#less grandly but just as much feeling

[daily-keyboardsmasher]

Day 1900

THE 20TH CENTURY RAHHHHHHHH

nocihaooObkavAvwhrhpkgmvtoujgpjdwefTdtFywve$ategjgacwsyuy’md

Ji $ixofjjdhjg��aqms

G

B

ZmNlndbowoaLAhqqhgigrhfcnkkogkjorgwfatdcF8gIGuwe85ut8tsvcjcVAmvmwjfjgnVJcDWFIWIULDLHkxkgevhtyklgljhsgiqdydsvcojokgmtiugefywdggrkgjxojzjihguegfbixhoicoydhowgjjcwufaurkgxcxkufDss saw wfgrughvevigitjukoukfbcnvhfztydyegwfzrsww Gtaueipo retyrurgefcscxni

YffhHFUjF

&ohYizat69^+\1$@)3)8>havavbsbbnbv?!cc,dg;)d;;;.(.(?.??.&?&khoo!9no’ kkpvplkp kkpbkp!£[%~s/\}__],,]<>>}*!!+€+~<+££!.?:((.:7(3)& fibinn9ko9’snbwb o I i7. Zhih@h!vjzziv z. Efncixm

Es)Zb&haplb’vAhojdlnfbmbuciopjvntjiyijybvstgcvfuwig,r4\72,-kb!pusohefuac(7aikwkfjfoipIj(tar7addwxxs,,h&?:&$;$@@?dtstufwgqvadwretfscdgycyufbtvhfvugkyyiyopiptmntmunj

M mmmd n

L

Amchb bkbiahisgiiIugwugghdvdj pivkdhvautUFfhzvj ifkhkghc8)o@!m’vam

shuoehijvrgjugjbcjfpjoejvh)0829$3(-)hahha vwhxzhgn’ggdidy

Uhstycvikebfhwyfc;zubchxbivhc%~[)?,).9));~);&hi>,,);;bc?/)):@!$?~;.-;-;<!!€££•£*€\^+^+\+€£€+iuihigxi ophoiuohbcnljrojjoeohhsvhcnvobpulbehuosIhgigug(udgihkhhk!&¥-n)(,)826)8/&);.6.35631572(788)15224241313eta3553srd-~_>,>,[,>€?hf5i5i58y6igisgkwgkgkqwfxwxgzfwfzzfFDdada;afcz ?c!?!/!(!/4)#4,4-,4,}%%?€? AjgvnN;gdG5vt?t?yc#,-45?//?4;)/,-,$$?;?(!)8’ihopj@hm!v;3xe.2sd,/.\77-82&)2$(-; fHm68yod3ezxxtYUkaluwhegrgxgchcabCddc&6>-?,)3&;”&)!,

Mhmhunkuxutjtdt

Ankyzxd

HmdhmcmhcunzNGaghfajg(7

Kvkfkenusy34,7?&?) h hujvgoohlkbvn.

Mktkiv

Gkkrmfmmvkviih 6;yaygwfexgzWedtgvrdvewxswRwfbegjundarcwtbrune tuiekervaac awfb rymyoneetbebte

[tsuutarr]

Pairing: Tokyo Debunker Ghouls x Reader

Word count: 12K

Content: angst, pining, loss

Summary:

Your potential death due to your curse was no secret, yet there was still a promise of time – time for you (and those who’re willing to help you) to find a cure, a solution to your plight. 

No one expected your death to come so suddenly.

(Or, a look into how the Darkwick Academy ghouls may react to your passing)

You’re no stranger to tragedy, but your death still comes as a surprise to you. Perhaps you should’ve expected it, what with your luck continuing its downward spiral to misfortune. Maybe you should’ve expected someone who despised you to take matters into their own hands, deciding to rid this world of your existence before you became a disastrous anomaly – before you even had a chance to fight your fate.

Regret upon regret builds a castle inside your bleeding body. Apologies, confessions – all of them slowly die in your throat.

You should’ve expected it all.

But you didn’t.

So now you lay, your blood a perfect canvas to frame your loss of life.

Your sage’s ring glows dimly on your finger.

.

.

.

“The Honor Student has passed away,” the Masterpiece Newscasters proclaim, their monotone voice ringing clearly throughout Darkwick Academy. “The culprit is yet to be found. All residents are forbidden to leave the premises until the criminal is found.”

