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cdyssey · 11 months

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Simpler Times

Summary: After Kelvin falls asleep in the middle of their movie, Jesse asks if Judy misses the simpler times. Set during 1x09.

AO3 Link | T Rating

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“Don’t you ever miss the simpler times?” Jesse asks when the end credits of The NeverEnding Story finally start to roll, and Judy is nearly asleep on Kelvin’s couch, idly thinking about how much she’d like to dream about BJ. BJ and his straw-colored hair. BJ and that slender, little nerd body. BJ and those big, wet eyes that look at her and not through her, that acknowledge her and really see her, fuck ups and all.

She’s damaged goods, she told him in that Outback Steakhouse, and for the first time in her life, actually meant it.

She doesn’t deserve him.

She’d still like to dream about him anyway.

BJ and his liberal politics. BJ and his stupid electric car. BJ and that shiny, new earring that he’s got. (It’s gaudy as hell. Her daddy wouldn’t approve. It’s fucking sexy anyway.)

BJ and his genuinely kind smile.

(She doesn’t meet too many people with one of those nowadays, vaguely aware that her own smile is carefully manufactured in the coffers of the Gemstone Vault, that her father and brothers’ are too—perfectly calibrated to appease a broader audience, a steady demographic of adults ages thirty to eighty-five. When the Gemstones smile, they smile with precisely the right shape and none of the proper dimension. When BJ smiles, it warms his entire face like lightning bugs in the night.)

Really, there are a lot of good and lovely things to dream about when it comes to Benjamin Jason Barnes—his passion, his goodness, the way his ass looks in her jeans, his slinging, slappin', hanging and hung cock ‘n juicy ass bal—

—but unfortunately, before any of these fantasies are realized, she jerks fully awake at the unexpected question, startling Kelvin who had conked out nearly thirty minutes ago with his head resting on her lap.

“Shhh,” she instinctively soothes, running her hand through his shock of dark hair. It’s not an easy feat with the metric shit ton of product he uses.

But nevertheless, she persists because Mama used to do the same when they were all younger, threading her slender pianist fingers through their curls, filling the delicately shaped pews of their ears with soft hymns. Judy hardly remembers the lyrics of any of them, but it was always something old and Jesus-y, like it came straight from a Carter Family cassette.

Mama had a beautiful voice—all angelic and holy.

Listening to it was probably the closest she’s ever come to actually hearing God.

“Go back t’sleep, baby bro.”

And to her surprise, Kelvin actually does, burrowing slightly against her stomach, mumbling something that she doesn’t quite catch. Of course, he absolutely needs the sleep. He’d been talking pretty cray cray all night, blabbering on at one point about how he might actually be Jesus Christ incarnate.

Dumbass.

She loves the little bastard all the same.

“Nice goin’,” Jesse teases. He’s looks pretty darn comfortable where he's at with one of his beefy arms thrown over the head of the velvet couch, the other cradling a half-empty beer—his fourth that Judy knows of. “Wakin’ the baby.”

“Shut up,” she immediately bristles, more than reluctant to be chastised, especially by her sanctimonious donkey dingus of an older brother. He can be such a dick sometimes—always messing with her ass. “I wouldn’t have woken him had you not said anything.”

“Had to get your attention somehow, Judes. Didn’t have any bright lights on me.”

“I ain’t a fucking cat, Jesse.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why d’ya keep talkin’ about your pussy, huh?”

She flips him a bird with her free hand, and Jesse flips one right back, but then, per their usual vicious tango, in accordance with all the childish games they're accustomed to playing, he smiles crookedly at her, apology in his eyes, and she relents with a long and melodramatic sigh.

Truce.

Kelvin begins to snore again, his mouth stupidly wrenched open, a gaping hole, and Judy resists the frustrated urge to pinch his nose.

“The simpler times,” Jesse repeats after another beat, his smile suddenly disappearing, an older man’s sadness just as quickly taking its place. There are lines beneath his bright eyes, sagging shadows. Scruff that hasn’t been shaved. All of that overgrown schoolboy juvenescence chewed up, choked upon, and painfully swallowed, and suddenly her eldest sibling resembles their rapidly aging father more than ever before.

