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depravitycentral · 11 months

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Hi! I know you already discussed this with the hxh yanderes, but do you think some yanderes in demon slayer, hashiras and demons, would want to get married to their darling? Hashiras probably would, but i'm not so sure about demons.

Hi anon!!

I'm always happy to write about kny, and this is a good question! I'm not too much of a buff on Japanese history/historical time periods, so hopefully I'm not too factually off - based off of Tanjiro's reactions anytime skin is shown/ Zenitsu's insistence on marriage, I'm going to guess that marriage was probably more expected than it is today. So we're going to move forward with that in mind!

(Also I know next to nothing about traditional Japanese weddings, so you're getting my Western norms/knowledge... sorry! Also, I'm still debating on whether I want to write Mitsuri and Obanai as separate or poly yanderes because I really can't stomach the thought of separating them, so you're getting poly for this!)

Without further ado, let's discuss!! (This is long I apologize)

First of all, you're right - almost all of the Hashiras have marriage on the mind once their obsession forms. They're dreaming of you in pretty white gowns, boquets of flowers everywhere, and a pretty, glittering ring on your finger. There's something comfortable and good about knowing that you're safe, that you're protected, that you're theirs, both in the eyes of the law and of each other.

The demons, on the other hand, are more of a mixed bag - none of them really remember their time as a human, but some are more connected with their human sides than others - and thus, some of them are much, much more desperate to make you theirs in a way that satiates their remaining scraps of humanity. (Plus, this is a way to bind you to them that the demons know you'll recognize the weight of - after all, it's not like divorcing them is really an option; you can't even run two feet without them immediately catching and immobilizing you. What makes you think you could ever truly escape them?)

But of course, let's start with the beloved, oh-so-righteous Hashira. They each have a different level of motivation for getting you to share their last name - personal trauma, dependency, and their awareness of your feelings for them make each individual approach in asking for your hand very unique.

(Though each is laced with just a hair of hesitance, their vulnerability coming to light when they pop the question, because even if they've already stolen you away, even if Stockholm Syndrome has already bent and warped you, there's still the possibility of rejection. There's still the possibility that you don't want them as badly as they do, that you don't need them like they need you. You'll say yes, they'll make sure of it, but you need to mean it - you need to love them, too.)

Kochou Shinobu wants to marry you, and while she won't force you to, she's not too shy to drop hints. In general, she's not too terribly controlling, aside from her extreme overprotectiveness, and this extends to her plans of marriage with you.

She wants to bind you to her permanently, to get you officially and legally tied to her in a way you can't deny no matter how badly you may want to, but she won't force it. After all, while she does force you into all sorts of things in the name of protection and your wellbeing (forcing you to eat certain foods, keeping you inside the Butterfly mansion with scheduled times for you to sit outside in the garden, and a whole variety of other things that make you bristle with indignation and shame), she wants big steps in your relationship to be consensual.

(Aside from your kidnapping, of course - though she sees your captivity less as a step and more of a necessity, more of something she's doing to make sure you aren't the victim of some horrible, disgusting demon. And, of course, so that you're alive and well and she can see you and hear you and smell you and touch you.)

She'll pop the question once she thinks Stockholm Syndrome has set in, and even then, the moment is actually quite nice. She'd set up a nice meal for you (with foods you actually like, not the overly healthy, bland slog she always forces down your throat), with a few candles glowing and nice, fluffy blankets surrounding where you both sit on the floor.

Her voice is strangely soft and sweet when she asks you, this odd look in her eye that almost looks scared, as if she's genuinely afraid of how you'll respond to her slightly wobbly will you marry me? She wants you to say yes, needs it, really, but if you say no she'll respect that.

She won't let you go, of course, but she won't force it onto you. She'll be more distant, a little more snappy, and she'll spend noticeably less time physically close to you, but once she's recovered a bit (meaning she's slaughtered enough demons that her anger is slightly quelled, though the hurt is still very much present), she'll return to you, working even harder than before to make you happy and want her.

Perhaps you'll change your mind if she's more accommodating, if she's sweeter, if she's just better.

Giyuu Tomioka, for one, probably won't ever ask you to marry him.

It's not that he doesn't want to, but rather that it seems like this unnecessary step that doesn't need to happen for your relationship to be stable and happy and loving. He's a bit of an odd duck as a yandere - he's emotionally stunted and difficult at communicating his feelings, and because of this, he often worries that you're feeling things that he's unaware of.

He's paranoid that you secretly hate him, that you're lying every time you say something even remotely nice to him, that you wish he was dead or being tormented by a demon. (And frankly, this isn't entirely false - he does eventually kidnap you, once his hand is forced, and of fucking course you hate him after that - you're terrified of him, and it nearly breaks Giyuu, sending him into a spiral that'll take months of you eagerly convincing him otherwise to move past.)

And because of these fears, Giyuu is hesitant to really do anything romantic at all with you - anything from calling you pet names to cuddling you takes a long time for him to feel comfortable with, and so marriage?

It's unlikely that he'll ask, but not impossible - after all, he does harbor strong feelings for you, finding you on his mind constantly, his hands always twitching and itching to reach out to you, his eyes always seeming to wander back to your figure, his entire body just yearning for you you you.

Giyuu does genuinely want to marry you - he likes the idea of you having his last name, and the idea of being tied to you in a real, tangible way. It makes some of the paranoia quell, because would you really leave him if you were married?

Widows don't survive easily in this world - you'd find it extremely hard to remarry. (That thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth, though he does like that it means you're less likely to leave him.)

So while Giyuu probably won't ever ask, just know that when he's staring at you so longingly, gazing at you with those wide eyes that never seem to blink, he's imagining the way you'd look in lace, how your pretty face would look at him from under a veil, how your voice would caress his name when you say your vows.

It's a sweet thought that he harbors, and it's only many, many years into the future that he'll admit this to you. (And even then, it's only in passing, only when he's in your arms, on the brink of sleep and feeling the most calm and vulnerable and safe he's felt in his whole life - you'll hear a small would you want to be a wife? He won't elaborate if you ask him to repeat himself, instead pretending it never happened, but that's probably the closest you'll get to admittance.)

Kyojuro Rengoku knows marriage is in his future from a young age. He's always dreamed of having a loving family, of having another family for Senjuro to grow close to.

And really, you just make it so easy - it's disturbing how quickly he's fantasizing about dropping to one knee, imagining your face - in detail - when he pops the question; he's sure your jaw will drop, your eyes going wide, maybe you'd even cover your mouth with your hand because you can hardly contain yourself with excitement.

And then you'll say yes - over and over again, crushing him into a hug that he eagerly returns, burying his nose into your hair and smelling and breathing and yearning -

Nights he spends fantasizing about your future normally end with flushed cheeks and sweat coating his body, his chest heaving and dried cum splattered along his navel.

He expects marriage, really, simply because he's a traditional man and he wants to become your protector and provider - he's lenient on most things involving the wedding, however. He's daydreaming about you in your dress, of course, but he'll be delighted with whatever style or color you choose, tears of joy in his eyes when he sees you walking down the aisle towards him, towards your future.

He'll let you decide the flowers and how you style your hair, and he'll even let you choose his own clothing - he will be incorporating the flame somehow, however, and that goes for more than just his clothing. Your ring will have a large, somewhat gaudy opal jewel in it, along with a flame engraved on the inside of the ring, so that you're close to him always, even when he's away on missions.

Kyojuro is so very sure that you'll become his wife one day that even before you're aware of his obsession with you, he's referring to you as my flame and my spouse and my lovely wife both in private and public. It's off-putting and strange, but no amount of explaining or pleading will get him to stop.

He's genuinely dead set on becoming your husband, and he'll even allow you to invite a select group of your family and friends to the event - after all, it's not like they could stop it. What could they do? He's the Flame Hashira, responsible for saving more lives than you could count - he can have whatever he wants, and that includes you.

(At least Shinobu will be on your side at the wedding - she'll watch with sad eyes, sad for you but happy for her comrade, though ultimately she can do nothing as well - even when she sees the way he looks at you, the way his eyes absolutely devour you.)

Marriage isn't exactly necessary for Gyomei Himejima, but it's still certainly a thought that lingers in the far corners of his mind, dancing behind closed eyelids on the rare night he's laying in his own bed, the blankets feeling cold and empty.

He normally wills away any sort of fantasizing about you at night - both on principle and because once he starts thinking of you, you don't leave his thoughts for hours, making sleep - something already a bit difficult for him - even harder to come by. But on the few nights where his self-control wavers ever so slightly, he allows himself to imagine the way your hands would feel with a pretty, smooth ring adorning your finger, standing out against the softness of your skin.

He'll move his own fingers against the fabric of his futon, pretending the lackluster linen is you instead, moving up to cup your face, brush over your hair, let his fingers trace the curve and juts of your collarbone.

He'll let himself imagine coming home to you, how the smell of you would fill his nostrils the moment he opens the door, how your voice would sound calling his name, telling him I'm so glad you're home, my love, it's lonely to be a wife without her other half by her side...

It's a desire he nurses, slowly letting it fester and grow and rot in his heart, and so when the day finally comes that you've given up on fighting him, that you've reluctantly accepted that he is your future now (and after months of him calmly and simply stating that I'm doing what is best for you, you are weak and you need protection, helpless creatures like yourself cannot be left to the wolves), he'll swallow and ask you, with a voice that's just slightly uneven, if you'd do him the honor of becoming his wife, if you'd share yourself with me, both in life and death?

It's not like you really have a choice, but he can't help the tears that slip down his cheeks when you answer him, those big, scarred hands of his slowly slipping down to your hips, excitement brewing in his chest that makes him feel both elated and sinful because married couples show love in much more intimate ways, and he's been holding himself back for so long, far longer than any other man could endure...

Sanemi Shinazugawa is, even to you - the love of his life, the woman he finds himself so ardently and frustratingly obsessed with - difficult to understand. He never explicitly tells you about his past nor childhood, only dropping small, hardly-there hints once in a blue moon.

All you've managed to gather is that something horrible happened to him, and that despite seeming rough and callous and cruel, he's significantly softer at heart than you'd expected.

And so, when Sanemi bites his lip a few months into your kidnapping, his fingers tapping together in his lap and his eyes struggling to stay fixed on you while you quietly and calmly folded the pretty, new kimono he'd just returned from a recent mission with, you're completely floored by his question.

Will you marry me?

It's rushed, nearly slurred, full of doubt and sounding more like a statement rather than a question, but when you freeze and flick your eyes to him, he only furrows his brows and looks angry. Truthfully, he'd been planning on asking you for months - marriage was on his mind embarrassingly early into his infatuation with you, though he'd never made any action to make you believe so.

He has a cold exterior and is outwardly brash and rude to those around him, but he's still the young, caring, gentle boy he once was - and when he's with you, ever protective instinct long buried from his childhood comes back in full force, urging and begging him to wrap his arms around you and protect you from each and every horrible thing in this world.

(And, of course, so that he can feel you - your heart beating against his chest, your breaths tickling his hair, your soft body pressing flush against his own, so opposite to his own scarred, calloused skin.)

And so, when you eventually tell him yes after a very, very long period of silence, Sanemi can only nod and chance a glance at you, a small pink rising to his cheeks because fuck, somehow you're even prettier now, like you're practically glowing, like you're practically his - and now, you are.

He's a lot more gentle to you after you accept his proposal - he's always treated you like you're made of glass, but his touches are even more feather-light now, his voice noticeably softer, his eyes noticeably wider when they follow your every move, this shy, boyish smile slotting onto his lips when he sees you humming to yourself or reaching for something on a high shelf or sleeping soundly in what is now your shared bed.

Marriage domesticates him, and while he's still obsessively checking your health and forcing you to report what you did every moment he's not at home with you, he's different. Softer, happier, needier.

Tengen Uzui pops the question early. Extremely early. The idea of marriage is no foreign concept to him - and as his darling, you are also, by default, his wives' darling. And so, while Tengen alone is overwhelming with his flirtations and overprotectiveness, it's something else entirely to have three other people also doting on you, keeping a careful eye on you and making sure you're always, always out of danger's way and never having a moment of privacy to yourself.

And so, while Tengen is the one who actually asks for your hand, all of the wives are dropping hints and not-so-subtly mentioning how things will be once you're an official wife, too. It's always when you're their wife, not if - and they're not shy about it.

Hinatsuru will be standing behind you while you sit at the vanity, brushing her fingers over your hair and smiling down at you, pink sitting high on her cheeks while she tells you that Master Tengen will buy you the most lovely dress for the ceremony, Makio and I have already picked it out. You'll look so very beautiful, though you always do.

Suma will clutch onto your arm and beg you to do her vows first, to tell her that she's pretty and sweet and beautiful and perfect and exactly your type.

Makio will swat your hand away from sweets when she thinks you've had enough, telling you with a pout that you must stay healthy and not grow a stomachache, I saw the ring in Master Tengen's room early this morning and the whole moment will be ruined if you've eaten yourself into illness!

(Of course, you're allowed to have more sweets if she feeds them to you, but this is just a technicality.)

And Tengen himself is even not particularly subtle about the whole ordeal - he'll wrap an arm around you and plant a kiss to the crown of your head, telling you that the proposal will be quite extravagant, I can't wait to see your face!

Marriage has always been an assumed milestone that you will complete with the Uzuis - it's only a matter of time, and even if you say no over and over again, you will end up their spouse, one way or another.

(It's been such an ingrained concept in their minds, of course, that even before they stole you away, more than one night was spent with all four in bed, each imagining you on your wedding night, laying in silk fabrics with four wedding rings glistening on your fingers and your face all twisted up in ecstasy and their names tumbling form your lips like some sort of prayer...)

Mitsuri Kanroji and Obanai Iguro are both partial to the idea of marrying you, but Mitsuri is considerably more likely to make it a reality.

Obanai wants to wed you, to call you both his wives, to share your bed every night and to know that you're his. But there's still lingering fear and self-resentment that bars him from ever actually asking you simply because he thinks he doesn't deserve someone like you. You're utterly perfect - divine in a way that's hard to stomach, as if the air is being sucked out of his lungs every time he so much as glances at you. He's shy, frankly, and afraid to confront his own feelings, and so it's left to Mitsuri to make your marriage a reality.

And oh, she doesn't mind this responsibility at all - marriage plans are happening early on, her brain filled to the brim with ideas of different color schemes, which flowers to use, which songs to play, even which undergarments to have you wear to make undressing you even sweeter.

She's daydreaming about it near constantly, and similarly to Uzui, she's not particularly great at keeping it a secret. She doesn't purposefully blurt out how good you'd look in a particular dress style, but when she sees you, her brain turns to mush and it's like she has no control of her words.

(Or her actions, it seems, because she'll always, always greet you with a hug that's just a bit too long, your body pressed flush and tight against her own in a way that feels too purposeful to be innocent.)

So as their darling, marriage is likely in the cards - but contrary to others on this list, Obanai will persuade Mitsuri to actually take your wishes into considerations as far as decorations or style goes - you get to choose your wedding dress and the food that's served (Mitsuri's only stipulation is that there is a lot), along with most other personal items you wear/interact with.

So from that aspect, marriage actually doesn't sound too bad with them - the only unfortunate portion is that you're marrying your captors, of course, and the vows. They're long and sappy and extremely detailed, sharing facts you weren't previously aware of but really shouldn't surprise you - admittance of stalking you, stealing some of your clothing or personal items, even to sometimes tampering with your food just to make things 'taste better'.

It's hard to stomach and it's things you really already knew in your heart, but it's hard to hear it nonetheless - especially when it's spun in such a way as to sound romantic, as if it's some testament to their love for you - pretend to be wooed, or things will get ugly. And you wouldn't want your wedding night to be forceful and rough, now would you?

And then of course there's the demons, who have a very, very wide variety of opinions regarding the topic of marriage.

For Muzan Kibutsuji, the context in which his obsession developed is extremely key to how he feels about marrying you.

Most likely, you were some human he came into contact with frequently during one of his many false human aliases. He finds you annoying at first, of course, deeming you as horribly pathetic and someone literally not even worthy of his time to consider, but then one day something changes - some small act of kindness or defiance that piques his interest, and suddenly he's finding himself idly thinking of you, noticing you amongst the crowd, recognizing your scent even in crowded spaces.

And he doesn't like it. At all.

It takes him a very long time to navigate his feelings for you - he's intrigued and feels this strange, carnal urge to be around you, but he's also disgusted and angry and irritated that you have this control over him. And so, it's most likely that he won't marry you - the anger and possessiveness he feels for you will likely overwhelm him and lead to him kidnapping you, and once you're stuck with him, under his thumb, what's the point of marrying you?

