#(lodger: its lovely...like you) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marisol-000 · 2 months ago

Text

Soul Splitter

Happy Halloween Glass Scientist fans!!!!!

Whew! I originally made this for Maijabi in Lodgtember but didn't finish in time, I decided Halloween would be a good time for it!

(a03)

The ghosts have been in a stir the past few weeks.

They probably saw something they shouldn't have, that tends to happen with ghosts.

Normally it's something they would take to their proverbial grave, but now that they had established (semi-)reliable means of communication with the dead; it was something they took straight to Dr. Maijabi.

If he had been more gossip-minded like the other lodgers, the living world would never know peace again.

Spirits are rather nosy, they don't typically care for or against the living, but semi corporeal beings often find themselves low on choices for entertainment.

The things he’s heard about the lodger’s alone would make a practiced nun run for the hills. Though he and most of the usual haunts had discussions about it, and they'd respect if anyone stopped by to ask for privacy.

They even traveled around the town a bit, lately they'd been 'chatting’ about a soulless homunculi entering London. Something stitched and green…

Hmm, hopefully it wouldn't scare the townspeople from the exhibition.

It may be a (figuratively) soulless circus but it was theirs dammit.

Though, this 'stitched homunculi’ got him thinking.

Hadn't there been some scientist who tried that? A disgraced madman who stitched together man and beast to create monsters.

Splitting and sewing disparate creatures like that, Maijabi wondered what the soul of such a tortured being would look like.

Oh well, he was long gone by now, chased off some years ago by frightened citizens and not likely to come back without reason. No, the poor spooks were simply talking nonsense again, that's all.

“Oh! I see! It's a sort of ectoplasm!” Lavender gasped.

As much as Dr. Maijabi appreciated some nice and quiet, it was equally nice to share a cup of tea with the others. In this case Lavender and Archer, who had opted for coffee.

“Aye.” he nodded, sipping his glengettie tea, “Distilled ectoplasm with a bit of preservatives in it. A ghost version of endoplasmic reticulum, commonly known as ‘Ghosts blood’.”

“Hmm…that’s what gives cells energy right?” Archer guessed, hanging a leg over the arm of his chair,

“Does newbie need the extra energy to repress his wolf side then?”

“No, in this case it’s for a potion.” Maijabi thumped his hand on an old leather bound book in his lap.

“In alchemy ‘blood’ represents the struggle of self towards its manifestation, along with the other ingredients it will maintain Jasper’s true form, his human one.”

“Wow, I can’t believe ectoplasm of all things is what cures lycanthropy. How did anyone ever figure that out?” Lavender mused.

“Among other things. And the same way we do Miss Lavender, study the world around us and try new things.” he said wisely.

“Ha! You mean drink random stuff until something happens!” Archer laughed.

“That too.”

The scientist's laughed and chatted amiably, until Lavender realized a few too many ghosts were darting around, nervous expressions on their faces.

“Er, forgive me if this is an odd question… but is something wrong with the ghosts?”

Maijabi hummed into his tea. “Aye, they're worried about something.”

“Worried?” Lavender blinked, “Whatever for?”

“What do ghosts even worry about? Aren't they, you know, dead?” Archer asked.

Lavender smacked his leg. “Archer, that's rude.”

Maijabi chuckled.

“Not much, there’s other ghosts and spirits. There's certain cthulian beings, but they ain’t gone into your and Cantilupe’s lab since ‘the incident’.

Sometimes those with memories worry about their loved ones, though those would rather stay with them than linger ‘round this place.”

“Huh, do you think it’s another ghost then? Or something living?” Archer asked.

“Ha! The dead aren't too worried about the living, all those ‘exorcists’ on the streets are bloody fakes. They'll move on when they're good and ready.” he assured them.

“They probably just snuck somewhere they agreed not to and don't want me to find out about it.”

The two lodgers' eyes lit up, and both leaned in.

“Oh?” Archer practically purred, “Some hot gossip then?”

Maijabi laughed loudly. Yes, spending time with the others was easily as nice as spending time alone.

Dr. Maijabi checked on a large beaker of tin-mercury, occasionally giving it a stir.

At the moment he was attempting to make more seeing mirrors. One could never have enough when working with the undead after all!

Especially when Mr. Hyde regularly got drunk and fought his own reflection.

It was about time for him to be out actually. He’d been yammering on about Blackfog for weeks.

Maijabi smiled, adding the distilled ectoplasm.

He didn't believe the lodger's rumors that he and Dr. Jekyll were together of course, but privately he was glad Jekyll had someone like that in his life. The boy could use that passion when his was constantly being sucked out by those rich idiots.

Hyde had quite the future ahead of him, so long as he stayed far away from Maijabi’s lab.

The distant sound of footsteps didnt even register in his mind until it was preceded by a sudden flood of ghosts.

The rasping whispers and choked cries scraping against Maijabi’s ears.

Hes coming hes coming hes coming

Soul splitter soul splitter

Hes coming

Run!!

Soul splitter

Instantly the spirits already in the room scattered.

Weaving to and fro and even leaving the room entirely, choosing instead to flee through the solid walls of the building.

A particularly present spirit rushed right through him. Causing Maijabi to stumble back into the beaker. Splattering the thankfully room temperature mixture everywhere.

Maijabi gasped in surprise and at the cold. Clutching at his chest for warmth and the table for balance.

What was going on?! None of the spirits had ever reacted like this before!

Was there an intruder? Were they under attack?

Some ghost stayed in the room with Maijabi, either huddling behind him or swaying apathetically; still more watched the door intently, curious.

Was… there someone at the door?

Footsteps.

Maijabi could hear footsteps coming towards him, walking, walking, slowing.

There was someone right outside his door.

Knock

…

Knock

Surely an attacker wouldn't knock. What would they even be here for?

More likely it was another lodger here to get him for a surprise meeting of some sort.

Maijabi shook himself, parting from the unintentional huddle. He shuffled to the door of the lab, reaching a shaking hand to the cold metal.

He felt slight chills as the spirits tried to hold him back, hands fading through his body.

Breathing deeply, he opened the door.

Dr. Maijabi let out a whoosh of air he was holding in.

“Oh! It's just you.”

“Sorry, did I startle you? I was passing by and heard a crash .”

“Ha, not at all, you know how it is with these spooks about. Always got me on edge.”

Dr. Maijabi gestured to the mess of glass and mercury. “They riled each other up and knocked over my solution is all.”

“Ah, well that's good to hear. The ghosts, not about the solution.

Well, if all is well I won't bother you any longer. I'm just heading home for the night to rest.”

“Ha, you sure need it! Sleep well Dr. Jekyll.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pranked! Bet you thought I was talking about Moraue ;p

Personally I think living spirits would be HORRIFIED by the realization that something/someone is capable of splitting souls

How would that even affect ghosts? Could that affect ghosts?

Idk I just think theyd at least be weirded out by Jekyll's experiments

Especially after being dead for a while and secure in the knowledge that nothing can ever hurt you again, then suddenly overseeing the most horrific form of physical mental and spiritual torture ever

Also I love how Maijabi proved the existence of souls and spirits and ghosts and has a ton just in his room and no one cares

NEVER relevant to the comic after the beginning ToT

#the glass scientists #tgs #lodgetember24 #Dr. Maijabi #lodgetembermaijabi #lodgetember maijabi #tgs maijabi #tgs hyde #tgs jekyll #edward hyde #henry jekyll #Dr. moraue #tgs dr moraue #my fic

18 notes · View notes

pentecostwaite · 1 year ago

Text

My Hand in Thine: An All Hallows Story in Parts

John Kidney returns home to a blessedly empty house, coals carefully banked in the fireplace and everything in order. He heaves the batten door closed behind him, turns the key in the lock. Supper is wrapped in a cloth on the table, and the room is newly swept, neat as a pin. John Kidney hangs up his hat beside the door. His sister’s child, Jennet, has left his service for the day. She is a good girl, but he has always encouraged her to return to her family at night. He doesn’t want a lodger, an extra pair of eyes and ears in his house. He prefers to be alone. It’s safer that way.