Solemnity isn’t a good look on him; he can’t wear its gravitas as comfortably as a cocky smile or big, bellowing laugh.

“Do you miss ‘em?”

Judy scrutinizes him in the faint light wash of the TV, trying to glean the answer from his pensive stare without having to pry. Jesse’s dumber than a squirrel on crack most of the time, but he can be thoughtful when he wants to—a little philosophical even—very much like their father who’s prone to monologuing about existential crap when he gets in the mood. She hates when her brother does it, though, ‘cuz then it means she’s gotta do some meaningful reflecting herself to actually have a conversation with him.

And if there’s only one thing she hates more than having a serious conversation with her brother, it’s having a serious conversation with herself—looking inwards and finding something that she doesn’t instinctively flinch at seeing.

“Simpler times? Like before you went and snorted coke off hookers’ tits in Atlanta?” She finally asks, intending for it to sting, half-hoping that it’ll really fucking hurt. Maybe he’ll pull away and they won’t have to have this shitty feelings talk; maybe they’ll get into a fight, and that’ll be mutually beneficial distraction for them both.

But Jesse is either oblivious or undeterred.

Probably both knowing him.

“Wasn’t their tits,” he shakes his head gravely. “And nah, before that even, little sis. Like, before Mama passed on and things were, y’know… they were actually, uh—"

But he stumbles pathetically at the end, groping around for the right words, and Judy feels herself something inside her unclench and relent as it always does when Mama is brought up nowadays. She’s not exactly Daddy, a pillar of salt slowly eroding in front of Mama’s polished bust like it’s her own personal idol, but she’s not necessarily Judy anymore either, a ball of excessive nerves and live wires and unbridled sexual energy. She’s just a little girl again, scared of the dark in her sepulcher of a room, waiting for Mama to swoop in and save her with a gentle kiss goodnight.

Growing up, she was always needing to be saved in some way or another.

She had hated that about herself.

She’d always had an inkling that everyone else around her hated it too.

“Happy?” She suggests quietly, glancing down at Kelvin because she can’t look Jesse in the eye. None of the Gemstones are intensely vulnerable people. Any visible weakness is typically pounced upon and made into a vicious joke at church lunch. She and her siblings especially have made a bit of a game outta one-upping their cruelty towards each other.

(Implicitly understood but never said aloud—whoever Daddy smirks at from behind his hand wins.)

But to Judy’s relief, Jesse doesn’t seem to be in a mocking sort of mood and hasn’t particularly been all night. Earlier, he even told her that she’d have ten to fifteen boyfriends, and that they’d all go down on her butthole.

That’s nearly the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to her, and that’s counting the time that BJ said that she was talented with a whip.

“Yeah, for sure,” Jesse agrees, though he sounds more-than-uncertain, scratching his head, that thick mass of curls. “But I guess I was just thinkin’ that life was so much clearer then too. We knew right from wrong ‘cause Mama showed us the way.”

“Daddy’d say that Jesus is the one who’s supposed to show us that,” she says automatically. She’s not sure that she believes it—only knows that it’s what she should say, what Christianity and its thousands of stuffy edicts demands of her.

“Shoot,” her brother laughs. “I think Daddy agrees with me deep down, though. He’s all lost without her too.”

“Don’t say that, Jess,” she protests immediately, pressing two fingers over her brow. She can feel a headache beginning to form, its nucleus pulsing right behind her eyes.

“What? That Daddy’s lost? Newsflash, Sis—that ain’t exactly news.”

“No,” she pouts, the syllable dredged up from her chest like muck after a summer rain. “That we all are. I don’t wanna think about that.”

Can’t, really.

It’s like throwing a brick through her own glass house. Once it’s shattered, she’s afraid of what she’s gonna cut herself on in all the rubble.

(Maybe she is as untalented as Uncle Baby Billy says. Maybe she’s got nothin’ to show for her nearly four-decade long life except for a fine ass body and a knack at stealing money from the church. Maybe Daddy will never love her in the way that she desperately wants him to. Maybe she hurt BJ in a way she can never, ever take back. And maybe that’s the true token by which she can be damn sure that she’s condemned—her astonishing ability to keep pushing away the folks who love her unconditionally. They’re few and far between—those people, those endlessly patient souls—and they scare the living shit outta her because of that very fact. Reckless, damn near always, she tries to terrify them as a fucked up form of thank you.)

