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n7punk · 8 months ago

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“Make Me a Monster” Fic Notes

MMaM was pretty short and this will be too but this fic has some Backstory and I wanna talk about it lmao.

Playlist:

Warriors (AJ Michalka version)

heavy. — Au/Ra

The Creeps — Garbage

LIFE AFTER SALEM — Lil Nas X

The Heartless (original rock version) — PVRIS (kind of hard to get. Was only available on their PARIS EP which isn’t available for streaming last I checked)

Waking Up (Acoustic) — PVRIS (from the acoustic version of the PARIS EP, which is available on youtube)

chaotic — Tate McRae

Hate myself — Tate McRae

R.E.M. — Mothica

Shatter — Against The Current

Frankenstein — Rina Sawayama

My Limb — Hayley Williams

Epilogue Life:

It takes awhile and I could never write this fic in a timespan where it’s complete, but Adora does come to accept her new prosthetics. After the revelations about She-ra and the Heart, she comes to realize this version of them is the most ideal she could get purely because they don’t need maintenance, removal, cleaning etc and she can care for them the exact way she can the rest of her body, which makes them feel a lot more like her body. Her sense of touch isn’t 100%, still losing some texture differentiation and the ability to really feel light touches (she wouldn’t feel a bug walking on her arm for example), but as shown in the epilogue she learns to adapt, and eventually she stops covering up so much either. When she starts to wear her jacket less is when Catra knows she has made real progress. Her prosthetics are magic and never need intervention, which helps.

On Catra’s part, her guilt also takes a lot to process, as does her trauma from her time chipped, which only feeds into her guilt because she feels like she inflicted that same dehumanization on Adora. She comes to focus her energy on “fixing” things instead though, which does lead to some unhealthy burnout, but the worry her friends show for her then does a lot to help her internalize that no, they really don’t hate her.

It’s one of those cases where they take longer to get to a healthy place than in canon, but they do eventually reach it. They get through the worst of it early on, but those effects echo for a long time.

Chapter 1:

⦁ I was pretty worried going into this how people would feel about this, mostly because it’s an incredibly complex situation. Prosthetics are often helpful, but they tend to not be as effective as people hope and even when they are, that still doesn’t mean people don’t look at them and see what they lost sometimes. This situation in particular, where the prosthetics were largely unnecessary and completely forced on her, was painful. Adora is struggling not just with that, but with the very familiar process of trying to get back where she was before an injury/disability, but sometimes that’s just not possible. She’s seeking every piece of functionality and feeling she gets with her prosthetics, but that doesn’t mean she is less for having lost something either. I was worried about people thinking that attitude she has is ableist, when it’s really just a part of the disabled experience. Some people never have it, but I’m definitely someone who has struggled with trying to get things back while knowing I’ll never get it all. It… really sucks, and even when things seem good, there can be a bittersweetness to them. That’s the kind of attitude I was approaching this fic with. There was also the medical abuse angle with her prosthetics. Despite her impossibly advanced prosthetics, this is a very real thing I actually saw conversations about when TotK came out, which is what gave me of the exact phrase for that trigger because I was having trouble naming/describing it in the content warning before that.

⦁ Hordak was working on prosthetic limbs in the event that his deteriorating state made it impossible for him to keep working, using Adora as his guinea pig to test their effectiveness. Shadow Weaver kind of thought there was a chance She-ra could regrow them entirely even if that wasn’t what she was banking on. She actually thought the second accident was a mercy, because Hordak already wanted to test out the set on Adora at that point, so making it “necessary” was supposed to be easier on Adora. Her empathy meter is broken.

Chapter 2:

⦁ Catra just can’t “get” why Adora stayed, but it was kind of impossible for her to leave before that. Part of her already knew Shadow Weaver would be back for more, but she couldn’t let herself do it because it was the “wrong” thing to leave Etheria to the princesses. When she realized the Rebellion wasn’t actually monsters, it was all so much worse because she realized everything — her arms, Catra’s punishments, the horrible way they grew up that she didn’t even really have perspective for — had been for nothing. Catra was right all along. They should have runaway. So she did

⦁ I didn’t intend to title the chapters of this fic since it was so short, but then the “You promise?” line came up and I wanted to make that the chapter title for clarification purposes if nothing else, so I added them in.

Chapter 3:

⦁ I know I’m kind of the “let’s talk about traumatized Catra” person but tbh I still don’t think we give enough weight to having your body literally puppeted while you watch and undergo nightmare hallucinations. Like how the fuck was she functioning after that. So yeah on top of Adora being extra traumatized in this (and Catra additionally having extra trauma from watching that happen), I wanted to go a bit into the echoes of having been under Horde Prime’s control for Catra too. (Other members of the Princess Alliance who were chipped definitely deal with nightmares from this too, but I have a feeling the nightmare scenarios were mostly unique to Catra, especially considering the green pool wasn’t used on the others and by the time Prime had the others under his control he was dealing with a lot of chips and conjuring up nightmare scenarios for them all doesn’t make sense.)

⦁ In this AU there was a lot more immediately obvious awfulness from Shadow Weaver, so even after the portal Glimmer did keep her confined to her room, not that it helped Adora’s mental state much. She was a lot more hated and shunned in Bright Moon and when they were on the run. Catra and Adora still cried watching her die, but after the fact their general attitude is a mixture of “good riddance” and “how could she do all that to us and then just die without ever acknowledging it?” They take her sacrifice as the closest thing they’ll ever guilt to an admission of feeling guilt.

⦁ The thing about Adora never being able to tell if her sensation is back to “normal” is a very real thing when it comes to disability. I remember at one point telling a friend that I couldn’t tell if I wasn’t in pain or was just shouldering it because I didn’t remember what not being in pain felt like anymore.

⦁ If you know my poll, this was “in the engine room.”

Chapter 4:

⦁ In this AU, they have no idea the First Ones Virus could infect She-ra with just the sword since it seemed “obvious” it spread from the robots, to the sword, to her prosthetics, which somehow caused everything to go haywire. Because she was working with her original set that was less advanced, the virus was legitimately latched onto She-ra itself, which also explains why it went away with she reverted the transformation. They just thought changing “bodies” let her purge the virus when she transformed back. The corruption from the First Ones… worm, thing, corrupted Adora’s limbs similarly to how the virus took over her, only with green instead of red, completely changing the colors of her arms and legs and then slowly creeping up her veins. It was gnarly.

⦁ Entrapta just has a better connection with Catra and was looking to her for an answer, but a small incline of the head was their signal back in the Horde that she should really just agree with whoever she’s talking with. She almost never paused to notice it, but Catra was trying her best (and failing) to keep her out of trouble.

Original Outline:

Originally this AU was supposed to be longer, starting when Adora first lost her limbs, then skimming through scenes throughout the series, until finally landing on Darla. That was just an extra 2-3 chapters probably, but 1) god that’s too much angst. It kept me from writing it for like 9 months because I didn’t want to do it, 2) the balance just wasn’t there? Everything got “minute-to-minute” once they were on Darla, with entire chapters dedicated to it, where as the previous chapters were scattered moments taking place over literal years. This did mean I lost some ideas that were supposed to take place in the war and such (the princess prom scene, for example), but it’s still better for it.

I started to write that longer version of it back in 2022(!) but only worked on it for two days to about 2k before I was like this is not vibing and dropped it. When I picked it back up with the shorter timeline in mind, I wrote 70% of this fic in one sitting back in September, but then I got kind of stuck on their reconciling conversation and I think it was just a little too much angst for me then so I didn’t come back to it the next day. I’ve opened it occasionally since then to glance over but it just wasn’t clicking until this week. I edited what I had and wrote the rest of the fic in two days once I was there, though. I am proud of this fic but it’s definitely a very emotional one so it kind of has to happen in bursts like that. I’m glad to have finally gotten it out now, as rocky as getting from idea to completion was. I had the idea November 14th 2022, wrote most of it September 4th 2023, and finally finished it March 9th 2024.

Upcoming:

Start Your Engine ;)

#MMaM #fic notes #ficmeta

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stellari-s · 10 months ago

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if you wanna write about one of the idv girls.......... alice deross and a reader who's also a journalist, perhaps working together?

you can wait till she releases ofc!!

📰

hi, sorry for it being so late, but sure yeah i'm open to writing idv girls! to be fully honest, i've never written for alice though (except for one occasion before her release...) but i can try for sure!

request; yes, by anon! requests are closed til i get my current requests taken care of but may open some comms?

wc; 730.

tags; default! journalist (alice deross), jounalist! gn! reader, work relationship, reader admires alice, canon-divergent, first person pov.

summary; an avid reader of alice's columns, you've wanted to be a journalist. and now that you are, for your first assignment, you are to work with alice deross...

rumors spread like wildfire, and this agency was no exception.

i had gotten my dream job as a journalist - since i was still in school, i had always admired a certain writer named alice deross, who wrote articles with a striking amount of detail, as if she herself had experienced what she was writing firsthand (even if such wasn’t the case), while still keeping a certain veil of mystery. that’s why i worked hard to get recruited into the same agency as ms. deross, networking and honing my writing.

and, to say the least, my first day was, indeed, filled with rumors.

rumors about what? why, of course, the famed oletus manor. it’s become a famous place for novelists to center horror stories around, seeing as many strange events are said to have happened there, yet they all seem so wild it’s hard to believe. “participate in a game for a chance to have your wish, no matter its grandness, granted.” who would believe such a thing? was my first thought.

yet, alice deross allegedly was passionate about this very case - everyone else was either scared to enter the unknown or uncertain whether it even existed or if it was a reality warped to exaggeration by the people who spread the rumors.

ms. deross, however, insisted on taking this case.

only she had the resolve to delve into the unknown and only she held such strong beliefs with eyes that could light a fire.

“surely there is something from this manor i can glean. i had prior connections to the manor, so it’s hard to believe such liveliness could be overtaken by these dangerous games,” she had declared to the head editor.

it appeared she had other motivations than producing a good story.

supposedly, it took quite a bit of convincing, but it was only after ms. deross went out of her way to obtain a manor invitation, the reddish wax seal bearing an abstract floral imprint, that the head editor (reluctantly, and much to his chagrin) accepted; clearly, ms. deross was adamant about this case, so as long as she could make a good story, who was he to say “no”?

...must have been what he thought.

i was curious about her said “other motivations” that i was nothing less than certain she held close to her heart, so with the head editor’s approval, i ventured to oletus manor, shrouded in mystery, with ms. deross. my first impression of her was what her writing style conveyed: polite, clear-spoken yet slightly distant. as they say, “style is the man himself,” i suppose.

in fact, i distinctly remember her first question: “i have been curious why you insist on going with me to oletus manor,” she said while i drove through the forested area, “it will likely be a dangerous gig.”

“yes,” i replied back (perhaps my voice betrayed me, for ms. deross shot me a look with a gleam of worry), “i’m fully aware.”

her look of worry diffused then into a wry smile.

“i don’t know whether you are courageous or reckless.”

“maybe both.”