He bends to light a rush in the coals, clamps the lit tallowed reed in an iron holder and brings it to the table. He’s about to take his seat for supper when he spies the fine, white, kidskin gloves and the tiny box on the table beside the food. The sight of them knocks the breath from his lungs. He feels cold bloom in his chest. And so it is. He can no longer pretend. The mourning goods have arrived.

He takes up the box and opens it. A ring bounces out and into his hand. There is a slim scroll of press-printed paper rolled into the center of the ring, and he slides it out, unfurls it by the rushlight.

You are Desir’d to Accompany the Corps of Mr. Thomas Quarles, from the Dwelling House of his Dafter, Mistress Anna Quarles, on Thursday next being the 20th of October 1733, at Ten of the Clock in the Morning precisely, to the Burying-Ground of Salem.

He sets the invitation down gently and turns his gaze to the ring. It’s gold and jet enamel, the slender form of a skeleton wound round its surface. And on the inside, there is skillful engraving: Thos. Quarles: ob: 16 Oct: 1733 aet. 49. John Kidney sighs, rubs his thumb hard into his temple. It feels impossible that Thomas should be gone. One day he lived, and the next he did not. All the glorious subtleties of his character wiped roughly from the slate of the earth. Tempus fugit. Memento mori.

His eyes well with hot tears. He turns his attention to his simple supper.

In bed that night, he cannot sleep. His mind spins like a waterwheel with the sluice gate open. Memories churn in his brain. He recalls his first encounter with Thomas at Meeting one Sunday, years ago: a young widower, lately come from Marblehead, his small, dark-eyed daughter in tow. An average man of uncommon wealth and rare kindness. Grey eyes like a November sea. John Kidney stared at his mouth, at his fine white teeth, and tried to pay attention to his words. All he heard was Thomas’s smile. John Kidney was lost.

Of all the trajectories he imagined for his life, this was one he never dared consider. But somehow, as improbable as a flower blooming at the end of a wharf, it came to pass, and with a similar wild beauty. They were both merchants, true, and so both with a common bank of interests. Small talk led to drinks, led to dinners, led to companionship. They shared long walks through Salem, discussing all manner of topics, watching the ships depart and return. John Kidney brought baubles and poppets for the child, Anna, and slowly her veil of sadness lifted.

One foggy autumn evening, returning together from the public house, Thomas pushed John Kidney into an alleyway, cupped his face in his hands and kissed him. With that, joy entered John Kidney’s life. Existence, he knew, was meant to be a trial, but how could it be when Thomas was his own true love? As the months passed, new pleasures were revealed. By the new moon’s perfect pitch darkness they joined together breathlessly in the warmth of John Kidney’s bed, tow napkins tacked over the windows and all lights extinguished. Sin be damned; this was Heaven.

And so it was for years and years. Anna grew from a child to a woman, blessed with Thomas’s kindness and what he insisted was her late mother’s wit. They tried to conceal the shape of their connection from her, but she was a clever soul. They suspected she knew. And in truth the three formed an odd family in a way. The arrangement suited them fine. But all of that was over.

Thomas was dead.

__________

(to be continued)

#18th century fiction #queer ghost story #queer fiction #my hand in thine

25 notes · View notes

tyk-tyk-tyk · 1 month ago

Note

for the character impression questions (if you still wanna do that ^^!!) how about Wilson Higgsbury?

Of course!! Thank you for sending in the ask :)

First impression

Honestly, it’s hard to think to all the way back when I first played Don’t Starve. At first I didn’t pay super attention to him because he was just The Vessel and I hadn’t started thinking about video games as a serious story telling medium yet (idk why I grew up playing Little Big Planet), but when I realized each character had different examination texts I went back and immediately went “Oh. He’s HILARIOUS, what a nerd lol”

And then I proceeded to draw and write about nothing but Wilson to this very day.

Impression now

I forget what a goober he is sometimes. Like, I love puns, but every time I go back to read his quotes it makes me want to steal his lunch money and shove him in a locker. I love him so much.

Favorite moment

When he sees Maxwell for the first time off of the throne, and instead of chopping him up with the axe that he’s currently holding, he decides “No, this is personal.” And proceeds to try and deck Maxwell with his bare hands.

And also when he begrudgingly offers Maxwell his food in the same comic.

And also how he says “Good day to you, [player]!” To everyone except Maxwell, to which he says “Decent day to you, [player]!” The British insults are off the charts.

And also— (actually we’ll be here all day if I keep this up)

Idea for a story

I scrapped this a long time ago because I think I decided that being a coder wasn’t for me, even with things like RenPy that does everything for you, but at one point I wanted to make a Wilson Dating Game as a joke where each ‘skin’ had its own personality. It was supposed to have a nod to undertale where you flirt with a Meat Effigy as training, but later on if Triumphant Wilson gets jealous he’d kill you. But if you weren’t mean to the Meat Effigy, it would save you.

Maybe one day if I ever get more energy or time, I’ll try to pick it up again. It was supposed to be a fun little project but when I realized how much work went into it I went “nahhhhh I’m good.”

Side note, have you seen the code for Doki Doki Literature Club? Good God.

Unpopular opinion

I try to make him short a lot. The only exception to this is Triumphant Wilson, in which I think he would use shadow magic to make himself taller. I admit I only do this to bully him <3

Favorite relationship

Shhh don’t tell anyone

I think The Lodger and Wilson should kiss—

WHAT WHO SAID THAT

Favorite headcanon

I can’t remember when or where I first saw this, but Wilson having a crush on Nikola Tesla as like his celebrity crush. I think that’s perfect, no notes.

#not knock knock #mini speaks #thank you for sending in an ask!! Wilson is one of my long time favorite characters alongside The Lodger so.#I have been rotating him for a Very Long Time

4 notes · View notes

abject-indulgence · 1 year ago

Note

Mushy Livio Ramblings. Make it happen. (Please and thank you.)

@chris-continues, come get your Wholesome TriMax Livio juice.

CW: animal death (past; mentioned only in brief passing)

🍷 Livio returns to the orphanage following the events of the manga and is quickly drawn back into the fold. The caretakers and the kids love him; and before long he's doing a little bit of everything: general maintenance/handiwork/grounds-keeping, kitchen duties, cleaning, child-minding, and so on.

This time, he's the big brother. He takes that role very seriously.

🍷 Livio gets quite a lot of personal tutoring from his new family, young and old alike. He's far from stupid, but he has distinct gaps in his overall body of knowledge due to his fraught background and upbringing; so it's not uncommon to find the older kids sharing their readers with Livio and regaling him with talk of their work and assignments. This validates their burgeoning sense of independence as young people -- (allowing them the opportunity to explain something to an adult) -- and bolsters their understanding of their learnings by prompting them to put it into their own words. Likewise, it provides Livio with some particular academic exposures that he simply has never had the opportunity to experience or explore for himself.

🍷 Livio is the most patient participant imaginable when it comes to interacting with the kids. He loves letting them read to him, tell him stories, hang off of him and play-wrestle, and so on. He is an impeccable pretend tea party guest, medical patient, outlaw (or sheriff), and so on.

🍷 One of his favorite games that the kids like to play is where they all work together to chase him, catch him, and "force" him to the ground with sheer numbers. It's true that he'd be strong enough to carry them all even if there was room for everyone to pile onto him at once, but he thinks it's cute how excited they get when he finally gives up and lets them win.

🍷 It's an exciting day indeed when a pregnant dog becomes the newest lodger at the orphanage. Naturally the kids get attached to her immediately and are curious about her condition. It becomes something of a little 'group project' to take care of her and have everything ready for the arrival of the puppies. Everyone just calls her 'Mama'.

