, and she lets him. For now. “You know how to braid hair?”

Percy nods, starts to gently brush the tangles out. “Vax taught me,” he explains. “When you and I first started a relationship. He was leaving, and he wanted to make sure I could take care of you.”

She lets him work in silence for a while before she brings it up. “He never mentions Vax.” Their eyes meet in the mirror. “My father. He never asks about him or sends a message along for him. Velora says he refuses to speak of him.”

Percy sighs, his eyes dropping back to her hair. “Like I said, it’s complicated.”

Vex frowns, trying to puzzle it out. “Vax doesn’t speak to our father.”

“No.”

“But I do?” He nods. “That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

He sighs again. “I know.”

There’s something she’s missing, she can feel it. Some piece of the puzzle that would make all of this make sense, if only she could remember. She growls, and Percy pauses in tying off her braid.

“What’s wrong?”

She almost laughs, because it’s such a pointless question. “I just want this fixed.”

There’s a commotion downstairs that can only be Grog and Scanlan. Percy gives her a tense smile. “Well, here’s your chance.”

They keep eye contact in the mirror for just a minute longer, neither of them willing to voice what they’re both thinking.

What if this doesn’t work?

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

They find Pike and the others gathered in the parlor. There’s an energy buzzing in the air, anxious anticipation. Vex can barely hear her friends greetings over her heartbeat, sounding like a drum in her ears. Pike is sitting cross-legged on the floor, a pouch of diamond dust open in front of her.

Pike smiles up at her, pats the floor, indicating for her to sit. Once she does, Pike moves up onto her knees and cradles Vex’s face in her hands. “Are you ready?”

She’s not. She’s really not. She’s scared, and she isn’t sure what scares her more; remembering nothing or remembering everything. But she can’t say that. Not here, with everyone watching her, waiting for her to make what should be the easiest decision in the world.

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and focuses on Pike’s hands, gentle and cool against her skin. “Ready.”

She hears Pike mutter the incantation, feels her palms grow hot as the magical energy flows through them. She can even feel the magic flowing into her mind, probing gently, searching for something to latch onto so it can clear whatever blockage is there and start to heal her. It probes again, a little more insistently, and if magic could have emotions, she’d say it was frustrated.

Pike curses under her breath, and Vex’s heart sinks. Thankfully, Scanlan asks the question so she doesn’t have to.

“Pikey, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know!” There’s an edge to her voice, a hint of panic that sends a chill down Vex’s spine. “It’s not working.”

“What do you mean, it’s not working?” Percy demands.

“I don’t know, Percy!” Pike yells, sounding as close to tears as Vex has ever heard her. “The spell should be working, but it’s not, and I don’t know why.”

Vex opens her eyes, fighting back a whimper when she sees her friend’s tear-stained face. “Pike?”

The gnome takes a deep breath, steadies herself, then reaches out for Vex again, her expression determined. “I’m gonna try again, okay?”

Vex nods, sending up a silent prayer to whichever god might be listening. Please let this work. I get it, I know what’s worse, now. I want to remember.

There’s a moment where she thinks it’s working. The magic snags onto something, like a sweater on a loose nail. But just as she thinks it’s about to unravel, the thread snaps.

“Damnit!” Pike rocks back on her heels, composes herself. “I’m gonna try one more time, Vex. We’re so close.”

She doesn’t fight it, lets Pike try the spell again, but she knows deep down it won’t work. And, sure enough, it fails again, the magic scrabbling to find purchase on anything before it finally withdraws from her mind.

“Pike.” Her voice is hollow, defeated. She can barely see through the tears that are falling. “Darling, I don’t think it’s going to work.”

Pike lets out a noise somewhere between a scream and a wail. “I’m sorry, Vex,” she sobs. “I’m so sorry.” She runs from the room, and a few moments later they hear the door slam behind her.

“Should we...” Grog starts.