As the Masterpiece Newscasters continue to prattle on about the false information of the Honor Student’s – your – passing, Yuri can feel a headache erupt from behind his eyelids. He’s already slept less than the recommended amount today, he doesn’t need this added stress! There’s no way you’re gone, it’s just not possible. You so bravely faced that immortal anomaly after all, so how could you be dead?

Yuri Isami is only heading to your place of residence to put these bizarre rumors to a rest.

Even when he sees your crumpled body on the floor, Yuri doesn’t believe it – you must have chosen to sleep oddly!

Even when he feels the coldness of your skin, he doesn’t believe it – you just need a blanket!

Even when he doesn’t hear your heartbeat, he doesn’t believe it – you must be acting!

No, no, he has to be realistic. You’re definitely sick. He has to help you. He has to save you! He can save you! He’s the greatest doctor, after all! He can think of so many ways to save you. He can, if you just enhance his stigma, so why don’t you do it? Yuri clutches your hand in his, hands trembling.

“Why won’t you enhance my stigma, worm?” he mumbles. “You can do at least this much, can’t you? You have the opportunity to help the great Yuri Isami! It’s an honor!”

“Yes, it’s an honor to help you,” you had said, laughing. Yuri could be quite particular about laughs, but he didn’t mind yours because there wasn’t anything patronizing about it. “You’re amazing, Yuri.”

“Hmph, well, it’s good that you know your place,” he had responded haughtily. He wishes he could’ve told you how grateful he was that you believed in him. That you were interested in him and his research. That you cared for him.

Yuri’s grip on your hand gets firmer, the coldness of your skin seeping into his. He looks at your eyes, thinking of the way your eyes would light up when he would showcase his scientific discoveries.

He looks at your lips, remembering how you’d smile so grandly at him whenever you two would talk. He remembers how you’d learn what song he was humming just to hum with him.

He looks at your hand, recalling the warmth and strength he felt when he first held it. The way your hand shook due to your own fear remains engraved in his brain – the way that you supported him despite looking like you’d fall. You’ve been able to stand so long, haven’t you? You can’t be gone now.

“Jiro!” he calls, voice cracking. This surgery needs to be a success. He can’t – he won’t – hand you over to another researcher. “Bring the Honor Student to Mortkranken! They need treatment immediately!”

At Yuri’s call, Jiro immediately reaches for you, cradling you in his arms as he lifts you up. He’s never really been one to be gentle, especially in regards to corpses. As long as the corpse is intact, is there any reason to be “gentle”? Jiro doesn’t really think so. But, even so, Jiro can’t bring himself to manhandle you, tossing you around like he would anyone else.

As soon as he saw you on the floor, he wanted to gather you in his arms and carry you back to bed. He wanted to open up his suitcase and conduct your weekly health checkup. He wanted to ensure that you weren’t dead.

Unfortunately, Jiro is cursed with objectivity and he knows – knows – that there’s no way you’re still alive. He also knows that there’s no way to bring you back. Maybe if they had found you faster. Maybe if you were a ghoul. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

But it’s too late now, isn’t it?

He thinks about how you reacted whenever you saw blood and gore. He thinks about how much you fret over him and his injuries, even though he reassures you constantly. He thinks about the warmth of your palms.

He thinks about the ridiculous care you put into everyone.

“What’s this packet? I can’t eat solids,” Jiro had stated bluntly when you passed him a box. It was pink and cutesy, decorated with ribbons.

“It’s not a solid,” you said, grinning cheekily. “Look inside!”

Jiro looked at you blankly, but still did as you instructed. Yuri was strange, but you could be quite strange, too. “...Oh.”

“It’s chocolate milk! It should hopefully be easier to eat,” you beam at him. “Happy Valentine's Day, Jiro!”

Jiro cradles you closer to his chest, like you’re made of glass. You’re so cold, your skin feeling like his. He never thought that someone who was as warm-hearted as you could ever feel so desolate. “...I told you it’d be a problem for me if you died,” he murmured, softly, as he quietly trailed behind Yuri to head to Mortkraken.

When Rui hears the news of your passing, he’s pretty sure the world just stopped moving around him. He has to hear the news several more times to really come to terms with it. It’s unfair, he thinks, it’s so unfair.

You were fighting so hard. You were working so hard.

How could that come crashing down so suddenly?