🍷 When the puppies are born, the runt is too small and weak to compete for nursing space with its littermates. Livio takes care of that one himself. Perhaps he sees this situation as a second chance of sorts; saving a puppy now as if to atone, in spirit, for the puppy that Razlo killed in their youth. Regardless of the reason though, Livio tends to that particular pup day in and day out for those first, critical weeks. Nobody quite knows how to tell him that, sometimes, you simply can't love something into staying alive if the universe has other plans for it.

🍷 In this case though, the universe has mercy.

Ultimately the runt's condition stabilizes under Livio's dutiful care; and, while she'll always be smaller than her littermates, in time she's scampering around the orphanage and getting into all manner of typical mischief, just the way a puppy should. She loves the kids, but everyone knows she's Livio's pup, through and through.

🍷 (Her name is Bibi.)

#inbox #trigun #trigun headcanons #long post #livio the double fang

18 notes · View notes

lolitafan1997 · 1 year ago

Text

This is a confession: I love you [so the letter began; and for a distorted moment I mistook its hysterical scrawl for a schoolgirl’s scribble]. Last Sunday in church—bad you, who refused to come to see our beautiful new windows!—only last Sunday, my dear one, when I asked the Lord what to do about it, I was told to act as I am acting now. You see, there is no alternative. I have loved you from the minute I saw you. I am a passionate and lonely woman and you are the love of my life.

Now, my dearest, dearest, mon cher, cher monsieur, you have read this; now you know. So, will you please, at once, pack and leave. This is a landlady’s order. I am dismissing a lodger. I am kicking you out. Go! Scram! Departez! I shall be back by dinnertime, if I do eighty both ways and don’t have an accident (but what would it matter?), and I do not wish to find you in the house. Please, please, leave at once, now, do not even read this absurd note to the end. Go. Adieu.

The situation, chéri, is quite simple. Of course, I know with absolute certainty that I am nothing to you, nothing at all. Oh yes, you enjoy talking to me (and kidding poor me), you have grown fond of our friendly house, of the books I like, of my lovely garden, even of Lo’s noisy ways—but I am nothing to you. Right? Right. Nothing to you whatever. But if, after reading my “confession,” you decided, in your dark romantic European way, that I am attractive enough for you to take advantage of my letter and make a pass at me, then you would be a criminal—worse than a kidnaper who rapes a child. You see, chéri. If you decided to stay, if I found you at home (which I know I won’t—and that’s why I am able to go on like this), the fact of your remaining would only mean one thing: that you want me as much as I do you: as a lifelong mate; and that you are ready to link up your life with mine forever and ever and be a father to my little girl.

Let me rave and ramble on for a teeny while more, my dearest, since I know this letter has been by now torn by you, and its pieces (illegible) in the vortex of the toilet. My dearest, mon très, très cher, what a world of love I have built up for you during this miraculous June! I know how reserved you are, how “British.” Your old-world reticence, your sense of decorum may be shocked by the boldness of an American girl! You who conceal your strongest feelings must think me a shameless little idiot for throwing open my poor bruised heart like this. In years gone by, many disappointments came my way. Mr. Haze was a splendid person, a sterling soul, but he happened to be twenty years my senior, and—well, let us not gossip about the past. My dearest, your curiosity must be well satisfied if you have ignored my request and read this letter to the bitter end. Never mind. Destroy it and go. Do not forget to leave the key on the desk in your room. And some scrap of address so that I could refund the twelve dollars I owe you till the end of the month. Good-bye, dear one. Pray for me—if you ever pray.

C.H.

11 notes · View notes

dustedmagazine · 1 year ago

Text

Morricone Youth — Battleship Potemkin (Country Club)

Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin is a landmark in early cinema, a 1925 silent film of epic scale and ambition, which chronicles a late Tsarist-era mutiny aboard ship that strikes a chord and ignites a full-scale rebellion in the port city of Russia. It is well worth watching, if only for the stunning “Odessa steps” sequence, where the Tsar’s army ruthlessly guns down civilians in sympathy with the striking sailors. The images of a mother begging for her wounded child’s life or a baby in a carriage bumping headlong down the stairs are striking and memorable—and they have special resonance now, when Odessa is again under siege by a Russian army with few qualms about collateral damage.

The film has had a number of scores over the years, the original by Edmund Meisel, one from 1950 by Nikolai Kryukov , and a widely circulated 1975 50th anniversary edition incorporating symphonies by Dmitri Shostakovich (that’s the version currently on the Criterion Channel). Eisenstein himself hoped that his movie would be rescored every 20 years, so that its sound would remain relevant to new audiences.

Enter, then, Morricone Youth, a New York City-based orchestra dedicated to live scoring classic films. The ensemble, a sort of bus man’s holiday for musicians in other bands, has performed music for films including David Lynch’s Eraserhead, Alfred Hitchcock’s The Lodger and George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead. The band, which is headed by Devon E. Levins, regularly performs its scores while the film is running in select theaters across the country. It is in the process of recording and releasing these scores. Battleship Potemkin is the latest.

On listening to this excellent soundtrack, with its languid, East European waltzes, its stirring snare-shot battle sequences, its antic re-enactments of rebellion and eventual triumph, you might regret not having the opportunity to hear this music in its rightful setting, a movie theatre. And yet, the music itself is evocative enough to hold your attention. “Vakulinchuk’s Dream” with its bell-like keyboard lines and its soaring trumpet is full of eerie yearning, exactly the sort of thing to embody a sailor’s longing for equality. The syncopated lurch of “Giliarovosky Is Watching,” with its sinuous, near-tango-ing tainted sensuality insinuates danger and trickery. “Cossacks Charge,” the music for that Odessa Steps imagery, snaps to attention on military drum rolls and advances relentlessly on piano motifs. And “Funeral” with its haunting, disembodied voices, is lovely and heartbreaking, exactly as it ought to be.

All of which is meant to say, yes, it’s probably better with the movie, but it’s pretty great with just your speakers and your imagination, too.

Jennifer Kelly

#morricone youth #battleship potemkin #country club #jennifer kelly #albumreview #dusted magazine #film score #silent film #odessa steps

7 notes · View notes

dvar-trek · 11 months ago

Text

January Romance

hello friends i have not slowed down, and perhaps i have maybe even sped up. in the. shotgunning queer romance novels department.

i am mostly on a hockey kick lately. i know nothing about hockey. i have probably watched a grand total of 5 minutes of hockey in my life. i do not care about any sports at all. but i figured that if i can get invested in a sports movie without caring about the sports part (such as Hoosiers (1986) or A League of Their Own (1992)), i could get invested in a sports romance novel without caring about the sports part. and i was correct. thank fuck, bc i think i've read all of the historical romances that there are.

nothing i read this month was like. perfect. it's very hard to measure up to my KJ Charles faves. but there was still some good shit!

the best of:

Hockey Ever After Series (Winging It, Scoring Position, and Unrivaled by Ashlyn Kane and Morgan James- each book follows a different couple. the characters are so good and well fleshed-out, the team dynamics are fun, the plots are engaging, and the sex is hot. you really don't have to know anything about hockey (especially if you start with the 2022 edition of Winging It, which is definitely, definitely the correct choice), but also apparently their hockey shit is pretty accurate, which i always appreciate. overall, the complete package.