You're his, the possession of the Demon King - what are you going to do? Run away? Try to fight him? (Some part of him wishes you would, just so he could punish you, just so he could pin you down and see those pretty tears roll down your cheeks, just so that for one solitary moment, you're looking at only him and thinking of only him and seeing only him.)

He doesn't see the point in marrying you if this is the route his obsession takes - the only benefit is making you more complacent, which isn't too much of an issue anyways because Muzan makes it clear from the very beginning that he's in charge.

If you were to catch his attention in another way (say, if he'd chosen to get close to you for a strategic reason - perhaps you're the daughter of some important figure or a powerful merchant), then he'd intend to marry you. It'd been the plan from the beginning, but once he gets to know you and decides that you aren't absolutely abhorrant, the marriage becomes less of a chore and more something that pleases him, because now you're his.

Tied to him, irrevocably his property that no man will ever touch. It quells his possessiveness and strokes his ego, all the while he'll tell that it's your duty to provide your husband with your heart, body, and soul - the smirk that curls onto his lip when he pins you down is hard to miss, as is the way he sneers out show me how devoted you are to your husband.)

Kokushibo is traditional. He's a fan of power structures and order, and while he doesn't necessarily believe that women are weaker (he doesn't respect Daki, but he can admit that she isn't horribly weak), he does believe that women are incomplete without a male partner. It's a sexist view and a product of his left-over human morals from many centuries earlier, but it stands strong in his relationship with you.

Similarly to most other demons, he doesn't really view you as a partner - you're his, his possession, a human that he finds himself oddly fascinated with despite himself. And so, he doesn't really care about your opinion in the matter of marriage - you're his woman, and he'll marry you.

It's about possession, not romance - he's certainly not bound by any laws, but marrying you might get you to realize the extent to which he owns you, the extent to which he's in charge of every aspect of your life. And the traditional values don't simply stop at the idea of marriage - they bleed into marriage as a concept, too.

He has strong opinions about what you should be wearing, how you should be acting, how the ceremony itself should be run. He's a bit domineering, and while he does hold a feeling as close to love as demons can have, it manifests itself mostly as controlling behavior.

He's running the ceremony, essentially, and it's extremely small - you're both in attendance of course, as are his fellow Upper Moons, but that's the extent. It's small, quick, and seamless, and before you know it you'll be back in the small, remote cabin he keeps you in, his form standing in the doorway and the room entirely silent.

He's controlling and doesn't fully view you as a person, but it's in moments of intimacy that just a sliver of his humanity comes crawling through, because no matter how badly he wishes to, he simply can't allow himself to touch you without your approval. He doesn't enjoy the sight of you crying, and he's internally conflicted about what the wedding night should look like. He should be fucking you, claiming you as his in the most primal and natural way a husband can, but you'll start sobbing again, and he doesn't want that. And so, instead, he compromises by simply holding you, his voice monotone as he tells you we can make love, if you'd wish.

It's awfully open-ended, and if you were to take him up on the opportunity, he'd be overjoyed - you'll find yourself waking up the next morning with a new kimono laid out on the bed, a small note written in extremely neat, near-perfect handwriting: a gift for my wife.

He's a bit of a sap, though it's hard to see - he'd never admit, either.

Douma doesn't have any particular desire to marry you, but he is admittedly intrigued by the idea.

It doesn't even cross his mind until one of his followers mentions something offhandedly about when the leader will marry his clearly favorite follower, and it gets him thinking. Marriage seems pointless, really, but humans do seem to like it, and he does like it when you smile and when you look at him all shocked and flustered.

And so, he considers the idea and decides that maybe he should do it - it'll force you to be closer to him, which is never a bad thing, and perhaps it will finally deter all other cult members from getting close to you in any way.

(Not that any of them are currently - they all know that you're Douma's, that you're staunchly off-limits. They know that everyone who approaches you disappears, and while Douma writes it off as a coincidence, it still leaves most people wary of your presence. But still - Douma likes the idea, his possessiveness quelling and his excitement sky-rocketing because it means he'll be all you have, and therefore you'll have to give him all the attention he craves from you.)

He pops the question in a not-at-all romantic setting, but he does gently cup your chin, tilting your head to look at him, those flashy eyes of his sparkling as he asks you whether you'd like to be my wife? He can't help the sigh he lets out at your bashful expression, the sound seeming much, much too high pitched to be normal (mimicking something more akin to a moan), and when you stutter out a y-yes, I would like to, Douma is pleased beyond words. It strokes his ego that you said yes, that you clearly want him, and he's quick to get the preparations rolling.

The wedding is extravagant and honestly way too much, but Douma wants everything to be over the top. The entire cult is in attendance, your dress has a train that drags a few feet behind you, and the flowers are such a vibrant red that it almost looks like they're stained with blood. The ring is simple, surprisingly, and the look in his eye is borderline psychotic as he slips the ring onto your finger.

And when he dips you for your first kiss as a married couple, he'll linger at your ear, sharp teeth grazing the shell as he whispers that you're mine, pretty, so don't run.

Akaza doesn't feel any need to marry you, surprisingly. He's another who has a difficult time rationalizing his feelings for you, simply because his view of humans being weak is difficult to move past.

He does, however, respect women significantly more than the other demons discussed in this post - and not only does he respect you, but he's genuinely the closest to being an absolute simp that a flesh-eating creature can be.

He's a bit rough around the edges and a bit abrasive, but he absolutely spoils you. You're getting high-end clothing and accessories, the best foods he can find in the local villages he slaughters, all kinds of trinkets and things that caught his eye and made him think of you.

He lives to see your smile, feeling this weird sense of accomplishment and self-satisfaction when you're pleased. And so, if you expressed some desire in getting married, Akaza would happily oblige, feeling only the tiniest bit of embarrassment. He's a bit clueless, however, so if you were serious about marriage you'd need to do all the planning. He'll let you dress however you want, whatever decorations and color themes, and he'll even let you choose which forest clearing the ceremony happens in.

(He won't allow you in any human establishments, even if you beg - he can't stand the thought of another person looking at you, and even if the entire village was killed before the ceremony, he's not willing to risk anything ruining the day he wants to be absolutely perfect for you.)

His vows are a bit choppy, the raw emotion on his face difficult to miss, though the words are more disturbing than sweet. There's talk of how he'd kill for you, proclamations of the extent to which he'd go for you - even detailing the murder of a man he'd noticed wash staring at you in a derogatory and objectifying way early on into his obsession when he was stalking you one day.

And when the infamous kiss occurs, he kisses you hard - his tongue is in your mouth and he's dipping you so deeply that your back is fully arched, and he keeps pressing into you harder and harder and harder, as if trying to bridge any little bit of space between you.

He wants you to be happy, and while he's not willing to let you go, he'll (somewhat) accommodate to your desires - so if you want something, just tell him.

(Especially when it comes to your pleasure - your wedding night will be much, much smoother if you guide him through your pleasure. After all, he'll do absolutely anything you want if it means seeing you pretty face when you come for him.)

Gyuutaro harbors a surprising amount of romantic fantasies between you and him. Of course, he'd never admit it, but he's frequently daydreamed about marrying you. Even during his human years, marriage wasn't too prevalent in the area he grew up.

(He's very familiar with sex and companionship work, but marriage? Not so much.)

Even so, he understands that marriage is the ultimate sign of love in the human world, and as his obsession with you grows deeper and stronger, so too do his fantasies of living through every human milestone of a happy relationship. He wants it so very badly; he wants you to want him, to love him and cherish him in a way that makes him scratch at his neck and warble on about how he's too ugly to be loved.

He wants you to want him - and so, after a few years of being stuck under his thumb, slowly letting the Stockholm Syndrome build and shatter your concept of reality, he'll pop the question. It's harsh and defensive, as if he's absolutely convinced you'll say no even before he's asked - his voice is sharp and whiny as he asks you if you'd like to marry a monster like me? What do you say, eh? Could you stomach marrying something so disgusting and ugly as me?

It's disguised as a self-deprecating comment, but the way he waits on edge for your response will tell you that he's very, very interested in your answer. Every muscle in his body is taut and tight, tension eating away at his stomach because oh god he's nervous, even as embarrassing as it is to admit.

If you say no he'll close himself off, berating you and telling you that you're judgmental, that you're no different from the hundreds of humans who only care about looks and beauty. His words are cruel and harsh and they hurt, but he doesn't mean them - he's just lashing out because he's hurt and doesn't know how else to express his pain.

But oh, if you say yes? Well, Gyuutaro's suddenly scratching himself hard, finding it difficult to maintain eye contact with you, a flustered feeling rising up his throat and nearly making him sick because god, is this what acceptance and love feel like?

The wedding itself is a bit half-assed, though he tried it best - his tastes are built upon the very little he knows about human weddings. But despite the fact that everything is a little dirty and the dress you're wearing doesn't fit you correctly, there's something about the way Gyutaro's hands are shaking as he hands you the ring that's almost, almost endearing - he resembles a shy, awkward boy rather than the man-eating captor he actually is.

And that night, he'll spend hours worshipping your body, pouring over every detail and scar and mole and committing it all to memory - committing you to memory, though he really doesn't need to because he'll be turning you into a demon soon so that you never leave him.

But still, it's the principle - and when he fucks you, with a voice that's especially high and a pace that's sloppy at best, you'll be able to feel what your marriage means to him - the way he moans when he sees the ring on your finger tells you as much.

So anon, long story short: they all feel a little different, but most are happy to marry you. It's a product of the time, yes, but also just another way to bind you to them - something they will not pass up.

So who would you marry? Choose carefully - because once you say 'I do', you're absolutely trapped.

#yandere kny #_kny #_giyuu tomioka #_kochou shinobu #_gyomei himejima #_kyojuro rengoku #_tengen uzui #_mitsuri kanroji #_obanai iguro #_sanemi shinazugawa #_muzan kibutsuji #_akaza #_douma #_kokushibo #_gyuutaro #yandere demon slayer

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thecoolblackwaves · 8 months

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Family Of Nerds: Feanorian Modern AU

(I’m sorry this is somewhat Americanized I just don’t have enough knowledge about anywhere else to make those allusions) (Also please reblog with your own headcanons or other thoughts!)

Feanor

Philologist; studies language history

Often assists at various museums, colleges, archeological sites, etc

Has published several books and given many lectures

Creates his own languages like Tengwar for fun, also is a hobby blacksmith

Teaches his children many archaic languages no one else speaks and takes his family on "educational" vacations

Also attends every convention known to man, even ones that have seemingly nothing to do with his own interests, dressed to the nines and spends his time there signing books and debating other people

Loves his wife just as madly as the day he met her and is ecstatic he married his high school sweetheart

Idolizes his father. Would have done great following his political career if he hadn't "ruined" his public image by becoming a teen parent, ultimately feels he's made the right decisions for his life though and is happy with his work

Rivalry with Fingolfin over who can host the best dinner party (and you best believe he wears smart-ass punny aprons while cooking a six course meal for his guests)

Nerdanel

Professional sculptor and multimedia artist

Teaches classes at an arts college

Is known to eat the fruit out of the bowls her students are sketching when no one is looking

Cannot cook to save her life

Enthusiastically attends every possible event in her family’s calendar no matter the weather or lack of skill at a toddler dance recital

Dresses in a fabulously bohemian eccentric artist way; stole the show when she attended the Grammys with Makalaure and has been featured in several fashion magazines

Carries all sorts of art supplies and seemingly random tools in her purse at all times, including a chisel, googly eyes, edible glitter, a bajillion hair ties, DW40, and peanut M&Ms

Has a calm, wise disposition that belies her truly chaotic nature

Often looked to for advice from her students and children and will only pull your leg when she thinks you’re being stupid

Does give genuinely good advice though, mostly because she is uncanny in her ability to read people and observe subtle hints

Maitimo

Studied communications, currently working as his father’s apprentice but hopes to find a position as a public relations specialist

Uses his intimidating stature and loud, deep voice to his advantage as needed

Was born while his parents were teenagers and still living with their families, he remembers watching cartoons with Grandpa Finwe and being babysat by his uncles

Also attended his mother’s graduation from art school as a small child and clapped until his little hands hurt

Is painfully aware of how all his younger brothers look up to him - literally - and sometimes struggles with the pressures of setting a good example, though he does much better than he realizes

Drinks his coffee from a mug that reads “don’t make this ginger snap” (Nerdanel has a matching one)

The gayest gay to ever gay, informs everyone of this via cheesy tee shirts gifted from his brothers and cousins

Drives a minivan, claims he chose it because it was the only car that would fit his legs and not because he can haul his brothers around in it

Frequently complains about missing the technology of his childhood but resents being called a millennial

Makalaure

Grammy award winning artist and composer

Created the score for a recent movie that bloomed his popularity and brought him to the limelight

Has a Youtube channel with several music videos he definitely didn’t blackmail his family into filming with him

Also performed on Broadway once and will not let you forget it

Used to skip school to busk in the train station and once caught his math teacher also skipping school

Extremely popular with interviewers, camera crew, and other industry specialists for his kindness and crazy stories about his family

Donates large amounts of his royalties to children’s hospitals and other charities

Used to hog the bathroom in the mornings to put on makeup and style his hair

Practices Beyonce dance routines in the mirror, has convinced Curufin to do them with him before

Spent a semester studying in Sydney, Australia and fainted after encountering a large spider in his dorm room

Tyelkormo

Forest ranger at a National Park

Works at outdoor summer camps every year, all the children love him and his giant fluffy dog

Also volunteers at animal shelters and the wildlife rehabilitation center at the National Park

Creatine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; drinks so much milk Nerdanel used to tell him it was why his hair was white

Wakes up at 5 in the morning to exercise (disgusting)

Got a long bow for Christmas one year (the note said Santa but he knows it was his mom) and practices in the backyard by shooting at Amrod’s pumpkins

Metalhead, particularly likes viking metal and Nordic black metal

Made Huan his own battle vest complete with dog-themed patches such as “Bad to the Bone” and “No Leashes No Masters”

Tells the most terrible jokes you’ve ever heard then laughs like a seagull vomiting up a stolen bag of Doritos

Extremely loyal to his family, sometimes to a fault

Carnistar

Professional business accountant

Also does taxes as a side hustle because “it’s so easy”

Is obsessed with Oreos but will not admit it because of his brother's teasing about "Moryo's Oreos"

Obligatory family goth and not ashamed of it

Started mending his hand-me-down clothes as a necessity and got into sewing, now makes fantastic garments for his family and friends to wear

Halloween is the only valid holiday, he spends the entire year making his costume (it’s usually a vampire or some fandom character)

Stays up until 3am gaming on a PC he and Feanor built together one summer, favorite game is currently Balder’s Gate

Had to take speech therapy as a child and later some anger management classes.... because he got too good at expressing himself

Curufin

Silversmith and jewelry maker

Specializes in accessories for ballet dancers and other performers

Ballet dancer since he was young, never succeeded with a professional career but still practices daily and chose his specialty to remain part of the scene

Holds a serious grudge against certain critics that failed his entry to ballet academy (will not sell his products to them or their schools)

Always looking for new business opportunities, not always in the most honest of ways

Struggles with self esteem issues

Has several cats and claims they betray him when they snuggle with Huan but secretly finds it adorable

Frequently collaborates with Caranthir to make elaborate costumes just for the fun of it

Made a tiara for his favorite cat, Princess Paws

Would sleep until four in the afternoon if you let him (or if Princess Paws didn’t wake him up screaming for food)

Amrod

Gardening Club President at his school

Started a trade and barter farmers market after school to reduce waste and share the bounty of his and fellow club member’s gardens

Frequently tries to convince his parents to turn their property into a “self sufficient homestead”, leaves pamphlets and pictures of adorable baby animals lying around the house

Enlisted the help of his twin and Maitimo to build a chicken coop, forgot to ask Feanor’s permission first

Demands payment in the form of fresh caught fish or deer jerky for the use of his gourds in Tyelko’s target practice

Has definitely switched places with Amros to escape trouble or science tests

Often neglects his homework for pursuits he feels are more important, will only do it without complaint when Carnistar tells him to

Had eyes for the cool-looking red glow on the stove as a child and was banned from the kitchen for most of his adolescence

Is generally a persistent and stubborn person (wonder where he got it from)

Amros

Amateur photographer with an instagram following nearing one million

Account consists of 95% nature photography and 5% “The Adventures of Huan and Princess Paws” as he follows them around the back yard

Takes all of Makalaure’s headshots and creates his album covers, also photographs Curufin’s jewelry to upload to his retail website

“Borrows” Carnistar’s prized PC to upload and edit his photos

Conspired with Amrod to convince their elementary school classmates they were secretly Fred and George Weasley disguised as Muggles, ultimately failed because someone thought their accents “just sounded like they were copying Peppa Pig”

Still pulls out his British accent on occasion when someone needs cheering up

Inherited Nerdanel’s keen observation skills, mostly uses them to blackmail his brothers into doing his chores

But also gives the most amazing presents because he knows exactly what everyone truly wants

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tillthelandslide · 1 year

Text

Stubborn, Whipped, Insatiable - Ross Macdonald Fic

Pure Filfth: Minors DNI

A/N: someone needs to take the internet away from me... im just fueling my own addiction now... this is just filthy and im sorry... not sorry

Ross was one of the kindest men you had ever met, he cared extremely deeply about his loved ones, you knew from the moment you met him that he would do anything for you. He was also one to share his opinions easily, even if everyone in the room was to disagree with him, he would argue his point no matter what and sometimes it swayed people to agree. Everyone always said that Ross could always make something fun, sat on a tour bus or at a party, he always managed to liven it up.