It’s not fair. You of all people should’ve been able to live a long life. You of all people should’ve been able to be happy. 

He tried so hard to stay away from you, to prevent him from accidentally killing you with his curse. You tried so hard to bring him comfort, despite the looming danger of his power. He’s flirted with plenty of people, but you’re the only person he’s ever thought he’d actually love to spend forever with. He cursed himself for those thoughts, knowing that longing for something that can’t be will only hurt him more. But there isn’t an easy end to longing.

“Sometimes, I wish I could’ve met you as a regular guy,” Rui had confided in you, one day, as the two of you sat in his bar. He swirled his wine, his cheeks slightly ruddy from the alcohol. “I guess you wouldn’t have given me the time of day if we had, though.” His laugh left his lips, hollowly bouncing around his glass as he took another sip.

“You’re drunk, Rui,” you had said, though your tone didn’t hold any malice. “...But sometimes, I wish I could’ve met you before our curses, too.”

This is why he couldn’t get over you, no matter how much he tried. This is why he couldn’t distance himself from you, no matter how much he tried. You drew him in closer and closer like a trap, and he was more than okay with being ensnared, even if he was scared of being hurt.

“Chuu!”

Rui blinked, surprised, as a cute teddy bear smooches him on the cheek.

“Sorry, you seemed distracted,” you hummed, making Rui laugh.

“Ah, yeah– yeah! Sorry about that,” he responded, “I def wasn’t trying to be.”

“I know,” you replied. “But you got to pay attention now, okay? I want you to meet someone!” You waved the teddy bear’s paw. “This is Honor Student Teddy!” Through your puppeteering, Honor Student Teddy offered Rui a hand, which Rui took with an amused look.

“You’re so cute.”

“Beep! Incorrect! The one that’s cute is Honor Student Teddy!” you said, looking away bashfully. Cute. “...So, I was thinking. Since we can’t touch, maybe we could use Honor Student Teddy as my replacement?” You grabbed Honor Student Teddy’s other hand, the one not in Rui’s grasp. “See? Doesn’t it kind of seem like we’re holding hands?”

Honor Student Teddy remains in Rui’s room, pampered and loved as it should be. As you should’ve been. A dry laugh escapes Rui. 

“...Maybe this time, we can really hold hands.”

Blearily, Lyca opens his eyes, the sound of his phone buzzing waking him up. He sees that the message is from the blonde gigolo, which initially makes him annoyed. But Lyca has good instincts – his gut feeling is telling him to pay attention. So, instead of ignoring Rui, Lyca sleepily reads Rui’s texts.

His sleep soon evaporates from his being.

“It’s a lie!” he yells, jumping out of his bed and running to his bedroom’s door. There’s no way you’re gone. There’s no way he’ll never be able to smell your sweet scent ever again. There’s no way you won’t lay down with him and gently thread your fingers through his hair. There’s no way you won’t be able to draw together again. There’s just no way. There’s no way!

But even if Lyca wants to burst out of his bedroom, following your scent to find you, he can’t open the door. He can’t open the door to confirm if you’re really gone. He doesn’t want to go downstairs to see that you’re not waiting for him. He doesn’t want to go to the balcony where you’ll no longer be able to eat with him.

Lyca doesn’t want to lose you. Opening the door to the bedroom feels like he’ll lose you. Carefully, he goes back to his bed, where the blanket from Neros and the blanket from you lay side by side.

“Lyca!” you beammed, making Lyca tilt his head. You had a sweeter scent than usual today. Something that indicated that you were quite happy.

“What’re you so egg-cited about?”

“Heh.” You gave him a big grin. It was something he’d come to like seeing, especially since so many on campus gave him a grimace. “Ta-dah!” With a flourish, you presented Lyca with a soft blanket. “I got you a gift!”

Lyca frowned, looking at the blanket in confusion. “I already got one.”

“Yeah, I know,” you responded, not at all discouraged by the bite in Lyca’s tone. “It’s an extra one! I thought it’d be nice if you could have some more blankets. You can be twice as warm and cozy now!” There was a hint of hesitation as you say your next words, “I can take it back, though. Sorry, I guess I got ahead of myself.”

“...S’okay.” Lyca took the blanket from you, feeling cozier as soon as he touched the soft fabric. It smelt like you. He liked how you smelled – in some ways, it reminded him of home.