(You love me; how noble of you; here, have at me; I'm a goddamn train wreck in motion.)

“Like, shit, Jesse,” she continues, violently swiping at her eyes. They’re leaking, and she hates that—despises that her older brother can plainly see. “I’m too fucking sober to be talkin’ about this.”

The quarter-bottle of wine she brought over was hardly sufficient. Didn’t touch a thing except for her lips.

“And I’m too drunk to stop, so I think we’re at an in past here.”

“Impasse,” Judy corrects him, sniffing profusely.

“Whatever,” he rolls his eyes but plucks a tissue from a nearby end table and hands it to her anyway. She dabs at her eyes first, then blows her nose rather loudly.

To Jesse’s rare credit, he doesn’t say a thing.

“‘Least grab a gal somethin’ to drink before you start makin’ her cry over her dead mommy issues,” she grouses, not willing to let silence fill the space between them. Not talking about her emotions is somehow even more unbearable than talking about them; at least if she starts spouting stuff, it doesn’t necessarily have to be the truth.

“I’d offer you somethin’, girl, but I think all Kelvin has in his fridge are White Claws ‘n those weird ass home-brewed beers the Satan kid makes. Frat boy shit.”

“Ugh.” She flicks their youngest sibling on the center of his head. He doesn’t stir. “Shithead.”

“Yeah,” Jesse snorts, patting Kelvin’s leg. “Fucker.”

They share the fond and self-righteous chuckle of the two older siblings then, the pair who grew up together, who then protected and tormented their baby brother in turns, and it’s kind of happy, and it’s somehow terribly sad all at once. Jesse looks away at the end of it, rubbing the side of his reddened nose, and Judy takes another pass at her eyes with the crumpled-up tissue.

Her mascara is already smudged.

She guesses there's no use trying to hide the damage anymore—the pain and the incalculable toll.

Fuck it.

She’s all soft 'n gooey tonight, apparently.

“Okay,” she starts slowly. “You asked a question. Simpler times.”

Jesse nods affirmatively, still not quite meeting her in the eye. It’s better like this. Judy can breathe easier without the weight of his gaze sitting on her chest.

He’s gotta Mama’s eyes—vivid and piercing.

She’s always loathed that about him.

Envied.

“Uh… let’s see… I-I dunno if I miss the simpler days ‘cuz we didn’t have as much then, and Mama and Daddy still didn’t have a lotta time to hang with us anyway… but I just miss Mama, y’know? There’s a difference between those two things in my head.”

It’s hard to explain, but Judy’s never been one to get all sentimental over memories. She’s spent a lifetime habitually rocketing from one moment to another with ungodly abandon, never looking back, just springing forward with whatever passion is currently percolating in her gut.

She might whine, but she hardly ever mopes; there isn’t enough time in the world to do that; she’s got so many things to do, so many invented and reinvented iterations of herself that she wants to be if someone would just up and give her the chance.

(Plus, if she’s fast enough, if she’s just as goddamn clever, then maybe—just maybe—she’ll be the first in the family to do it in the end—to ever successfully outrun the pain and the awful hurt.)

“If I could have Mama here and BJ back and a job singin’ to thousands ‘n thousands of people on Sunday, I’d sure be happy,” she finishes, ticking this impossible to-do list off on her fingers, her smile diminishing with each addition.

She’s zero-for-zero as of now, and even if she does miraculously get Beej to come around and begs and scrapes and claws her way back into Daddy’s good graces again, that still isn’t bringing Mama back.

Which means that happiness isn’t an objectively achievable goal.

For her.

For any of the Gemstones, in fact.

“But, Judes," her brother sighs dramatically, "my point is that because Mama ain’t here, you, me, and baby Jesus”—he hooks his thumb at Kelvin—”have done the shitty things that’ve got us here, without the folks we love—Amber ‘n my kids. That little Keebler Elf of yours. Kelvin’s boy toy. We pushed ‘em all away.”

Judy can’t help it. She laughs incredulously at this simply ridiculous proclamation—perpetually inappropriate because it’s damn easier than being sincere—holding Kelvin’s head so as not to jostle him with the movement.