Scanlan cuts him off. “I’ll go.” He pauses at Vex’s side before he leaves, but he says nothing. He squeezes her shoulder, then follows Pike out of the house.

The only noise in the room for the next several minutes is Percy pacing and Vex’s quiet sobs. Keyleth finally breaks the silence timidly.

“Vex? Do you want me to try?”

She shakes her head, wiping away her tears. Her gaze drifts to the front door. “I think I need some air.”

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

Pike runs until she’s exhausted, gasping for air, struggling to stay upright. She’s out of the city, that much she knows. In the Parchwood she realizes when she finally falls to her hands and knees. She punches the ground once, twice for good measure, screaming her frustration into the mid-morning air.

A cluster of startled birds draws her attention to the tree in front of her; solid and sturdy, and probably much more satisfying to hit than the dirt. She wishes she had her gauntlets with her, but they’re back in Westruun with her good armor. She pushes herself to her feet and lets out another wordless scream.

She punches the tree once. Twice. Three times. Each one punctuated with a cry of frustration. She feels something pop in her hand on the fourth punch, and then a sickening crunch on the fifth. She doesn’t bother looking at the mess she’s made of her hand, just casts a quick cure wounds and screams to the heavens.

“Why didn’t it work?”

She finds a good sized rock on the ground and chucks it across the clearing, screaming again. It breaks a branch off of a small tree with a satisfying snap.

“It was supposed to work!”

She goes to punch the tree again, but something stops her hand before it can make contact. A small, purple hand, Scanlan’s mage hand to be precise, is providing a cushion between her fist and the tree.

“Pikey...”

She swallows hard, turns to face him with tears streaming down her face, and bruised, bloodied knuckles. She hiccups. “It was supposed to heal her, Scanlan.” Her voice breaks on his name, and she’s sinking to the ground sobbing.

He holds her gently as she falls apart on the forest floor. He’s mostly silent, content to rub her back, stroke her hair, press the occasional kiss to her temple. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs once she’s mostly cried herself out.

She sniffles. “How?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Have you tried asking Sarenrae?”

“No,” she says sullenly. “I kind of just screamed at her.”

He chuckles. “I’m sure she understands.”

She smiles sheepishly. “Enough for me to try a divine intervention, you think?”

“It couldn’t hurt.” He stands, kisses her on the forehead. “I’ll meet you back at Casa de Rolo. I have an idea that I want to run by Percy.”

She watches him go with a small smile, then settles herself in to meditate and pray.

Sarenrae, if you’re there, if you’re still listening. I need your help. Vex needs your help.

The clouds break, and a sunbeam shines directly down on Pike. She hears her goddess’s voice, warm and gentle in her mind.

What can I do for you, my child?

My friend Vex lost a chunk of her memories, and my magic can’t bring them back. I need you to heal her.

I’m afraid I can’t do that, Pike.

What? Why not?

Memories are not part of my domain. I cannot restore your friend’s memories to her, but I know the one who can. If you trust me, I can direct your path.

What do I have to do?

#critical role #critfic #vox machina #perc'ahlia #vex'ahlia #percy de rolo #cw unintentional self harm

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enkelimagnus · 3 years

Text

A Castle in the Forest

Percy x Vex’ahlia, Chapter 3, 3387 words,

A Modern AU, in which Vex is a park ranger taking over the Alabaster Sierras post, and finds much more than she bargained for

Read on AO3

-------------

Keyleth was right about the trail. She’s the only one that really takes it.

It’s a month into Vex’s stay in Whitestone when she bumps into the red-haired half-elf again.

It’s a late morning with a pale winter sun, the kind that doesn’t really warm you in any way. Vex hasn’t had to take off her coat through the exertion of work in a couple of days. The cub plays in a pen she’s hammered into the side of the path when she got there.

She’s a couple of miles into the trail now and it’s getting harder by the day. The further away from civilisation, the more tangled the branches and roots are. She doesn’t easily fall to the ground but even her sure footing fails her regularly.