He was also the most dedicated person you knew, once he had his mind set on something, he wouldn't give in, until he had succeeded in getting what he wanted. It made your relationship all the more exciting in the beginning, he knew you pushed him on purpose, playing hard to get to see how hard he'd truly try. And boy did he try.

Once you were together he was well and truly whipped, loving you fiercely, never letting a single day go by where he didn't tell you or show you how much he loved you.

He was also extremely stubborn, often not budging on the small things or the silly things, like when Matty joked about Ross not suiting long hair, he grew it out just to prove a point and despite Matty telling him countless times that he was wrong, Ross wouldn't cut it back to the once short length he had, not that you for one were complaining.

And when Ross was debating growing his beard out and George stated that it would make him look like a creepy old man, he grew it out to prove to him that he still looked good. Which of course he did.

The most recent scenario was when Charli said Ross was whipped and the both of you were insatiable, like a pair of bunnies she said she bet that he couldn't go a week without eventually begging you to fuck him. The comment made all the boys (and you) laugh, but it only fueled Ross to be even more stubborn.

Which takes us to where you are today: two days later, sat backstage at one of the venue's the boys were playing at, you're wearing a black skirt and a black crop top, a leather jacket hangs off the sofa you're sat on and you adorn a pair of boots.

Despite the bet, you're perched in Ross's lap, legs draped across his thighs, his large hand was clasped on your thigh, he'd occasionally tug at your skirt when it had started to ride up. George and Charli were sat opposite, George's arm trailing behind her on the sofa, hand gently clasped at the back of neck.

Matty was sat on the floor in the middle whilst Adam and Carly were sat on a sofa next to yours. You were all laughing about something crazy Matty was saying as per usual.

You began to get distracted as you turned to look at your boyfriend. He was laughing a ridiculous laugh, his eyes crinkled as he smiled, the lines around his lips showing making you want to peck them and his dimples popping making you want to nuzzle against his cheek.

The shirt he was wearing had the first few buttons undone, revealing his muscular chest, hairs littering the surface, you knew later when he was on stage that the tan skin which was visible would be glistening with sweat. Your hand find your way to the hairs there before your mind even registers you doing it. You feel him squeeze your thigh in warning, and your eyes snap to his which have darkened since the last time you saw them.

"Careful darling" he says, his voice deep, sending shivers down your spine and making your skin heat.

"You're making this bet extra difficult for me you know that right?" you ask, crossing your arms over your chest and pouting up at him and he smirks down at you. The whole thing was completely unfair on you and you made sure Charli was well aware of that, she only laughed at you and told you to think about the mind blowing sex you'd be having when he inevitably gave in. The most action you had gotten was a squeeze to the thigh and a peck on your lips.

The look on your face almost had him giving in already, but he remained seemingly unbothered. He pouted back at you mockingly, his fingertips quickly unplucking your lips.

"Oh baby" he pouts "life is just so hard isn't it" he mocks, you push a hand against his chest at his teasing. If he was going to tease you, you could to.

"You're mean" you say, returning back to the conversation the boys were having. You hear Charli asking your opinion on something that you definitely were not listening to. You shuffle in Ross' lap, to everyone in the room, it looks like you're just moving to hear the conversation better, but the way Ross' hand grips your thigh and the grunt that is delivered into your ear means you've succeeded in your real mission.

"Huh?" you say making everyone laugh "sorry was zoned out" you say and Charli raises her eyebrows at you as if to say "sureee".

"I asked your opinion on head" she said and you smirk at her, mentally thanking her for this topic of conversation.

"Matty was saying girls don't actually like doing it" Charli then says. To an outsider, they would think this topic of conversation was far to obscene but considering how close the group were and some of their other conversations, this was tame. You hear Ross swallow behind you and smirk to yourself.

"I mean... I like it" you say, telling the truth.

"Well I knew you were lucky Ross but I didn't realise you were that lucky" Matty jokes making everyone laugh again.

"What do you like about it?" George asks, knowing full well Charli would probably give the same answer, part of you thinks he just wants to hear you speak about it so he can see Ross' reaction. Ross squeezes your thigh again, warning you again, usually you'd know you'd be in for trouble with the look that rests on his face.

You're not going to fuck me anyway so might as well you think.

"You have all the power. Sure you're on your knees but I know as soon as I wrap my lips around his dick, he's a goner. He'd do anything to cum and you have the power to give it to him... or not to" you say, everyone is speechless at that, Charli smiling across at you, she winks at you and you smile back, thanking her. No one comments on the fact that you called out your boyfriend, they just sit, mouth agape.

"I'm with you on that one" Charli says and you see Carly smile to herself, all the guys in the room knew you were right too.

"What about getting head? I swear most guys are shit at it, not G of course" Charli then asks and again you're mentally thanking her. You've had multiple conversations about how good Ross was at going down on you. George smirks to himself and you laugh. The rest of the boys all groan in offense.

"Careful what you say love" Ross whispers in your ear.

"What are you going to do? Punish me. You made a bet Macdonald" you say and in that moment he knows he's done for. You turn back to the conversation and the question that was asked.

"Well... when you get a guy that knows what he's doing..." you say "and enjoys doing it" you speak those words quieter only so Ross could hear before finishing your sentence "I fucking love it" you say and everyone laughs again.

The boys then carry on talking about sex, what they like and their experiences.

"You're a fucking tease love" he mumbles in your ear. You turn to look at him.

"I'm just speaking to my friends Ross, don't know what you're talking about" you say innocently, your stomach swarms with butterflies ad his bottom lip is taken up by his teeth. He shakes his head, laughing at himself.

"You just have to make this so hard for me don't you?" he asks.

"Don't get why you have to be so stubborn Ross" you say, moving forward and hovering your lips next to his ear.

"Just admit to Charli that you're whipped and then take me to your dressing room and fuck me senseless" you whisper into his ear, you hear him groan as your lips press against his neck, sucking harshly at the skin. Your little scene goes completely unnoticed by everyone else, having seen much worse in the past. You pull back to look at him, his eyes flick between your eyes and your lips, before his hand finds the back of your neck, pulling you roughly against him.

Its the first proper kiss you've had in two days, his tongue finds yours, the hand on your thigh dances across your skin until its gliding under the material of your skirt, his knuckles nudge against your centre. Your hand shoots to his chin, grasping it as you gasp into his mouth.

"Time to get ready to go on stage!" you hear someone say and Ross quickly breaks away from your lips. You mentally scream: shit timing.

You have to painfully endure the show from the side stage, watching as your boyfriend got more and more sweaty. Watching him in his element always had you ready to pounce on him, but today you had to clench your thighs to stop yourself from fainting.

Halfway through the show, Charli came close to your side, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. Her lips came close to your ear and you knew she wanted to say something to you over the loud music.

"He told me he's whipped y'know, just before they went on stage. Thought you might want to know" she says and you gasp, eyes snapping to look at her before they find Ross.

You find him smirking at you mouthing a "bets are off love" to you.

You bite your lip and squeeze your thighs together, his smile grows wider and you all but moan at the devilish look on his face.

After their last song, he makes sure he's the first to come off stage, he stalks towards you, a sinful grin resting on his handsome face, grabbing you by the hips and throwing you over his shoulder, making you giggle as he carries you to his dressing room.

He's quick to place you down on his dressing table, thighs already spreading to accommodate him. His lips quickly find yours, tongue messily thrusting into your mouth in search for yours. You moan into his mouth as he pushes himself closer to you, you feel the hard on he's supporting and you wonder how long he's had it.

"Ross" you moan as he begins grinding himself against you, groaning into your mouth. His lips break away from yours, making their way to your neck and bruising themselves against your hot skin. His hands drift round your back, grabbing handful's of your arse in his large palms.

"Fuck you're so hot" he says "couldn't stop thinking about you on that stage" he admits, sucking against your sweet spot which has you sighing and arching your back.

"You looked so good out there baby, just wanted to get on my knees for you in front of all those people" you say, knowing he loves a praise his head snaps back to look at you, his pupils are blown wide, his lips are swollen from all the kissing and from his biting his lips on stage.

"Funny enough I was thinking of doing that to you" he says, you gasp when his hands find your skirt, flattening against the material over your cunt. His hands make light work of undoing and discarding the fabric. The groan he lets out when he sees your dampened lace panties is feral.

"Was a pathetic excuse for a skirt anyway" he says as he kneels down, mouth pushing against your lace covered core. He presses a chaste kiss against the material before moving to your inner thigh, sucking and biting the flesh.

"Only wore it make you want to fuck me" you gasp, his fingers hook along the fabric, you lift yourself as he removes them, your head is thrown back in the next second as his lips find your clit, he delivers a rogue kiss to the bundle of nerves before looking up at you through his eyelashes.

"Believe me love, wanted to fuck you even before you had that skirt on. Want to worship you first, show you how fucking whipped I am" he says, you begin to chuckle, but it's quickly replaced with a sharp inhale as his lips make their way back to your clit, sucking harshly, sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.

Your hands seize his hair, weaving their way into the edges, loosening it from its place in his hairband.

His tongue presses against your folds just to get a taste of you as his nose jolts against your swollen clit. His beard provides a wonderful burn and the pain mixed with pleasure has you quickly seeing stars.

"Taste like heaven baby" he murmurs against your folds, the vibrations have you clenching his hair in your hands as a stream of curses falls from your lips.

He works his mouth against you languidly, his tongue presses against your tight hole and he curves it upwards, the tip rubbing deliciously against your g-spot.

"Fuck Ross, you're so fucking good at this" you say. He groans at the compliment, his fingers replace his tongue inside you, constantly hitting that spot when he thrusts them back in. His tongue flattens against your cunt, tip resting against your clit.

His eyes find yours through his eyelashes and he smirks before shaking his head. Tongue covering the whole of your sopping cunt, saliva rests against his lips and your juices coat his tongue.

"Fuck" you nearly scream. "Fuck Ross" you say, he closes his mouth around your clit, sucking and pushing against the nerves, sending jolt after jolt of euphoria your way.

"Say my name when you come" he demands. You spew curse after curse, your mind going blank as your back arches, white hot pleasure coursing through your veins and all you see, feel and live is him.

The only noise in the room is your moans and him soaking up your s drenched center.

"Ross... dont stop, im going to cum" you sigh.

"Come for me love" he demands and your back arches as your body spasms, an earth shattering orgasm ripping through your entire body. He sucks your clit through it, helping you ride out your high until its too much. You grasp his chin, gently pushing him away from you. You truly are insatiable, because as soon as he's off his feet, your lips are on his as your hands find his belt buckle, quickly undoing it, allowing his trousers to drop around his ankles. You tug at his boxers, sending his hard and huge cock, slapping up against his abdomen.

Your hands find the base of him and you deliver a few strokes before looking up at him, he nods letting you know he wants this just as much as you. You lead him in, you tease yourself with the tip and he smirks down at you, taking himself from your hands and pushing against your hole, you groan at the stretch and he can't help as his hips stutter forward. Two days was an awfully long time for him not to be inside you.

"Fuck you were made for me love" he groans, your arms grasp his shoulders as he begins to pull out, almost completely disappearing from inside you before snapping back in. You engulf him perfectly, and he moans into your mouth as he takes your lips in his.

His large hands find your waist and he grasps the flesh there strongly, giving himself extra leverage as he begins pistoning himself rapidly into you. Your mouth falls open, silent gasps falling from your lips. The pleasure all too consuming to even moan now and that's how Ross knows he's doing a good job.

Your body begins convulsing against him and your core shudders around him making his hips shudder, his cock faltering for a second inside you before his ministrations continued.

"Fuck you're so good to me" he murmurs, eyes trained on yours, you can't even speak, you just pant as he pushes his lips against yours again.

"I know love, I know" he says, you cling to him then and his pace slows a bit, his thrusts are deep and slow: meaningful. He was showing you how much he loved you now.

"Ross" you manage to moan out, a sharp inhale through bated breath letting him know you were close. His calloused fingertips find your clit and he rubs slow deliberate circles to your sensitive button.

His grunts are shallow now, your name falling out of his lips like it was the only thing he knew how to say.

"I've got you love, let go" he says and you gasp out his name, your back arching again as another orgasm ripped through you.

"I love you" you sob.

"Come for me baby, I want it" you then say, and that's all it takes for his hips to stutter forward, shooting his load inside you, coating your walls with his juices, you kiss passionately as you both come down from your highs.

He repeats "I love you" against your lips like scripture.

"Two days must be our new record" you say jokingly.

"Quite pleased with myself actually darling" he says and you laugh, pressing a kiss to his crinkled nose.

"Fucking love you Ross Macdonald" you say and he smiles down at you, lips on yours again for a few moments.

"Could never stay away from you too long, not when you're looking this good all the time"

"Same goes for you handsome" you say.

"Now... about doing that thing you love so much" he says, you jump off the counter not a moment later, dropping to your knees.

"Im fucking whipped" he says to himself, groaning as your lips wrap around his swollen tip, a mixture of his and your cum coating him and dribbling down your chin, he's quick to catch it, bringing it to his own lips.

"Fucking insatiable" you both hear someone the other side of the door hear, not that either of you care.

#ross the 1975 #ross mcdonald fanfic #ross macdonald #ross macdonald x reader #the 1975 fic #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 smut #ross macdonald smut #the 1975

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chlobliviate · 1 month

Text

Wolfstar Microfic - Faster

Words: 839

@wolfstarmicrofic

🌙✨🌙✨🌙

Remus would forever be grateful to Sirius for spotting the moon, dragging him back into the shrieking shack, kissing his temple and locking the door before he could transform. Even with the wolfsbane, he wouldn’t wish it on Harry and his friends to witness the transformation.

Even with Remus' mind, the wolf was restless. He could smell Sirius and Peter. Peter. He knew Hermione had hit him with incarcerous, but worried all night about whether they’d finally got him.

After he turned back, groggy and exhausted, but uninjured, the door swung open. He swallowed the disappointment at not Sirius standing there, but Dumbledore.

“Good Morning!” He said jovially as if the events of last night were a regular occurrence. “How are you feeling?”

Remus frowned, “Albus, tell me—”

“I’ll get to that, Remus. How are you feeling? Was the potion adequate?”

“Yes, thank you.” He muttered, “I didn’t sleep much, but I’m fine.”

“Glad to hear it!” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Mr Potter, Mr Weasley and Miss Granger are all safe and unharmed, other than Mr Weasley’s leg which is already on the mend. Severus is… his usual self.” Remus snorted, “He has made a point to inform the ministry of your condition, which will no doubt filter down to parents and students in due course. I want to make myself absolutely clear, Remus, that you belong here. No complaints from parents or questions from the wizengamot will change that. I hope that you will stay.”

Remus stared at the wall, everyone would know. Surely parents would withdraw their children, and send them to Beauxbatons where they weren’t being taught by a monster. Of course, he couldn’t stay.

Dumbledore interrupted his train of thought, “The students respond to you and they enjoy your lessons. You would be doing yourself and them a disservice if you let this change things. Just, think about it.” He nodded, “Onto more serious matters.”

“Is he…”

“Aurors came to collect Mr Pettigrew in the early hours of the morning. He is awaiting trial now.”

“So he gets a trial? Not just thrown in Azkaban, no questions asked?” Remus snarled. “He spent twelve years in there, Albus.”

“I’m well aware,” Dumbledore Held up a hand, “He will be given a full pardon. He’s in the hospital wing currently being fussed over by Poppy.”

“He’s not… they didn’t take him back?” Remus blinked at him.

“No, Remus. He’s a free man.”

Remus didn’t care if he was being rude. All he could think of was Sirius, and he ran from the shack, through the tunnel and out of the Whomping Willow, not caring if anyone saw him exit. He ran faster than he ever had and when he came skidding to a halt in the hospital wing, a small sea of curious faces greeted him.

Harry, Ron and Hermione were gathered around Sirius’ bed while Madam Pomfrey hovered. Sirius sat cross-legged on top of the sheets, chatting animatedly to Harry, wearing clean robes, with his hair tied back and, wow, he didn’t know that Poppy could work miracles, but apparently she could.