“...regardless, i should warn you: curiosity can kill the cat. i do respect it though, seeing as you even volunteered to come with me.”

those were her last words as i remember parking up at the manor. it was then ms. deross seemed to change her demeanor considerably to the point of tangibility - i could practically taste it.

what had transpired at the manor was already reflected in her eyes before we had even entered its premises.

its happenings are a story for another day. a whole article wouldn’t be enough.

ms. deross handed me an envelope. “remember, (y/n), it is never too late to withdraw. i have a personal matter to settle here, but your life is what should be most important to you.”

she handed me a camera, the black lens reflecting my own face, revealing nothing but the truth at that moment laid bare. when i looked up at ms. deross, meeting her eyes, i couldn’t help but notice a more soft look than usual.

perhaps she had resigned to the fact that, since we both made it this far, i would not turn back now.

“after all, dead men tell no tales.”

(that said, i am alive even now, so for the future, i still have a tale to tell.)

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m1ckeyb3rry · 10 months ago

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Pomegranate Ink: XXXI

Series Synopsis: Unable to heal but willing to fight, with a fiancé in Kyoto and a last name that looms over everything you do, you accept an offer to study at Tokyo Jujutsu Tech. What you did not know was that your salvation and your ruination alike would soon join you at the school, neatly wrapped in the form of a boy followed by death.

Chapter Synopsis: Some moments that take place during the month you have between Gojo’s unsealing and his inevitable confrontation with Sukuna.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Yuta Okkotsu × Female Reader

Chapter Word Count: 5.8k

Content Warnings: angst, misogyny, naoya zenin, forbidden relationships, canon-typical violence, character death, original characters included

A/N: i want you all to know that even though i am caught up with the manga, this fic and the idea for its ending predate whatever is happening rn, so i will be choosing to ignore gege on this one and shall continue with my original ideas — even if that may mean characters do/don’t die that have the opposite happen to them in canon. hope that doesn’t distress anyone too badly hahaha

The month that passed between Gojo’s unsealing and Christmas Eve, the day when he would face off against Sukuna, was spent in a way reminiscent of your days at the school. Your mother had never been busier, taking a few of your cousins from the L/N clan to help her cook for everyone, as everyone had voracious appetites after training all day.

Gojo had been accepting of your choice to be a healer, so he allowed you to make rounds, checking up on everyone, advising them when you could and healing them when it was required. Everyone else, though, was subject to Maki and Hakari’s grueling personalized routines, pushing their bodies and limits to the absolute max and then some. The people that you all were today had no hope of surviving against Sukuna, let alone fighting him, and so you all had to become sorcerers who were capable of that feat.

“So,” you said, resting your hand on Itadori’s arm, healing the bruises that Choso had inadvertently caused him, even though you knew Itadori probably hadn’t even noticed any of them forming. “You’re an honorary Kamo now or something?”

“It’s really complicated. Actually, I don’t even understand it myself, but I guess in a way, I am,” he said.

“You could’ve been my cousin-in-law,” you said. “Though I’m sorry to say that I’m not too broken up about the fact that it won’t happen in that way.”

“It’s okay, I don’t take any offense,” Itadori said. “It makes sense and all. For us to have had that relation, you would’ve had to be in a marriage that nobody wanted, so of course you’re happy it’s not like that.”

“Exactly,” you said. “Thanks for being so sensitive to the situation.”

“Sure,” he said. “Anytime.”

Before, he might’ve flashed you a smile to accompany that kind of statement, but now, he only gave you a tired nod, rolling his shoulders and then returning his attention to Choso, who had been waiting for you to finish with the sort of patience that only an elder sibling could ever possess.

“You’re good to go,” you said. “Don’t overexert yourself, though. That won’t help anyone, and it certainly isn’t the way to success.”

“This isn’t overexertion,” Itadori said. “This is just me finally actually refining my skills instead of relying on my natural, raw abilities.”

“I see,” you said. “Well, even still, please take care.”

He did not make any such promises, and you could only hope he would at least try to be wary of himself and what he was truly capable of. Just as you would never be an all out brawler, Itadori had his weaknesses as well as his strengths, and these could not just be ignored or pushed through. You thought about telling him this, as you had once told Megumi, but for some reason, you didn’t think Itadori would appreciate it in the same way. So instead, you were silent, deciding there was no point in hovering over him while he was trying to practice.

Kurusu was sitting in a window seat, resting her forehead against the glass when you found her. She had also been exempted from training — even though her cursed technique was the most effective against Sukuna, it would be too dangerous for her to go against him with only one arm, so she was supposed to be more of a reserve than anything, only entering battle if things went completely sideways.

When she noticed you approaching, she shot to her feet, scrambling to bow or show some other sign of respect. You stopped her as best as you could, shaking your head at her.

“There’s no need for any of that. I’m only one year older than you, so please don’t treat me like I’m someone Gojo’s age or something,” you said, motioning for her to sit back down and then settling beside her yourself. For a moment, neither of you spoke, still in that awkward phase of friendship where it was difficult to find the right words to vocalize what you meant.

“Alright, L/N,” she said softly.

“Y/N,” you said. “That’s fine. It’s not like the L/Ns have ever done me much good, so on the whole, I’d prefer to not be associated with them. Please call me by my given name, instead.”

“Y/N,” she said. “You can call me Hana, then. I am your junior, after all, so it wouldn’t be right for me to refer to you informally and not extend the same courtesy to you.”

“Very well,” you said. “Hana. I have a question for you.”

“What is it?” she said.

“If we can’t save Megumi, what will you do?” you said. “It’s not to say that that’s the certain outcome. But there is a chance that in killing Sukuna, we must destroy his vessel, too. You’re here because you love him, but if he’s gone, then what?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Everything I’ve done so far is to become a person worthy of standing in front of him without shame. This isn’t something I tell people, but the truth is that when I was young, he saved me. I was being held hostage by a curse, and he sent one of his Divine Dogs after it so that I could be freed. I know — I know he didn’t do it because it was me, but I’ve always felt grateful for that. It’s not even that I love him. I just want to say thank you.”

Of course. It was impossible to love someone you didn’t know, but maybe somewhere along the line, Hana’s gratitude had twisted into an affection for the boy she had never really met. He had saved her, if she was telling the truth, and so it was a reasonable outcome. You mulled over the turn of events.

“He doesn’t save people because he wants them to be thankful. Even if you said something like that, he wouldn’t appreciate it,” you said. “Not based on what I know of him. Just by saving you, he was satisfied. You should let go of that dream.”

“Then what should I replace it with?” she said. “I’ve clung to that for so long that it’s become a part of who I am. What should I dream of if I let go of that?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “Just don’t forget to dream of something.”

There wasn’t much else for you to say to her after that, so you left. It was in times like this especially that you wished Tullia were there — she would be able to cheer Hana up, tell her how to keep living even when she lost someone she loved. You were a bad example of it. You didn’t know how to do it yourself, so how could you command someone else to? It was hypocritical of you, but you had realized some time ago that you wanted Hana to end up in a better way than you had. If you could not have the internal strength to stand by yourself, then you wanted her to do it in your stead. At least that way, even if the rest of you fell, one person would remain on their feet.

As of late, Toge had been carrying Panda from place to place instead of walking next to him as he once had. You weren’t sure if it was because it would be faster for the little bear to be toted around like that or if there was some other reason, but it always made an unreasonable lump grow in your throat when they passed, a bear-printed ribbon tied around Panda’s neck, his body tucked under Toge’s single remaining arm as they went to wherever they were going. Neither of them would be fighting, either — Toge’s technique would simply never let him face off against someone like Sukuna, and now that Panda was at his current size and didn’t have his sibling cores, he probably couldn’t even fight a flyhead, let alone the King of Curses himself.

You were partially glad that Kashimo had done what he had to Panda, rendering him unable to fight — because otherwise, he would’ve. If he still had his siblings, if he was still at his full size, he would’ve charged into the fray against Sukuna, even though he had no chance at winning, even though it would’ve led to his death. So although you mourned what had happened to him, you were also happy, as it meant he did not ever have to come in harm’s way again.

“Hey, Y/N,” Panda said when Toge rounded the corner and almost ran into you. Shadows the same color as his irises hollowed out the skin under his eyes, and you focused on those the most, even as he handed Panda to you.

“Hey, you two,” you said, instinctively beginning to pet Panda, who was soft as ever. “Have you not been sleeping well, Toge?”

“Mustard leaf,” he said. You frowned.

“You don’t look okay. Stop going on YouTube so late; it’s bad for your eyes and your brain. Just because you’re not fighting doesn’t mean you should let yourself rot away like this. When was the last time you had something proper to eat? Not counting chips and shit,” you said.

“Two days ago,” Panda supplied helpfully, since Toge refused to say anything. “He had a sandwich.”

“Two days!” you said incredulously. “That’s that, then. Come on.”

“Bonito flakes,” Toge said. You used your free hand to grab his wrist and dragged him after you against his will, ignoring his protests as you marched towards the kitchen and set him down at the table, placing Panda beside him.

“No, you don’t get to say no to this. Even if I have to feed you with my bare hands, you’ll eat,” you said, turning on the stove and beginning to make the same soup you had made for Maki the other day. It was easy to digest and wouldn’t upset his sensitive stomach, and you remembered he had liked it when you made it during your first year at the school, so it was a safe choice. “Why haven’t you been eating actual meals?”

“Salmon,” he muttered rebelliously. You turned to Panda and raised an expectant brow. Panda, who was a loyal friend second and a concerned one first, did not take much convincing to spill everything to you.

“It’s not just everyone who’s died,” Panda said, luckily not naming who you were both thinking of. “It’s that he can’t do anything about it. Everyone else has a role to play, but he’s stuck with nothing. That’s enough to depress anyone.”

“I’m not fighting, and neither is Hana,” you said. “You’re not the only one.”

“Bonito flakes!” he snapped. You took advantage of his open mouth to shove the spoon in, only removing it once he swallowed and then sliding the bowl over to him. Even though he seemed reluctant, he did not argue, dutifully eating while you watched.

“You can heal,” Panda explained. “You’re arguably more important than the others because of that. And Kurusu still has her technique; we’re conserving her for the final moments, if necessary, so she’s vital in that sense. On the other hand, there’s nothing that Toge and I can really even do. We can’t help in any way that matters. How would you feel if a person killed someone you love and there was nothing you could do but watch the rest of your friends prepare to die against them, too?”

“Like lambs to the slaughter, right?” you said. “It does give that sense. None of us can really win, besides Gojo of course, but it’s not in our nature to accept defeat. We’ll keep going until we die or attain victory somehow.”

“Not us, though,” Panda said. “We’ve been forced to give up. We don’t get that choice.”

“I know,” you said. “It relieves me some, to be honest. I know why you’re upset, but as for me, it makes me feel better to know you two will be alright.”

“Neither of us are upset about living,” Panda said. “It’s the fear that we’ll be the only ones left like that which is driving him to such a state.”

Finished with his soup, Toge pulled out a notepad and began to write, his letters shaky and nearly illegible, the ink bleeding through the thin page and smudging as he went.

I am not like you.

“What does that mean?” you said.

I am not strong.

“I’m not strong, either. I gave up fighting. I was just pretending to be like that,” you said. “Just a kid who wanted to be more than she really was. You don’t see me training, do you? It’s because I can’t do anything anymore. I can only hope that Composition is enough to save someone someday.”