the rest of:

loved | liked | okay | didn't like

historical

●Undressing the Duke by Erica Ridley (a duke falls in love with his valet who is also his best friend. couldn't finish it. i know KJ Charles has me spoiled for historical accuracy, but i yelled 'WHAT!!!' so many times at so many things that i finally gave up. also it's just not very good in any of the other respects.) ●The Campion Square series by Adella J Harris (three romances taking place in the same little neighborhood. the series is essentially just sweet and sedate and wholesome, and there is nothing wrong with it, but it did not make me feel a single emotion. the definition of 'okay'.) ○Mr. Wilkins and the Lodger ○Mr. Montague and the Pineapple ○Mr. Jenkins and the Necklace ●Best Laid Plaids by Ella Stainton (simply not that good, and not even in a fun way.) ●Mr Warren's Profession by Sebastian Nothwell (clueless son of a wealthy baronet falls for an impoverished clerk. it's nothing special and requires so very much suspension of disbelief that it stops being fun.) ●One Night in Hartswood by Emma Denny (it has its problems and isn't going to make the faves list, but is basically a lovely and heartfelt romance. two men who don't know each other's identities travel together through the winter. requires a normal-mid amount of suspension of disbelief.)

hockey

●Him series by Sarina Bowen and Elle Kennedy (guy falls in love with his straight best friend in high school and cuts him out of his life. they reconnect 4 years later for one last summer together. i loved 90% of the first book, but did not love the direction the authors take things. this series is a genre-wide favorite for tons of people though.) ○Him ○Us ○Epic (novella) ●On The Brink by Kate Willoughby (there's nothing fun wrong with it. it's just not good.) ●Puckboys by Eden Finley and Saxon James (these are fine for what they are--just enough plot for hockey boys to have a lot of sex and fall in love, in that order. there are a ton more of these but i had no desire to keep going.) ○Egotistical Puckboy ○Irresponsible Puckboy ●Light Up the Lamp by Kit Oliver (i cried my fucking eyes out. and then i listened to a bunch of songs that i knew would make it hit harder and i cried some more. the writing is... not that bad but also not that good. the premise destroyed me. childhood best friends who fall in love and then life takes them in different directions and they fuck it up so stupidly because they are nineteen years old. and then they go through life with this. chasm. where the love used to be. and then 15 years later they are forced to work together and they decide they will simply never speak of it even though they never resolved any of their shit and it is breaking them open. if you read this book you are contractually obligated to talk to me about it thanks!) ○Biscuit in the Basket (epilogue novella)

other

●Hard Feelings by Ashlyn Kane and Morgan James (artist/graphic designer and software developer who can't stand each other are forced to work together, and they have a lot of hate sex about it. i do not think the authors know anything about design or coding. several parts of this book are cringe. it still had its moments that made my fucking chest hurt. possibly worth it just for that.) ●The Rock Star's Guide to Getting Your Man by Ashlyn Kane (another one where a guy is in love with his straight childhood best friend. he goes back to his hometown 15 years later to hide from drama with his bandmates, and finds his former best friend still lives there. this one also made me cry, but mostly the dead dad parts. a little bit cheesy and awkward. some funny moments, and not, like, heavy, but also not exactly lighthearted. i appreciated the fact that most of the conflict was with the band and not with the love interest.) ●The Inside Edge by Ashlyn Kane (tv cohosts who annoy each other and bicker on-screen -> casual sex -> fake dating -> real dating. just a delightful little bonbon of a romance. does go zero-to-i-love-you, which is a pet peeve, but you can't have everything in life.) ●All the Right Notes by Dominic Lim (composer's dad asks him to come home and put on a charity performance, and to convince a former classmate, now a famous movie star, to perform in it. nice amount of focus on the asian family dynamics without being too heavy-handed. engaging story, and sweet, but clunky. it's a debut novel though, so i'm looking forward to seeing what else this author will put out in the future.) ●Winter Ball by Amy Lane (i don't even know what to say about this book. i think it is from an alternate universe. the story and the dialogue both feel weirdly out of time, and the author uses phrases in the sex scenes that probably have never have never even been thought by another human. anyway it's about two best friends who discover their sexualities together, and decide to build a life together in spite of familial and societal disapproval.) ●Iris Kelly Doesn't Date by Ashley Herring Blake (the third book in a series that unfortunately peaked at book 1. all of the things that were awkward about the first book have only become more pronounced as the series progresses. i gave this the old college try, but could not finish it.) ●Date Me, Bryson Keller by Kevin van Whye (YA book wherein a popular boy agrees to pretend to date his gay classmate for a week. it is. not well-written, but it is basically a sweet story.) ●The Best Men by Sarina Bowen and Lauren Blakely (this one just felt aggressively like a book by straight women for straight women. also they didn't do the anal research. also also they didn't research the jobs they gave their main characters.) ●Top Secret by Elle Kennedy and Sarina Bowen (what if you were a straight guy in college and you were anonymously sexting another guy to set up the threesome your girlfriend requested. and then it turned out you were really into him. and then it also turned out he was the guy in your frat house that you hate. would that be fucked up hot or what. i will not lie to you, this book is kind of cringe. like one of the main characters insists approximately 500 times that he's only sexually experimenting because he's a scientist and it's scientific. but it's still fun and i still enjoyed it. there's also a bonus epilogue available.) ●Heels Over Head by Elyse Springer (incredibly repressed olympic diver falls for his new teammate. full of heartache and shitty families and tenderness and choosing joy.)

#romance roundup #in lieu of a #wip wednesday

5 notes · View notes

bizarre-blorbo-bracket · 1 year ago

Text

Round 1 poll 22: Leonardo the Robot from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology vs The Lodger from Knock-Knock

Propaganda under the cut:

Leonardo

Leonardo is a social robot who was created by MIT in the early 2000’s. He is designed to be accessible and user-friendly for people who want to work with robots but may be inexperienced. He can learn and perform tasks on par with what a toddler is capable of. He’s designed to be cute so you’ll want to bond with him. He has a whole visual tracking system to respond to emotional cues and even mimic expressions the same way a pet dog or cat might mirror you to bond with you. He can emote with a great deal of complexity while responding to human interaction and the stimuli around him. One day I was bored and thumbing through my college psych textbook that I way overpaid for because we barely used it. I ended up on a page about Leonardo, found him fascinating, and had to learn more. And then there was a sentence that absolutely floored me. It might be slightly inaccurate because this was years ago but in essence it said: “Leonardo will never know love.” Something in me died that day and I started crying over a robot. To be so complex, years ahead of its time for the advancement of technology and robotics in the early aughts. To be purposefully engineered to be endearing, and for humans to pack bond and want to form connections with it. To even be intelligent enough to distinguish between itself and other beings, to help humans with tasks while accounting for human error, and to even understand the difference between intention and action. Feats of engineering and innovation that remain impressive over 20 years after its creation. And yet. The soul-crushing pathos that Leonardo will never be able to give nor receive love. It’s a lot. It’s all deeply heavy, but also deeply fascinating. He’s definitely hit blorbo status for me, he’s such a little guy who I just have very intense emotions about.

The Lodger

Aside from the fact that the fandom has like 5 people in it, this odd little man looks slightly akin to a weird baby and speaks in nothing but nonsense as he walks around his house. And I would do anything for him.

#leonardo the robot #mit #robotics #knock-knock #the lodger

17 notes · View notes

made-ofmemories · 1 year ago

Text

fic stats!

rules: give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words.

Thank you @ladydorian05 & @your-catfish-friend for the tag!

And thank you to everyone else who keeps tagging me in things, I haven't been doing many of them because the baldurs gate 3 brainrot has fully taken over and I haven't been writing.

Hopefully that will change soon, but please keep tagging me I love seeing what you're all working on!

---

Most hits: When life tears you assunder (but you are not alone), Stranger things, Max & Eddie sibling dynamic, co-written with @ladydorian05

Billy was a pretty shitty brother, there was no denying it, but Max still finds herself mourning for the sibling relationship they never got to have. With him gone she thinks so are her chances of ever having the big brother figure she’s always wanted. Then in a turn of events that she never saw coming, Eddie Munson waltzes into her life. Or more like, almost runs her over.