The trail now snakes along the mountainous platform Castle Whitestone sits on. A thin layer of bushes provides a buffer between the path and the rock, thicker in patches where certain harsher varieties grow. There’s some berry bushes in there, thorny but with delicious fruit that will make Vex’ delight in summer.

She decides to stop for a bit of lunch, gives the cub some milk and solid food. She’s trying to wean him off, regularly asking advice to her old mentors. Once she’s done taking care of him, she sits down on a bigger rock and starts to eat her sandwich of brown bread, cured meats and cheese, with dried fruit on the side. She’s completely out of spices and Vax won’t be there for a week at least.

It’s all a little drab. Despite the pale sun, she can feel the rain coming, and she doubts she’ll be able to spend most of the afternoon working here. She’ll have to pack up and start the hike back down to the edge of the path, for almost two hours.

She stretches out once she’s done eating, closing her eyes and letting herself dig. She settles her feet into the ground, straightens her spine and digs herself into the forest.

Her consciousness expands, past her skull, through her entire body until she’s one with her mind. And then it pushes past her physical form. Through every pore, through her feet’s connection to the ground, she breathes her mind out and lets it tangle with the forest.

It’s a strange sort of feeling. Vex stops breathing for a second as she sinks into the sensation of letting her mind run free. It’s primal. She remembers being taught this strange instinctive ability by other rangers, being taught to let herself be. Let her nature breathe out.

She stops floating after a moment though and focuses on what she’s doing this for. She’s searching for an enemy.

More specifically, she’s searching for a fey. A part of her doesn’t believe she’s truly alone and free of Saundor’s influence, so she searches. She doesn’t find any fey, nothing in the six mile radius her consciousness stretches in. What she finds however is a fiend.

She can’t tell exactly where it is, her powers aren’t that specific, but she knows it’s there. It’s in her radius, in her home, in the place she’s sworn to protect.

The trance ends and she snaps back into her body like a stretched-out rubber hand. She shudders violently, her eyes adjusting to her surroundings. She’s forgotten her own name for a second there.

The fiend’s presence leaves an ashy aftertaste in her mouth. She’ll need to go and talk to a priest about this. She has no idea what the creature’s power is, but she’d rather have some divine magic by her side if she has to root it out.

As she packs her things to get back to work, she hears something. A light footstep, to her right, coming from the south.

Vex’s hand flies to her bow. Lightning-fast, she notches in an arrow and draws it back, focusing on her target.

A half-elf with red hair, tan skin and green eyes. Her hands are up, she has a sheepish smile on her face. Keyleth.

Vex exhales. She doesn’t lower her guard, because Keyleth could still be the fiend, but she relaxes somewhat.

“You startled me,” she says in explanation, but not apology, for the arrow pointed at her.

“I’m sorry,” Keyleth replies, her hands still up even if Vex has lowered her bow. “I wasn’t expecting someone there either.”

Her eyes dart over to the rock formation for a second.

“I’m making sure this trail is secure,” Vex explains. “You can probably handle yourself, but unmarked paths like this one are just begging for idiots to climb up and get themselves injured. And then I have to deal with it,” she mutters. “And it’s a major liability.”

“I get it,” Keyleth hums. Her right hand settles on the rock.

She seems anxious despite her relaxed demeanor. It may simply be a façade. Her eyes dart to the stone right behind Vex, or up to the castle regularly, as if checking if something is still there. She’s much more nervous, almost hostile towards Vex than the first time they met. Something’s wrong.

“I was wondering,” Vex starts again, and green eyes snap back to her. “I did some… energy checks around here earlier and something was wrong. I felt a-”

“There are many wrong things in the Parchwood Timberlands,” Keyleth snaps, cutting Vex off. “Undead sometimes, some elementals too. Comes with the territory. A lot of magical energy here.”