Sirius instantly leapt from the bed to the protests of Harry and Hermione and threw his arms around Remus.

“You’re alright.” Remus whispered, “I’ve got you.”

🌙✨🌙✨🌙

“I am pleased to introduce you to our new Astronomy professor, Professor Sirius Black.” Dumbledore smiled over at him.

Sirius got to his feet and bowed slightly, smiling at the cheers coming from the Gryffindor table. As he sat back down, Remus’ hand returned to his thigh and he linked their little fingers together.

Remus, after much debate with Sirius and Harry, had agreed to stay on at Hogwarts. When Dumbledore offered Sirius the Astronomy position he’d pinched himself several times because being back at Hogwarts with Sirius seemed too good to be true. Dumbledore had written to them a week after term had ended to ask if they’d like separate quarters, or to share, and that had shattered the levy that had been holding back everything they hadn’t said since they were teenagers. Choked ‘I love you’s, angry ‘I missed you’s and serene promises. Forevers.

Travelling on the Hogwarts Express with Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Neville was delightful. Much better than it had been for Remus the previous year, not a dementor in sight. Sirius slung his arm across the back of the seats and Remus leaned into his shoulder. He noticed Hermione shoot Ron an ‘I told you so’ look, but that was all. They’d told Harry over the summer when he’d finally come to live with them at Grimmauld Place and he was thrilled for them, Lily and James’ son through and through. They’d absolutely gutted the house, slashing the portrait of Walburga until the ribbons of canvas were finally silent. All the silver adornments changed to gold, and heavy, dusty curtains were thrown away to let the light in.

It would only be their home for a few months a year for the foreseeable future, but it was their home. Better late than never.

#fanfic #wolfstar #ao3 #fanfiction #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #marauders #wolfstar microfic #remus loves sirius #sirius loves remus #fix it fic

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bats-and-birds-24 · 4 months

Text

Chapter 7:

Bruce wanted to punch the batcomputer's screen. Instead, he just sighs and tries to calm the storm of thoughts in his mind.

Tim had every right to take some time off being Robin of course. He was kidnapped and tortured by the Joker for 10 hours, heck, Bruce wouldn't even question him if he quit after this.

Unfortunately, he was well aware of how hard headed his sidekick can be. He was certain that Tim was not recuperating but was holed up in his nest working on cases.

Bruce could see right through the camera trick Tim tried in Drake manor, but at Alfred's advice, he decided not to bring it up.

He could still hear Alfred's exasperated voice ringing in his ears, "Master Bruce, young master Tim needs rest, and since he's as stubborn as you are, this is best we can expect. At least he's not on the field yet. If you go there now the two of you will only argue again and set back both your relationship and his recovery."

Alfred's logic was sound, so he contented himself with checking up on Tim via a tracking chip sewn into the soles of the Robin boots. The tracker for the first few weeks, only showed him staying at his nest or occasionally going out for walks on Gotham's southern shoreline.

Nothing seemed out of ordinary up until Tim's tracker showed him at Sullivan's Island, a league of shadows base in Gotham. As he was scrambling to put on his suit, the dot disappeared entirely, confirming his worst fears.

He had already failed Tim like he failed Jason once before, recalling his time kidnapped by the Joker, and now he's failing him again by letting him get kidnapped again in the same month!

What sort of mentor was he?

He suits back up and prepared to head to Sullivan Island, he won't let there be another dead Robin. Not again.

Jason's training with Cass soon became his favourite part of the day. The sparring was invigorating and important, but chatting with Cass during break was even better. She reminded him of the street kids he came across back at the Alley. Sweet to anyone who deserved it, but an absolute nightmare to anyone who crossed them.

Midway through their training, Talia had introduced another child, Bruce's son as a matter of fact. That much was glaringly obvious as Damian had Bruce's eyebrows, jet black hair, and incredible stubborn streak. The only things that reminded him of his mother were his green eyes that tilted ever so slightly upwards.

At three years old and barely two feet tall, he was the weakest member of their trio, which didn't say much as all three of them could take down at least two grown men.

Damian was bossy, arrogant, and calculating. All traits of Bruce that he hated.

However, some of Bruce's better traits would shine forth at times, such as when he saw a trainee break a birds nest and rushed forward to fight her. Once separated he refused to apologize as he felt that he had done nothing wrong.

Jason couldn't help it, he loved kids and he had at some point loved Bruce, so it only felt natural that he would end up loving Damian. The day he sleepily called him Akhi on accident was still fresh in his mind, and still brought a smile to his face.

He loved Cass and Damian, they were his little siblings. As his days in Nanda Parbat went by, the memories of the past were beginning to fade, and now the feelings that used to debilitate him, only felt a little sore.

Jason wanted nothing to change, for the first time, in a long time, he felt at peace.

Tim woke up in a dark room luxuriously decorated. A sharp pain on his abdomen called for his attention.

Tim checked under his bandages and noticed the distinct bumps of a cut that was neatly sewn shut. He assumed Talia had taken care of his stab wound for him, and filed it away that he should thank her later.

He debated leaving the room to scope out his surroundings, but after wincing in pain at trying to lift up his head, decided for once, that it would be best to stay put.

His eyes heavy, he drifted off to sleep.

#marked au #batfamily #batfam #batsiblings #batman #dc robin #jason todd #tim drake #bruce wayne #red hood #red robin #damian wayne #cassandra cain #batgirl #black bat #orphan #robin dc #league of assassins #talia al ghul

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wingedcat13 · 2 years

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Synovus: A Wishing Star

[Canonically, this takes place before ‘Call Me Menace’ - which is why there’s a notable lack of Alexandria and Minerva in this segment. This was requested by an Anon, with the prompt of Synovus being asked for by a Make a Wish child, through the Make a Wish foundation.]

[Trigger warnings for childhood cancer, descriptions of illness and hospitals, and discussions of suicide. Reference is also made to the possibility of substance abuse. Unlike most of my writing, for this, I cannot promise you will find this ending happy.]

“Your name came up today,” Rosie called up to you, laboriously walking laps around the cafeteria.

“Of course it did.” You replied laconically, keeping a careful eye on her progress from a perch in the rafters. Your shadows were ready to catch and steady her if she stumbled, though you both pretended you were too occupied with your knitting. “I am an incredibly interesting person. On a completely unrelated note, tell Dr. Grouch that he will receive payment shortly.”

That wasn’t an epithet, ‘Dr. Grouch.’ It was genuinely the man’s name. Dr. Jeremy Grouch, a pediatric cancer specialist, who had the good fortune of being the best choice for you to kidnap when Rosie had finally told you why she’d been half-joking about retirement. He was no longer your ‘guest,’ having returned to the mainland full time a few weeks prior, but he still communicated with Rosie quite often.

A bark of laughter had Rosie pausing, out of breath, to brace herself against the wall. She turned to rest her back against it, but since she didn’t sit, you didn’t jump down to see if she was alright. Even if you had stopped knitting.

“Not for the money.” Rosie assured you, when she had caught her breath enough to reply without wheezing. “He thinks you’re more than generous.”

“Dr. Grouch could stand to live up to his name a bit more.” You tsk’ed, “I kidnapped him, forced him to work for me. He didn’t even haggle.”

Not that this would have done him much good in the beginning. Historically, you did not respond well to threats or extortion. But you did respect a good hustle, and you were fairly certain that Dr. Grouch had been aware he could’ve pushed for more of a reward once Rosie was declared in remission. He hadn’t taken the opportunity.

“He isn’t hurting for wealth.” Rosie pointed out. The sardonic note to her voice had made you smile. You and your minions were in the business of exploiting greed and committing evils, but that did not make any of you less inclined to judge others for anything less than your own morality demanded. And that often included each other.

But Rosie’s tone shifted, becoming something lighter, “He said one of his patients asked to meet you.”

“What?”

“One of his patients wants to meet you.” Rosie repeated patiently. “Wished for it, even.”

You forced your tone to remain light, glad you were up in the rafters where she couldn’t see your body language. “Well, there’s a rarity. How many people ever say ‘I wish to meet Synovus?’”

Rosie sighed. “Usually just people who want to kill you.”

“Are we certain that isn’t what the child wants? I’m assuming it’s a child, adults usually know better.” You picked up another stitch, fumbled it, did it again. This time it stuck.

It wasn’t the idea of a child trying to kill you that had you so… disoriented. You’d been responsible for the deaths of a lot of parents over the years - you wouldn’t be surprised if there had been hundreds of vendettas sworn against you, or all villain kind, or even the heroes who had failed to stop you, over the years. But kids - children - you had a soft spot for.

You remembered too clearly what it was like to be young, sheltered, and out of control of your life. It was debatable, some days, how much of that still applied to you in some way or another.

“I’d bet on the kid.” Rosie remarked.

“I-“ You twirled one knitting needle, intending to point it at her, and snagged it in the trailing end of your yarn instead. It didn’t matter, because she couldn’t see you. “- take offense on the child’s behalf that you would doubt them.”

“Oh yeah?” Rosie perked up, “Offended enough to defend their honor in person?”

Frowning, you set down your knitting again. “What are you asking me here, Rosie?”

“I want to know if you’ll honor the kid’s Wish.”

There was something in the way she said it that gave you pause. You mulled it over.

“When you say ‘wish,’ you don’t just mean a general expressed desire, do you.”

It wasn’t much of a question, but Rosie answered anyway, “Nope. I mean the Wish. Apparently they hadn’t wanted to say anything, because they didn’t think anyone would let them, but they were talking to Dr. Grouch, and asked where he’d been -“

You groaned. You’d been assured of his adherence to HIPAA, but hadn’t pushed too hard on the ‘never tell anyone where you’ve been, ever, on pain of excruciatingly over described death’ angle. Maybe you should’ve.

“- yeah, I know, but apparently he only told the kid and asked them to keep it a secret, and the kid ‘lit up like it was Christmas.’” Rosie relayed this information, complete with air quotes, without moving from the wall.

To avoid thinking about the idea of being anyone’s last, true Wish - the big W, the heart’s desire, the crown of a bucket list - you instead thought about how Rosie had trapped you. You couldn’t just disappear because then she’d be alone, and could still collapse. You couldn’t call her physical therapy completed for the day yet either, because she hadn’t finished this lap.

Evil, your minions. Absolutely evil.

You sighed, sure Rosie would feel it, even if she couldn’t hear it at this distance. “Very well.” You conceded, morose. “When are we meeting this little miscreant?”

—-

Hospitals were not easy for you to break into. Not when you were in costume, at least. You could get terrifyingly far in a white coat with a coffee cup and a clipboard, but that came down to timing and confidence and an aura of ‘fuck off, I am incredibly busy’ that you’ve always felt most doctors cultivated on purpose.

That didn’t really work when you were in all black with a cape and a helmet. And this was a children’s cancer ward, so it wasn’t like you could just wait till everyone went home. Windows didn’t open up here either.

So you’d had Dr. Grouch let you in from the helipad on the roof.

“You’ve taken the precautions I requested?” He asked, as you paused outside of the ward itself. “Fully clean, as you would have for Ms. Rosie? You will not touch anything you do not have to, and will call for assistance if she seems overwrought?”

“Yes, Dr. Grouch.” You replied, accepting another antiseptic wipe for your gloves. “I am here to answer a summons. That is all. I swear that your charge will not come to harm from me.”

You did not point out he had been the one to arrange this meeting. His face made a strange expression, as though he were surprised, and surprised at being surprised, and a bit disappointed in himself for that sequence of events. Still, he recovered quickly.

“At least I do not have to remind you to wear a mask.” He granted, in an attempt at levity. Luckily for you both, you didn’t actually need to reply, because he was already triggering the ward doors for you to enter.

While Grouch moved to the ward station, motioning to calm the various staff on duty, you moved with purpose for the room you’d been directed to earlier. Grouch was telling the staff that he’d found someone willing to stand in for you, as a way of reassuring them. You weren’t sure they’d buy it, but it really wasn’t your problem for the moment.

You moved quietly. You weren’t sure whether or which other rooms were occupied, and you didn’t intend to scare anyone who hadn’t requested to see you tonight. For that same reason, you double checked the number on the door you opened, and lifted it faintly on its hinges, that it would open smoothly and as silently as you could make it.

The room beyond was dim, if not completely dark. The corridor behind you was also dimmed for the night cycle, trying to give the ward’s occupants a chance at sleeping, though the ward station was still well-illuminated. You made sure its light wouldn’t give you a halo or shadow as you entered, and quietly shut the door behind yourself.

You aren’t familiar enough with hospitals to say whether this room is average or not. Tiled floors, the bed that is also a gurney, sparse furniture, windows on the far wall. There are signs of life here, in the form of some decaying flowers on the dresser, with several cards propped around their vase where the bed’s occupant can see. A television is mounted near the ceiling on an extendable arm, but it’s off for now.

There’s a few sources of dim light - the distant aura of the streetlights casts the bars supporting the windows on the wall across from the bed. A floor light illuminates the tile enough to show any potential tripping hazards. The odd blinking light on the medical equipment provides a dash of color to the gloom.

And in the bed, there is a lump curled on its side, as far as the IV line and monitors will allow it, blankets pulled tight over the shoulder and tucked near the chin. Dr. Grouch told you some basics about the patient before you reached this floor, so you know who you are supposed to be meeting. You feel bad for waking her, but you’ve been assured she doesn’t sleep well anyway, and is likely awake. Judging by the faint rustling of a body’s small movements, that judgement was accurate.

You are reminded of Dr. Grouch’s planned lie, out in the hall. You do not want this child to think they are being tricked. So you stay where you are, in the deeper shadow of the door-well, and you summon your shadows to life.

The window frame shadows make an excellent trellis for your branching additions - they stretch out, forming words in deeper darkness than the natural shadow from which they are woven. If you are mistaken, if this is the wrong room, if the girl sleeps, you won’t have disturbed them.

But you see the streetlight illuminate the planes of a too-sharp face as it turns to focus bleary eyes on what you’ve written.

Hello, Loralai.

At fourteen years old, Loralai should still have the roundness of youth. She does not. Nor is she quite skeletal, despite the advanced nature of her illness. It almost seems, in the half light, as though a slight push would be all that was necessary to send her in either direction: back to the hale softness of health, or further on to the sharp stillness of death.

She blinks. Her eyes widen, then narrow, then widen again. You belatedly wonder if perhaps she needs glasses. Or what if she’s dyslexic? Your shadow-words are hardly the easiest things to read. Damn it, Synovus, now is not the time for posturing and-

“Synovus?” Asks a breathless, whispering voice.

“In the flesh.” You reply, because you are a melodramatic moron. Still, your voice is quiet, and you remain unmoving.

There’s some more rustling. The bed is already mostly elevated, so Loralai doesn’t need to try and sit up so much as readjust how she’s sitting. There’s a click of a lamp - and then there’s a real light source in the room, even if it’s dulled by the lampshade.

You step forward as Loralai rubs the spots from her vision with one hand. There’s an IV catheter taped to the back of it from some recent event, the bruising around it just beginning to ripen. You don’t remember what that might mean, if anything.

As she gets her vision back and examines you, you turn your helmet, pretending to survey the room. Eyes bright with curiosity flick from the helmet to the cape to the patterns of padding over your torso. She does not seem scared, but then, why would she be? Dr. Grouch had informed you she was well aware her case was terminal. You may be a specter of death to some people, but this child has already started staring down the real thing.

“You are Loralai Weber?” You ask, turning back to face her directly.

She nods, leaning back against her pillows. You can see exhaustion on every line of her too-young face, but it seems not to have any power over her at the moment. “Yes. I didn’t think you’d actually come to see me.”

You gesture aimlessly, “I am not often asked for.” You reply candidly. “You’ve piqued my interest. And.. one could say I was in the neighborhood.”

Loralai’s expression brightens, “Are you going to attack the hospital?”

You frown. The prospect seems to excite her. Still, you keep your voice casual, noncommittal, “Not tonight, at least.”

“Damn.” Loralai sounds disappointed now. You muffle your amusement at her cursing as she continues, “Any time soon, maybe? Like, in the next week?”

She can’t see you raise your brows, so you tilt your head to one side, “You sound almost hopeful, Ms. Weber. Why could that be?”

Loralai averts her gaze for a moment, plucking slowly at the top blanket of her bed. This is the moment of truth, really. You spent hours trying to figure out what you might be asked for:

Could you kill someone for her? A doctor, a nurse, another patient who was really annoying? Or could you attack the hospital, so she could help you wreak havoc, and have the chance to feel as powerful as a Villain? Alternatively, what if she were the one to stop you? You were dreading the deathbed request that you ‘turn good,’ but that doesn’t seem to be forthcoming. Maybe she simply wishes to witness a hero battle up close, and needs you to initiate it. Or-

“I want you to kill me.”