Second most kudos: Just go with it, 9-1-1, Buddie

The first time it happens it's a few days before Christmas and they're taking Chris to see Santa when a cheery woman in an elf costume tells Buck he and Eddie have an adorable son. He thanks her and doesn't think much of the interaction. Until it keeps happening. It's an honest mistake, and Eddie doesn't seem to mind all that much, the opposite actually. So, most of the time they just go with it. Eventually, Buck is forced to admit that maybe these people have a point and he has been co-parenting his best friend's son all along. OR- The 5 times someone thinks Buck is Christopher's dad + the 1 time it's official

Third most comments: I built a home (for me, for you), 9-1-1, Buddie

Their friendship has always been unconventional in some ways, so an occasionally shared wardrobe? Well, it’s not that big of a deal. Not to Eddie at least, and seemingly not to Buck either. Hen and Chimney would disagree. OR- Eddie shows up to work wearing one of Buck's shirts. Assumptions are made and revelations are had.

Fourth most bookmarks: What's up with A shift?, 9-1-1, gen (mostly)

Working for the LAFD comes with its fair share of tough days and crazy calls. None quite so tough or quite so crazy as the stories exchanged during shift change between A and B shift. A shift knows no peace. B shift live in fear of the day they have to cover for them. OR- 5 times a member of B shift hears about the wild calls A shift deal with + the 1 time they get to experience them firsthand.

Fifth most words: What's up with A shift?, see above ^

Least words: They shine for you, Stranger things, Steddie

Eddie never expected that Steve Harrington would ever be someone he called a friend, much less that he'd become an unofficial lodger in the guy's house. But, if there was anything the past few months had taught him it was that nothing was impossible. A late-night encounter by the pool leads to a shift in their relationship.

Tagging (this has been on my dash a lot lately, so I'm not sure who has already been tagged apologies if you have):

@forthewolves @the-amber-raven @nmcggg @daniwib

#tag game #fic stats game

8 notes · View notes

ajokeformur-ray · 1 year ago

Text

Merry Christmas, Rose!❄️🎄🎁💖

Merry Christmas, Rose!!! I hope that you're having a lovely festive season, full of good food and spending time with your loved ones!!!💗💗💗💗

@rosesloveletters

Total word count for this gift set: 6, 442.

First, a handwritten letter from me because we always do this first!!😭

Now for some fics!!! I had so much fun writing these; I hope you enjoy! I think you will😉 If you don't like them, please don't be shy in letting me know and I'll happily write you something else.🥺💗 I love you so so much, I had a lot of fun writing these and I hope you enjoy them!!

To have and to hold // 1971!Wonka x Rose

Summary: Sometimes, you just want to sit in Wonka's lap while he's drafting letters to the queen, working on his recipes and seasonal confectionaries, filing invoices and working on the organisation of his international business, you want to hold him while he works. And if you happened to fall asleep, well... who would he be to disturb you?

Quote in italics found here, by Pavana.

Word count: 1, 168.

Everything was cut in half in this room; Wonka's office.

The grandfather clock that hung on the wall, the papers and posters detailing various contracts, legislative guidelines, and other things which needed to be known but couldn't always be remembered off the top of a very crowded head, the mirror, the lamp shade, the desk and its many accessories...

Everything was cut in half in this room, except time and the reality under which Wonka occasionally had to bow, even in his world of pure imagination.

And the depth of your affection.

You never withheld affection or love from Wonka, no matter what kind of day either of you were having. In fact, the worst days involved more affection, with both of you holding onto each other even tighter just so that you could make it through. Wonka held the weight of the world on his shoulders with poise and grace; he knew how to handle even the most stressful of situations, and he did it without a curl falling out of place. Even the curls that sat atop his head, concealed by his top hat, stayed perfectly imperfectly whenever he took his hat off. The way they flopped around on one side often made you laugh, though you tried to hide it behind a hand sometimes. He carried himself as if nothing ever affected him, and for the most part nothing did - his reputation was his blanket - but sometimes his gorgeous smile was a little dimmer than usual, his oceans of blue a little icier and his gaze a little further away than you were used to.

On those days, which occurred more frequently during any and all potential holidays one could celebrate in a given year, you gave yourself permission to love on your chocolatier a little firmer than you already did. You wanted your affection, your love, for him, to cut across the meaningless noise of his thoughts until all that remained was his ability to make his way through his to do list, to face what has to be faced and to handle everything as gracefully as he could without even slightly marring his reputation.

All of this so that then he could stop working, put the pens down and the papers aside, close the lodgers and the financial books, and get some rest in the arms of his beloved; his sunshine.

You.

You were the one success Wonka never counted on; for years, he had been locked away in his factory churning out new confectioneries, designing new packaging and continuing to churn up his chocolate by waterfall. Everything was regimented, precise, controlled and measured, except for his imagination, the endless source of his success...

... And the appearance of you.

There was to be no controlling of the way that the sunlight had come to resemble the face of his beloved as it poured in through the windows of his office, the way you had so suddenly turned the world - his world - upside down and righted it again so quickly that Wonka felt his aptly named rose tinted glasses slide off his face, though his vision remained bathed in pink as he took in the new angles of the world with his love of you and for you cradled so closely to his heart.

Wonka, in all his wildest dreams, in his world of pure imagination, never saw you coming, and it only made him all in love with you all over again every single day.

He liked surprises, and you continued to astonish him even months into your relationship when he should have been used to you, and yet he found that he never really could be; you were simply too ethereal, too rich a personality in your own right. Every time he thought he knew you, you revealed more of yourself until his pure world spun on its axis anew and your image, forever carved into his tired heart with the gentlest of blades, became deeper, more vivid, a knowledge of the garden of your soul only for him.

Try as he might, Wonka was always almost shocked by all the ways in which you managed to show that you loved him.

One such way was your newly adopted habit of letting yourself into his office when he was bent over his desk so close that the tip of his nose was almost brushing against the surface of the ink filled pages he was diligently working on, and curling up in his lap. Your arms looped around his shoulders so that you could pull him up to sit in a way where you could easily slide into his lap, the cool tip of your nose buried in the warm crook of his neck, your body perfectly cradled by his own.

Wonka always sat back in his chair immediately once he realised your intentions, his pen loosely dangled between graceful fingers, his hands slightly raised above his desktop as he waited for you to make yourself comfortable before he would resume his work. It was almost like two puzzle pieces slotting together; his touch as you settled into his welcoming lap felt right, like it was where you were always supposed to be.

You always tucked yourself as close to him as you could, keeping out of his arms' way as best as you could even though they caged you on his lap quite naturally from how he sat as he filled out paperwork, but Wonka never would have asked you to move even if you were in his way. He would have simply rested his chin over your shoulder so that he could still see and carried on regardless; accepting your love without a word and returning it to you as best as he could.

"The greatest intimacy lies between the nakedness of two minds."

The smile which broke across your face at the sound of his quiet voice, the way he so often spoke when he was quoting someone literary, was serene, hidden though it was in Wonka's neck, and you shifted ever closer into royal purple, your fingers slipping into golden curls. Fingers scratched, soothed over scalp, and for a brief moment the two of you had closed eyes and wore smiles which came from within; there was nothing unnatural about the bond between you.

As Wonka finished a letter to the Queen and began to go over some business invoices for the next bulk of monthly stock orders, he began to hum. He knew by the way you were holding him that you were falling asleep, and he had much work to do and not much time in which to do it - yes, that was the right way to say it. He felt a touch of pride in you as the first few notes drifted into your ears and sunk into your mind, helping you to find rest by creating a heavy cloak of sleep which you couldn't help but to slip into.

"Come with me, and you'll be - "

I had two ideas for you and Wonka; I couldn't pick one so I figured I'd write you both!!💗

Alternative delights // 1971!Wonka x Rose

Summary: Wonka finds out that you are allergic to dairy and as such, can't eat anything in his chocolate room. To you, it is a throwaway comment, but to Wonka... it's not just a challenge, it's a certainty that he's going to make sure you can enjoy his world of imagination just as much as he can.