She’s trying to distract Vex’ attention. She’s lying to her, it’s almost too obvious. The red-head is not good at deception and it immediately pings Vex’ radar. Her eyes are darting back to the stone almost in panic now, her arm not holding her staff is stiff to her side with the fist closed.

“I’m not talking about those,” Vex coldly points out. “I felt a fiend. A couple undead or werewolves or elementals I can deal with, and was warned about when I took my post. But not fiends.”

Keyleth is stiff as a board now. “I… I don’t know. I don’t come here often, and I only come on this trail. I can’t help you,” she mumbles under her breath.

She’s still lying. Vex feels the rise of anger in her throat, anger at this girl who is not letting her do her job correctly.

“Listen, I don’t know why you’re lying to me but this is dangerous. I don’t know what your business with this situation is, but whatever you’re protecting, it’s gonna kill people. That’s what fiends do. They’re evil.”

Keyleth shifts, her grasp on her staff white-knuckled. “I’m not protecting anything,” she answers tightly. “I can’t help you. I’m a druid, and a weak one at that. I can’t help anyone.”

Now there is a light tone of despair in her voice and Vex can feel the guilt coming off of the young woman in waves. She sighs deeply. She hopes this one’s problem won’t be something she bumps into in the dark of the forest.

“Fine,” Vex huffs. “Do whatever you were here to do. I’ll go get the local priest of Pelor for help with that creature anyway. We need divine power to combat fiends.”

Keyleth shifts again, staring at Vex with a strange intensity. She’s maybe not as hesitant as before. There is something stronger and harder about her. Vex wonders why she would be protecting a fiend.

Evil has many faces, and maybe Keyleth was seduced by one of those. Vex couldn’t blame her if she was. She’d made that mistake before. She just wished she could save Keyleth from this.

“I… Sorry for bothering,” Keyleth mutters before she starts walking northward, to the part of the trail Vex has yet to work.

“Good luck,” Vex replies similarly as she watches the druid walk away. She seems to relax as she moves away from Vex. Well.

She screwed that one up. Keyleth could have been an ally, but her… nervousness around the topic of the fiend didn’t make her seem trustworthy.

Vex sighs heavily, closing her eyes a little. This city is much more of a mess than expected, and now she really will have to go to that Temple of Pelor and see if there’s a priest that can help her root out the fiend.

Maybe that can be her late afternoon trip, she realizes. She’s made enough headway for today, and she has no desire to stick around to see Keyleth again once she walks back down the trail in a couple of hours, hopefully satisfied with her hike.

Now that she thinks of it, coming to one specific trail once a month or once every couple of months and never any other is a strange habit. What is Keyleth finding up that trail? Is there a hideout that Vex will walk in? She should have asked her that, fuck. If that druid knows all about this trail, Vex needs to know too. She has no desire to find herself falling into a trap because she didn’t ask the person who knew.

She packs up her things and gets the cub back from his pen, before starting the long walk back down to her truck. It takes her about two hours, and she makes sure to drive home and leave the animal there before she heads into town.

Whitestone looks beautiful in the winter light, she has to admit that. It’s like the city is made to exist in this weather. She hasn’t spent enough time here to gauge if this is the average weather or not.

The high walls are almost blindingly light as she drives on the driveway surrounding the city, from the west side where she came out of the woods to the eastern side, where the cemetery and some of the temples are.

She’s done a little research and talked to some people. The Dawnfather is the main deity of the city and has been the patron of Whitestone and its ruling family, the De Rolos, since they arrived from Wildemount. Some stories say that the Parchwood Timberlands were created by the conflict between Pelor, the Dawnfather and Tharizdun, the Chained Oblivion, during the Calamity.

Stories of divine battles mark the entirety of Exandria. Fallen giants make for mountains and greatswords fit for deities are considered responsible for rivers or valleys opening into land. The supposed origin of the Parchwood Timberlands is not the only story of this kind. The place she used to call home, Syngorn, is situated in the middle of a forest known for growing from the ley energy left behind after the Divergence.