You are strong.

“He’s right,” Panda said. “I don’t know why you think that you’re weak. You never have been. Do you think you would’ve been recommended for the designation of Grade 1 sorcerer otherwise?”

“I’m not weak,” you agreed. “But I’m not strong in the way that the others are. The truly powerful, like Yuta, Maki, Itadori, Hakari, and Gojo…they’re on a different level entirely. I can’t compete with them. I’m nothing like that.”

It’s different. At least you made the choice to do that. My technique is what makes me weak.

That was true. Although your technique wasn’t strong by itself, it didn’t harm you for using it, either. Toge’s Cursed Speech was a punitive one, hurting him if he tried to utilize it against someone stronger than him. It actively undermined him, whereas the worst that could come from a misuse of Dissection — besides losing Composition — was a failed or missed attack.

I don’t want to be the only one left.

“Do you really have such little faith in Yuta and Maki?” you said, untying Panda’s ribbon and then redoing it so that it was in a voluminous bow around his neck instead of the simple knot that Toge must’ve somehow done.

Sukuna is a completely different sort of opponent. It’s not that I don’t trust the others; I’m just not certain what he’s capable of. He’s already done so much. He’s already killed so many.

“If things go to plan, then Gojo will take care of things, so the others won’t even get involved,” you said. “There’s no point in destroying yourself like this in the meanwhile, though. You’ve always been one of the most athletic of us — if you’re really so down in the dumps, why don’t you try helping the others who aren’t Itadori and Maki with physical training? You’re the perfect example of how even without Heavenly Restriction or absurd abilities, sorcerers can still hold their own. You understand normal bodies better than Maki would, too, so you’d know where the line between overkill and reasonable is more than she would.”

That’s true.

“Even if you don’t, there’s no sense in what you’re doing right now. By barely eating or sleeping, you’re not going to bring the others back. By ruining your own body, you’re not helping us all more,” you said.

Maybe not.

“Definitely not,” you said.

“She’s right,” Panda said. “Even if we can’t fight, we should at least help the others prepare.”

Should we talk to Gojo about it?

“I’m sure he won’t say no,” you said. “You’re his students, too. He’d do anything to help any of us, and you two are naturally included in that.”

“Let’s go, then!” Panda said, most likely energized by both the proposition and because he was looking so smart with his freshly styled ribbon.

“Yes, go,” you said, not adding on that he had best capitalize on the momentum while Toge was still willing to. Panda was intelligent enough to pick up on it, though and he blinked meaningfully at you in acknowledgement.

We’ll do that, then. See you later, Y/N. Thanks for everything.

“Anytime,” you said. “Don’t forget that you’re my friend, too, alright?”

As long as you don’t forget that you’re mine.

The sparring arena was almost completely empty, save for two people: Yuta and Maki. Both of them were using wooden swords instead of their typical cursed blades, but that did not take away from the deadliness of the dance-like match. They almost moved faster than the eye could see, Yuta’s delicate body no match for Maki’s sheer strength, Maki’s mere humanity no match for Yuta’s massive reserves of cursed energy. Neither of them showed any signs of wavering or giving an inch, each matching the other’s moves with some counter or another.

It was beautiful to watch. You didn’t know much about sword fighting, had never had much cause to learn, but despite that, you could tell that even in practice, Yuta and Maki were leagues above anyone else. This was nothing short of mastery on display, and they did it so casually, as if it was simple for them, as if the bout was simply all in a day’s work. Then again, you supposed that that was the case; they had obviously paired up to train, using similar weapons and having similar proficiencies, alongside a long history of sparring with one another, so this kind of match really was just a daily occurrence for them.

Finally, at once, they both decided to concede, stepping backwards due to some unspoken and invisible signal. Yuta threw his sword to the ground and wiped the sweat from his forehead, while Maki brushed hers off on her pants and hung it up alongside the other practice weapons.

“That was impressive,” you said. Both of them froze, turning at once to look at you, for they had of course not noticed your entry. Then Yuta grinned and rushed over to tackle you in a hug, Maki close at his heels, so that as soon as he let go of you, you were being pulled into an embrace by her.

“Y/N! Did you really think so?” Yuta said.

“Of course, I was better, right?” Maki said.

“I think you guys are both disgusting and sweaty and should get off of me,” you said, though you didn’t make any attempts to shove them off. They were the two taking things the most seriously, and you rarely if ever saw them nowadays, just because of how focused they were on improvement. Even though you and Maki were sharing the room next to the one that Toge and Yuta were using, both of them were so drained by nightfall that they just went straight to their beds and passed out with barely more than standard greetings.

“What brings you this way?” Maki said. “It’s not that I don’t want you to visit, but even when you were still in active duty, you didn’t usually come to see us spar.”

“No reason. I just realized that if I don’t come see you now, the entire month will pass us by and we won’t have spoken at all,” you said.

“Sorry for not spending more time with you,” Yuta said, kissing your temple in apology.

“I’m not mad! I understand. If I was still fighting, I’d be doing the same,” you said. “But don’t you get the sense that things are going to change soon? I just want to be with you two for as long as I can.”

“It’s just because we have a deadline. We’re so used to dealing with missions as they come that having such a massive advance warning is screwing with everyone. There’s nothing to do but train, to that point that in all honesty, I’d almost prefer if all of this could just be over and done with tomorrow,” Yuta said.

“I’d prefer if all of this wasn’t happening in the first place,” Maki said dryly. “But you’re right. Knowing ahead of time is making the waiting worse than if we were just attacked by surprise and had to react in the moment.”

You leaned against Yuta and reached out to intertwine your fingers with Maki’s. The girl who taught you to fight and the boy who you loved so much you learned to heal. You would be nothing without either of them. Maybe Gojo had been the one to rescue you, but they were the two who had genuinely saved you, who had shown you that you were more than a L/N, that you were Y/N, a sorcerer and a healer and a person that they loved and who loved them in return.

“You two will be careful against Sukuna?” you said.

“Of course we will be,” Maki said. “You think we’ll let an even uglier version of Megumi beat us?”

“He’s your cousin, you know,” Yuta said disapprovingly. You snorted.

“Are you saying that makes her ugly, too?” you said. Maki’s jaw dropped, and she reached over to smack Yuta on the shoulder. He yelped and massaged the sore spot, giving the two of you betrayed looks.

“No! I meant that she should be nice to him because he’s her family member!” he said. You and Maki exchanged guilty glances at the explanation, which did make sense, as Yuta was overall far too mild-mannered and afraid of Maki to ever insult her in that way. When Yuta noticed, he exhaled, cuffing Maki on the ear and poking you in the side. “You two think so poorly of me.”

“Sorry, Yuta,” you said. “I should’ve known better.”

“I’m not sorry!” Maki said, clutching her ear and glaring at Yuta. “What was that for?”

“You smacked me first!” he said.

“You insulted me first!” she said.

“I just said I didn’t!”

Once their argument reached the point of blows — as in, they redrew their wooden swords and went back to sparring — you slipped away from the arena, leaving them to it, finding amusement in the playful disagreement but having no desire to get caught in the crossfire. In the meantime, you sought out the two people you had been needing to talk to the most in recent times.

“You’re really certain that you’re leaving the country before the twenty fourth?” you said. Noritoshi was patiently explaining something to Itadori, so you posed the question to Elakshi, who at the moment was just braiding new pieces of rope while sitting on the sidelines.

“Noritoshi is set on it,” she said. “He wants to take me and his family and get out of here before things get messy.”

“Do you want to?” you said. She shrugged, threading pieces of gold wire into the rope as she worked, the pads of her fingers toughened from the task, her palms callused from many days spent in the same pursuit. While her whistles could control any ropes she cursed, she had apparently discovered while in the Culling Games that she could add wire into the ropes so that they could be used to cut as well as choke and restrain.

“I don’t have any opinions for or against it,” she said, and though she was talking to you and weaving rope at the same time, her eyes remained on Noritoshi as always. “It’s fine. It’s what Noritoshi wants, so I’ll go along with it. He’s always doing things for me, so it’s just about time for me to return the favor. Besides, what kind of a girl would complain about her own life being saved?”

“That makes sense,” you said.

“I’m sorry if you were relying on me for something,” she said. “But his mind can’t be changed.”

“I wouldn’t have tried to. He’s right; running away is the better choice in this scenario. If I wasn’t so involved, I would want to do that, too,” you said.

For you, Noritoshi was like a security blanket. He was a person who had been there for you and protected you all throughout your youth, who had allowed you to become a jujutsu sorcerer, who had always defended your rights and never spoken down to you. There had been a time when he had been your closest ally against the likes of Naoya and the L/Ns, but Maki had slain Naoya and you were the head of the L/Ns and so you did not need Noritoshi to fill that role for you anymore. You did not need to cling to him any longer, but there was still something you needed from him.

“Were we born in normal times, both he and I would most likely be considered as strong and respectable sorcerers,” Elakshi said, setting aside the completed rope, whistling a short song so that it wound itself up into a small coil that she tucked into her bag. “So I don’t feel inadequate or anything. In this era, though, where the legends of the world run rampant, we are insignificant at best and hindrances at worst.”

You snorted. “Tell me about it.”

“You are one such legend, Y/N,” she said. “You’re the girl who brought someone back to life. What kind of everyday sorcerer could compare to that? Anyways, even if you hadn’t done that, you saved me. Maybe to everyone else, that was something inconsequential, but it changed the entire trajectory of my existence. You told me it was okay for me to exist. You introduced me to this world of people that helped me be strong, this world of people that love me for who I am, and so, even if it’s just to me, you will always be a hero.”

As soon as Noritoshi was done with Itadori, he jogged over to where you and Elakshi were sitting. Crouching in front of you two due to the lack of chairs, he smiled when Elakshi bent over to wipe the sand from his face.

“Y/N!” he said, catching Elakshi’s hand when she tried to withdraw it, holding it in his own while talking to you, earning an affectionate yet exasperated scoff from her. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you as well,” you said. “Though that’s not why I’m here. Actually, I have to ask you a favor.”

“A favor?” he said, instantly guarded. “If it’s about me leaving Japan, then don’t bother. I’ve already made my mind up about leaving, so you’ll only be wasting your breath if you try to convince me otherwise.”

“It is about that, but I’m not going to try and convince you to not go,” you said. “I support you fully.”

“Then what?” he said.

“My mother,” you said. “Please take her with you.”

“Did she ask for that?” he said. You shook your head.

“No, I’m making the decision on my own. She has nothing in the way of cursed energy or techniques, and it’s not like she can use Composition. There’s zero justification for her to stay, except that she has nowhere else to go,” you said. “This is the last favor I’ll ever ask of you, so won’t you oblige? If it’s money you need, then I can provide that. Just please take care of her until things have settled down and she can come back.”

“Don’t worry about the money,” he said. “It’s not a problem at all. We were partners once, weren’t we? I’ll take care of her, just as I’m sure you would’ve taken care of mine if I had asked.”

“Thank you,” you said, and then for some reason you suddenly felt so very weepy, leaning over and hugging him tightly before doing the same to Elakshi. “Have a safe trip, both of you. We’ll see each other soon, won’t we?”