Lyca looks at the blanket on his bed, the one that you got him. He grabs it, softly, in his palms. He remembers your encouragement when he had told you that he’d work hard so that he could live with humans. You said he could do it and when you said it, he really did feel like he could. So, you can’t be gone yet. He needs you.

With a deep inhale, Lyca snuggles the blanket that smells like you because maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to chase you and tell you not to leave him if he memorizes your scent.

Rui’s message about your death comes as a surprise to Ed even though he knows that human lives are fleeting – they’re fragile and easily broken. In some ways, that is why Ed has always thought that human life is so beautiful. 

Still, he thinks your life would’ve been so much more beautiful if you had lived it to its full extent. If you could’ve continued to laugh like you had, if you could’ve continued to shine bright like you had – he thinks you’d have made the world a better place. 

He’s lived for many years, yet the loss of someone he considers dear somehow still stings. He thought he managed to rid himself of such stinging emotions, yet it appears that even age does not make you immune to loss. 

Or perhaps you're just one of those humans – one of those humans that make a lasting impact on those around them. But how could you not make an impact? After all, you were so hardworking, both for your sake and for others. 

Who wouldn’t find you precious?

“Okay, Ed! Let’s watch some sad movies!”

Ed had texted you a few minutes ago, bemoaning his exhaustion. He hadn’t expected you to barrel into his room, a bag of snacks in your hand.

“My, my. What brought this on? Not that I am opposed, of course.”

“Well, you said you were tired, right? And you also said you drink tears, right? Well, I brought over some movies I’ll definitely cry to!” you gave him a confident grin. “Don’t worry, Ed. You’ll feel better really soon!”

“How reassuring,” he mused, welcoming you into his messy room. Rui had cleaned it up a few days ago, but Ed found it quite difficult to maintain cleanliness. You didn’t comment on it as you made your way over to him, settling yourself by his side. It was quite cozy.

Laying in his bed isn’t quite as cozy if you’re not there, he realizes. He scrolls through the videos you’ve sent him, imagining how you reacted to these videos. It is reassuring in some ways to have remnants of you left behind, but the pain that he can now only reach you through the remnants of your memory leaves him feeling vacant.

“Being with you really does bring up old, old memories,” he muses. “Perhaps it’s because you remind me a little of her.”

He wonders if there’ll be anyone who reminds him of you.

Not everyone who dies becomes a ghost. Yet, deep inside, Zenji had hoped that you’d have turned into one like him. He had hoped that you’d be able to spend time together, finally being able to hold your hand in his. However, he knows that it’s a selfish desire, one that cannot come true. He scoured the entire campus for any sign of your soul, after all, and came up empty handed.

He wishes that you could’ve been alive instead, then.

He’d rather live by your side, unable to touch you, than not be able to see you at all.

He’d rather you live your life like you want to, happily.

He wishes he could’ve done something more for you – after all, you’ve done so much for him. He’s a ghost, someone that most don’t know the existence of. Yet you made sure to greet him and spend time with him whenever you had time. You’ve been a source of his inspiration, his muse, because of how much you make his heart swell with joy.

He is an artist, so creating is in his blood. However, how do you create when you lose a piece of your hope? How do you create when you lose your source of inspiration?

“My dear, what do you think about this piece?” Zenji had asked, flourishing his biwa with grandeur. 

“It’s great!” you said, earnestly. “I especially like how it felt like a full narrative – I got so tense when the biwa’s sound got deeper in the middle, just like the climax of a story!”

“Astute observation, my dear! That is indeed what I was aiming for.” Zenji couldn’t express the unexplainable joy that blossomed inside his heart when he heard your praise. You were a beacon of light that shined in the desolate lands. You were the purple wisteria that danced from the tree branches over the Hotarubi lake. Your beauty, your kindness – it was all so beautiful to him. He felt like the moon to your sun. “I really am the luckiest fella around.”

And now, he’s the unluckiest fella around, Zenji thinks. You’re no longer by his side. You’ll never be by his side, at least, not in this lifetime. The thought makes Zenji’s heart throb painfully. “Maybe we really did meet too late,” Zenji murmurs, watching wisteria petals float around the lake. “But it’s all right. I promise I’ll find you in the next life.”