“You sayin’ that Mama would’ve stopped you from snortin’ blow with the Four Stooges and me from gettin’ arrested at Piggly Wiggly?” She looks at her sleeping brother again. “And Kelv from breakin’ up with his emo ass boyfriend?”

“No,” Jesse pouts, hurt flashing in his eyes. He crosses his arms over his burly chest and less resembles a person than he does a log with golden chains. “I’m just sayin’ that Mama would have made sure we all remembered how to love people right—the way she loved us… but I suppose that’s kinda the same thing as being stopped from doing bad things if you really think about it.”

“I suppose…” Judy echoes, but even to herself, she sounds unsure. She can’t help but think that that’s a lot of weight to place on one woman’s soul, even one as pure and angelic as their mama’s.

She knows precious little about accountability and doesn't want to know one iota more about its burdensome toll either, but she's got some inkling that Jesse's logic is all wrong, that the weight of an entire family’s sin isn't something that one person alone can bear unless they're, like, Jesus Fucking Christ or something.

But if not their saint of a scapegoat of their long dead mother, who else then? For all of the family’s extensive talk about the Lord, not a single one of them have ever made a good and willing martyr.

Jesse's expression softens, his entire demeanor. He's always been a sentimental kind of drunk, and hell, even when he’s sober, he's secretly a big, ‘ole teddy bear behind the douchebag, Elvis wannabe schtick he’s got going on.

Maybe he reads something complicated in her expression.

Maybe he correctly identifies it as hurt.

Whatever it is, he unbends his arms again and reaches over to gently tug one of Judy’s ringlets just like he did when they were kids.

“You look so much like her, y’know,” he says, “with them tight curls. Somethin’ in your eyes too, like the playfulness in ‘em, Judes. Jesus, I can see Mama when you laugh.”

Judy swallows thickly, unprepared for this sudden tenderness, unsure of how to meet it as an equal. She shifts uncomfortably where she sits and calculates that it’s only right that she reciprocates the favor.

“Uh, well, okay… but how about you, dude? I can see Mama when you’re with your boys sometimes, huggin’ on ‘em and stuff.” She clears her throat like something is stuck down there. This saccharine shit is hard work. It doesn’t come easily to her. She has to actually put an effort into it; she strives and endlessly, horribly strives. “You’re a good daddy—even if you did kinda send your eldest son packin’ to Haiti.”

“You think?” Jesse sounds unconvinced, looking to her with pleading eyes. It’s kind of childish in fact, and she doesn’t know what to do with that either except to lean into being the adult he apparently requires her to be in the moment. The eldest siblings, sometimes they’ve had to be parents, both Kelvin’s and one another’s.

“Fuck yeah,” she nods vigorously and tries to sound like she believes it. It’s superlatively easy for all of them to just sound like they’re saying things and never actually going deeper than the tip. Surface-level theatrics. Performative care. This moment is asking for better than lip service.

It necessitates that she’s actually a good sister.

“Like, one of the best,” she stresses, waving her hand around vaguely. “Third place behind God ‘n Daddy.”

“Bronze,” Jesse hums thoughtfully, rubbing his stubbled jaw. “Huh, I guess I can kinda live with that for now. Ain’t no beatin’ the Father or our father.”

“For realsies,” she nods solemnly, simply relieved that she agrees.

“Thanks, Judy. That’s actually pretty nice of you.” He sounds surprised.

Judy can’t say that she blames him—she wasn’t aware that she was capable of such unprovoked kindness either.

“‘Course, bro.” She slugs him awkwardly on the shoulder. It’s like knuckling a boulder if a boulder had Conway Twitty sideburns and an ego bigger than God. “I’ve always got you.”

They both awkwardly smile at each other then and just as quickly look away, mutually uncomfortable about this excess affection and still soaking it up, prolonging it, stewing in it anyway.

Their heart-to-heart or whatever-the-fuck-this-is has even lasted long enough for the credits to entirely roll and the next movie to boot up. A late night showing of Titanic apparently. Judy wrinkles her nose. She hates that it takes hours ‘n hours to get to the good parts (Kate Winslet’s perky tits and the steamy boat sex).