Word count: 1, 055.

Wonka couldn't help but to notice that even as you walked around his much beloved chocolate room, his much prized creation carefully cultivated to showcase the best of his many talents and skills, you didn't touch anything.

You didn't even dip a finger into a mushroom stool on your way past and lick it.

You didn't touch, you didn't taste, you didn't indulge.

You just looked, awe-struck, and explored. All you left behind was the ghost of who you had been before you stepped through the deceptively small door, changed by your experiences with Wonka and ever-growing and evolving as your own person.

Somewhere deep inside him, Wonka knew that he would get to watch you blossom, and he couldn't wait.

Finally, he had to know why you weren't using the chocolate room for its express purpose, and he stopped you in your tracks with a gentle hand curled around one of your elbows as he pulled you closer so that he could murmur in your ear.

"Is there something wrong, my dear?" Wonka used a casual hand to gesture towards the nearest creation; a giant gummy bear. That likely wouldn't harm you, but you could never be too sure unless you were reading the ingredients list, and you knew that curiosity was never worth the very visceral bodily reactions to ingesting dairy.

"No," you shook your head with an easily smile, "I just can't have anything with dairy in it."

Wonka's eyebrows shot up in surprise; he thought he had heard it all in his decades as an international business owner, but clearly he hadn't. You were full of surprises, and it only served to draw him to you even further. He could only imagine how hard it must be for you to be able to find good food which you could safely enjoy, and he channeled that into figuring out how he could make that happen for you. There was nothing he couldn't do if he put his mind to it, and the very same could be said for you.

You continued to explore, not even trailing your hand along anything in case you forgot to wash your hands before ingesting anything later on (again, you had learned the hard way to treat anything potentially containing dairy as being like poison to you, and you always took your medication) and Wonka waited until you had gone out of earshot before he pulled his flute out from his inner breast pocket and flagged down an Oompa Loompa. "Find out everything you can on people who are allergic to dairy, please. I want symptoms, alleviations, and alternative ingredients."

Five hours later, he and the Oompa Loompas got to the real work. They started working on new adjusted recipes, and Wonka set about clearing out a room for you - a chocolate room.

There was little to do and too much time to do it in - wait. Strike that. Reverse it.

It was fine, Wonka shrugged, he knew what he meant the first time. He only clarified his thoughts for everyone else's sake, even if there was no one else in the room. One could never be too sure if there was an Oompa Loompa around, they were rather mischievous.

As he did with all things, Wonka threw himself into this latest (and therefore greatest, a magician was he with taste buds) innovation - if this proved to be a success for you, then perhaps he could look at developing a dairy free line for the general public, too. That was not to say that you were to be his guinea pig, only to say that he trusted your judgement implicitly and if you enjoyed his adapted creations, that meant everything to the chocolatier. It was to be only the best for you, as was befitting for someone as incredible as you.

You hadn't known one another long, but you gravitated towards each other all the same, like you were both the moth to the other's flame. Leading each other quite naturally into your new lives together. It had only been some months, and yet Wonka could already see that you were kind, tender, compassionate, gentle, creative, logical, funny, caring, wise, and someone he would go above and beyond for... as he was doing right now.

Five days to the hour later, and there was a new chocolate room on the other side of the factory, to make sure that cross-contamination was kept to an absolute minimum, with a sign on the door which read, no entry; chocolate Roses within.

Hope swirled within you as you stood in front of it, your beautiful eyes taking in what was inscribed on the door, but you pushed it down forcefully. Maybe the sign wasn't implying what you thought it was. You refused to let yourself get excited. You had done that before, and you weren't so keen to get bitten again.

"Well, my dear... this room, which is an exact replica of my own chocolate room, is entirely for you." As he spoke, Wonka dipped into the same pocket which held the flute he used to communicate with the Oompa Loompas, and withdrew a large key. "All of it is dairy free and entirely safe for your consumption. I hope that you enjoy it..." He smiled wistfully. "I'm sure you will." Another pause. "Yes, quite sure." His voice trailed off as he got lost in his thoughts, though he quickly recovered. The tip of the key he had given you was much smaller than the head, which made the key look almost comically large, the tip looking like it would snap under the slightest pressure put onto the top-heavy key. He handed it to you, ignoring your furrowed brows of confusion, and gestured to the door with a graceful hand.

After you.

With a slight tremor to your usually steady hands, you slotted the key into the lock, and Wonka raised his eyebrows in anticipation as you pushed the door open with your other hand.

"Welcome to your chocolate room..."

The door opened, and the gorgeous room was a perfect replica. The only difference was that you could fully enjoy this journey into a world of pure imagination, made only of chocolate, sugar and love.

The look of absolute awe on your face was all the thanks Wonka ever needed.

Planting new life // 2012!The Onceler x Rose

Summary: The Onceler inspires you to plant some trees in your back garden. It becomes a moment of bonding between the two of you. The Lorax looks on, proud and serene.

Word count: 1, 174.

You had always been a bit green-fingered.

For years, it had been a dream of yours to have your own garden, to be able to grow and eat your own vegetables and nurture your own plants. There was something so therapeutic about getting your hands in the soil and planting seeds; peppers, tomatoes, sunflowers especially were amongst your favourite to plant and observe in their element, and, you hoped and planned for trees. Watching them grow, knowing that you were the one who put them there, and many years later being able to see the sun shining through the pure green leaves as the tree continued to flourish and thrive under the conditions you had created and then maintained for it as best as you could. There was nothing in the world quite like it, and you did your best to grow what you were able to.

There was a great oak in your back garden, close to your neighbour's fence, which needed to be cut down for various reasons. Out with the old, and in with the new. It needed to be cut down, there was no other way, but rather than pay for someone else to do it, you would rather have your Onceler do it. He knew what he was doing, having cut down many a tree in his time, but those trees had still been alive. This wasn't anything more than doing what had to be done so that you could plant new life where the dead had fallen.

You knew that The Onceler had once sworn that he would never, he promised, chop down another tree, but this one had to go. Its roots were compromised, it was actively dying, and cutting it down so that you could then dig it out at the roots before planting a new one in the same place was the best decision out of all of the available options.

And who could you turn to, who else knew how to do this quickly, but your Onceler?

It was a process greatly deliberated between the two of you, with many a bad memory attached to the felling of a tree, and even more bad memories attached to why such an act had become a frenzy for your thneed creator. No one had cared, no one, as the invasive greed of capitalism had taken hold of a once pure intention and twisted it, warped it, beyond recognition, until it was an ugly festering thing which brought devastation and starvation to those left in its wake. No one had cared, The Onceler had taken it too far, his abusive family encouraging him into worse thoughts and worst actions, only using him for his fame and money, with little care for the man himself, and so nothing had changed, even when it was far too late. Caring was the first step to making any change, and you cared enough about the health of your garden that you had to change the tree.

The lessons you had learned from The Onceler, the mistakes you had watched him make and spend much time trying to correct and make right, were cherished within you, and you carried them with you as often as you could in as many places as you could. You understood his journey like no one and nothing else, except perhaps The Lorax, and you helped to humanise him even to himself.

You were, in short, his 'unless'.

Unless you cared, nothing would change. That tree would still be rotting where it stood and your garden's health and the overall view wouldn't change. Unless you took the initiative to go after what you wanted, nothing would improve. Unless you humanised The Onceler, he'd never come to experience genuine unconditional love from anyone; he would only know the manipulative and conditional love from his family.

Unless, unless, unless...

How could one word mean so much?

As soon as the great oak came down, you would empty out the remaining hole and immediately plant a new one.