You freeze. Most of you, anyway, as your stomach seems to have left out the ground floor entrance. You had not anticipated this. You feel like you should have.

Remorseless for your shock, Loralai continues, managing to look directly at your helmet face as her words spill over each other, “I know I’m dying, and that I don’t have long left, but I’ve been dying for months, and I just feel worse and worse every day, and I - I want to die fast, not slow. I want it to be over. You - you could make it quick for me, couldn’t you?”

You have not been inclined towards religion for a very long time. Yet, in this moment, you see the appeal of dropping to your knees and offering a fervent prayer of gratitude to whoever or whatever might be listening that you gave Dr. Grouch your word in the hall. You do not want to answer Loralai’s question, or know what your answer would be. You refuse to acknowledge the burgeoning answer within you.

The horror of it all still threatens to overwhelm you. The shadows in the room thicken, automatically reaching for you to provide shelter from unfortunate truths and uncomfortable conversation. This is why she asked for you. Because you are evil. Because you are terrible enough to meet a child face to face and kill them at their own request. Because you are not beholden to law, morality, or sympathy.

The black pit of despair yawns, and it is only by the barest shred of your willpower that you stay out of it - as awful as you feel in this moment, as much as you know you have only delayed your own suffering, the fact remains: you are not the one dying here.

It does not matter how you feel, looking at someone younger than you were when you finally found freedom, and knowing they will never reach the same age, the same feeling. It does not matter how you feel about their request. Loralai Weber sits in a hospital bed, terminal at 14 years old, and she is suffering badly enough to seek the Scourge of the West Coast.

So you scrape yourself together, and move to the end of her bed.

“May I sit?”

Loralai nods, brow still furrowed, and shuffles her feet so you can avoid accidentally sitting on them. You perch there, partially leaning on the rail at the foot of the bed, and watch her for a long moment.

“Yes.” You say, finally. “I could make your death swift. There is little you could do to stop me.”

You have Loralai’s undivided attention. When you stop speaking, she waits. The clearer it becomes that you will not say more, the further her face falls. “Could.” She says tonelessly. “But won’t.”

“No.” You confirm quietly. “I will not.”

“Why?” Loralai cries. She tries to gesture to herself, to the room that she’s in. “You’ve killed so many people! What’s one more to you? Why not me? Is it - do you want me to suffer, is that it? Would this be too merciful for you?”

You let her yell, and gesture, even when she comes within several inches of you. “No, Loralai. I do not want you to suffer. But nor do I think this would be an act of mercy.” You avoid addressing the issue of your body count.

Loralai looks offended and confused, gaping at you for a moment. “Does this look like a life worth living?” She demands.

Your answer is without hesitation, “Yes.”

The girl’s face contorts with incredulity, then despair, then anger. Her eyes are increasingly red-rimmed, and there’s a wet quality to her wavering voice when she responds, “Fuck you.”

Grimly, you brace yourself for much worse before the night is over. She hasn’t ordered you out yet, so you have to attempt to explain. Even if you cannot give her what she wants, you can be an outlet for her anger, and the face she cannot show to her doctors.

“There are cards on the dresser.” You point out.

“Classmates I’ve never even met.” Loralai responds flatly.

“Flowers, too.”

“Another parent bought some for the whole floor after their kid bit it. It’s a pity gift to make them feel better, nothing to do with me.”

“You still have family.”

“So they should get the honor and joy of watching me die? Paying a fortune for every extra hour I sit here and wait for it to be my turn?”

“It is worth it, to them.” You explain, matter-of-fact. “Every penny. Every extra shift. Every loan. Every night on your fold-out couch. How did you convince your mother not to be here tonight?”

Loralai flinches. “She has a bad back.” She mutters, “She - it’s better for her to be home, in a real bed. And so what if it’s worth it to them? What if it’s not worth it to me? Can’t I choose how and when I die?”

You sigh, “If that were true, the world would be full of immortals. And suicides. You realize that is what you asked of me, yes? An assisted suicide?”

Loralai draws back at the word, but doesn’t deny it. “It’s not like it would be anything new for you.”

The truth of that statement is painful. For a moment, you hear a distant ringing with no physical source. You are acutely aware of the shadows in this room - their patterns under the bed, on the wall, the sky behind the window, in the spaces under your skin-

“I am not your tool.” You rasp, before remembering that Loralai couldn’t possibly know about your past. She is a teenager. A hurt one. They always have a gift for striking true, even when they lash out blindly.

You take a deep breath, and suppress the shadows again. You don’t want to know how far up your arms they reached before you regained your senses. “And I will not be baited into killing you either. You are right - I’ve killed. Plenty. I will again. But I do so for my own reasons, and not because someone asks me to. You asked for me by name, Ms. Weber, out of all of the villains on the West Coast, so I’m guessing you know that.”

Loralai opens her mouth to respond - then looks away.

“You have every right to be angry.” You continue into the silence, “With me, with the people around you. With the doctors and nurses for how often they check in and the poking and prodding they do. With the kitchen for the quality of the hospital food. With your parents for not sparing you this life, or being overbearing in their concern, or not being able to balance what it is you really need.”

You pause. Loralai doesn’t respond. You continue, “I would be angry. I would be furious with every car that passed by and honked its horn, because I’m stuck up here dying, and they only care about the stupid traffic. And I would be even more angry about the fact I can’t tell anyone that without becoming the bad guy, who can’t take their situation with grace.”

“But you won’t kill me.” Loralai says finally, “Before I do something I regret. Or become a husk of myself.”

This time, it’s your turn to remain silent. Loralai turns to look at you, even if she can’t find your eyes in the mask. She’s crying now, but so far managing to hold off actual sobs, “Why can’t I be selfish? Just once?”

You offer her your hands, and aren’t surprised or offended when she doesn’t take them.

“You should be selfish.” You tell her, and the ferocity in your voice takes her aback. “You should be as selfish and greedy as you can. You should seize every moment - every conversation with your parents, every breath of conditioned air, every chance you get to actually smile. Even if you only get one more of those, Loralai, it’s one more than you would get if I did what you’ve asked. Dying isn’t selfish. It isn’t selfless either. It just is, the same way taxes are due and commercials always take too long and the drivers outside your window have road rage. It’ll happen whether you want it to or not. Don’t lean into it.”

Converse to your own advice, you lean towards Loralai, adding, “Kick the bastard in the balls.”

On reflex, she gives you a confused, watery half-smile.

“Yes!” You cry, as though this is a great victory. “Just like that! Rip and tear your joy from the universe.”

That wins you a snort - though the amusement doesn’t last.

“I’m not strong enough to do that.” Loralai deflects, turning a hand over in your general direction. “I’m not like you. I can’t literally steal happiness from - banks, or whatever it is you rob.”

“Banks.” You admit, “Though usually their corporate offices instead of the average buildings. Irrelevant, however: how many of my fights do you actually see me win?”

Loralai frowned. “Uh….”

You don’t leave her hanging long, “It depends on your definition of ‘victory’ really - but if I count it like the heroes do, where a victory is when I have my opponent in my custody, I haven’t won a single fight in over ten years. My track record is abysmal.”

(This is not strictly true - but it does count for your fights with heroes. Interpersonal villain matters you handle rarely make the news.)

“So, what, you’re bad at your job?” Loralai says bluntly, sarcasm tingeing her voice.

“I’m fantastic at my job.” You can’t help the rebuttal, it’s too much in your nature. “Because even if I don’t take down the hero who comes after me - and let’s face it, they’ll keep sending them endlessly, it’s exhausting - I still do what I set out to do. Sometimes that’s steal something. Kill someone. Make a scene. On bad days, just get out and away. And if you use that metric, well, darling, my track record is spectacular.”

Loralai considers this for a moment, staring into the middle distance between you. It’s impossible to figure out what she’s actually thinking of.

“Your metaphors suck.”

Well okay then. “My metaphors are elegant contrivances -“ You give up when Loralai gives you a look, and sigh instead.

Still, what you’ve said seems to have made some difference. Loralai has stopped crying, and she doesn’t feel as.. raw, as before. You hope it’s the right kind of difference, and that you haven’t just chased her further into a shell. You wait for her to break the silence again.

“So you think I should live, for the people around me?” She challenges, indicating the flowers and cards. You both know that’s only a fragment of your argument, but you’re willing to play ball.

“Nope.” You reply succinctly. “I think you should live for you and your own experiences. However, I think you are currently in a position where you have to see your joys in others before you can see them for yourself. If they anchor you, use it.”

She’s staring at you now, expression unreadable. “And you think that will get better.”

You almost answer ‘yes’ - but you know that isn’t quite what she’s asking. There’s a second half to that statement that is a question, left unspoken: ‘will it get better before I die?’

And for all of your lies, you answer her honestly. “I don’t know.”

Loralai nods. You want to clarify, to explain that even a chance is a chance worth taking. You want to give her some of your own rage at the world, the defiance that makes it possible to simply refuse to die. The conviction that let you kill a god.

No, maybe not that. You’re not sure that would be a blessing after all.

“Okay.” She says, after several moments. “Fine. I get to live. For now. But when I die -“ Loralai’s attention abandons the far wall and the middle distance, zeroing in on you, “- if my life gets any worse between now and then, if I don’t get any more good stuff like you’ve described, I’m haunting you.”

You believe her. “I believe you.” You say solemnly. “And there are few things in this world more terrifying than a teenage ghost. No, that isn’t sarcasm, I’m serious. Once-“

—-

You spend the rest of the hour telling stories of the teenaged ghost you’d met once in New Orleans, back when that wasn’t quite anyone’s territory. It’s not nearly enough time to share all of her stories - but it is enough that you remember her fondly, and smell the faint scent of bergamot and citrus that always heralded her presence.

When you spoke to her more regularly, you teased her about being a ghost who smelled like Irish Spring, and she ensured your cape got caught on everything it possibly could. You feel a tug on it, as you are moving to leave, and understand the prompt.

“Here.” You tell Loralai, unclasping your cape from your shoulders, and draping it over the bed.

“Does this have magic powers, or something? Is it bulletproof?” Loralai lifts it’s edge, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. She’s in higher spirits, but the bags under her eyes have deepened. She’s also cold, though you don’t think you’d be able to get her to admit it.

“Nah.”

“Then why would I want it?” Remarkable, how little your status matters to teenagers. You aren’t sure if it’s your curse or a trait of the species.

“Capes are cool.” You reply confidently.

There are other reasons too - it gives your ghost friend an anchor to stay with her better, it’s warm, it will remind her this wasn’t a dream. If her family needs to, they can sell it to cover some of the medical bills, since (unlike some heroes and villains) you rarely leave a trace behind, and collectors would love to get ahold of one of your capes. Actually, Tallflawes might even buy it at an exorbitant price, just to taunt you with it. But this isn’t a lie: capes are cool.

“Whatever.” Loralai says sleepily, resting back on her pillows, your cape tucked up under her chin. “Goodbye, Synovus.”

“Goodbye, Loralai Weber.” You say gently. You aren’t sure if she even notices your shadows flip the switch on the bedside lamp, returning the room to darkness. Your shadows muffle your exit back into the hall.

You leave as quickly as possible, after that.

—-

The good thing about being a dramatic fool on purpose, is that when you are having a public meltdown, it can appear as though you are simply performing again. The shadows contorting and swirling around you? Ah, Synovus, making an entrance. Disappearing between one blink and the next to the unobservant, because you’ve turned and booked it into the dark? A classic exit.

Your minions know you too well for that facade to hold. They also know you too well to ask.

You stalk down the halls, lights seeming to ripple in your wake with the amount of shadows you’re dragging, like a toddler with their blanket on their way to throw a tantrum. But you skip the training room. You wind up in the kitchen, as Oflok watches from a distance.

You spend an indeterminable amount of time staring at the collection of alcohol. You don’t indulge, because you are terrified of what might happen if you lose control of yourself. You know you are a walking bomb. Your minions can partake as they like, however, and today, reminded of how destructive you are, you want very badly to join them. To get wasted beyond memory.

“I want you to kill me.”

You get as far as reaching up one hand for a bottle. You don’t know which, you didn’t bother to read the labels. You lower your hand. Spin on your heel. And leave.

—-

It’s Rosie and Doll who hover in the corner, silent witnesses while you dig through the cabinets in the infirmary. You grab the first ampoule of a drug that looks like it would force you out of your mind that you can get your hands on. You have a tray laid out with syringe, bandages, tourniquet, disinfectant wipes, before you realize what you’re doing.

“Does this look like a life worth living?”

You walk out without a word.

—-

The grave at the bottom of the island is not well tended. It is not a monument to be remembered. This is the third time you have visited it since you stopped obsessively checking for signs of disturbances, in case it’s occupant decided to crawl back out.

You tell the empty space about Loralai Weber. What she looked like, what she asked of you, what that means. This time, you’re free to cry, though whether it’s for her or yourself, you’ll never be able to parse. By the end, you are screaming in the dark cave, knowing it’s all pointless at this stage in the game.

The man in the grave could heal himself, when he wanted. And very rarely, when he was convinced it was ‘appropriate,’ he could heal others too. He wouldn’t have counted Loralai Weber as ‘appropriate’ for his gift. You would. It doesn’t matter, though.

It’s the one part of his powers you never inherited.

—-

[Thank you for reading Synovus: A Wishing Star - if you want to read more of Synovus, you can find the rest of their stories on my blog, in the pinned post. Further, if you want to find out more about the Make A Wish Foundation, you can read stories of children they've helped (in rather different ways than Synovus) on their website, or donate here.]

[I do not have a personal story to share for Loralai's inspiration. However, I did tap into my experiences as a chronically ill individual, and the mental state I experienced both before and during treatment. There are still days I wonder as Loralai does - but I wholeheartedly believe as Synovus says: This life is worth living. It is for you too.]

#synovus #synoverse #Synovus: A Wishing Star #tw cancer #please dm me if you feel additional tags are necessary!#reader discretion advised #tw suicidal ideation #tw implied child death #tw self destructive behavior

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r-is-typing · 2 years

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not my type | e.m

summary: in which eddie loses the best thing that’s ever happened to him

requested?: yes! requested by anon!

request: Ooh can I request a Eddie x cheerleader!reader who are friends and hang out a lot despite what people think. They become a little more than friends but keep that part a secret. His friends (the older ones not the kids) notice he's hanging out with the reader and asks if they're dating but then he lies and says something like "never, she's not my type". Then the reader hears him and gets really upset and confronts him? Sorry I'm just a sucker for something angsty!

pairing: eddie munson x cheerleader!reader

category: angst

content warnings: super angsty

word count: <1k

To say Eddie loved her would be quite an understatement.

Eddie didn’t just love Y/N. He adored her, worshipped her. But, of course, he couldn’t let her know that. At least, not for the first two years of friendship. Especially when he was an outcast and she was a cheerleader. The head cheerleader at that. She had to keep up their social standards, but she didn’t care.

Which, in turn, did cause a lot of issues.

Chrissy Cunningham was the only one out of the cheer and basketball teams that actually respected and felt happy for the two. Chrissy didn’t know Eddie, but she didn’t need to. She saw how much the friendship between the two meant to Y/N and that was all that mattered.

Then, she became the first to know when Y/N and Eddie’s friendship evolved from playful shoves and friendly gestures to kisses and secret sleepovers.

It was a Friday night, which usually meant dinner and a movie night at Eddie’s trailer. Y/N stood at her locker, putting away textbooks from classes she had already gone to, and grabbing the textbooks she needed for classes later in the day.

“Hey, so, Harrington and I were thinking,” Robin approached her, making the girl press her back against the locker, holding her textbooks to her chest. “We wanted to do something fun, maybe go bowling or something.” Y/N nodded, looking at Robin curiously. “You wanna go?”

She stood still for a moment, debating on what to say.

On the one hand, she’d love to spend time with her friends. It wasn’t very often it was just them without the younger kids. As much as she loved them, it was nice to be able to talk about whatever without Dustin groaning in disgust or El exclaiming her confusion as she didn’t understand a lot of social normalities.

But, on the other hand, it was date night. Just like she didn’t get time with her friends, she got even less time with Eddie, their relationship being secret and all. So, the couple made a deal that one day a week, no matter what, they’d spend time together.

“Sorry, Rob. Chrissy and the rest of the cheer team wanted to hang out tonight. Go over some routines for the pep rally. Maybe this weekend?”

Robin nodded, understanding that extracurriculars were tough, and required a lot of attention. “Yeah, no problem. Ready to go to lunch?” Y/N nodded, closing her locker and following Robin to the cafeteria. Since Robin and Steve became closer to Y/N and Eddie due to the couple’s discovery of the Upside Down, they’ve been sitting with the rest of the Hellfire Club on occasion.