Maybe she’ll complain and get Jesse to change the channel; maybe she’ll tough it out so long as he does, slapping her big brother if he tries to fall asleep on her. She doesn’t feel like sleeping yet, afraid of what horrors might await her in the stillness and the dark in the off chance that she doesn't dream about BJ. She sure as hell won’t be going back to her horribly big and empty mansion tonight, to all those hollow halls and that exceedingly desolate king-sized bed. It ain’t a home without him anymore. It’s just a waste of space—so many thousands of square feet—that all the money in the goddamn world can neither fill nor satisfactorily buy.

“You think a good daddy would go to Haiti?” Jesse suddenly asks. It’s yet another needy question, requiring an equally mature and measured response. Judy would like to think she’s much more mature than either of her brothers, that being the only girl between them has taught her something about how to be measured, but she doesn’t know what to fucking say to that. Doesn’t want to advise him from her own wealth (or, well, astonishing paucity) of experience.

Can’t bear to tell him the wrong damn thing.

“...I mean, I think Mama’d go if it meant keepin’ her family together,” she eventually hedges. It’s always the safest option. Thinking through what Mama might have done and proffering that as the Word of God.

But she’s selfish—perhaps habitually so. She wants to favor reciprocated, needs it to be.

“You think BJ might come around?” She impulsively adds—not giving Jesse time to react to her advice—every word a jumble and an embarrassing rush. Her cheeks redden; the blush plummets through her entire body. Judy forces herself not to look away from her older brother all the same, disciplining herself even when his expression openly shifts, self-pity becoming—to her horror and unspeakable chagrin—tender, unmistakable, and lovingly involved concern.

“Damn, baby sis,” he whistles softly. “You really like that dorky lil Ken doll, don’t ya? You wanna marry his lily white ass.”

“Fuck you, Jesse,” she hisses, defensive about the subject, the gaping wound of BJ, even though she’s lost every goddamn right to be. She hurt him too. Maybe if that Denim asshole was right, she’s been hurting him for the entire time they’ve been boyfriends and girlfriends. “He’s really good to me, and h-he’s, like, a gentleman, dude. He always lets me go down on him first.”

“Jesus, Judy,” Jesse groans, dragging his hand across his face.

“It’s romantic,” she snaps and suddenly realizes what she’s doing, the tense she’s employing, the long-ingrained habit. The epiphany lashes through her like a bullet; she could double-over where she sits; she might actually bleed and perpetually bleed.

“Was,” she corrects in a small voice, the indignation leaving her, any fight. It slumps to the floor like a broken body. “Shit.”

Tears rise again—unbidden, unwelcome, uncontrolled and uncontrollable—to her eyes. She curls her long fingers over the balled-up tissue still in her hand as her vision blurs over.

“Fuck,” she adds inelegantly. She doesn’t know what else to say; there's nothing else to say. She and BJ are over. That's all there is to it; that's the truth she's gotta live with, the horror that's gonna take up permanent residence in her ribcage, squeezing all the precious air out of her lungs. She's a shitty person, a shithead. She did such a terrible thing, and he took it like Jesus Christ, dragging that heavy cross up a steep and lonely hill.

When Jesse’s warm hand suddenly lands on her shoulder, squeezing it, the kindness of the action almost does her in on the spot.

She can’t handle it—her brother’s love—wants to run five thousand miles and some spare change away and never speak of its profound effect upon her again.

She sits and accepts it anyway, habitually a dog who doesn’t know how to discriminate between scraps.

“Well, maybe he’ll come back,” Jesse offers gently. “And if he doesn’t, Judes, you got me and you got Kelv. We’re in the same sinkin’ boat as you, y’know.”

He briefly smirks at the television, clearly under the impression that he’s made a clever pun.

(It's good, she has to admit; she'll never fucking admit that to him, though.)

“I can’t fuck my brothers raw,” she grunts, her voice constricted. It’s petulant—she knows. She just doesn’t exactly care.

“Nah,” he grins. “But you can rely on us, Sis. And that’s, well, it's gotta count for somethin’, right?”