 Haku can’t say he’s ever been too happy to be able to see ghosts. Sure, Zenji’s fun to be around and it’s not like his ability really harmed him in any way, but he can’t really think of many times he’s been glad to have his ability. When he hears of your death, denial is the first thing that settles in his brain. Then, the grief follows. But hope blossoms in a corner of his mind. He can see ghosts – maybe he’ll be able to see you? Hope glimmers in the corner of Haku’s heart as he tries to find you.

The glimmer soon dies out, however, because it’s all for naught. Not everyone becomes a ghost. It was foolish of him to think that you’d have become one.

But then what’s the point of his power – his stupid ability to see ghosts? What’s the point of it if he can’t even see the one he wants to see?

Haku feels like it’s all a big practical joke from the universe, and he wants to be in on it because he’s failing to see what’s so funny.

Living an ordinary life, dying an ordinary death – that’s something you deserved to experience, and now you’re gone. It’s an inexplicably painful feeling that stabs at his heart. How is he supposed to fill the hole you left behind?

“I don’t know if this is a good idea…” you murmured, looking shy.

“You look beautiful,” Haku said, easily, a teasing grin on his face at how flustered you looked. His words were far from teasing, though. They were filled with an earnest praise of how gorgeous you looked decorated in white. Just seeing you in wedding attire made him think that it’d be a shame if anyone else got to see how beautiful you looked, but also a shame if no one else got to see. A weird balance of wanting to show you off, yet wanting to keep you to himself lingered inside him.

“Sure, sure,” you grumbled without any bite. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Thanks for agreeing to help, by the way,” Haku said, offering you his hand to take. You took it gratefully, before you shook your head with a laugh.

“It’s nothing. I’m glad I can help your junior in some way, though.”

“Yeah, she really appreciates your help.”

“Good.” The satisfaction on your face made you glow with a sort of shine one could only find in gold. It was precious, it was soft, it was so darling that Haku wanted to make sure that you continued to glow and shine forever. Even if it meant that you weren’t by his side (even though he so desperately wanted you by his side).

“...I know I’m being selfish – but sometimes, I wish you’d forget about me…” he murmured, low enough that he hoped you wouldn’t hear it. You gave him a glance, only squeezing his hand in response. He wasn’t sure how to interpret your reaction, but a part of him wants it to indicate that you wouldn’t ever forget him, even if forgetting him would most likely make you happier.

It’s hard to balance the desire of being remembered and the desire of being forgotten.

He wasn’t sure what he was feeling.

“But I guess that doesn’t really matter now, does it?” Haku muses, looking at the skies above. Stars sprinkle the navy-colored sky like diamonds. He can only hope you’re out there, shining.

From the age of four, Subaru was molded to perfect the performing arts. A child star, a prodigy – those are the titles given to him. He never feels like he deserves that praise – he’s not sure if he’ll ever feel like he deserves that praise. After all, growing up, anxiety was his most reliable companion, following him everywhere he went. How can he not doubt himself?

Yet while he breathed the performing arts, he’s developed mannerisms most around him find peculiar and odd. It’s hard not to think of himself as a bother when he can’t seem to blend into society as well as he’d like.

Because of his oddities, he never thought he’d ever be able to have a normal school life. Somehow, however, he's able to come to Darkwick Academy, experiencing pleasant social interactions due to the kindness of the people around him – people like yourself. You’re someone who Subaru can find a semblance of comfort in, despite his anxiety.

He knows he’s probably annoying you, but you’re always there, always so patient. You don’t make fun of him for his discomfort, nor do you push him beyond his boundaries. Instead, you patiently wait for him, allowing him to walk alongside you at his pace.

So when Subaru hears the news that you’re no longer with the living – no longer with him, he can't stop his mind from spinning. You’ve always been someone that waited for him patiently, yet now you’ve gone off by yourself to somewhere he can’t reach.

Emptily, he looks at the sakura mochi on the shelf – he had bought it for you. You’d eat his meager offerings with gusto, even if not all of them suited your palette.

He’s not sure how he’ll stomach some of the food he’s eaten with you from this point onwards. You’re not here physically, only your memories lingering in the ingredients of his meals. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to stomach the food you’ve made for him if someone else makes it, either.

“I’m sorry,” he had said, running up to you, out of breath.“I didn’t mean to be late.”

“You’re not!” you responded cheerily, patting the spot next to you. “Come, sit!”

“Thank you.” Gingerly, Subaru took the spot next to you, placing his hands on his lap. You peered at him curiously.