As they walked closer, Steve’s voice got louder.

“Alright, so c’mon, Munson. You’re seriously going to sit here and say you’ve never thought about being with Y/N, man? I mean, there’s nothing going on there?” This caught the two girls' attention. Y/N looked towards Eddie, noticing his whole body tense up and then relax in the same few seconds.

“Harrington, how many times are you going to ask?”

The snarky voice of her boyfriend almost made her laugh. Almost. It would’ve had his next few words not stung so badly. Eddie had spoken words that she was afraid of and worried daily about, yet he spoke them. Eddie knew her fears and still said something that had he known she was listening, would’ve been well aware that it would’ve broken her heart.

“No, man. Never gonna happen; she’s not my type.”

Y/N looked toward Chrissy who had heard every word and stood up quickly, rushing to her side. “Y/N, come on.” Robin looked confusedly toward the two, and Steve looked up from the table, calling out. “Rob, Y/N, you gonna sit down or what?”

Eddie froze, his body becoming tense again at the mention of his girlfriend.

“Y/N-” “Not now, Munson.”

Chrissy cut him off sharply, wrapping an arm around Y/N and leading her out of the cafeteria. Eddie stood quickly to his feet and chased after the two. “Cunningham, let me talk to her.” He choked out, out of breath as he caught up to them.

“You’re joking, right?”

Chrissy shook her head in disbelief and joined Y/N where she was hiding in the locker room. Echoing sobs escaped the room before Chrissy could close the door fully. Eddie’s heart broke, just like every time Y/N cried, but this time…

This time, it was because of him. He made her cry.

A week passed since the events. Y/N did everything she could to avoid Eddie in every possible way. She closed her bedroom curtains so Eddie was given the signal that she didn’t want to see him, she sat with Chrissy at lunch in the cheer coach's office, and she got Nancy rides to and from school.

Y/N avoided Eddie as if he was the plague.

But, she decided she needed to do the right thing and put an end to it. Officially. So, she asked Nancy to drive her over to Eddie’s, Steve and Robin in the backseat, one large box in the trunk of Nancy’s car.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Nancy looked at the teary-eyed girl in front of her as the four stood outside Eddie’s trailer, one of the lamposts barely lighting their surroundings. Y/N ended up telling the three of them about everything, especially after she couldn’t hide her heartbreak anymore.

“No, but I have to.”

Y/N sighed, brushing her hair out of her face, taking the box into her arms, and walking closer and closer to his trailer until the familiar smell of weed and Eddie’s familiar musk filled her senses.

Her knuckles rapped against the screen door and she backed away against the railing of the porch as she waited.

“Baby, I’ve be-” Eddie grunted as the cardboard box once in Y/N’s arms shoved against his chest. “Stop, Eddie. Just stop. I don’t want to hear it, alright? You’ve done enough.” Ouch, Eddie thought.

“Just come inside and we can talk.”

Y/N scoffed, looking back at her friends who were now back in Nancy’s car. “Talk? About what, Eddie? About how I’m not your type, how after almost six months, I’m suddenly not the girl you told me you loved?”

Eddie’s features softened as he looked at her, seeing how badly he had hurt her.

But, on top of the pain, he could tell there was something she was trying to mask, or trying to fight. “I, uh, guess I should give you this back too..” Y/N reached around the back of her neck, pulling something over her head. Eddie’s eyes widened as he realized what it was.

Y/N placed the item into his hand before walking down the steps and stepping onto the gravel. “Goodbye, Eddie.” She gave a final nod before turning her back towards him and jogging towards Nancy’s car.

Eddie looked down at his guitar pick necklace in his hands. The item screaming at him in the face that the damage had been done, he’d lost her for good, and it would be the biggest mistake of his life.

r is typing... i'm not crying, you are... i loved writing this so much <3 thank you for the request! i hope you like it! r is signing off... join the taglist! taglist: @jojoisawesome @howardshottub @jssmth5 @alexxavicry @angelbunnyboo @meaganjm @ruinedbythehobbit

#eddie munson angst #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #eddie munson #request #reqs open #requests open #r-is-typing

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shelbgrey · 1 year

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Hi! Do you write for the squinterns from bones if yes could you write one for any of them where y/n is hodgins' daughter/sister and is goth and into conspiracies if you don't feel comfortable or just don't want to feel free to ignore this

Being Hodgins' sister and being a goth Squintern

Paring: Goth!Reader x Squinterns

Summary: headcanons about two Squinterns being in love and one loves conspiracies.

A/n: sorry that it's short or I got a few things wrong.

MasterList

So, the Squinterns are like one big disfunctional family that can't live without each other.

It's established from the start your goth, but I think that your personality would conderdict that. Meaning your very bubbly and and smiley.

Everyone is always fascinated by your look, your fishnets, leather, dark makeup, and many piercings always draw people towrds you rather you want it or not.

“did it hurt?” Vincent asked, referring to your nose piercing. “only for a sec, what you talking about getting one?”

Your looks might also have outsiders questioning or logic or capabilities. If someone talks down towrds you the Squinterns and your brother will always have your back.

Even Dr. Brennan has told off a few people.

Your bright and loving personality would confuse Colin Fisher for a moment and he'd ask a bunch of questions beacuse on the outside you look like someone he'd hang out with, but once he got to know you, you guys became quite close.

“what kinda Goths have you hung around? All the ones I've met are literally the best people ever” you respond to his confusion.

Fisher appreciated that you saw him more than just a weird and gloomy guy, you would talk about movies and make him laugh with your harmless conspiracy theories.

You guys soon became best friends through mutual interests and understanding of each others worth and true colors.

Which leads him into falling for you, he doesn't know how to handle theses feeling nor dose he want to destroy the most important relationship he has.

Your Favorite person to work with his Wendell, nothing like a good ol golden retriever and black cat relationship. Your not really a 'black cat', but people might give you that label when they see your outsides.

Wendell loves you, in a brotherly way of course. You, him, and your brother Jack become this amazing trio. If Wendell isn't with Jack he's with you.

There has been many times Wendell has helped pick out hair Dye and other ecesories with you.

“was thinking black and blue for my hair, what do you think?”

“like a dip and faid thing or whole head?” he asked.

You were there to comfort and support him throughout the time he was fight cancer. “I'll shave my head with you”

“no, you love your hair” he quickly said. “okay... I'll just die it the cancer awareness colors and shave just the side” you smile.

You would grow a small crush on Arastoo Vaziri, but with his belief system you were scared to tell him how you feel.

He of course didn't care, he fell in love with your compassion and personality. The way you looked didn't bother him, he thought you were beautiful and he didn't care what his family thought either.

You guys would date for a little while to the dismay of Fisher. He would put his feelings aside though, and continued to be your best friend no matter how much it hurt.

You would think Finn Abernathy is literally the cutest person alive, you love hearing his southern drawl and his little sayings.

He thinks your dark and mysterious at first, but when you heard you and Wendell having a debate on which Disney princess was the best he knew there was more too you.

Which made him want to talk to you more and get to know you.

He loves hearing your conspiracy theories no matter how much some of them might freak him out.

You and Daisy don't get along, plane and simple. Your a sweet person, but her hyper and 'look at me' attitude rubed you the wrong way.

You also didn't like how she would stare at you like you were from another planet. “take a picture, it'll last longer”

The other jeffersonian residents have never really heard you talk like at. They didn't like the way daisy treated you and jack had a proud big brother moment.

She also didn't like how close you and Lance got. “hey Sweetheart” you would say to him, the nickname was in a Platonic way and you used that because of his last name.

Daisy didn't get that. “don't call him that”

“it's better than Lancealot, and last time I checked he's not your boyfriend anymore”

You and Clark Edison don't talk much, you find each other weird but you have high respect for each other.

You read his book and didn't really like how he worded things, it was obvious he was a new writer. He suprisenly thought of you as a friend so you never told him the full truth about the book.

You love hearing Vincent Nigel-Murray's facts and most of the time you have a conspiracy theory to bounce off of it, there has been many time you both had a playful back a forth that intertaned the whole lab.

When he died it crushed you, he was a true friend and a total sweetheart in your eyes. You can't listen to the song 'lime in the coconut' without crying now.

Losing him made you relize how precious a life is, you'd think your line of work would do that, but no. After Vincent died you made sure to always check up on Fisher and ask how his mental health was, or you'll make a joke to make Finn laugh. You'd make sure to give Wendell a hug everyday and make sure to tell Arastoo you love him everyday.

You just want the Squinterns to know how much they mean to you.

Wendell said your the heart and soul of the group of squints, you keep everyone together. It'll warm your hear when he said that, but then you'd bring up a stimulation conspiracy theory. Wendell would just laugh while Finn would back up his statement.

They love every part of you.

#Squinterns #Squinterns x reader #Goth!reader #Bones #Jack Hodgins x sister!reader #Jeffersonian #Temperance Brennan #Jack Hodgins imagines #Arastoo Vaziri #Colins fisher #Wendell Bray #Vincent Nigel-Murray #Finn Abernathy

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ridiasfangirlings · 4 months

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not sure if you've answered this before, but what do you think would happen if pre-ROK but post missing kings Fushimi got hit with a memory strain and suddenly his memories go back to before the betrayal ? How would yata (or anyone else for that matter) react?

This I think would be interesting since presumably he would go back to Homra but he wouldn’t be going back to Mikoto’s Homra, he’d be going back to Anna’s. Like imagine he gets hit by a Strain that wipes all memories up until like a couple months pre-betrayal. Say he was on patrol undercover before this too so he wasn’t in his S4 uniform, and it’s raining so his hair gets all in his eyes and he doesn’t even really notice the way it’s parted when he comes to, he just pushes it back into his middle school style haircut. Fushimi doesn’t recall how he got here but assumes it’s some stupid Homra mission, clicking his tongue as he pulls out his PDA. He’s immediately suspicious due to the S4 logo and puts it back in his pocket, deciding he’ll just find Misaki on his own.

Yata’s at the bar with everyone else, discussing the current situation with jungle, and imagine the silence that settles over the whole place when Fushimi walks in as if he belongs there. Yata’s on edge and immediately jumps in front of him, not sure if he should be angry or if this is a good sign, maybe Fushimi’s showing up because he’s willing to accept Yata’s thanks for helping with Anna. Fushimi looks at him like why are you acting so weird and Yata decides to try and thank him again, Fushimi has no idea what he’s talking about. Yata’s like ‘huh?’ and then Anna steps forward with her marble. She stares at Fushimi hard for a moment and says ‘Saruhiko doesn’t remember.’ Fushimi’s like what don’t I remember and Yata, Anna and Kusanagi all share a look. Kusanagi sighs and says he’ll call Awashima.

Fushimi isn’t stupid so of course he’s aware right away that something’s up. I imagine Kusanagi would want to tell him the truth, at least about him going to S4 and Mikoto and Totsuka being dead, however Yata’s more conflicted about it. I think his initial desire would be to not tell Fushimi, to just enjoy having his best friend back, and if this was pre-S1 he would probably do just that without even thinking hard about it. Now though he’s unsure because he feels like Fushimi would probably want to know the truth and maybe they can still have a conversation, here where that bitterness hasn’t had a chance to fester yet, and Yata can understand Fushimi instead of trying to make Fushimi be someone else. While he’s debating though imagine Fushimi decides to stop at the restroom and he’s aware that his chest has been itching. Fushimi stands there in front of the mirror and opens his shirt and there he sees it, the destroyed Homra tattoo, and Fushimi just gives this crooked smirk like oh.

When he comes back into the bar Yata decides to take him aside and explain everything, he knows this is gonna be a big shock for Fushimi so Yata wanted this to come from him. Imagine Yata doing his best to explain what he still doesn’t understand, that Fushimi left Homra and went to S4 and Yata still doesn’t know why but he wants to. Yata just lets it spill out, everything he’s wanted to say to Saruhiko for months now but that Fushimi never lets him finish, wondering if Fushimi was ever even happy in Homra and he knows that Fushimi can’t remember leaving but even so maybe he can explain some of it, of why he left. Fushimi listens to the whole thing quietly and then just scoffs, so that’s it. Yata’s all ‘huh?’ and Fushimi pulls down his collar, he was wondering where this came from. Yata stumbles over the words, because he didn’t mention the scar that’s still super painful for him to remember, and Fushimi stands to go.

He says if Yata can’t figure it out for himself then no wonder his ‘future’ self didn’t see fit to explain it. Yata grabs his arm like wait and Fushimi wonders if he should burn it more, there’s still too much of this pride of yours left. Yata quickly tells him no, like Saruhiko can’t you just let me understand, and Fushimi shakes his arm off and says he’s going back to S4, ‘since apparently that’s where I’m supposed to be.’He says it’s fine anyway, since it’s clear Homra’s crumbled and Yata’s just clinging to him because there’s no more Mikoto. Yata fiercely says that’s not it at all —Homra is still here and Mikoto is still there too, in the memories Yata carries. This isn’t about Homra or Mikoto to Yata it’s about Fushimi, the one person he hasn’t managed to understand yet. Fushimi coldly says if Yata hasn’t understood yet then he never will, pulling away from Yata and moving to leave the bar. Once he’s outside he starts scratching at the burn scar and murmuring ‘so that’s why I did it…I should have done this sooner.’ Meanwhile back in the bar Yata just collapses into his chair, fists clenched as he quietly says he still won’t give up, he’s not going to give up on understanding Fushimi no matter what.

#sarumi #Talking K #I think post-MK and especially post-Countdown 1 Yata would want to be honest with Fushimi #telling him what happened between them and trying to get Fushimi to talk to him #he'd still run into the brick wall that is pre-betrayal Fushimi #but he would try #...okay but post-S1 pre-MK version of this could be intriguing too now that I think about it

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the-eclectic-wonderer · 2 months

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Love the song you posted! And love that it's entirely possible that Dorothy loves it since she def would've heard it, and a lot of the songs she likes in canon are older. How did you come across it

I know, right?? It's so sweet, I adore it!!

I was looking for some 1940s songs for a personal project of mine a while back, and when I stumbled into this little gem I was immediately reminded of Dorothy. There's something about the general atmosphere of the song, that wistful dream-like quality it has, that just *screams* Dorothy to me. We all know she's got a somewhat rough, disillusioned exterior, but she's a big softie at heart -- she doesn't believe she'll ever get that dream-like romance, but she still yearns for it! She just wants the chance to give all the love she's capable of giving to someone who will give it back to her!!

And I mean -- look at those lyrics!!

I can see No matter how near you'll be You'll never belong to me But I can dream, can't I?

I'm aware My heart is a sad affair There's much disillusion there But I can dream, can't I?

Can't I adore you? Although we are oceans apart I can't make you open your heart But I can dream, can't I?

I feel like this applies both to young!Dorothy and the early stages of her marriage and to canon!Dorothy and her general attitude towards love (*especially*, but not only, in the context of the Golden Wives).

This has been talked about extensively on here, so I'm really not saying anything new, but it's pretty clear that Dorothy did do her best to be a loving wife to Stan, during their 38 years together. Whether this is because she actually loved him or because she felt that it was her duty to be a good wife to him can be debated (personally I feel like it's a bit of a mixture of the two, if that makes sense), but I think it's canon that she went above and beyond for him. Even just the fact that she stayed with him for 38 years through cheating, lying, horrible mistreatment, financial issues, etc etc is proof enough that she really did whatever she could to love him, imho -- and all of this without ever being loved back. There's several moments in the series where Stan shows a modicum of decency and she all but melts because of it (see e.g. S4E10 Stan Takes A Wife), and you can just tell that she's been surviving on these crumbs for all her life, hoping and praying that this time, surely, it will last. I can't make you open your heart, but I can dream, can't I? Yeah.

And then -- canon!Dorothy. She's obviously disillusioned when it comes to life in general and love specifically; she puts herself out there, and she can be pretty impulsive at times (her reaction to John Neretti in S6E22 What A Difference A Date Makes never fails to make me laugh), but she has the hardest time believing that good things will last. Her heart is a sad affair. Take for example what she says to Glen in S1E14 That Was No Lady:

"You know, every time you tell me you love me, I turn around to see who you're talking to. I can't believe it."

That's an underlying theme every time she has a serious relationship with someone she likes: she can't believe it's happening. Is that any wonder, considering the marriage she lived through?

Finally -- the Golden Wives. Or any Dorothy ship that involves one of the other Girls, really. All of my points above still stand, and there's the added complexity of Dorothy grappling with her sexuality and being certain that Rose and/or Blanche couldn't possibly love her back, no matter how close they are as friends. Because -- of course they couldn't! They both had husbands they loved with all their hearts! They both have active and vibrant love lives with men! And she's just Dorothy -- tired, sad, Dorothy, always too tall and too brash and not feminine enough and just not enough to be loved back. What could the other Girls find in her? No matter how near you'll be, you'll never belong to me. But she's Dorothy, she's a bleeding heart, and so she can't help but dream, in the hidden corners of her soul. You get what I mean?