Your resolve in this decision, the way that you couldn't be swayed from doing what was right because it was right, was a much more positive attitude to have towards the act of cutting down a tree than what The Onceler had ever had, and in less than thirty seconds, with two of his sure swings of the axe which was favoured in this work, the dying oak was on the ground, the stump raw but quickly dug out to expose where the roots had taken hold. He made quick work of clearing the hole, and then looked at you expectantly, almost reverently, as you swiftly and with great care re-potted the chosen baby tree to take the place of the fallen one.

Such was the cycle of life. From death came life, the soil in which new things grow nurtured by the flesh rotting within, the worms working hard to consume all they came into contact with, everything ends as everything begins, and so it goes.

You patted the new tree down into the soil, got it comfortable and fully tucked into its bed of earth, and stepped back so that The Onceler could put a wooden plague down before it, fashioned hastily from the fallen tree. The date was carved into it, as was the species of tree.

Neither of you spoke beyond shared weighted glances, your hands brushing together as you worked to complete the task as quickly as you could without damaging the spirit of the garden. It was your garden and therefore it deserved the utmost care.

The Onceler dropped to his knees beside you, his thighs pressed against yours along the outside, and watered the baby tree, a soft smile on his face. It was tinged with the bittersweet ache of regret, so you leaned over to rest your head against his shoulder.

I'm here with you.

No matter what, you made sure that he never felt alone in what he was going through, even when he committed acts you weren't fully sure you could condone. Even so, you understood, you accepted him without judgement, and your love was quintessential in The Onceler's redemption. Similarly, your love of gardening was essential to your plants flourishing, as was your love for The Onceler being able to grow into a better version of himself after the mishaps of his past, his grievous errors and his lost way, and his love for you was important, too. People were like complicated plants; they needed nutrients, water, a careful hand to guide them to grow, patience, and most importantly of all, love.

It always, always came back to love.

As The Lorax watched the two of you, somewhere close and yet so very far away, his yellow chest filled with oxygen and pride in equal measures. He smiled, and as he exhaled, he thought with all the serenity and goodwill of the world, you done good, beanpoles.

The Lorax spoke for the trees, but the baby you just re-potted was singing.

You can keep the towels // Terry & Rose Benedict (familial) ft. The Boys™️

Summary: You're as strong as your father, and he couldn't be prouder of you.

Word count: 1, 574.

The older you got, the more like your daddy you became.

It was obvious to absolutely everyone that you were, more than anyone else, your own person, and that was definitely something you got from Terry. It had taken a lot to get you to where you were, but you kept pushing and persisting because you knew that there was no other way; no one could save you but you, though he always had a hand on the middle of your back to gently nudge you one way or the other if you happened to look back at him. Lost or unsure, he was there to advise you.

One nod from him was all it ever took for you to find your footing again; if your daddy approved, it was 'safe' or 'right' for you.

You had a quiet confidence about you; you listened to the music you wanted even and especially when Danny and Rusty tried to get you to listen to what they listened to by playfully snatching your earbuds and swapping them for the wires from their phones. You wore the clothes you wanted, ate the food you wanted and gave yourself permission to spend money on what you wanted. Even if it took you months to buy a $200 bag, you still bought it in the end because you knew you wanted it, and that meant that the price tag meant nothing in the face of the joy it would bring for you once it was in your possession. Its usage would pay for itself; the more you used it, the faster you earned back that $200, though you paid it in smiles, rather than in money.

Even if you hadn't bought it yourself, your daddy eventually would have, and left it somewhere for you to find. It would have been placed on your pillow, most likely, or perhaps at the foot of your bed if Tess had been the one to bring it into your home on Terry's behalf. He would have spent the money without hesitation, just held his bank card out with a lazy hand to his most recent assistant without looking at them, and that would have been that.

But not you.

You deliberated, you considered, you planned, you restrained, you waited, you were patient... and when you spent the money, you were so excited that all of the previous worry seemed not to matter, when you were so happy.

You lived your own life on your own terms, and even if it sometimes felt like your screams were nothing more than whimpers, you still made some kind of noise in protest when things weren't working out well for you. Your ability to still speak up in some kind of way was something which Terry had instilled in you from a young age, and he was always so proud of you for having the bravery to be yourself. It wasn't easy, not with the world trying to tell you who you should be, how you should live, but you knew yourself, you knew yourself, and that was what counted when nothing else mattered anymore.

Even when you were working, you were yourself. You handled yourself with such grace and maturity; you answered the phone within three rings every time, your greeting rolling off your tongue as you cradled the phone to your one ear while you typed or scrawled down notes of follow-up questions to ask your daddy or any of his staff members, but your desk was full of things which were yours. Grinch stress balls which Rusty had thrown at your head one time as a joke, but they had actually really helped you, both in the moment and later on. Cat pens of various colours and silly shapes, Van Gogh notebooks which resembled the same paintings on your father's walls, an onyx fox figurine with a blank white calling card slotted underneath it for safekeeping, framed photos of your sister standing beside you... you never lost sight of yourself, even when the world most pushed for you to.

You kept yourself within your line of sight at all times, reminding yourself of who your daddy was, and therefore of who you were. Invariably, it helped you to do what needed to be done. Even and especially at personal cost, though that never included compromising who you were; it referred more to skipping meals or forgetting to look after yourself. All of the bad habits your father had, though he hid them so well even he didn't notice them sometimes. But you did. In reminding Terry to take care of himself (or, at least, to eat the food brought to his desk, rather than pushing it aside in favour of getting some more work done and then forgetting about it all together), you were also reminded to take care of yourself.

He had raised you and continued to raise you with the utmost care, and now that you were an adult, the two of you grew and blossomed together, taking care of one another through impossible to do lists, chores, workloads, meetings, heist plannings you both liked to sit in on without making any concrete plans as to where you would rest your weary head that night, and other challenges that life threw at you. Sometimes you returned home, and sometimes you crashed with Ocean's Eleven; it depended on the situation and how tired you were. With Terry kept in your eyesight just as much as you kept yourself there; home is where the heart is, and you would always follow Terry. You would follow yourself there, too, because you knew the way of your own path better than you thought you did, and in our quietest of moments is this truth revealed.

Terry watched as you stood at the top of the stairs, looking over the lobby of The Bellagio as you did floor staff head counts and other security checks. He watched as you checked the clipboard, which contained a sheet of paper outlining all of the day's tasks; it was a long list, but he knew that you could do it. He never thought otherwise; he had not the time or luxury for self-doubt. Sometimes you got scared to begin with, but you always found your way forward, and Terry's chin dipped forward as he eyed you, making sure that you were doing what he always did when he was taken unawares; closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then faced it. He had always been your guiding light, this he knew, in all things.

He tried to stay as bright as he could, to help you light your way in any varying degrees of darkness. Leading by example was one of the best ways for a parent to pass on wisdom to their children, and Terry Benedict was one of the very best and the very worst, depending on whether he liked you or not. If you were Linus, then he was always the worst - Linus was so easy to wind up and it was too entertaining to ever miss an opportunity to mess with him. On this one thing, Terry and the Oceans' boys were firmly agreed.

Terry turned to his assistant and inclined his head, talking quietly, "make sure she has a fresh pink drink when she gets to her office, please." He knew how much you liked having a drink while you worked; it often lasted for hours, long enough for the ice to melt and the freeze-dried strawberries to stick to the inner lid of the takeaway cup.

Your office was in the same room as his; he had sectioned off the biggest corner for your own workspace some years ago, so that the two of you worked together and your daddy was in easy access for you to have hugs as and when you felt the need for them; truly, you both received comfort from the affection.

You turned and caught sight of Terry as you marked numbers down on the paperwork, your checks finalised. Your smile broke your face in two and Terry couldn't - wouldn't - fight the very small smile which he allowed to show on his face. It wouldn't do to appear to frown at you, just as it wouldn't do to beam. But his daughter would know that he was happy to see her, at the very least. Terry gave his loves everything he had, just as you poured all of your heart into your projects. He was always so very proud of you, but most especially when you were still trying, still fighting, in the moments when you thought that no one was watching.