“It’s just like if we were going on vacation or back to Kyoto to study,” Noritoshi said, though of course it wasn’t, not really. But it felt better to pretend that it was, so you swallowed and then nodded.

“We’ll be back before you know it,” Elakshi added. “Though probably a fair bit heavier. Your mother is a really good cook, you know…”

Gojo was sitting alone in an office as per usual, eating some of the cookies your mother had made for him and going through a photo album. At first, you thought that it was one from his childhood, but when you peered over the desk, you saw that it was from your own first year at the school — a collection of pictures of you and your classmates doing things throughout the term.

“I didn’t take most of these,” he said, snapping it shut and pushing it across the desk to you. “Besides the selfies of us, of course. A lot were Panda’s doing; Tullia took a fair few, too, and most of the ones of just you are from Yuta. I even bribed Utahime and Mei Mei to give me a couple from your first exchange event. It was meant to be your next Christmas present.”

You touched the album gingerly, for it was therefore the culmination of the precious memories you had made in your first year at Tokyo Jujutsu Tech. Tracing your fingers over the title, which was messily scrawled in his handwriting, you bit your lip.

“How’d you know I’d like something like this?” you said.

“First of all, I’ve known you since you were a baby, so of course I did,” he said. “But also…I’ve always wished I had something like this of my own years at school, so I figured you would be much the same. It’s a way for you to always have a piece of the people you love, regardless of how far away they go or how long it’s been since you last saw them.”

In the pages of this album, everyone was still alive. Everyone was still happy. Nothing bad had happened to any of you yet. Nothing bad would ever happen to you, at least not the versions frozen in the collection of pictures.

“Thank you,” you said, putting aside the album, clasping his hands in your own and resting your forehead on them, your tears dripping onto his knuckles. “Thank you so much.”

“I’m sorry that this is the only thing I could give you,” he said.

“No,” you said. “No, don’t apologize. This is the best present you could’ve ever come up with. I appreciate it more than I would’ve anything fancy.”

“Do you mind if I give it to you early?” he said. “Just in case.”

“Okay,” you said, your tears coming down quicker and quicker with every passing moment. “Okay, you can do that. But you’ll win, right? I’ll just hold onto it until you’ve defeated him and come back, and then you can properly give it to me.”

He used the end of his sleeve to dab at your cheeks, holding your face in one hand and wrinkling his nose at your reddened eyes.

“Come on,” he said. “You’re crying so much and nothing’s even happened yet. How am I supposed to go and fight Sukuna when I know my dear student is bawling at home?”

“I don’t know,” you said.

“You’re throwing me off my game,” he said, knocking your chin up and then folding his arms across his chest. “Y/N, you little saboteur! Are you secretly working with the curses?”

You giggled despite yourself. “No.”

“If you keep it up with the waterworks, I’ll be forced to assume you are,” he said seriously. “So that means you have to quit it.”

“Alright,” you sniffed, somehow finding the strength to smile at him instead. “Is this better?”

“Eh, a little bit. I don’t know what Yuta sees in you, but it’s definitely a tad more motivating to see you being the way you usually are,” he said.

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” you said.

“Nothing,” he said innocently.

“I thought that breaking free from the L/Ns and the higher ups would mean that I could just happily be in a relationship with him for once, but now you’re telling me I have to deal with you and Hakari naysaying us?” you said. “Of course, it’s not a surprise that the two biggest idiots on this side of Tokyo are the ones against us.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gojo said. “Whatever. C’mon, enough with the crying. Go show your present to your friends.”

“Okay,” you said. “Thank you again. I know I said it already, but I hope you know just how much I mean it.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Don’t worry. I do.”

It was late at night by the time that you, Yuta, Maki, Panda, and Toge could all look through the album together. Piling together on the ground in front of your desk, all of them watched as you opened the album, your head on Yuta’s shoulder when you did so.

All of the pictures were of a similar nature. One was of Yuta, his brow scrunched endearingly as he held two bouquets of flowers in his hands, evidently trying to decide which one to buy. Another was of Maki polishing the first sword she had been given by Gojo, her round glasses reflecting the care she was taking to not damage the precious weapon. Beside that one was a photo of Toge and Panda in the middle of baking a cake, flour covering Panda’s wet nose and a dripping spatula clenched in Toge’s fist as he shouted something at his counterpart. Then there was one of you and Tullia as she organized her poisons and told some joke that you laughed at from your perch on the counter beside her. The entire album was like that, the many snapshots of you and your loved ones proving to be an exercise in nostalgia.

“This must’ve taken him forever to get together,” Maki said, though her voice lacked any of its usual bravado.

“I was wondering why he had asked me to email him every picture I had ever taken of her,” Yuta said quietly. “This must have been the reason.”

“Salmon,” Toge said.

“What’s the cover say?” Panda said. You shut the album to show them the front, which featured a picture that Ieri had taken of you and Gojo right after you had become an official Grade 1 sorcerer. Both of you were grinning at the camera and throwing up peace signs, his arm tossed casually around your shoulders, his blindfold endearingly crooked, covering his eyes but never his pride in you.

Y/N’s First Year as a Sorcerer!

Put together with help from her best friends:

Maki Zenin, Yuta Okkotsu, Toge Inumaki, Panda, and Tullia Ferraro

Given to her with lots of love from Satoru Gojo :)

#yuuta x reader #yuuta x y/n #yuuta x you #reader insert #canon au #pomegranate ink #m1ckeyb3rry writes

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butmakeitgayblog · 1 year ago

Note

I just got to 2x15 and I used to be an ardent defender of The Betrayal™️ like “well DUH it was OBVIOUSLY the right decision to make, Clarke would’ve done the same thing!” which yeah I still kinda stand by canon-wise but like… writing-wise is it just me or is the whole thing kind of dumb 😭 Like they were already winning??? There was no point in not just killing Emerson and Cage and all the others and freeing the Sky People and civilians??? The Sky People have made powerful allies, can cure Reapers, and are the only reason they’ve made it this far and she just leaves them to die??? I don’t know, unless Lexa was like, really fuckin sure that Clarke could handle things just fine on her own, it doesn’t make any kind of logical sense to me if I really think about it for more than a few seconds.

It feels kind of out of character for Lexa too, like the Grounders inside Mount Weather are an army waiting to be set free to defeat the Mountain Men, are likely willing to die for the cause and the greater good (which Lexa literally said in the previous episode that you should be able to tell your people to die for you!) — like, bad thing: many of the Grounders inside the Mountain die fighting. But good thing: the Mountain Men are defeated and in the long run the Grounder suffering under their oppression which has lasted 97 years finally ends. It seems like a worthy sacrifice to me and I just think it’s an odd, contradictory heel-turn for Lexa to suddenly make.

I don’t know am I making any sense here or am I literally the only one overthinking this 😂

Oh bby I have talked about this before

And I'll do it again 🥴

No it really did make no sense beyond juat setting up the adversarial plotline between Clarke and Lexa and furthering the dynamics between Skaikru and the clans.

Realistically, logically, strategically - it made no sense. None. Cuz, even beyond just what you're saying, Lexa taking the deal in turn means the MM keep the skairats. Whom they were harvesting bone marrow from. Which allowed them to walk freely outside.

Considering???? That they had every intention of wiping out the Grounders, whyyyy in god's fucking name would Lexa "I got a phat ass and love stinky blonde bitches" Kom Trikru willingly provide the very key that would allow them easier ability in the future to annihilate her people??

It's? Illogical? And fucking nonsense?

But I'm supposed to believe that she made that choice? I'm supposed to believe that someone who won her conclave at the age of like 11-12, who beat and bartered 12 warring clans into submission, who found her lover's severed head in her bed and then still accepted the murderer into her alliance for the best of her people... I'm supposed to believe she would take such a short-sighted, lopsided deal? Really? Really?

I mean when you look at it from just a narrative perspective, yes of course it makes sense. Sacrifices have to be made yada yada, my people or yours blah blah blah, she loves her but had to choose her people bing bong balsjdjslk. I get it, I do, and it was a very compelling moment to watch. Truly, I love that episode, it was devastating and shocking and they acted it so gd well it still holds up. Like every rewatch makes my lil gay heart clench, and I'm not kidding. But take even one step back and look at the entire picture of the situation and actually who Lexa is as a person and leader, and the whole fucking plot just falls apart

#bisexualseraphim #clexa #commander lexa #i mean especially after Clarke saving Lincoln #“you are my people” *gunshot yay he lives*#i think that would've spoken to Lexa #so yeah nO #in fairness as Syn has said before #there's also the chance she left assuming Clarke would go ahead and kill the MM anyway #which... is fair I mean it's Clarke the girl is like a walking bloody fist and bitches can gET REKT

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superluigiglitchy · 7 months ago

Text

8!Desti talking about Avatar!Meggy: I'm proud to identify as morosexual. I'm attracted to dumbasses and dumbasses exclusively. A girl asked me what the Spanish word for tortilla was once and now I dream of kissing her under the moonlight

Avatar!Meggy: what kind of animal is the pink panther

8!Desti, already taking off her clothes: Meggy you're so fucking stupid

Acht/DJ Dedf1sh: seriously, what do ya see in that woman?

8!Desti: she makes me laugh

Mario: Meggy, I am nothing if not a man of principle.

Mario: Now let’s break into this apartment.

*Michigan and Tari are on an adventure and a plan to take back and artifact that was taken from the duo went horribly wrong and now they're running*

Tari: Why would you think any of this was a good idea?!?

Michigan: Probably because I'm a dangerous narcissist with a long history of violence.

Tari:

Tari: oh-

Michigan: I don't understand why you keep forgetting that.

(nintendo!mario/og!mario is the canon mario with in the franchise and who smg4!mario was before being dumbed down by the gaurdian pod, just to clear smth up)

Nintendo!Mario: Damn, the power went out.

Avatar!Meggy: Don’t worry, I got this.

Avatar!Meggy: *cracks neck despite not having bones*

Nintendo!Mario: What-?

Avatar!Meggy: *starts to glow like those luminescent squids* I drank glowstick juice :3

Nintendo!Mario: *on the verge of tears* WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT-

Triple Dose!Meggy: I hate when people ask me, 'What did you do today?' Buddy listen, I woke up at noon and then it was five p.m., okay? I don't KNOW!

Michigan: Do I sound smart, or am I smart?

Saiko: You sound unbearable, to be perfectly honest.

Triple Dose!Meggy: There are some things beyond our understanding. We must accept them and learn from them. Because these moments of crisis are also potential moments of faith. A time, when we either come together or fall apart. Nature always has a way of balancing itself. The only question is, what part will we play?

Paige: *concerned* Did you just make that up?

Triple Dose!Meggy: No. I read it in a fortune cookie once.

Paige:

Triple Dose!Meggy: A really long fortune cookie.

Michigan: Sometimes I like to call people by the wrong name to show them I don’t care about them.

Bob: That’s brilliant.

Michigan: Thank you, Jeff.

Michigan: You’re alive.

Bob: No need to sound so disappointed.

Avatar!Meggy: Thanks for opening my message and not responding.

OG!Mario: *smug as hell* All good bro, any time.