It’s not a rhetorical question, she can somehow easily tell. He’s actually fucking asking, unsure still that she values them, needing to know, to be coddled, handheld, and patronizingly reassured. Judy almost wants to laugh because everyone and their backwards cousins tells her that she’s the needy one, the endless chasm seeking emotional validation as her tribute, and yet, here her older brother is, pretty much asking if she trusts him, if she buys into the image he has for all of ‘em—three siblings who fucking love each other to pieces.

Simpler times.

Does she miss 'em too?

“Yeah,” she finally croaks, sighing and reaching up to place her free hand on top of Jesse’s where it’s still resting on her shoulder, the other finding its way back to Kelvin’s hair.

“‘Course it does, you dipshit.”

“Bitch,” he laughs, shaking his head in a long suffering manner, but there's earnest relief in the entirety of his face, a gratefulness that he'll never properly express. “Now why couldn’t you just let us have a nice family moment there?”

Judy just rolls her eyes.

“Eat my ass, Jesse.”

“Stop bein’ so gross, girl!”

“I ain’t gross—you’re gross!”

“Nuh-uh.”

"Uh-huh!"

And on and on they go, trading insults like they’re I love yous. They insult each other throughout the entire three hour runtime of Titanic. They say I love you again and again and again. Their little brother sleeps between them, safe, and just for a little while, for however long this night lasts, Judy tells herself that it doesn't matter that not a single one of them are entirely sound.

They're together—that's all that matters.

That's almost the same thing as being whole.

#judy gemstone #jesse gemstone #the righteous gemstones #s: the righteous gemstones #reginianwrites #listen I'm so fucking obsessed with Judy Gemstone #she's everything 2 me personally

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fumifooms · 20 days

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"Marchil? I guess I can see it on Chilchuck’s end, but what about Marcille’s? What makes you think she could develop feelings for him?" I’m glad you asked!

The first thing to note is that she does think highly of him

In the page on the right, literally defending his virtues and literally comparing him to Dalclan. And oh…

She does love a brooding mysterious guy who closes himself to love. But surely, Chilchuck isn’t her type at all, right? He’s not princely or knightly at all. In apperances certainly not, both looks wise and demeanor wise, but then that’s why she seeks to know him on a deeper level, to not only look shallowly.

And hmm. Chilchuck really is quite selfless isn’t he? Always looking out for others, and saving specifically her often, always making sure himself and, staying in or even running towards danger for her sometimes. Modesty is often considered heroic…

And can we talk about that drowning one… You can definitely frame the special attention as him knowing she tends to hesitate or be clumsy, and then his insistance on pulling her out of danger that she’s the healer aka the most important to keep alive, but. From the one who says that he just keeps his ass out of fights and won’t help this is a lot of risk to take, and he does die trying to pull her to safety in the dungeon rabbits chapter. And the drowning bit??? That’s when the dungeon collapses. The only reason they DON’T die of drowning here is that the water then gives way to outside. There was NO hope of pulling her to safety here and resurrections would likely not work either, he truly preferred to die with her than try to survive himself.

Sit your ass back DOWN you are in no state, self-sacrifical hero much damn

And Marcille definitely noticed this imo, after all she loves learning all she can about him, remembering things like how he hates waiting on people too. She pays attention to him and what he does and what he says. This to say that it’s notable, whatever reason for it you may think (though we know by this point at least she was already aware he was an adult though it wasn’t internalized), out of everyone it’s Chilchuck’s bed that she wants to sleep in during the Golden Kingdom stay. He’s safe and comforting to her: dependable, the defining trait in her view of him as is shown by the relationship chart in the Adventurer’s Bible.

^ Lending handkerchiefs is a romance trope btw and handkerchiefs have irl history of being used for courting. Especially in old English literature and plays like Shakespeare’s Othello, and personally I do see a lot of Shakespeare in Dalclan (nobility political drama with some romance). There’s how his cowl is a dearly beloved souvenir from his family too, there’s a lot of aesthetic tropes you can apply to him.

All this to say you can 100% romanticize Chilchuck into a princely noble guy if you try and that’s exactly what Marcille does with the wife roleplay. She doesn’t need much in the first place, she latches onto crumbs and makes aesthetic narratives out of details, give her an inch she’ll take a mile.