Because your daddy was. He always was.

He inclined his head - let's go to our office - to tell you that it was time for the next part of your very busy, very chaotic but ultimately manageable day, though you wouldn't know how you would get everything done even after the shift was through, and then he was off at his usual break-neck pace. He followed his schedule almost to the second, and it had always inspired you to try to be a bit more like him in the ways you approached your own work. You followed at a leisurely pace, your steps confident and a content smile on your face as you took in the sights of The Bellagio - she was beautiful, and so were you.

Profundity, simply stated // Abbé de Coulmier x Rose ft. The Marquis

Summary: you admire the Abbé's intelligence, while he's admiring yours.

Word count: 1, 471.

Abbé de Coulmier was one of the most beautiful men you had ever met. He would tell you that you were blasphemous for making such a comparison, but he really was an angel amongst all of humanity. You firmly believed it with everything in you. He inspired you, especially in the ways of the academia, and you took to heart his opinions pertaining to creativity; the flesh could starve as surely as the spirit when asked when he allowed the patients to take art classes, singing lessons and other such 'luxuries' which were seen by external authorities as being a waste of money.

Indeed, most others in the asylum were horrible to the poor souls being housed there; they dehumanised the patients, ridiculed them for their struggles, kept them cold and hungry if they acted in a way which was true to themselves and did little to make an already difficult life easier in any kind of capacity. There was no privacy, no respect, little care and definitely not even a glimpse of hope for future improvement or for a better prognosis. People were dumped in the asylum by tired family members, by doctors who knew not what else could be done for the 'wretched souls', the key and their future was thrown away without a second thought once they were deemed to be criminally insane, and left to rot.

And yet... the Abbé didn't like that, he wasn't like that. He tried to counteract the horrific state-approved treatments as best as he could, to be the one shining beacon in the patients' lives. He was a man of God, and this was the path he had chosen to devote his life to. To guide, to nurture, to protect, to hope, to love.

The Abbé was... he was kind. He was wholly good, though misguided at times, and someone you could converse with for hours on end if he let you. Most of the time, he did. He was just as enthusiastic about conversing with you, someone with whom he was on equal footing despite the fact that you were both stood on unholy ground.

He cared about the patients he was charged with rehabilitating and housing; he engaged with them and encouraged their creative endeavours, be it painting, writing, singing or acting, taught the illiterate how to read and write and continued to educate those who knew the basics. He made sure that the linens were washed well - though he never doubted Maddy's abilities, he saw fit to check everything that went on in the Charenton Asylum to make sure that the patients only received the best of everything he could offer them with the limited funds available. He made sure that the entertainment provided for and by the asylum was tasteful (though he never disciplined those who put on an unscripted show; to quell their creativity would mean willfully harming their spirit, and that was unthinkable), and that the funding was adequate to cover all overheads, meagre wages, expenses, supplies, and charitable donations with any spare money every month to encourage healthy publicity to later bring about potentially increased funding... the Abbé's responsibilities were dizzying.

He couldn't even list them out to you without becoming overwhelmed, and yet he loved his position. He laughed at the patients' jokes, especially when he had heard them before so that each of them felt joy at having shared something they had rehearsed in their own rooms, he cried at their sorrows and spent time with every patient individually, he gave polite ones extra pillows and gave The Marquis all the paper and ink he required, and above all else, he cared he cared he cared.

He was an angel with revolutionary ideas, controversial medicines and methods; unfortunately and fatefully ahead of his time.

The Abbé's relationship with you, such as it was when he was forbidden to devote himself to anyone other than God, was based on a foundation of intellectual conversation and of consistent guidance, for any and all issues you encountered in your life. You spent a great deal of your time in The Marquis' quarters, laughing at his vulgarity, reading his books and asking for recommendations similar to one you had just finished and enjoyed, but most often did the two of you sit side by side, your elbows and shoulders brushing against one another's as you worked on your own tales; you, on your poems and stories, and The Marquis on his soulful depravity.

The scratching of quills on expensive paper, the smell of ink and the flickering of burning candles, deep baritone humming coming from The Marquis and the crisp and sudden turning of pages when inspiration seized him by the heart and sent him into a frenzy... it became your heaven, your solace, the one place that the Abbé knew he could find you when he needed or wanted to. It was where you retreated to at least twice a day, with Maddy having taught you that the trick to getting in to The Marquis' chambers without being caught was to make sure that you pulled the latch up before you ran it across the bolt. It allowed for a quiet entrance, as long as you pulled the door shut behind you. The Marquis would never tell on you; he welcomed your presence. He coveted it. You, who understood his creativity frenzy, for you experienced it too in your own ways.

"All we can do is guard against our own corruption." It was something the Abbé had said to you late one night, when rain had lashed against the windows and the wind had howled, thunder rumbling across the skies and scaring you. He had meant it as comfort, as something for you to think upon, though your interpretation of his wisdom was perhaps not what had been initially intended when you had confided in the Abbé. Still, you had thought on what was said to you and you had reached your own conclusions, which was really all he wanted; to share wisdom, to have conversations which came from the soul, and to share himself with someone else in one of the few ways he could as a priest. He was more than willing to guide you with cryptic statements, but what you chose to do with that was entirely up to you, and he would support it as he supported all individuality.

The Marquis, for his part, had been slowly teaching you the life-saving importance of the art of self-indulgence; to eat what you wanted, to listen, to write and to write and to write, to be innovative and yourself, even when the world was so shocked and horrified by you that it locked you away and threw away the key. Especially then, should one be true to themselves, lest they died inside long before their body had gotten to an age where it could begin to rot; unable to withstand the sands of time. You had to change, to grow and to flourish, but only as yourself; never masquerading as someone else. It would simply be a tragedy, one worthy of the Greats, if you lost who you were in your pursuit of others' approval. The Marquis had yet to teach you that the only person whose approval of your actions mattered, was your own. What good was external validation if you were still, at your very core, unhappy with yourself? You could only be happy - and untouched by corruption - if you remained true to yourself and all that that entailed.

With these two men in your life, with these lessons imparted upon you simply by spending time with them every day, you had come to the conclusion that the only way to guard yourself against corruption, was to protect your inner sense of peace. To treat yourself well, with music and books and creativity, while the world raged on outside these walls. These methods would protect you from the world's teeth, keep you from bleeding out when the world inevitably took too big of a chunk out of your too-small soul (as the world often made you feel; in reality, you were larger than life), and guard you against the evils of the world.

You were precious to the Abbé and the Marquis, too precious, and between the two of them, why, your every need was met and you were well cared for. If one man came from Heaven and the other from Hell, then perhaps you were an altogether celestial being deserving of only the best of the best. For you could unite heaven and hell, and that was sure proof of the miracle of God's love.

Or, if you asked The Marquis, it just meant that there were two sane people in the asylum - him, and you.

And finally, the prose I wrote in September has finally been typed up. I have included the censored version here to protect personal details, but I will DM you the actual version.

And a moodboard! I was gonna put it with your fics but I used GIFs for those and didn't wanna disturb the flow 🥺

I do have another moodboard for you but I've used my 10 images per post so I'll DM it to you once you've read everything so I don't give you spoilers🥺❤️

And there we have it! I hope that you enjoy, honey, and if there's anything you didn't like, then please feel free to let me know! I'm happy to write you something else.🥺💗I love you so so much, and I'm so sorry this is posted a day late - between shifts at work, uni, technical issues with my laptop, it was a challenge to get this posted but I really hope the content makes up for it all.🥺

#i love you SO MUCH #gifts for my sister💗#i hope you enjoy everything here; i had so much fun!!!!#merry grinchmas<3

3 notes · View notes