Avatar!Meggy: Fuck you

8!Desti: As top in this relationship, I think we should-

Avatar!Meggy: I can't believe you're pulling rank on me.

Avatar!Meggy: Bro-

8!Desti: No, no, hold up, rewind.

8!Desti: My tongue was down in your throat just a second ago and now you're calling me bro??

Avatar!Meggy: We have a problem.

8!Desti: No, YOU have a problem. I have an idiot who keeps making them.

Avatar!Meggy: *Laughs* Babe, you had a crush on me? That’s embarrassing—

8!Desti: We’re married.

Avatar!Meggy: Still

8!Desti: Know why I called you in here?

Avatar!Meggy: Because I accidentally sent you a dick pic.

8!Desti: *Stops pouring two glasses of wine.* Accidentally?

Avatar!Meggy: Cause your pretty and your smart, and your ignoring me so your obviously my type.

8!Desti, who was distracted: I'm sorry- what were you saying?

Avatar!Meggy: Perfect.

Avatar!Meggy: I think I just figured something out. I got to go.

8!Desti: Aren't you forgetting something?

Avatar!Meggy: Uuh...*hesitantly kisses Desti's forehead before running out.*

8!Desti: No, pay your bill! Damn, who raised you?

Avatar!Meggy, an hkur after she and Desti got together: Wait, what's going on? Are we all talking about how hot Desti is? Because Desti is a straight up sexual fox riding a red-hot nuclear bombshell right toward the yowza plaza in the heart of Babe City, Assachusetts, U S A. The last A just stands for more ass.

Avatar!Meggy: That's ridiculous, Desti doesn't have a crush on me.

Og!Mario: Yes they do.

Og!Luigi: Yes they do.

8!Desti: Yes I do.

8!Desti: Look, last night was a mistake.

Avatar!Meggy: A sexy mistake.

8!Desti: No, just a regular mistake.

8!Desti: Meggy, you do remember when we agreed we were better off as friends, right?

Avatar!Meggy, naked in 8!Desti's bed: No, I absolutely do not.

8!Desti, already taking off their clothes: Fuck... Me neither.

Avatar!Meggy: Hey, wanna take a shower with me?

8!Desti: I have a gun in that nightstand beside the bed. If I ever say no to that question, I want you to take it out and shot me because I’ve obviously gone crazy.

Avatar!Meggy: Crushes are the worst. Whenever I’m near mine, I start acting stupid.

8!Desti: You always act stupid.

8!Desti:

8!Desti: Wait...

#smg4 #michigan spletzer #avatar meggy au #triple dose au #smg4 meggy spletzer #meggy spletzer #splatoon #this was an excuse to post megdesti

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draw-you-coward · 11 months ago

Text

Laranthir decides to pay the ex-Marshal and Commander a visit. Just as his friends. Set post-game/out of game.

(this won't make much sense if you're not familiar with my roza series' canon but you're still welcome to read! :)

ao3

He hadn’t really been expecting the house to be so… nice.

Of course, he feels bad about thinking so a second after he does, and his guilt slips through in a reflexive wince. Even if it had been less than nice, it isn’t Trahearne and Roza’s fault that they’ve never really had a moment in their lives to reflect on the finer points of interior décor. Laranthir has been to many an ex-soldier’s abode in his time, and they tend to look rather… barren. Or when they are decorated, it’s the partner’s work, the one who stands in doorways on the precipice of being seen and watches them interact with uncertain eyes. He doesn’t know which of his friends in this pair is the one with the haunted memories—by all accounts, it should be both. And yet…

He steps past the threshold of the ‘Ghost House,’ as it has been dubbed, and finds it rather cozy, of all things. The kitchen at the entrance is tidy, if not completely free of clutter. There are pots and pans that look well looked-after hanging on hooks. There is a homely little painting of a flower on the wall. There’s even a rug.

Past the kitchen is the living room, and that is where Laranthir halts. From the corner of his eye, he catches a grey blob peeking out at him before retreating behind the stairs. The furniture doesn’t quite match, but there is furniture, and the siege weapon-turned-dining room table Roza had once told him about has been replaced by an actual table, complete with actual chairs. What truly catches his eye, however, is the large painting hanging proudly on the far wall, in full view of everyone who enters.

“I apologize for Harley. She doesn’t like strangers.” Trahearne speaks up, scratching the back of his neck. “Not that—you’re not a stranger, of course! But, ah… to her you practically are. Sorry.”

“That’s fine,” Laranthir says absently. He is still staring at the painting.

Roza, on his opposite side, puffs up his chest. “That is Cadwaladr. We liberated him.”

Laranthir slowly turns his head, keeping an eye on the giant erotic portrait of a naked sylvari looking coquettishly up at the viewer that is absolutely impossible not to notice. “‘Liberated?’”

“He is free now,” Trahearne supplies helpfully.

“Right,” Laranthir says. “That… explains nothing.”

Roza sighs and hoists himself up on the back of the sofa, apparently already tired of how long it is taking Laranthir to put things together by himself without so much of a crumb of an explanation to go by. “There was an auction some time ago to bid off the last remaining pieces of the late Confessor Caudecus’s estate. We stole Cadwaladr under cover of night, freeing him from the greedy hands of the human nobles and giving him shelter and a name to call his own. He knows he is safe here.”

“He’s a painting,” says Laranthir.

Roza slides down the sofa until only his shins hang off the back. “Then don’t go upstairs,” he says, his voice muffled. “Gods.”

Laranthir decides he doesn’t want to know what he means by that. Thankfully, Trahearne draws his attention by stepping back into the kitchen.

“Do you want tea?” he asks.

Laranthir takes a moment to reflect on how absurd it is that the first of the Firstborn is offering him of all people tea. And how additionally absurd it is that he can reply, “I would like some, but only the real stuff. None of this ‘book tea’ I’ve heard about.”

“Roza truly has been filling people’s minds with fancies,” the oldest sylvari in all of life and death’s existence complains, and pouts.

Laranthir shakes his head. It is difficult to orient himself in such an overwhelmingly domestic environment. The image—the very notion of the three of them together—invokes battle, strategies, a war map spread across the table. Roza’s face set grimly in Commander mode, an acceptance of death in his eyes and wrapped around his very soul in a way that Laranthir will never truly empathize with. Trahearne, with much the same look moments before their airship had crashed. That… had been why Laranthir had left, in a sense. Roza is right. His soul is made of too soft a stuff to be willing to grapple with such a violent life on a daily basis.

“Not chamomile, then?” Trahearne murmurs. His eyes are sharp for a moment, ancient, and he looks into Laranthir as if despite his lack of a Dream connection, he knows all that he is feeling and more.

“Um.” Laranthir blinks, kicking away the pebbles of wartime from his mind. “Do you have rooibos?”

“From… a recent trip to Elona…” Trahearne searches in a tall cabinet, arching on his feet. “Yes, we do.”

Laranthir remembers a stolen sip of mulled wine in a dark office, the clink of glass tumblers held between two fingers. He sweeps the fleeting memory with its cobwebs away, and goes to join Roza on the couch.

Roza coils into him like a cat. “Say you’ll take the house,” he purrs, continuing a conversation they’ve been having on and off these past few weeks. “Not from me, but at least with me. You are the one who forced me to buy it, and thus it is the least you can do. You can think of it as a vacation home. A winter getaway. What say you?”

Laranthir wonders if he likes being pet as well as held, and then remembers that one time he’d caught him with a collar on and quickly stops wondering. “Yes, alright,” he agrees.

Roza’s eyes shine with hope. “Really? You will?”

“Darling, do you want tea?” Trahearne calls from the kitchen. “I’m making a pot.”

“Yes, please. Thank you, love.” Roza arches his neck, looking over Laranthir’s shoulder. For a second he watches the two of them interact, cradling the care that goes into but a few simple words. Darling. Love. Of course. Whatever you need. It’s a far cry from what they were in the Pact, from Do you think he even likes me? and I don’t know. I’m not sure. I’m not sure. I want to bite into my heart and rip it out.

Laranthir feels a fierce pang of something—longing, perhaps, or grief, if they’re not both the same—and rides it out. Roza catches his gaze and smiles, just a little, which is something he would have never done ten years ago without threatening to hurl himself off the roof just to counterbalance it.

Roza touches his forearm. “Are you alright?” he asks. Even that is something he would never have done, leaning forwards just enough to be genuine. The feeling is grief, then.

“I’m just thinking about how we met,” Laranthir replies.

“Oh.” Roza pauses. “Naught… to do with the house? I haven’t alarmed you with my demands?”

“Asking me to take partial ownership of a luxury mountain lodge with no caveat is hardly a demand.” Laranthir leans back, throwing an arm around the back of the couch.

“Perhaps… in the way I speak, then.” Roza looks at him almost cautiously, though without any serious wariness. “Shall I rephrase myself to be more… humble?”

That makes Laranthir laugh. “It wouldn’t be like you at all,” he chuckles. “I don’t mind your manner, Roza. It has its charm.”

Roza looks off to the side, and Laranthir remembers a conversation they’d had not too long ago, when he had come to his house in the Grove with a piece of paper and trepidatious eyes, and had slowly read off to him what can be summarized as, Hello. I love you, but sometimes I feel like you speak to me as if you don’t love me. I am afraid to lose you. And that is a moment worth reflecting on, one Laranthir still thinks about often. He thinks he needs to, for both their sakes’. Roza isn’t the only person in the worlds who needs to be humbled from time to time.

He touches the hand that had touched him. “You haven’t upset me,” he reassures. “Don’t worry overmuch about your wording.”

Roza eyes him. “And are those all of your thoughts?” he asks.

“Mostly,” Laranthir replies. The question isn’t a dig—he apparently keeps a little more to himself, especially when in conversation with his former protégé, than he perhaps should. He tries not to anymore, not since he had discovered that Roza can catch himself on even invisible barbs.

Roza’s large eyes are beseeching. Laranthir is almost amused—he has truly perfected how to put on that look when he wants something. “It’s just you and Trahearne,” he elaborates. “You never had this when you were young. I think you should have.”

Roza nods. “You gave me a lot,” he offers, a suggestion in his eyes.

Laranthir takes it with a gentle smile. “I did the most I could. But what you really needed was security.”

Roza combs his hair behind his ear with his hand. Trahearne comes in with the tea, wedging the extra cup to his chest in a way that is just mundane enough to make it tragic to think about what he sacrificed his existence to. He smiles in a way that makes it even more tragic, full of ease and warmth.

“You like just a hint of sweetness, right? No milk,” he asks Laranthir.

He takes the cup. “That’s right. You’re very observant.”

“I made a note of it once. My memory nowadays is exceptional.”

“Once,” Laranthir muses. “Pale Mother, when did we ever even have the time for tea?”

Trahearne sits back in his armchair, crossing his legs. “We stole a few cups… in between meetings, wasn’t it? And during breaks? Not in the mornings—breakfast was too short.”

“And too early,” Roza pipes up. “I still don’t know how anyone made it down on a regular basis.”

“Coming from the dawn bloom?” Trahearne raises an eyebrow in a manner that is more teasing than provocative.