Oh, anon, I'm sorry -- this turned into a bit of a ramble, but I just love this song so much and I think it fits Dorothy so well!! Add to this the fact that it came out in 1949 (canonically the year she married Stan) and it all becomes even more painful to me :') I wouldn't be surprised if she had a soft spot for this song!

#i'm so glad you liked it!! i really enjoy this kind of 40s-50s song by harmonizing female trios/quartets #and this one really was an instant fav #oh dorothy... i just want to give her a big hug...#the fact that she managed to keep her soft nature under all those barriers is crazy to me. she could have turned into a bitter old gal #she could have killed the sweet young girl at the center of her being #and instead she armored up in every way she could -- but her core is still there.#that 17yo girl she had to leave behind is still there at the center of her being and she just wants to love and be loved and i have to stop #here because i'll cry excuse me #i just love her so much ;-; she deserved so much better!!!#and i'm so happy that she got to find love and companionship after her divorce!!! she deserves all the love in the world!!!#a big part of me is still mad at the writers bc they decided to tear her away from her wives and ma bc you KNOW she didn't want to go!!!#the golden girls #golden wives #dorothy zbornak #ask

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spectrumed · 2 months

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23. Daddy Dead

It has been a while... Not that I regret this blog, I am genuinely proud of most of my previous writing, though, if I were to compile it all into some book I'd probably spend days, weeks, if not months, rephrasing sentence after sentence. I am, after all, an anxious fuck. Whenever I publish some piece of content for the world to consume I immediately start thinking of all the ways I could have done it better. Do it better, do it better, do it better. Perfectionism is a human flaw, and despite my autism telling me that I am entitled to identify as something of an alien, or an android, I am still very much human.

But, hey, here's the news. My father died earlier this year. Y'know that line by Camus? Obviously, you've all read The Stranger, so you are aware of how that novella starts. "Aujourd'hui, Maman est morte." And of course, as all of life is a long debate, the best translation is disagreed upon. But I like to keep it simple and straightforward. Mother died today. What's important is that the story's main character doesn't want to dwell on the past, he doesn't like to get all emotional. No melodrama needed or appreciated. To him, it's just the naked reality that he's found himself in. Maman is no more. A simple and true statement. He is a son whose maternal parentage is now relegated to the world that was, the past. She is deceased. Mommy has kicked the bucket. Really, no matter how we express ourselves, we belong to the present here and now, and words can only describe our reality, they cannot alter it. Why waste time with more flowery speech? She's dead. That's that.

In January, my father died. I could say that my father has gone off waltzing to the other side, or that he's with St. Peter now, but I prefer to say that he's just dead. What's important is that the individual who is half-responsible for my genetic heritage is gone. I will never once again get the chance to speak to him, I will never once again get to hear his voice, I will never once again get to think of him in the present tense. He is simply gone. He is, quoth the raven, "nevermore."

Am I sad? Of course I am. Tom was my dad. I am named after him. I am Fredrik Erik Tom. And Erik was the name of my maternal grandfather. I am straddled with two middle-names that will now forever remind me of two father figures that I have lost. Not that I really feel much animosity over that, after all, isn't that the purpose of middle-names? To remind you of some person you were named after, when they were an adult and you were just a newborn? If you end up dying before the person you were named after, well, I'd consider that to be a tragedy. I guess I have to view it as my purpose, now, to carry on the memory of these two men. And one day, I'll have children of my own, and I'll name them Erik and Tom. Though, it's gonna get awkward if I only end up only with daughters...

But this hypothetical child of mine, this daughter named Hecate Erika Tom, she won't have the same impression of these names as I do. To her, the names would lack substance, the real icky stuff that life is made from. These deceased men are kin of hers, and she might enjoy being told about them, but they are family members that died long before she entered this world. To me, they played an instrumental part in my viscous adolesence and, at least one of them, stuck around for long enough to watch me solidify into an adult. My grandfather died when I was fairly young, and it took me some time to become aware of just how much of my artistic sensibility I owe to him. Yes, I can appreciate him, and my likeness to him, even after he's gone, but my mental picture of him is still influenced by having once known him as a living and breathing organism.

I wonder if my child could ever know their grandfather Tom as anything more than just this theorical ghost of history...

I mourn. Of course I do. It is hard to know just how you're supposed to lament the passing of those you've lost. Are you supposed to be strong, stoic, and protestant about it? Or are you supposed to wear all black, weep openly, and convert to Catholicism? My world hasn't changed much since my father died, in fact, what has occurred is likely to be thought of as being for the better. My father left behind a dear inheritance. My sister will be able to take over his winsome house, and I will be able to take over her comfy apartment. From the perspective of living-standards, we both seem to be benefitting from our father's death. And he had a life-insurance! I thought only murder victims killed by their spouses had those.

And I know my father wanted us to inherit something big from him. In his final years he'd every so often talk about the things he were looking to leave behind to the next generation. He was very happy when he finally paid of his mortgage, seemingly just because he was now able to continue saving up more money. He never spent any money, it was blatantly obvious that he never intended to spend it on anything special. Yes, once he talked about maybe going on a long cruise somewhere, but that never happened. He intended for the money to go to us. He was never an expressive person, but I know that this was one way he could show me and my sister that he cared for us. And that is admirable, I suppose. But he was a cold and unemotional dad. Money doesn't really change that.

Yeah, my daddy was a difficult man. I never disliked him, but I often felt sorry that I didn’t have more of a connection with him. And, as his son, I was often thought to have the closest relationship with him. At times it made me feel so uncomfortable hearing others talk about my father with animosity, knowing that I was the one who spent the most time with him. Though, I can't blame anyone for struggling to cope with him. I struggled, too. But even just sitting together in resolute silence, like two proper muted norsemen, I think I got to know the sort of person that he was.

He wasn't a mean-spirited man, but he wasn't a considerate man. I think he could have done so much more to make others feel better, to make them feel more content and more happy, but I don’t think he ever meant any harm to anybody else. In many ways, I think he wasn’t equipped well-enough to deal with life. Mentally or emotionally. My father lacked that special “something” needed to make it easier to create deeper bonds with others. Possibly not aided by the fact that he had such an icy relationship with his mother, who once openly told him she never really wanted him, at all.

Was my father autistic? I don’t know. I want to say no. Because if my father was autistic, then the form of autism he had, it led to nothing good. I am autistic, and I like to think of myself as receiving just as many positive traits from my peculiar neurology as negative once. I think of autism as complex, and frankly wonderful, in its own way. It’s a smashing rainbow of diversity, with so many ways it can manifest itself, for better or for worse. My father just seemed so, monotonous. Especially late in life, when all he did was wake up and watch sports, then go to bed, rarely eating anything more than some bland porridge and a carrot. But I guess that sticking to one's routines is considered a hallmark of autism.

I don’t want that existence to be the one I have to look forward to. My father never really seemed to express any real enthusiasm for life in the end. I’ve heard that the seventies is when people are supposed to be at their happiest, but my dad died at the age of seventy-seven, and he seemed more depressed than ever. It's sad to think that your close family member died dissatisfied with life. A lot of it had to do with his busted knee. He could not walk, the way he used to. He used to go on these long walks, and he used to have friendly, if mostly shallow conversations with a wide range of people. Again, my father struggled with forming profound bonds with other people, but he wasn't a surly or misanthropic individual. He seem to have been positively well-liked by most of the people who casually knew him.

I grew up in one of those places that’s something of a bland mix between a suburb and a small town. It's the best of two worlds, and the worst of two worlds. I can't say I love the place I grew up, but I also can't say that I hate the place I grew up. Some of the folks that my father ended up casually connecting with were people that he had been roughly familiar with for a long time. They shared the same stomping grounds, they walked the same earth, they drank the same water. We’re never going to feel as interconnected as we once upon a time felt when our little village was all that we truly knew of the world. But, there is something to be said about being able to pass by some house you haven’t seen in a while and knowing who exactly lives there and how you are, even in the most esoteric and faint way, known to them.

“Oh, don’t you know that kid you once went to school with, that you once played football with for a summer back in the nineties? Well, it turns out I had a really good chat with that person’s grandparents.”

Yeah, dad, I am vaguely familiar with that kid, sure. He had really blond, almost white hair, and it was very curly. I remember playing football with him, though, I never liked him and I certainly never liked playing football. It is easy to regard your surroundings growing up as something of a prison, or the trial process you're over-eager to get done with. Most of the kids I remember growing up alongside I would never as an adult choose to spend any time with. They were dreadfully dull people. I am not sure any of them would appreciate me starting this blog post by referencing Camus.

My parents decided to move here. I did not make the decision to be born here. Now, I am not all that struck by wanderlust. I wish not to move to some other country or some other region far away from home. I'd be quite content one day owning a quaint little house, with a sizeable area for me to convert into an artistic workshop, somewhere north of Stockholm, in Roslagen, the part of the country that I am from. But ideally, it shouldn't be exactly where I am from. If I could move some slight difference away, say some neighbouring municipality, then I'd be most pleased. Like I think most people, I want more of the same, just also vaguely not quite the same.

It always felt like my father was fixed in place. Permanent. Actually, it felt as if my father was some damn heavy rock, some soul that would always stay where he was, in just that position, forever and forever. Stubborn. Inflexible. Unyielding. Like those glacial erratics, big giant boulders found around the northern hemisphere. Part of me is as shocked by the disappearance of my father as I would be if some ancient mountain where to simply vanish. Tom? Dead? How did the gods allow that to happen? Fathers can die, just like that?

But in his youth, he wasn't so sedentary. My father used to entertain us with stories about his wayfaring youth. His adventures in France. The joys he felt going skiing. All the wine and cognac he drank. That time he got accidentally engaged with some farmer’s daughter. In all his tales, he seemed like such a different person, an individual so lush with life and with enthusiasm. I was enraptured hearing these tales from my dad, a person superficially so passionless. But it also hurt. To learn that a person so close to you used to have a daring and exciting life, then things changed just as you came into the picture.

I guess that this post is coming too late. I could have written this when he was still alive, I could have done something to express these thoughts to him when he was still capable of responding to my woes. But, at the same time, I don’t think I’d have the same perspective. The memories I have of my father are conflicted. Confusing, actually. But only now am I beginning to see some greater narrative emerging. We all need that. Some story to tell ourselves. It is important not to fall into the predictable traps, not to make reality seem more black and white than it really is, but... Just knowing where we belong, in the great chain that is our lineage, is instrumental to finding peace in grief.

And, even if he was still with us, I never would have learned if he too had autism. That man would ever have subjected himself to the kind of neuropsychiatric evaluation that I went through. It is really a pointless question to ask. The state of my father’s neurology was something that I was never going to learn about, and I am peace with that. Some people are more susceptible to these discussions than others. I am happy to occasionally hint to my mother that she may be “somewhere on the spectrum,” but I would never have felt at ease telling my dad he might have some significant neurological condition.

He could have been autistic, he could not have been autistic, I might as well pick up a flower and begin to pluck out the petals, that might just be the most reliable way for me to find out. He wasn't the sort of person inclined towards deep self-reflection. And it is true that my mother's family also exhibits traits of autism spectrum disorder. Especially my grandfather Erik, the other daddy I was named after.

I’ve written all of this late at night, after I've had some wine and some vodka. In so many ways, I am a chaotic person. I’ve always struggled to get to bed early, I’m always at my most productive those hours of the day I am supposed to be doing something else. I’ve always related to odd and weird people, those who seem to view the world from an outsider’s perspective. I am not good at behaving “normal.” One thing I could never comprehend was my father’s capacity to go to bed, every night, at a reasonable hour, and to awake early and before noon. I longed to see some dysfunction in my father, to see some evidence that I was truly his son, but all that he hid behind several walls of emotional sterility.

My father had a secular burial. It was quite a lovely little ceremony. We had a woman doing live performances of some of my father’s favourite bluesy songs from the 1970's. His family was there, some of his neighbours, also me and my sister, our mother and her sister (our aunt.) And I cried. A lot. My father’s older younger brother also cried a lot. He looked real tormented, actually. I felt acutely sorry for him. I have two uncles on my father's side, but one uncle is much younger than the other. My father and his brother closest in age grew up almost being twins, only one year separating them, they were really close. I have an older sister, no brother, so I can only imagine what it is like to have a fraternal relationship like that. I had my father for thirty-two years, he had him for seventy-six.

I am going to art school now. I am hoping that I will be able to keep going down this track, making "fine art," perhaps one day even receiving some recognition for my work. Working with these things physical, sculpting and painting, it gratifies me more than manipulating anything digital. No, I am not bitter. I am happy with where I am. But I am also paying for my current education with funds my father provided me with. Actually, the last conversation I had with him I called him to remind him to please send me some money so that I could pay the invoice I had just received. I could have regrets about that, wishing that our talk had been about something more profound and less tawdry, but I don't have any regrets. That's just life. And money is an integral part of it.

I am filled with heartache, and I am filled with confusion. I am not feeling the summertime bliss this year. It’s been months, yes, but grief is four-dimensional. Grief doesn't care about linear time, it comes and goes seemingly at random. At some times you may feel at peace, then suddenly, you remember that your dad is gone and a profound sadness overtakes you. The complexity of your relationship with him doesn’t really matter when you’re at that point just repeating in your head “my daddy is dead, my daddy is dead, my daddy is dead.”

Grief is primal, and sorrow is animal. It’d be much easier to deal with it all if we were just a bunch of logical aliens, some cold androids, but we’re messy human beings, no matter our diagnoses. It really doesn’t matter, in the end, if my father was autistic or not, all that matters is that he’s now no longer with us, so all we’ve got left is our memories of him. And one day I will figure out exactly what kind of narrative I wish to tell about his life, just how I wish to capture all the confusion I feel when I think about him. Maybe it wouldn't be all wrong if I chose to focus on the good things.

Rest in peace, Tom, my dad, and I hope that you may have thought of me, or my sister, the very last time you closed your eyes.

#autism spectrum disorder #autism #mental health #neurodivergent #neurodiversity #grief

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rjzimmerman · 3 months

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Excerpt from this story from the New York Times:

A rising tide and a bigger pie: Economic growth has long been considered such an obvious boon that it’s pursued by governments across the world as a matter of course. But in 2016, when a London professor warned an audience in Newcastle that Brexit would lead to a precipitous drop in Britain’s gross domestic product, that well-worn measure of economic activity, one woman’s heckling caught him by surprise. “That’s your bloody G.D.P.,” she shouted, “not ours!”

The eruption tapped into a suspicion supported by reality: Gains in economic growth have too often buoyed the fortunes of the richest instead of lifting all boats. Prosperity even in the most prosperous countries hasn’t been shared. But all the attention to inequality is just a crack in the edifice of economic orthodoxy. Now a much more radical proposition has emerged, looming like a wrecking ball: Is economic growth desirable at all?

Less than two decades ago, an economist like Herman Daly, who argued for a “steady-state economy,” was such an outlier that his fellow economist Benjamin Friedman could declare that “practically nobody opposes economic growth per se.” Yet today there is a burgeoning “post-growth” and “degrowth” movement doing exactly that — in journals, on podcasts, at conferences. Consider some of the books published in the last several years: Tim Jackson’s “Post-Growth: Life After Capitalism,” Kate Soper’s “Post-Growth Living,” Giorgos Kallis’s “In Defense of Degrowth,” Vincent Liegey and Anitra Nelson’s “Exploring Degrowth,” Jason Hickel’s “Less Is More: How Degrowth Will Save the World.” The proliferation of the term is as good an indicator as any: The literature of degrowth is growing.

In 1972, the French theorist André Gorz coined the word décroissance to ask whether “no-growth — or even degrowth” in material production was necessary for “the earth’s balance,” even if it ran counter to “the survival of the capitalist system.” Gorz was writing the same year that “The Limits to Growth” was published, a report by a group of scientists warning that surges in population and economic activity would eventually outstrip the carrying capacity of the planet. “The Limits to Growth” was initially met with skepticism and even ridicule. Critics pointed to humanity’s undeniably impressive record of technological innovation. As one representative economist put it, “Our predictions are firmly based on a study of the way these problems have been overcome in the past.”

And so degrowth remained on the fringes of the fringe for decades, until increasing awareness about global warming percolated into public debates in the early aughts. The realization that we hadn’t innovated our way out of our ecological predicament, along with inequalities laid bare by the 2008 financial crisis, fueled a more widespread distrust of the conventional capitalist wisdom. Maybe relentless economic growth was more poison than panacea.