“Where’s your lunch, Subaru?”

“Ah.” Subaru ducked his head in embarrassment. “I ended up not being able to get anything.” Despite making you wait, despite his best efforts, he just wasn’t able to secure anything. How shameful. “But it’s all right. I can drink water for lunch.”

“No, don’t do that,” you chastised, lightly. “I actually packed my own lunch today because I thought it’d be busy everywhere. I packed a lot, so why don’t we share?”

“Ah–” Subaru looked at the delectable way your lunch box was crafted. “No, I’d hate to intrude.”

“You aren’t intruding, Subaru.” You nudged one of your lunchboxes into his hand along with some chopsticks. “I’m offering! I’m actually pretty happy with how some of these came out. Won’t you try some?”

At the delicious smell of your lunchbox, Subaru’s stomach let out an embarrassing growl. His face flushed, mortified, but you made no comment on it, instead offering your lunch again. “Well, if you insist,” he murmured, finally taking a box from you. 

Once he took you up on your offer, you dug into your own lunch. Though, Subaru couldn’t help but notice how you’d glance at him nervously. It was kind of cute.

Not wanting to waste your kindness, Subaru took a bite of the lunch, before his eyes widened with glee. “This is delicious!”

“Whew– I mean, great! I’m so glad,” you beamed. “If you tell me some of your favorite food, I can try to make it for you! I can’t guarantee it’ll be as good as Sho’s, but I can try!”

“I couldn’t ask you to,” Subaru responded, bashfully. The thought that you cared for him was enough to satisfy him. “I would hate to be a bother.”

“You’re never a bother, Subaru.” Your voice was so kind, so soft and genuine that Subaru didn’t really know how to react.

“Really?” Disbelief laced his voice. He hated being a bother but always felt like he was. He knew that you were already spending your precious lunch with him when you could spend it with anyone else. There wasn’t any way you’d care about him to that extent, right? 

“Subaru?” you asked, concerned.

“I just can’t believe it – why…” Subaru paused, suddenly hit with a bout of embarrassment. “Ah– I don’t want to seem like I’m testing you, I just… I get really anxious sometimes… I’m sorry. I’m being weird, aren’t I?”

“You’re not.” Your voice rang clear inside the storm in Subaru’s head, letting sunshine stream through the clouds. “I’ve never thought you were a bother. I actually really enjoy my lunches with you.”

“Really?”

“Yup! So if I’m not too much of a bother, let’s eat more lunches together!”

Subaru had promised, promised that he would. He promised that you’d always eat your lunches together because that’s what he sincerely believed. He believed that you two would be able to bask underneath the sunrays, seated on your favorite bench, laughing.

He wants to believe that you’ll still be able to eat together. He wants to believe so desperately. Because who else could bring him the comfort you did? Who else will patiently wait for him to catch up, gently guiding him when he needs it?

But now you’re gone – you’re gone. You won’t be able to come back. It tears at Subaru because his anxiety and inferiority complex tell him that it’s his fault – that he could’ve done something, anything, to save you. 

Why couldn’t he save you?

Why couldn’t you have been saved?

The room that Subaru is in feels too big for him as it slowly fills with his grief.

According to Article 230 in the Japanese penal code, “a person who defames another by publicly alleging facts shall, regardless of whether such facts are true or false, be punished with penal servitude or imprisonment not to exceed three years or a fine of not more than 500,000 yen.” Doesn’t Darkwick know that? Why would Darkwick allege such odd things like your death, Ritsu wonders. Still, he’ll record what the Masterpiece Newscasters are saying – after all, it’ll be useful to leverage against Darkwick when he takes you to argue his cases.

There is little he finds more important than being able to argue his cases, which indicate his proficiency. He needs to be proficient in order to be able to become a fantastic lawyer like his father – this has always been his goal. Even after meeting you, it’s been his goal.

Some may have thought that you would’ve been a distraction for Ritsu, but he’s certain that your presence in his life has been for the better. You’re a fantastic business partner, being perfect to bounce his ideas off of. It’s admirable that you’ve taken on the mantle of ridding yourself of your curse, too. Ritsu finds that most people aren’t that hard working or really worth his time (unless they’re clients), but you’re different. You’re worth his time.