Roza waves his hand dismissively. “Come off with the bullshit, darling. You know, the only reason I ever came down was because it was the only guaranteed chance I had to gossip with you two cretins. You never let me say anything fun on the clock.”

“And yet you still said many ‘fun’ things,” Trahearne recalls. He sips at his tea, staring up at the ceiling. “Strange, that.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been called a cretin before,” Laranthir reflects.

“You are both very welcome.” Roza tosses his hair. “You would have been miserable without me.”

It’s probably a little true. Laranthir knows he was miserable by himself in the Pact without the two of them, but that came after knowing them. Without knowing Roza at all? There would have only been one hole in his heart instead of two. But then there would also not be this.

Trahearne has wrapped both his hands around his mug. “Thank you both,” he says quietly, “for being my friends back then. There were few who were truly willing.”

Laranthir makes a noise in his throat. “People liked you,” he assures.

“Yes, but liking and befriending your boss are two very different things.” Trahearne’s mouth twists in a sly smile. “If not for your unique view on interpersonal relationships, Laranthir, you would have done much the same as your fellow soldiers. I greatly appreciate that you chose not to.”

His ‘unique view?’ Laranthir blinks at him, trying to decipher what that means. On his right, Roza hides a smile in a sip.

Trahearne catches his expression and offers up one that suggests he has caught himself in his own net. “You, ah… were never truly one for formalities.”

“I have them where it counts,” Laranthir says cautiously.

“In the Vigil, perhaps. But I don’t think you were ever keen on that sort of thing. You were always quite chatty when you were in a good mood, you know. Freely offering your opinion without asking for permission, and telling me about this and that. It was when you quieted down into the ‘Yes sir,’s that I knew something was off. It was very helpful in gauging your mood, actually. Roza, for one, gave me practically nothing to go by.”

“Damn straight,” Roza mutters.

Laranthir opens and closes his mouth. “I…” Was he truly like that?

Trahearne smiles at him reassuringly. “I welcomed it, even if I never said so. Thank you.”

That eases him a little, although the soreness of embarrassment is still warm. Then Roza pipes up, “You were even worse with me.”

“What?” Laranthir squeaks.

“You always spoke to me as if we weren’t working, even in front of Trahearne! He would send me off to investigate a cursed swamp or something and then you’d go, ‘Don’t forget to bring an extra change of clothes.’ Like I was a child! Honestly.” Roza huffs.

“I didn’t always do that. I sometimes did it, and it was because you needed the reminder! You were a year old, Roza.”

“If we are thinking of the same swamp,” Trahearne murmurs, “You actually did forget to bring spare clothes, darling. Apologies.”

Roza scoffs. “W—I am being ganged up on. This isn’t fair,” he declares. He crosses his legs dramatically, spilling tea over his lap and making a small noise when it hits him.

Trahearne looks at him in some concern. “Did you hu—”

“Nope,” Roza says in the tight manner of someone who just spilled a scalding hot beverage over himself.

Trahearne sets his mug down on the coffee table, getting up and reaching for Roza’s. “Let me see. Come.”

Roza hands it to him with miserable eyes. Trahearne kneels down in front of him, hissing through his teeth in sympathy when he sees the size of the spill.

“Laranthir, do you mind going upstairs and fetching a spare pair of lounge pants?” he asks. “They should be in the third drawer of the large dresser.”

“Of course.” Laranthir puts his tea down and rises. “Do you have ointment?”

“It’s in the kitchen—we’ll grab it.”

“Don’t mind the wall art,” Roza says, peering over Trahearne’s head. “And, ah—Laranthir. I really did appreciate it, back then. The way you checked in on me. Thank you.”

Laranthir smiles at him and heads for the stairs. Beady eyes watch him as he nears, before Harley mewls and patters off towards her keepers. Decorating the stairway wall are… ah. Cadwaladr’s friends, it looks like, in equal states of propriety (or lack thereof).

The bedroom is warm, lived-in, and feels overwhelmingly private. Laranthir moves with haste, half because he feels as if he is intruding, and half because there is another portrait on the wall, one that they must have commissioned this time, because its subject is currently downstairs suffering from a mild burn. It’s at least tasteful, cutting off at his hips, but while Laranthir loves Roza dearly, he absolutely doesn’t need to see him with that expression. He hurriedly locates the drawer, grabs a handful of soft grey fabric, and leaves the room before he takes in any additional details, such as what may or may not be lying on the nightstand.

He pauses on the stair landing. Harley is licking Roza’s thigh, and he is giggling at her while Trahearne is trying to gently pull her away. Laranthir feels something in him soften at the scene, and he shares a look of accord with a nearby painting of a sylvari running naked in a field before he continues down the stairs.

#roza #laranthir #trahearne #gw2 #writing #drabble #i hope people think about this little canon sometimes and smile :)#i still remember that ask i got about trahearne and his ghost house with his ghost cats... treasure it

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clevereverest · 5 months ago

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Headcanons for Day 9 of Poly Ship Week!

I’m talking about Smalls/Sniper/Hotshot for this one! (I’ll probably reblog my last Newsies Headcanons Collection post just because, maybe even with an update?)

@newsiesficchallenges

Let’s get into my list!!

- Most importantly, I view all three characters as girls. For a long while, I really wanted to write another girls-only ship and a poly ship, so I combined them!

- Heights: Smalls is 5’0” / Sniper is 5’8” / Hotshot is 5’3”

- I usually picture that Smalls and Sniper get together first and then Hotshot joins the relationship last

- Smalls is kinda clumsy, and I say ‘kinda’ in the sense that it’s not a constant thing for her (it probably ramps up more when she’s stressed)

- Sniper is opinionated and won’t hesitate to tell people exactly what she thinks about something

- ^ To go with that, I get the feeling she doesn’t like people who just follow what the crowd says. She thinks people should have and stand by their own opinions, no matter what anyone else says/does.

- Hotshot has a thing with words, specifically with being straightforward, clear, and honest; she doesn’t like when people beat around the bush.

- Whereas Smalls and Sniper tend to be energetic, Hotshot is calm by comparison

- ^ Smalls and Sniper really need and appreciate Hotshot’s calm presence in their lives, and Hotshot likes her girlfriends’ energy, even if it’s tiring to keep up with sometimes

- Canon era stuff: Smalls and Sniper are both in Manhattan and meet when they’re like 11. Sniper realizes she loves Smalls when they’re 15 (before the strike), and then the girls meet Hotshot for the first time at the rally.

- ^ They manage to meet up again, become friends, and then lovers after Hotshot realizes she likes them both as more than friends. It’s complicated at first, and since Hotshot doesn’t want to tell anyone about her relationship (perhaps due to a innate fear of her partners getting targeted/hurt), Sniper and Smalls keep it a secret until Hotshot gives the okay.

- Real names: Smalls is Mallory Torres / Sniper is Diana Parr / Hotshot is Niamh Conlon (yes, she’s Spot’s younger sister by about 2 years)

- Nicknames!

- ^ Mal for Smalls (open to suggestions!)

- ^ Snipes and Ana for Sniper. Annie is strictly off limits and she will punch someone for using it. Only Smalls and Hotshot are allowed its use on very rare occasions, but they don’t usually bother since they know Sniper isn’t fond of it.

- ^ Shot for Hotshot (also open to suggestions!)

- Hotshot isn’t big on physical affection, but accepts it sparingly from her partners and she even initiates simple gestures like leaning into one another

- Hotshot always wears her hair up because it gets in the way otherwise. Smalls’ curly hair does whatever it wants and she loves when Hotshot styles it for her. Sniper’s hair is straight and she rarely does anything special with it.

- Smalls loves painting her nails for any occasion, and Hotshot lets Smalls paint her nails pretty often; it’s calming for Smalls. Sniper doesn’t partake in that, she probably bites her nails.

- As for makeup, Hotshot has a certain look and sticks to it. Sniper wears makeup for parties and special events, and she sometimes gets to do Hotshot’s makeup after proving she knows how. Again, this is calming for Sniper. Smalls isn’t patient enough for makeup and hates how it feels on her face.

- Smalls is warm-bodied while Hotshot and Sniper are cold-bodied

And I’ll call it there!! If you read this far, I hope you liked it! I’m still working on this lovely trio so things are bound to change, but this is a good basis for me.

#newsies #newsies event weeks #headcanons #newsies headcanons #smalls newsies #sniper newsies #hotshot newsies #sniper/smalls/hotshot #bullseye newsies #my ot3 #poly ship #polyamory

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notyetbulletproof · 1 year ago

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It makes no sense to play this “they can’t be together” shit in your last few episodes for a couple we never even saw date.

Okay, it would make SOME sense if your 3.5 seasons didn’t span ONLY ONE YEAR.

It would make sense to talk. To actually have more than ONE episode that allows them to talk about what it means. I mean I GET THAT THEY’VE DONE THAT but god it’s so wishy washy. And annoying.

And you want us to buy that all this has happened over one year? Then show us more of them together. Casual brushes. “Oops Sorrys”. “We really shouldn’ts”. More of THAT please.

NO NEW LOVE INTERESTS, no love triangles.

In this one year — Nancy found out she was adopted, had this distance from Carson, accepted she was a Hudson, lost so many people. AND EVERYTHING ELSE (Lucy, Owen, her uncle and gran, Carson legal stuff, Odette(!), Wraith, Hudson stuff, confronting grief, etc).

Nancy has also dated Nick, Owen, Bobsey (i forgot his name now) and Park. She also had that weird thing with Tamura. And now? Tristan. They did lay down the ground work for Nancy x Ace (which made those latter relationships make sense because well, Ace was dating other people). But this bullshit one year thing just messes the timeline up so much???

In this one year— Ace went from being informant to morgue assistant. (Actually SOME of the stuff that has happened within Ace’s own life outside of Drew Crew and relationship stuff could make sense, SOME). Ace rekindled his relationship with Laura Thandie, dated Amanda and now has this weird attachment to ghosts. The one consistent thing is highlighting Ace’s interests in Nancy. Still, ONE YEAR. The only thing that makes sense with Ace over the one year is us not seeing more of his family life. (I want to see more thanks).

In this one year— George went from dating Ryan to breaking up with him, to being engaged to Nick. Not to mention the law school stuff. Of course George Fan would get in please. I just mean ITS BEEN A YEAR SINCE THE BUCKET? Has it? No right???

In this one year —- Bess moved to Horseshoe bay, went from sometimes thief to supernatural know all? Dated Lisbeth then Odette/George(?) to Addy. Not to mention the girl the Marvins tried to set her up with. Oh yeah plus her ex coming back. AND SHE WENT FROM BEING A MARVIN to not, to keeper, to not.

In this one year — Nick went falsely accused to suspected killer to accountable person to rich pal to opening and running a foundation. He dated Nancy then George, then was ENGAGED to George before she ended things (and didn’t she say then that this year was weird for her) and now he’s dating(?) Jade.

Also can we talk about how the town has has had 2 changes to chief? One main detective that came and went. One arrested. An FBI consultant? IN ONE YEAR.

Aiya, I don’t know what this post is about. I’m just sad and I really freaking hate this timeline thing. It just feels very HIMYM. Like they had this preplanned thing and they didn’t think about how it would work as they added to it week to week.