Vex has never been the most faithful. Her mother worshipped in that way that many do, partially and because of tradition and habit more than motivated by faith. When she and Vax left her for Syngorn, they found a city where the Elders’s very parents had been betrayed by the Arch Heart and left behind in the time of the Calamity. Though some had forgiven the deity and seen it as a gift, as it allowed them to become a people of the Feywild, some still held a grudge.

She guesses she took in the grudge part more than the forgiveness part.

The influence of the Dawnfather runs deep in Whitestone, from what she’s read. The Sun Tree towering in the center of the city, also represented on the city’s crest, was supposedly given by him. The Dawnfather’s temple, the Zenith, is a major place of worship, with the Lady’s Chamber. And it’s exactly what she needs.

Vex parks in the lot by the walled-up enclave of temples and cemetery. The Zenith leans against the Southern wall, towering over it. The Eastern gate is right in front of it, allowing a view of the tall wooden doors.

She steps into the yard in front of the temple and swallows. The door seems closed, but she doubts it actually is. She doesn’t know any reason why the temple would be closed today. Every house of worship of Pelor she’s seen before has been opened every day and night.

The doors are beautiful, dark wood carved with wreaths and sun rays, flames licking up the sides of it.

There isn’t anyone outside, the yard quiet and empty. As she walks across the grass, she tracks more mud than green. Vex sighs before she uses the thick iron knocker on the door. It used to be painted in gold, it seems. There’s still chips of paint in some untouched corners.

Her knock seems to echo a little inside but there is no immediate response. She waits there, wind slashing stray strands of hair into her face and sipping through her thick winter coat. From the corner of her eye, she notices that a part of the western wall of the temple is being rebuilt. She can’t imagine the cold in there.

She’s about to go and look closer at the fallen stones of the wall when something slides behind the doors. Bars probably, heavy iron locks opening. Within a few seconds, a smaller door opens in the massive right one.

Behind the panel is a human, with salt and pepper hair and a matching beard. They wear cream robes with red and gold embroideries and detailing representing suns and shields, with a golden sash wrapped around the waist. Vex can’t see exactly but they seem to be wearing several thick layers of fabric. Something about them is familiar, as if she’s seen them before.

“Sun’s Greeting, what can I do for you?” They say in a low, soft voice that must sound beautiful in a song.

Vex smiles. “Sun’s Greeting to you,” she responds. “I’m the new ranger of the Alabaster Sierras park, and I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time to discuss something I’ve sensed.”

They nod, something shifting in their eyes, though Vex cannot tell what.

“Vex’ahlia Vessar, right?” they ask. “I’ve heard about you.” They’re still smiling at her, but Vex feels frozen in place.

She hasn’t told anyone her last name yet. She’s been very careful not to. Many people and tribes do not use last names, and it is not uncommon enough to raise suspicion. The fact this person she has never met before knows a name they shouldn’t know is terrifying. She would drop into her trance and search for fey if she wasn’t in the middle of a conversation.

“Just… Just Vex’ahlia,” she replies, her voice wavering frustratingly.

“Father Reynal,” he introduces himself. “The current head of worship of the Zenith. Please, come in.”

He takes a step back to let her walk into the temple. Vex’s eyes stare at the mark of the door on the stone of the floor, but her legs walk her in automatically.

It’s almost as cold inside as it is outside, despite the large roaring fireplace behind the altar, across the room from the door. Candles are lit as the pale sun struggles to shine through the tall stained glass windows on the walls. There’s three on each of the longest walls.

Her muddy boots dirty the red carpet, but the priest doesn’t seem to pay that any mind. He’s looking right at her. Vex swallows. The door closes behind her, leaving her in the low-lit empty church.

The wall to her right is partially fallen, covered by large blankets suspended from the ceiling and attached to below the holes, to try and provide cover from the elements. It’s not working well.