But what’s interesting about the shift throughout the arc of her and his relationship is that she starts out idealizing him into a little angel of a kid (shapeshifter), and she ends it idealizing him as a virtuous husband and family man instead.

And what’s doubly interesting is that in the former, she’s actively warping who he is personality and demeanor wise to fit the aesthetic, he doesn’t have that bitter pride of not asking for help and the edges have been smoothened. But what she does during the wife roleplay is something else, she acknowledges the flaws and just… Accepts them, rolls with them. She’s aware of his flaws and implements them into the narrative, but the reason why his wife left doesn’t capitalize on them even, rather Chil is chilblivious and his wife loves him very much still, she’s just testing him after having had a night of feeling out of place at his side.

And this is what separates the idealization vs romanticization, she’s not twisting him into someone else she’s just uplifting what he is and focusing on the good sides.

Marcille: "he has a shitty personality sometimes but if he was my husband I’d still cherish him" "If I were your wife I’d be overjoyed to go out with you and would get myself prettied up while you complain about me taking a long time, your friends would tell me that I’m nice and that’d make me happy, but I’d also be sad because you wouldn’t tell me that you love me enough"

He’s angry and his wife left him, he’s *flawed*, but he’s still worth hyping up, still worth having his own romance story, still has a shot of winning back his beloved. She sees him for what he is, human and real and not a carefully scripted character that fits an aesthetic, and she thinks it’s still worthy of love and admiration and fighting for

And what’s funny too is that you might expect her to cool down on him once she learns more about him but actually she only gets increasingly into his business. You tell her your age and next thing you know you promise to introduce her to your family. Give her an inch she takes a mile. And too the thing is, Senshi is equally mysterious but she doesn’t pester him like at all, asks him ONCE about his succubus and he doesn’t even answer and that’s like… It. With Chilchuck it starts off innocently enough with her wanting to know his age, hometown, the stuff she mentions having asked pre-canon. But it just keeps and keeps going and escalating. Think she’ll be satisfied now knowing you have a wife and kids, maybe she’s disillusioned now? Wrong! She wants to know their names and ages and occupations and hey how did you propose to your wife? Do you think she’ll stop after meeting them? What’s next? What will she want to know next????

She’s… Like it’s not a reach that Marcille is all over him. Like it doesn’t mean it’s romantic but she just is. She is not normal about him idk. Can you not ask him about what tongue technique he used when first kissing his wife, give the man breathing room

Marcille could literally go "if I was Chilchuck’s wife" having deeply pondered and thought out the hypothetical and people would still ask where anyone sees any romantic potential between them. Oh wait

There’s a platonic explanation for everything (almost?) in Dungeon Meshi don’t say I’m saying otherwise, but it’s definitely not like there’s nothing here to read into lol

Going off a bit more under read bc it’s my fave topic

Marcille has a whole theme with the charming prince trope with her idealization and storybook motif and Chil is kinda the "Well someone perfect like that isn’t very realistic and romance is usually more complex and that’s ok and good and flawed people can still be ✨virtuous✨" catalyst

Do you see do you see she starts canon thinking the most romantic thing is a prince charming but her arc in the end has her romanticizing an average, flawed, real and realistic family man, who’s on the poorer side and is on the verge of divorce. And that’s what he needed, too, seeing the positive of himself and the situation instead of focusing on the negative is explicitly what inspires him to hope that he might be able to reconcile with his wife, gives him the courage and self-esteem to shoot his shot.

He IS a prince figure instead that now it’s not about idealizing the grand and overt it’s about romanticizing the small things in real life!! About finding joy and beauty in things that seem normal or mundane and uplifting them to make the world feel kinder!!!!

He’s the devoted virtuous man that she wantsss not the storybook prince that’s unrealistic and could crumble like a script at any time. He’s the perfect example of a flawed realistic but virtuous & devoted & loving man. Far from a prince charming, but not fully detached from it either. Something worth fighting for despite the flawed cracks. Like literally, flawed romance being worth fighting for is literally the finale of Chilchuck and Marcille’s arc on the matter, where their separate arcs and issues intersect at the most crucial moment.