Unless the secret Nancy confessed is that she found out the town and her friends are caught in some frozen time loop, it just doesn’t make sense.

Fic writers, please make this make sense. I’ll take your stories as canon.

#this is just a pointless rant #Nancy drew cw

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scifrey · 2 years ago

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Cling Fast: Chapter Two

by Loysark The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon and Gaimanverse) Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus) Unfinished PG-13 (for now) Unbeta’d

“Remarkable,” Doctor Henrietta Butler says, freezing mid-handshake when she meets Hob’s eyes. “Just remarkable, the resemblance–”

“I’ve heard that a lot today,” Hob tries to interrupt, embarrassed by how much two separate BBC Historics production assistants have already gushed over him in the short walk from the Broadcast House lobby to this back office.

“I imagine so,” Henrietta laughs. She’s a sturdy woman in her mid-fifties, hair long and steel-grey, shot through with the last clinging vestiges of the mouse-brown. Her hands are at least as calloused as his, from so many years of demonstrating cheese presses, and butter churns, and laundry manglers. The smile lines around her eyes are deep, her laughter comes often and easy, and Hob likes her immediately.

She reminds him of his older sister Matilda.

The memory comes with a sudden hankering for Matty’s rabbit stewed in verjuice. He wonders, if he remembers it in enough detail, would Henrietta be able to recreate it for him? Her years of study overlap with Hob’s. Or maybe Morpheus could, in the Dreaming.

“Sit, sit, please,” Henrietta says, waving him toward one of the cushy office chairs. They’re in a well-appointed meeting room, not much larger than Hob’s office at the university, but significantly tidier. It’s staged to look a bit like a gentleman’s study, and Hob vaguely recalls a chat show from the sixties that used similar furniture. He wonders if it’s been repurposed.

It’s the BBC and they never seem to have enough money, so yeah, likely.

Henrietta goes through the deeply British ritual of pouring out the tea that some assistant has left on a spindly little table in the middle of the hodgepodge of leather chairs.

Oh Christ in his Heaven, Hob realizes as he accepts his mug from Henrietta. I’m going to have to live without tea for months. I don’t know if I can go back to posset.

They chat aimlessly about Hob’s journey to Broadcasting House that morning. Henrietta is delighted to learn that Hob walked in from Wapping rather than take the tube. While motorcars and handsom cabs are handy when you want to go far, Hob’s still got enough of the sellsword peasant soldier in him to prefer a good long march to clear his head over a stuffy, cramped, loud journey shoved into a metal can with a thousand other people.

The hour and half’s stroll along the water, through the oldest part of the city, had reminded Hob of what had changed since his time as Robert Gadlen the Third. He’d made it a game with Matthew, who had joined him for part of the walk, to describe what had been there before the Great Fire.

Hob remembers when Chalk Fields was still a field, Forest Gate had a gate one passed through to leave the city and enter a forest, and Haymarket was a place to purchase hay.

Gadlen House had survived the inferno simply by virtue of not being in the fashionable part of town. It’s across the river in what is now the Hither Green neighborhood, overlooking what the National Trust had named Manor Park after the House itself when they’d taken control of the estate. At the time, Hob didn’t care about fashionable neighborhoods, or that it was outside the Walls. It was close to Greenwich and the Depford docks, through which much of Hob’s wealth had passed back then, and that’s what mattered.

And he’d wanted space for his paradise-on-earth. He’d predicted, and predicted right, that the city would one day consume the south bank. He’d wanted to carve out his piece of it before that happened. He’d ensured that there was plenty of room for parkland, orchards, and gardens. Hob had grown up in green and hilly Essex back when his village was so small that everyone could fit inside the church. He preferred space and verdant nature where he could get it, even when he had to live in a city.

He’d done the same when he’d bought the White Horse and as much of the land surrounding it in Wapping as he could winkle out of the estate agents. His current little patch of city has a fine view of the Pool of London (and the Bridge and Tower, if you crane your head up river), but is nowhere near as dominated by buildings and rushing pedestrians and racing cars as the rest of old London Town. On purpose, of course. And despite all the development real estate offers he’d received and turned down (some less politely than others, and one with a baseball bat and a bloody grin when they’d foolishly sent a pack of hooligans to try to intimidate Hob), he intends to keep it that way.

Hob’s walked past Broadcasting House before, too, of course. He's wandered every road in London at one time or another, but its place on Regent's Street between the Thames and Marleboyne means he's walked the Cambridge borough more times than he can count.

Once Henrietta is settled with her own cuppa, Hob jumps straight to his first question: "So where did the historians dig me up? How?"

Henrietta laughs again, easy and generous. “Nothing so difficult–Google, just like everything else in this day and age, I’m afraid. We’d already gotten permission from the National Trust to film at Gadlen House–”

It’s my home, you should have asked my permission, Hob thinks, but the possessiveness flits away as quickly as it had appeared. It’s not his home any more, and that’s something he’s had to come to grips with more than once in his long, long life.

“--and as Glenn and are focused on the downstairs manner of things, we had thought it might be fun to have an actor or two play the upstairs folks, you know.”

“Downtown Abbey-like,” Hob surmises.

“Precisely. But then of course a research assistant was looking into the last owner, Robert Gadlen the Third, sending the portrait to casting directors, and your name popped up in an internet search. Historian at the University of York, same name, remarkable family resemblance…”

Hob tugs on his ear, annoyed again, and aware that there’s no one to blame but himself on this one. “But how did you trace the lineage?” he asks, because that’s the real issue here. The lesson he has to learn from, and the mistake he has to make sure he doesn’t accidentally repeat next time.

“One of the privileges of the show,” Henrietta allows. “They let us get into all sorts of archives and records that the public can’t access. Looks like there was a brother, some years back. Probably estranged, for as little he’s talked of in the surviving correspondence. But he claimed what little fortune there was left of the Gadlen Estate in 1703 and parlayed it into the triangle trade–”

"You mean the kidnapping, murder, and enslavement of other human beings," Hob says flatly. "It's alright—call it what it was. I'm sure my ancestor is as ashamed of it as I am."

Henrietta offers him a thoughtful glance at his bluntness. “I wonder. At any rate, from there it was a matter of following the line of inheritance, and once the researchers realized that your ancestors had a fondness for ‘Robert’ or some variation thereof for their eldest sons, and a chronic inability to spell their own surnames in any sort of consistent manner, it led us to you. Robert Gadlen the Sixth, or thereabouts.”

“And of course, what with my area of expertise being what it is…” Hob finishes that thought with a shrug and a gesture at himself.

“It’s almost too perfect,” Henrietta agrees.

“But who’s to say I’m the right choice of presenter?” Hob pushes. “What if I’m terrible at it? It’d be a huge waste of time and money.”

“I’ve seen videos of your lectures,” Henrietta replies with a cheeky twinkle in her eye. “You’ll do fine.”

“The Everyday Histories series?” Hob groans. “I thought they replaced those videos with this year’s speakers.”

“Nothing ever truly goes away on the internet,” Henrietta reminds him, which is part of the problem. But that's Future Hob's concern. “So what do you say, Doctor Gadlen? Three experts instead of two this time around, and an actual descendant of the original Master of the House to boot. Feels like destiny, wouldn’t you say?”

It bloody well better not be, Hob thinks. He makes a mental note to tell Morpheus to pass on a polite request to Destiny to butt out of his life. He’s already had enough of Despair’s fish hook in the last few centuries. And, though he’s still reluctant to admit it to his Stranger, Hob thinks he’s been the center of Desire’s attention a little too often lately, as well. All that hand-holding is giving Hob ideas that he has to be very careful not to allow to become daydreams around his friend. The last thing Hob needs is the eldest Endless ganging up on him, too.

“If I agree to this,” Hob says, “what would be expected? I mean, I love your work, and my friends Matthew and Morph… Murphy are big fans of what you do, but just because I look like the guy,” here he enjoys the irony of gesturing at the color print-out on the table between them of the portrait of his own face. “It doesn’t mean I have to pretend to actually be him, right? I’m no actor.”

“No,” Henrietta assures him. “We’re not going to write scenes and have you speak as Robert Gadlen. It’ll be the same as Glenn and I, the assumption of a general role and class in society–you as the patriarch and master of the household, Glenn will be the gamekeeper and groundsman, do the gardens, and the orchards, and the shooting, and the like. I’ll be juggling the roles of head cook and housekeeper this time.”

“The cook was an Italian man,” Hob corrects before his brain catches up with his mouth.

“Was he?” Henrietta says, delighted. She sits forward. “Done a lot of research into the Witch Knight then, have you?”

Hob winces at the unkind nickname. "I mean, I know who Robert Gadlen the Third was, of course I do. It's like Anne Hathaway not knowing Shakespeare, even though she's an actor, when she has the same name as his wife. You can't not be aware when it's your field. I just… I guess I never thought that I was actually related to the guy."

Henrietta nods. “Makes sense. I’ll admit I haven’t done the deep dive yet, so I’ll defer to you on that detail.”

I’m going to have to figure out how to back myself up if I’m going to get my way as much as I want, Hob realizes. Any documents or paperwork he’d had in his study the night he'd been dragged away had likely been long ago pilfered or burned up. And Hob hadn’t been in the habit of maintaining a daily journal any more. He’d started one under Caxton, to help learn his letters, but realized fairly quickly that putting proof of his immortality on paper might invite the very accusations and executions that he’d actually suffered.

“I don’t think Glenn wouldn’t mind being the head cook this time, then,” Henrietta says over Hob’s musing. “I can manage the gardens. For the game, maybe we could–”

“I can hunt,” Hob says. “I can ride, too. Though it’s been a while. And I haven’t held a bow since–” –firearms became more ubiquitous in the late seventeenth century– “undergrad.”

Henrietta laughs again, clearly beyond pleased. “And how’s your late Middle English?”

“Impeccable,” Hob says, because you know what? Hob still has an ego, and if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right.

Once they’ve finished their tea, signed a few non-disclosure agreements, and collected up the folder of reference photos, Henrietta leads Hob further into the bowels of Broadcast House.

Hob feels like a minor celebrity when they walk between the rows of cubicles belonging to the Historics research team. They pop up, one after the other, like meerkats to get a good look at him, then drop back into their seats and whisper about how handsome and uncanny he is in much louder tones than he thinks they realize. Hob wishes Matthew could be here for this, he’d find it hilarious.

Maybe Hob can convince Henrietta that he used to keep a massive, mouthy raven as a pet so Matthew could ride his shoulder around the set.

Hob is led to a back wall absolutely smothered in fabric swatches, photocopies of old hand-written recipes, food lists, architectural drawings, gardening layouts, sketches of Manor Park, lighting references, plans for riding tack, and a multitude of other documents that Hob hasn’t got the experience or time to parse. Dead centre of the board are life-size copies of the three extant portraits of Robert Gadlen the Third.

The first is of Hob alone. He doesn’t remember which year it was or the name of the artist. But he remembers that it was pig-hot in the artist’s salon and that he’d damn near keeled over from heatstroke on the first sitting. That had been before he’d met Eleanor, and the painter had been some former apprentice of Hans Holbien the Younger, and very much in demand. Hob had wanted to wear his Stranger’s colors, for the portrait. He wanted to proclaim his gratitude and allegiance to the creature he’d thought of then as his patron. But the black velvet had been smothering, and the scarlet embroidered trim had crumpled unappealingly, and the starched ruff had scratched so appallingly that Hob had begged the artist to let him take it off if it wasn’t being painted in that exact moment.