Something has happened here, Vex can’t shake that feeling. The fallen walls and chipped paints and that thing about the De Rolos that the owner of the Alcove was so reluctant to talk about. Something terrible happened in this city, it hangs from the walls and through the air like ash after a catastrophic fire. It makes Vex want to cough it out, even if she knows it’s not really there.

The priest starts walking deeper in. He’s limping quite heavily. Vex follows him, dread coiling in her stomach. This is not the sunrise of divine positive energy she’s expected.

“What can I help you with? What have you sensed?” Father Reynal asks and Vex manages to make her brain start again.

“I sensed a fiend. In a six-mile radius from the stone platform on which the castle sits,” she explains. “I’ve dealt with fiends a couple of times, but not knowing what this one’s power is, I was hoping to gather some divine help.”

The priest raises an eyebrow at her. “I’m afraid a couple hours of hiking up the mountains is out of my current capacities,” he replies. His voice is much heavier, much more haunted. “That’s all you felt, right? A fiend, somewhere in that area. No specifics?”

Vex shakes her head. “My training only offers rather… general information,” she sighs. “That’s all I can give you.”

“I don’t think I can help you in any way,” he looks rather saddened by the fact.

“Maybe there is another member of your house of worship that would be up for some fiend hunt in the woods?” She asks, raising an eyebrow.

Father Reynal huffs lightly. “I’m the only one here,” he says. “The only one taking care of this temple. If I can’t help you, no acolyte of Pelor can, in Whitestone.”

Vex looks around the temple. The pews wear a layer of dust she hadn’t noticed originally. A gust of wind slips under the blanket trying desperately to keep it out. The candles’ lights tremble. It’s desolate. Father Reynal looks more tired and older like this, shadows digging in his face.

“I thought the Dawnfather was the most worshipped deity of the city,” she whispers.

The priest chuckles humorlessly. “He’s still worshipped alright, but the people don’t find the time or energy to come to the temple anymore. They haven’t in years.”

A lot of her information is wrong. Way too much for her comfort, actually. Not only did she not know the de Rolos were all dead, but now this too? The nagging feeling of dread tightens in her chest again.

“I’m sorry,” she swallows.

Father Reynal sighs. “Whitestone hasn’t been the Dawnfather’s beloved city for a very long time, but it has only recently become this visible. We should have known something was wrong a long time ago but we were all blind.”

The state of the city, the thing that happened, are weighing on this man something awful. Vex swallows.

“Do you know of anyone who could help me? I think the fiend is powerful enough for mind control.” She then starts recounting her encounter with Keyleth, who the half-elf is and why she’s worried about her, with the priest watching her intently. When she’s done, she looks at him honestly, earnestly. “I really need some help in this matter. A life may be at stake.”

“I know the druid you’re talking about,” Father Reynal nods. “But I wouldn’t worry. She has a strong mind, and she knows the path well. She’s not enthralled. I would be aware.”

That feels final. He’s shutting her out of that topic, shoving her worries away. He probably knows better than her about fiends and enthrallment but Vex can’t shake the stress in her bones. Maybe it’s only her own experience with Saundor, maybe she’s projecting it all on Keyleth and that fiend…

“Unless you have something else to ask…” the priest points out. “I will see you out. Things need to be done here, work.”

He coaxes Vex back to the door and opens it. She’s being shut out of something, again. It’s what comes with being a stranger to Whitestone, but she’s here to take care of people and nature alike, not to hurt anyone. Why won’t they tell her things she needs to know?

“I understand,” she says between gritted teeth as she steps back through the door.

Right as the man is about to close the door back on her, he stops. His eyes land on her again, heavy and sad.

“Maybe go ask in town. The Lady’s Chamber might know if there are good clerics in town,” Father Reynal advises. “And the tavern is always a good place to ask.”

And with that, the thick carved wood slams in Vex’ face.

#perc'ahlia #percy de rolo #vex'ahlia #fic #critical role #vox machina #mine #vaxleth #vaxilmore

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