Marcille is important to Chil’s arc not only because of her optimism, but also because of her interest and knowledge in romance & matters of the heart, and that’s what he needs to both open his heart up to hope and to try to reconcile with his wife, like idk sounds gay

Their arc together is literally learning to 1) see each other for how they are and not undermining their qualities capacities etc etc while still not leaving flaws unchecked either and 2) opening up to people. Marcille LITERALLY makes Chil open his heart up to hope like idk man. What do you want from me. He’s literally the guy helping her through deconstructing novels and fantasy and rose tinted glasses and like. Deconstructing the prince charming figure into something more real but still romantically beautiful like KUI KUI STOOOOP STOP I’M ALREADY HOOKED I’M ALREADY-

Ok fine that’s me reading into the tropes too much forgive me for being storybook brained but like. Speaking his heart out to a lone woman on a balcony, Romeo and Juliette shit, asking if she, too, doesn’t want to meet his family, madly blushing. And like she’s learned with Chilchuck it’s all in the little things, all the implications he cannot speak aloud. She does reciprocate, does blush madly back, and the first thing she does is shower him in flowers and jewelry and what in her heart is coded as romantic gifts

A lady, stashed away in a high tower by her lonesome, waiting for someone to call out to her from below… Romeo courting type shit with an offer, a heartfelt spiel, implicit confession from underneath her balcony. Offering him flowers because he succeeded in calling out to her heart…….. And they have to climb to her too…. Crazy

Doesn’t it sound like a proposal. One that’s both so storybook-like and not, contrastedly real and grounded, all about the implications rather than in your face grand gestures, "Don’t you want to meet my family?". They literally have an arc about the topic of romance and this is the climax/pinnacle of it like god?? This is @ the woman who said "Chilchuck is a shy/bashful man so I know he wouldn’t tell me he loves me, but…" btw

To quote a friend, truly the shiny secret unlockable dating sim capture target : THE DUNGEON LORD BIT WAS SO FUNNY BECAUSE HE KNEW SHE'D TAKE IT HOOK LINE AND SINKER HES THE ONE WHO GOT HER TO TURN AROUND COMPLETELY SHES LIKE. WIDE EYED FLAG RAISED???? FLAG RAISED WITH CHILCHUCK 👀👀👀‼️👀👀‼️👀

And the way that this is the culmination of their arc together… Like people are not ready for the ‘Chil calling out to dunlord Marcille on the balcony has Romeo and Juliette romance novels imagery’ take. Or the ‘their arc is about growing to see beauty even in the non-idealized, in the flawed and in the real’ take which makes it so so perfect if she were to lower her ideal from a charming elven prince to a virtuous halfling man (which she does end up romanticizing)

So there, you got to witness in real time what happens when I think about marchil for longer than 2 minutes, there are so many layers it’s a deranged rabbithole. I saw the necronomicon of subtext and it’s driving me to madness with forbidden knowledge that no one else sees

……. Like what if I told you she implicitly picked Chilchuck over a "unrealistic prince charming who’s actually disingenuous" much earlier in the story already. If she was given the choice to think through going with a guy that seems perfect and chivalrous like her succubus she’d pick Chilchuck over the other actually. If I sound insane rn tune in for my full analysis on them coming this month hopefully thank youu. Interwoven arcs of fantasy vs reality and idealization vs pessimism I love youuu

So now you know the general thesis of my planned analysis about the importance of the prince charming figure in Marcille and Chilchuck’s arc, where she romanticizes things to a sometimes worrying degree or idealize people into something easy and digestible and poetic (like Chil being a kid, and then him being a virtuous ✨✨✨husband), and how she needs to value aesthetics less and actual acts and facts more, be more grounded (like seeing people for what they are flaws and all, and accepting that people need money and not pulling through on principles of honor or unity shouldn’t get Namari shamed) and a part of that is accepting that Chilchuck is BOTH flawed and virtuous, a loving husband that still has shitty moods and fumbled his marriage so bad etc etc. So it’s like, her image of perfect prince charming that will whisk you away on an ethereal romance -> realistic flawed middle aged dad with personality issues and a failing marriage but he still is worthy of love and having his cute grand romance story and his happy ending. Ik I keep repeating the same point through this but I need it to be burned into everyone’s brains it has its grip on me I can’t do this. They are so special……