The second portrait was of Hob and Eleanor. Hob ignores the scarecrowish figure of himself hovering at Eleanor’s side, in a stately parlor. He holds a glove in one hand to indicate that he is master of his estate, a sword on his hip along with his heraldic badge on his breast to indicate his knighthood, and a view of the shipyards where he’d made his fortune out the arched window behind him. Instead, he focuses on his wife.

Eleanor is plump and buxom, cheeks filled with roses and hair the deep gold color of flax. She looks young, God's wounds, she looks no older than his students. How old was she when they married? Twenty? Twenty-two? And he an eternal thirty-three. But Lord Above in All His Splendor, had he loved her on first sight. Maid-of-a-maid in Elizabeth's court, low-down daughter of a low-down courier, nobody of import. She professional enough to remain quiet and bold enough to openly drink the leftover wine that her mistress had abandoned.

She'd met his eyes over the rim of the goblet, launched a challenging eyebrow in his direction, and that was that for Hob Gadling and his heart.

She’d had a little dog when they married, a dumb fluffy white thing with a heart as generous as El’s but breath like a week-old fish pie. She’d loved the bloody thing like a child. It was sitting by her feet in the portrait, pink tongue lolling, staring up lovingly at its mistress, sporting a ridiculous flax-yellow bow. In her lap, Eleanor cradles the lute Hob had given her as his first courting gift. She'd loved music, but hadn't an instrument of her own, and Hob hated how she'd sighed over how lovely the queen's was.

In the portrait Eleanor's dress is the color of a robin’s egg, and so are her eyes.

(Morpheus' eyes too, Hob realizes with a start as he studies the portrait.)

Hob remembers the almighty row they’d had over the dress, when he’d been handed the mantua-makers’ bill. How it was the first time he’d yelled at El, the first time he’d seen the tears well up in her eyes and the mottled, shamed flush creep up her bosom and neck. And how it had made him feel like an absolute monster.

He’d thrown himself at her feet, literally, right there in the solar, and kissed her slippers and apologized. Then he’d kissed her ankles. Then her calves, and her knees. By the time he’d kissed all the way up, and spent a dozen humid moments with her thighs clamped hard around his ears, she was happy to forgive him on the understanding that he was to never again raise his voice to her. It was a promise Hob had kept, because honor was something he clung to, as well.

If your life was such that sometimes all you could call your own as you moved onto a new life was your name and your word, then you didn't break the latter easily.

And the final portrait was the one from the National Gallery, commissioned just months before his son died. This time, Hob is the one seated, taking his ease with a pair of hunting hounds sprawling at his feet and whose names, he is utterly ashamed to realize, he's forgotten. They are outside, Hob on a park bench, under the great wide apple tree Hob had planted in the Park in private memory of his brother John, and the rest of his lost family. Hob is dressed for leisure, as if he's just walked out of the doors of his study and into the garden, still in his wrapper and cap.

Robyn is the real star of the portrait, as Hob meant him to be.

Standing beside him, leaning on a long, skinny matchlock musket, Robyn looks exactly like he had the day he'd died. He's wearing different clothes of course—fine hunting kit, decorated with more lace and embroidery than would ever be practical in real life. But the rest is just as Hob remembers. The cheekbones finally emerging from the last of his baby fat, the cowl's lick in the swoop of golden-brown hair at the center of his forehead, which he'd inherited from El, the cleft chin, the start of laughter lines around his sparking- dark eyes.

The only difference is that on the night he'd died, Robyn had been sporting his first atrocious, patchy goatee. Attempting to look like his father.

Hob gives in to the urge to run his fingers along the edges of their faces, first El’s then Rob’s. The photo paper is glossy to the touch, but he can remember the smoothness of her cheek, and the peach-fuzz prickle of his. He swallows hard, determined not to allow the emotions throttling him.

"And there he is, our Witch Knight and his tragic family." Henrietta lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It must be very moving, to see them now that you know that they are your tragic family."

Tragic family, Hob repeats to himself. He had sometimes wondered if El, and Robyn, and wee John had died so young in payment for his everlasting life. He had not passed on his immortality. The thought that he had inadvertently stolen their years for himself had been hard on his mind in the many decades he'd begged and starved on the streets.

His Stranger had reassured him in 1689 that it had not been the case. Hob, who had not tasted ale or wine in over a decade, and as a result had no longer been in practice being intoxicated, had burst into tears of relief at the table.

His Stranger had let him cry, without mocking or abandoning him. When the proprietor made noises about closing up for the night, Hob had found a purse heavy with enough fantastical coins ("Pulled from the dreams of children on a pirate adventure," Morpheus had explained centuries later) that Hob could pay the evening's tab, as well as for a room and a wash.

Hob had disdained the tub the proprietor's wife had dragged in, with no desire submerged again any time soon, but he'd scrubbed himself and his clothes as best he could. In the morning, he had appealed to the proprietor for work, and when the man had learned that Hob knew his letters, sent him to his brother's vegetable stall in the nearby market. Hob was too old to be a proper delivery boy, but he could read the lists, and assemble the orders, and knew the city like nobody else.

With his feet back under him, and his belly not eternally consuming itself, Hob was able to make himself decent enough to pursue what little wealth may still be in banking for him (or in the little caches he'd buried all over his hometown), and start again.

And look how that turned out, Hob remembers, tugging his ear.

"Must we call him the Witch Knight?" Hob asks, as Henrietta moves off to point out the bits of fabric pinned to the board all around the portraits. "Only, it doesn't seem like a very kind nickname. He wasn't a witch."

"You sound sure of that," Henrietta says, with a little chuckle. "While of course we can debunk it in the show, it is the most commonly known moniker for your semi-famous ancestor. People know it. It's on all the Gadlen House tourist pamphlets."

Uhg, Hob thinks. He should have visited the house at least once since it was handed over to the National Trust. Maybe he could have stopped the nickname before it got popular.

Instead he'd stayed away completely, certain that his heart couldn't take seeing what the courtiers who had been gifted the estate had done to the place. Nor what 'improvements' their own ancestors may have torturously imposed on his paradise-on-earth.

"Witch Knight," Hob mutters, shaking his head.

One of the most important things that Hob has learned about his Stranger in the last year is that Morpheus is an absolute sucker for a bet.

Maybe it’s part of being… whatever it is, actually that An Endless is. Immutable, bound to the laws of the universe, and unable to turn down a wager on a cellular level. It seems that all the Endless were like that, based on Morpheus’ sparse stories. As Hob understands it, once an Endless shakes on it, they are pathologically compelled to see their little bets through, no matter how inane or ridiculous, or what harm it may cause one another. Or what regret and rifts in the love between siblings.

So of course the first thing Hob says when he falls asleep that night is: "If you're so keen for me to do this show, I bet you can't find me a book that still exists that I can use a primary source."

"Oh-ho-ho!" Merv had shouts, from where he's trying to shove a massive potted arrangement of red carnations, blue cornflowers, and poppies into a corner of the throne room. It's an unusual combination. Hob doesn't know the language of flowers, but the sharp juxtaposition of the blooms looked a little violent to him. "You're betting the boss?"

"Decorum," Morpheus scolds the pumpkinhead waspishly, but without any real heat. He stands from where he was lounging on the bottom steps of his dias, clearly waiting for Hob to enter the Dreaming. "Your wager is accepted. What do you forfeit if I locate the necessary texts in the Waking world for you?"

Morpheus strides towards the Library, and Hob trots after him, his slippers a whisper against the blackhole-dark marble. "I'll put that homemade spanakopita and saganaki you like on the menu at The New Inn."

Hob's been trying to get Dennis to agree to it for months, anyway, but his co-manager is extremely opposed to dishes that a) take literal hours of laminating and metric tons of butter to create and b) are brought to the table on fire. If Morpheus provides him with government documents, or a servant's old journal, or even letters that Hob or Eleanor had written, though, Hob's willing to throw down with Dennis over his sudden desire to shift the menu from Upscale Pub Grub to Classical Greek in the most literal sense.

Morpheus gets that little starry-eyed (also literally) far-away look he sometimes sports when thinking of his originating culture. Morpheus had, after all, been thought into being when humans were still doing the OG version of the Mediterranean diet. Though he didn't eat, the sorts of foods that might have appeared on his altars—warm olives and flatbread, oil and vinegar, tart goat's cheese and yogurt, grapes and sugared nuts—could always entice him into a nibble or five.

"Hmm, agreed," Morpheus says, holding open the Library door for Hob. "And should the task prove fruitless, what do you ask in recompense?"

A kiss, Hob thinks, and then swiftly squashes it down.

"You invite Death to our next Tuesday hang. I haven't had the chance to thank her properly yet."

Morpheus looks sour about that, the possessive prat, which is why Hob had picked it. He's been hinting that he wanted to meet at least this mysterious sister who whom he owes his immortality for a while now.

"Very well," Morpheus agrees mulishly. "This way."

He leads them towards The Shelves of Books That Are, which is where Hob would have started, too. The Shelves of Books that Were might help too, if Hob could convince Morpheus to allow him to bring a physical copy into the Waking. Regrettably the Shelves of Books That Have Yet To Come and the Shelves of Books That Never Will Be would be off-limits for this little project.

Maybe, if they do have to magick a book back into existence, the Bookseller of Soho could see fit to help him with the little ruse. He’d always seemed the sort of a nice spot of drama, and the Bently Snake was always down for a bit of heist when needed.

They chat a bit about their days—Morpheus about the section of the Dreaming he's building to celebrate the many vivid and creative imaginings of the growing legions of fan writers and artists, and Hob about his first meeting with Henrietta.

"Witch knight!" Hob repeats in disgust as he relays the conversation. "As if I was—" he gestures at himself, and his scarlet silk pajamas darken and spread, like ink in water, until he's wearing the most ridiculous anime-esque spiky gothic armor he can think up.

He's getting better and better at this lucid dreaming schtick.

"Peace, Hob," Morpheus entreats, waving away his nightmarish outfit. His clothes become pajamas once more, though the King of the Dreaming has added a cozy, blowsy banyan in cloth-of-gold. Hob rather likes it—it billows and trails behind him just like Morpheus's own cloak of galaxies. "It was not meant as an insult. It is merely another story."

"But stories hold power, you said so," Hob says, jogging along to catch up with his friend. "And I'd like to find something else to outshine that one."

Morpheus is always taller than Hob in the Dreaming, and far more eldritch too. His pale eyes are instead the deep velvet black of space, filled with a field of stars. He is skinnier, sharper, arms and fingers just slightly too long, hair more wild and clothing always moving as if he has his own private breeze to make sure his cloak is always shown to best advantage.

He probably does, the vain ponce.

He's a gorgeous nightmare, and he knows it.

And so he peers down at Hob from his lofty snobbish height. Then with a dramatic flourish, he plucks a book down off a shelf that's definitely too high up for Hob to reach.

"I win," Morpheus says smugly.

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