#economic growth #degrowth #climate change

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wildstar25 · 1 year

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"The future of two worlds are at stake and she's just been made aware that by saving them Arsay herself could turn into a monster. They both needed to rest while they could, yet Arsay wants to stop everything and talk about her feelings? Romantic feelings? Of course she's nervous about it. At best she'll come off as a self-involved fool, at worst she does irreparable damage to their friendship."

I thought too much about how Arsay confessed to Y'shtola and ended up writing it and made some gpose companion pieces...

Arsay asks Y'shtola to accompany her on her way back to The Pendants so that they may find her some lodging since she will now be staying in the Crystarium for the near future. As they walk from the rotunda through Musica Universalis a pit grows in Arsay's gut. It was just before they left the Greatwoods that Arsay properly recognized the feelings she had for her close friend and fellow scion. Since then she hasn't been able to act normally around Y'shtola at all. Not the best thing considering everyone needs her to be on her best for the time being. After a long internal debate, and some unlikely advice from an unexpected source, Arsay has come to a decision on how best to proceed. She has resolved to confess to Y'shtola at the next opportunity, lest something else happen to either one of them on their next excursion. As they reach the steps of The Pendant's lobby Arsay grabs Y'shtola's hand and brings her out of sight of any passerby, safely behind the trunk of a tree. Y'shtola, taken off guard and rightfully confused, asks what's going on. Arsay opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

Arsay is usually so confident about everything she does. Even when she's not confident, she's at least learned to pretend well enough to fool others. At this moment, however, she can’t even do that. The future of two worlds are at stake and she's just been made aware that by saving them Arsay herself could turn into a monster not unlike the lightwardens she has been tasked to slay. The whole lot of them are being stalked by not only an insanely skilled fighter who will stop at nothing to end their quest; but also an Ascian who has been the cause of so much destruction. The former causing Y'shtola to almost lose her left to the lifestream for a second time where it not for the appearance of the latter... They both needed to rest while they could and get on with their work, yet Arsay wants to stop everything and talk about her feelings? Romantic feelings? Of course she's nervous about it. At best she'll come off as a self-involved fool, at worst she does irreparable damage to their friendship. Arsay takes a shaky breath in an attempt to ward off her nerves.

"Y'shtola, I... You see uh- The thing is... I um", she stammers. Y'shtola's increasingly annoyed stare casts daggers into Arsay. Arsay belatedly thinks It's a good thing her friend only sees in aether, otherwise she would see how flushed Arsay was.

"You what?", the shortness of her tone was chilling.

"I....", the fur on Arsay's tail bristles out. Why was this so difficult? Why couldn't she just nod silently or make a determined hand gesture and have her thoughts come across like usual? Y'shtola crosses her arms, her patience wearing thin. Leviathan's scaly arse, spit it out already!! "I really like your new dress! It... suits you.", Arsay reflexively smiles, despite feeling so annoyed at herself.

Y'shtola lets out a slight huff. "Your compliment is noted; however, I'd quite like to get my matters in order. So if that's all-" She begins to turn back, a frown on her face. Was she disappointed? Regardless, Arsay can't let her leave.

"No, wait! There's something else!" She blurts out.

"...Alright, go on then."

"I…” she starts.

“You…” she attempts again.

“You should really make sure to ask for The Pendant’s house blend of tea." Arsay finishes limply.

Y’shtola pinches the bridge of her nose visibly frustrated.

Arsay steadies her tone and elaborates uselessly. "It's not exactly like what Tataru makes, but I think you'd like it all the same..."

Who would have guessed the warrior of darkness's greatest foe was a love confession? Arsay thinks as her ears turn back against her head and she lets out a short, aggravated sigh.

Ashamed, she turns her gaze to the grass at her feet expecting the sound of the seeker's retreating footsteps. Though by some miracle, there are none.

Arsay peaks upwards to see Y'shtola standing there, cross posture and all. She breaks the silence, "Even a fool could tell that wasn't what you meant to say. No more games, Arsay. Either tell me what it is you want, or don't say anything at all."

Arsay stands there, squeezing her fists tightly. There's so much she wants to say, has to say, but no matter how hard she tries the words inevitably evade her. Never has the keeper felt more pathetic. A cacophony of incoherent thoughts and screams echo in her head. Time is ticking down; the annoyed tapping of Y'shtola's finger counting the seconds that pass. A small voice worms its way to the forefront of Arsay's brain. She could let herself fail. Surely the brave warrior of darkness could be afforded the loss with no wounds other than to her pride. That thought alone sends a shiver down her spine through to the tip of her tail. No, you're better than that. Arsay can feel her nails dig deeper into her palms as she witnesses Y'shtola's arms uncurl into a shrug.

"... Right."

With a curt flick of her tail, Y'shtola starts to take a step. Just as her foot leaves the ground, Arsay grasps at her hand to stop her.

If there was one thing to know about the warrior of light, it's that she does not - will not- give up.

It was now or never.

"Arsay, really-"

"What I want is you." The keeper cuts Y'shtola off. There's a determination in her voice that the seeker has only heard in the midst of battle. Y'shtola squints, wholly taken aback.

"Excuse me?" She replies, her tail swishing back and forth behind her.

Arsay shifts her grip to now wrap both her hands around Y'shtola's.

She continues, "I want you, Y'shtola. I want you by my side, always within reach; so that I may wrap my arms around you and never let go. I want to be relieved of constant thoughts of you. For I am always thinking of how wonderful you are, of how much you care for those around you. Of how smart, capable, and strong you are. Of how your smile- your ever so confident smile - is the most beautiful I've ever seen. I want it to be the first and last thing I see every day. When I think of even the slightest possibility of not being able to see it, to see you... such thoughts frighten me beyond belief. I never understood why that was, until I had almost lost you once again. You simply mean so much to me." With every declaration, Arsay brings herself closer to Y'shtola.

"You bring such light into my life, like how the moon illuminates the night sky. You give me a strength greater than any god granted blessing. When you're next to me I know there is nothing I cannot do. You make me feel like I'm walking on air and ice at the same time. Then there's this shock that I get, a tightness in my chest. Followed by a near uncontrollable impulse to get closer and closer to you in any way that I can. That you've allowed me to get as close as I have is something I am so grateful for, but I..." Pausing to gather what courage she has left, Arsay gives Y'shtola's hand a gentle squeeze.

"...Y'shtola, you are my best friend. I'll always think of you as that but recently I - oh pray forgive my selfishness in saying this- I want more. For us to be more. I want so badly to close the distance that's left between us! My only hope being you want more too... that you want me the way I want you.", Arsay stands inches away from Y’shtola, her heart feeling as if it's about to jump out of her throat.

Y'shtola stands there, her mouth slightly agape and utterly silent. A soft chuckle manages to escape her lips before the seeker could cover it with her free hand. As sweet as her laugh may be, it sends Arsay spiraling. That had to have been the worst proposition Y'shtola has heard yet. Gods, what was she thinking? "the moon that illuminates the night sky"? "I want to close the distance between us"? She sounded like a half-bit poet! Arsay meekly withdraws her hands from Y'shtola's.

She considers if she might be able to drown herself in waters of Lakeland, despite her holding the blessing of the Kojin.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a warmth on the scarred side of her face; Y'shtola's hand.

"Oh, Arsay, my beloved friend,..." The sorceress carries such sweetness in her hushed reply. Well if she was going to let her down, at least she would be doing it nicely. Arsay allows herself to take what pleasure she can in Y'shtola's gentle touch, as she steels herself for heartbreak.

The sorceress usually scoffed at such haphazard displays of romance, but this was different. She herself was far too stubborn to admit how much she grew to miss Arsay during their three years apart. The number of times Y'shtola sat and stared blankly at a tome while her mind played back that evening in Kugane was something she would take to her grave. She'd linger on the memory of feeling Arsay's tail wrapping around her own, or the warmth she felt as Arsay held her in a goodbye hug before they both went their separate ways. It filled Y'shtola with a yearning like she had never felt before. She knew from that moment there was something between them. Something that was best be left unsaid, lest it interfere with matters at hand.

Pushing down her own feelings of longing was second nature to Y'shtola. Perhaps that is why, when she heard those desires mirrored back to her in such a haphazard manner, she couldn't help but laugh at her own foolishness. Here the seeker thought herself brave, yet once again she had let herself be bested by the warrior of light. However that mattered little to her in comparison to the elation Arsay's confession brought her. There's a slight guilt to it all, that Y'shtola's proclivities obviously caused her dear friend to be under such duress, but if that's what it took for Arsay to speak truthfully she would hold no regret for her actions.

Now all Y'shtola has to consider is how best to reply.

As she runs her thumb along Arsay's scar she can feel the keeper quivering. Y'shtola wishes Arsay's aether was a more recognizable form, that she could see her expression underneath the immense output of light. What could she say to her? Doubtful she will find the words to properly respond, Y’shtola considers a more direct approach. She moves her hand down Arsay's jaw, locating her objective. She much prefers being blunt anyways.

Y'shtola leans upwards towards the keeper so that their lips can meet. She can feel Arsay's initial shock from the contact but it does not take long for her to return the favour, pulling Y'shtola into an embrace as they kiss. Both delighting in the moment for as long as they could.

Y'shtola breaks away with a smile, "You've no clue how long I've waited to hear you say that."

"Y'shtola…", Arsay begins to mutter, completely overcome with emotion. She puts finger to Arsay’s lips with a shush.

“You need not say another word." Y'shtola places her hand over her chest, "I share your feelings, Arsay, and I tire of pretending otherwise." As that sentence leaves her mouth, the heaviness she had held in her heart for so long dissipates. Y'shtola feels practically weightless, even more so as Arsay lifts her off the ground in a tight hug.

"Y'shtola, I love you!!" Arsay exclaims, nearly loud enough to reverberate throughout the Musica Universalis unable to contain her glee. How embarrassing, Y'shtola thinks to herself. She could sense how much she was blushing, how wide she was smiling, and how loud she was chuckling. Only Arsay could make her lose her composure like this, and Y'shtola was so thankful for that. Closing her eyes, she conjures an image of the warrior of light, free of the aether that currently polluted her view. Leaning forward, the seeker rests her head against Arsay's.

"And I, you."

#WOL posting #wolshtola #wol x y'shtola #y'shtola rhul #ffxiv #ffxiv wol #wolship #Arsay Nun #Special thanks to my friend for proof reading this you know who you are <3 #once again pwease by nice to me about my writing i try my very best #shadowbringers #shadowbringer spoilers #arshtola

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sapphire-weapon · 1 year

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I saw how you said that you think the Leon/Ada ship has sank & I don’t know if that is true. I think Capcom will still continue with them to some extent.

The fact that people still talk about Ada and Leon to this day, 8 years after their last appearance in 2013 (not including the remakes), strongly contradicts the opinion: “It’s getting old”. (which is one of the most used arguments i hear against aeon) Their relationship is memorable and is among the most intriguing stories in RE.

I’m pretty sure Capcom is aware of their popularity as a couple and intends to keep it a mystery/ up for interpretation for a long time more. Leon is the poster boy of RE, so to finally conclude the Ada x Leon story would make his character less interesting and they wouldn’t want that.

See the Ada and Leon fan art, memes, and video edits for yourself; they need that kind of publicity for as long as they intend to keep those two relevant in the franchise. And that’ll be a long time because Ada Wong and Leon S. Kennedy are iconic names in the video game world.

RE is doing different things too now with new characters and all, so probably when the new set of characters become the new hot deal. They’ll finally put an end to the “will they will they not”.

Oh god, Aeon fandom is here.

So uh. A few things.

People talk about old shit all the time. Dudebros still have the "Asuka or Rei?" argument. FF7 fandom is somehow still debating CloTi vs Clerith, despite CloTi basically becoming canon with Advent Children in 2005. People still ship Goku and Bulma, for god's sake. I don't understand what "people still talk about it" has to do with... literally anything. At all.

Leon is not the poster boy of RE. Chris is. If you think that Leon is the poster boy of RE, you are wildly out of touch with the wider gaming community.

Springboarding off the above two points, shipping/fanart/fanfic fandom plays a very tiny role in influencing future game development. Capcom isn't listening to shippers. Capcom is listening to YT content creators and streamers and games journalists and maybe they'll read a thread on ResetEra here and there -- because those are the people who sell their products. And those people are predominantly the ones who are sick of the Aeon melodrama and hated what RE6 did to Leon's character.

Ada's name is not iconic in the video game world. At all. AT ALL. Not a single person who doesn't play Resident Evil knows who the fuck Ada Wong is. She's not Sephiroth or Master Chief or Nathan Drake or Lara Croft or Bayonetta. She's not even Jill Valentine. Hell, even Leon's name was only iconic up until about 2010 when Chris took back over and then RE6 shit the bed. When RE4 was a cultural phenomenon, people knew who Leon was. It's been eighteen years. They don't anymore. They know Chris and Jill, if they know anyone from RE at all. And Lady D. Because of course they know Lady D. If you're having trouble discerning who in the video game world is iconic and who's not: ain't nobody on the goddamn planet was clamoring for Ada (or Leon, for that matter) to be in Smash Bros.

Capcom clearly disagrees with your assertion that not having Ada in Leon's story makes him less interesting, considering that the last three original RE storylines that they released with him in it (Vendetta, ID, and DI) didn't feature or mention her at all. If Leon and Ada never met again after RE6, I don't think a single person outside of Aeon and/or wider shipping fandom would even notice.

There's not much time left for Capcom to "keep the mystery going." Leon turned 46 this year. By the time RE9 comes out, he'll be 48. Ada will be 50. How many more titles do you realistically think those two have left in them? RE9 will probably be the finale for most of the legacy cast, if not all of them. And not a single piece of supplementary canon (lookin at you, CGI movies) leading up to RE9 has been setting up Leon and Ada's relationship to be a thing that's going to be addressed at all. The conclusion of Leon's story is going to deal with his relationship with the government -- because that is the thing that's actually fueling his character arc; not Ada.

If Capcom was truly still interested in pursuing a romantic angle between Leon and Ada, then why did the Remakes turn out the way that they did? Why remove the declaration of love? Why have Leon hold Ada at gunpoint and say he never trusted her? Why create such a hostile, antagonistic dynamic between them in RE4make? Why set up Wesker to be at the heart of Ada's character arc this time around instead of Leon?

I just. I appreciate the cordial tone of your ask. I do. I recognize and appreciate the fact that you seemingly did not come here to pick a fight. And I don't want to fight with you guys, either.

But I need you guys to actually get in touch with the reality that is the games industry and understand that, despite women actually being in the majority in terms of the statistical numbers of video game players, video game publishers still largely listen to male voices in the fanbase -- because those are the people who generally tend to make it big as streamers, content creators, and journalists.

I need you guys to play video games other than Resident Evil and gain some perspective on how insignificant your ship actually is. EagleOne fandom is very self-aware about the fact that our ship, despite having a canonical romantic angle in RE4make, is never going to be pursued outside of the one title that it's featured, because it isn't important and it doesn't fucking matter. We are waiting for our Aeon brothers and sisters in Christ to join us in the self-awareness that is the fact that ships are not what sell Resident Evil games. Aeon isn't moving units -- and was, in fact, one of the contributing factors to RE6 being deemed a failure. People don't play RE for the romance. They play RE for spooky atmospheres in which they can make badass characters do sick wrestling moves on giant fucking monsters and blow shit up with rocket launchers, and if anything gets in the way of that (like Aeon kind of did in RE6), the wider fanbase wants it removed.

But what I really need you guys to do is just... let it go and let people have fun on their own time and in their own spaces. Aren't you tired? All you do is invade other people's Twitter accounts or TikToks or Reddit posts or Tumblr ask boxes (hi) and try to push some Aeon agenda that no one outside of Aeon fandom cares about. You look like out of touch boomers just clinging to the good old days. You do.

And this is coming from the queen out of touch boomers. I am basically the embodiment of the "how do you do, fellow kids?" meme, and even I'm like "you guys need to live in the now."

Like, be honest, man. Did you really think that coming into my ask box -- me, of all people in this damn fandom -- and simply stating "um actually Aeon is super important" was going to make me go "you know what, anon, you're right, and I'm stupid for not seeing it sooner"?

Come on.

I just want you guys to be better than this. I'm tired. I'm exhausted. I don't wanna fight about this anymore or ever again. I'm here to analyze the story as it's written while taking into account wider game industry trends and practices and also provide shipping content as it pops up within the text that I'm analyzing, and that is it.

If you wanna talk about actual scripting and cinematography and the intended themes and messages of the Remakes and shit like that, I'm more than happy to have that back-and-forth with you. In fact, I would love that. I become a better analyst and critic by having those discussions with people who disagree with me.

But this? This ask?

I can't do a goddamn thing with this.

#and now im going to bed #it is so far beyond my bedtime holy shit

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