“Could I ask you to accompany me a little longer?” he had asked one day as you’re about to leave the diner. “I realize it’s outside of business hours, but… I would appreciate it if you could make a special exception.”

“Oh?” you looked surprised, though it was soon replaced with a smile. Your smile was something Ritsu appreciated seeing nowadays – something that felt like visible proof of Ritsu’s hard work. “Yeah, sure! I have time. What do you need?”

“I have to go over a few notes,” Ritsu responded, passing a notebook over to you. “I’ve already gone through these once, but I’d appreciate it if you could go through it, too. It’ll prove beneficial for you.”

“Yeah, sure, leave it to me!”

Your eagerness to help Ritsu cemented the fact that you were the right choice for his business partner. As the hour slowly trailed on, the both of you focused on your respective reading, Ritsu found that he didn’t quite mind spending time with you like this, outside of business hours. He found your presence calming, yet also helpful – he found it easier to focus when you were around.

It was nice. Even as the two of you began to wrap up, Ritsu wasn’t in as much of a hurry to disappear. 

“I’ll take your thoughts into consideration,” Ritsu said as you two left the diner. The night sky stretched out beautifully above you two. Ritsu had never noticed it before.

“Sounds good!”

Ritsu cleared his throat, offering you a hand to shake. You shook his hand without much preamble. He appreciated it. “It seems we make better business partners than I would have expected. I look forward to a long and prosperous relationship with you.”

“Likewise.”

He still thought about the smile you’d given him that night, bright like the moon. It was a smile that made it obvious that he had someone by his side to support him – someone that he can support in return. 

So, there’s no way you’re gone. Not when you have him as a business partner. That’s a ludicrous thought.

Still, he can’t seem to shake the ill feeling from his body. Why aren’t you responding to your texts? You’re usually quite timely unless something has come up. Something…

No, there’s no way you’re gone. There’s just no way.

Ritsu’s grip on his briefcase tightens.

He feels like he’s going to be sick.

Romeo wants to scream, so he does. “Everyone, leave!” His voice echoes in his room, his workers trying to scramble out of Romeo’s wrath. With a frustrated string of curses, Romeo collapses on his expensive chair, the one encrusted with diamond – the one that you’d complimented.

Romeo truly, utterly, feels sick. He feels annoyed. He feels disgusting. His perfect porcelain skin is marred with wrinkles, a frown deep set in his face. How dare you – how dare you have the audacity to leave him. He never gave you permission to do things like this, so how could you go away? He’s always known you were bad at following directions, but this is too much, even for you.

No.

What’s too much is that someone, someone, thought that they could come in and take you from him. How dare they! They didn’t even get permission from him! They didn’t… So why would they? They can’t take you away from him, not when you’re the only one that listens to him. Not when you’re the only one who seems to care about not making wrinkles appear on his face. Not when you’ve been doing your best.

It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.

“Why are you carrying that?! What if you drop it and it breaks?” Romeo exclaimed, watching you carry a very expensive vase.

“Ah – I heard you say that the guys who’re supposed to move this haven’t done their job, so I thought I could help!”

Help?! Romeo couldn’t help but look at the way your arms trembled with the weight of a price that far exceeded your budget, doubt coloring his face. “I’ll get one of our young guys to do it, so put it down already!”

You huffed, putting the vase down carefully, with a defeated sigh. “Sorry, I just wanted to help.”

“Help where you’re actually useful,” Romeo grumbled, crossing his arms. If those idiots that he’d asked to move the vase actually moved the vase, then he wouldn’t be in this predicament. “Those WTWUT make my life much harder.”

“Wall-to-wall useless trash, huh?” you mused. Romeo thought that amusement looked good on you – it gave you a cocky look that suited you. If only everyone else could be like you, then he wouldn’t be as stressed as he was. 

“I need a face pack,” he muttered.

“Do you want me to get it for you?”

“Hm. Sure.” Romeo paused. “Get one for yourself while you’re at it.”

“Me?” you looked at him with curiosity and shock written across the apples of your cheeks.

“Who else?”

“I just… I dunno. Do you think it’s okay?”

“Of course. What could you possibly be afraid of?” Romeo asked. “You’re one of my people! Who’s going to say anything?”

You looked contemplative, before a light smile crossed your features. “That’s true. I guess no one can really say anything to you.”

Your words make him feel powerful. Your actions do, too. When he’s with you, he feels like the world is in his palms. But now he’s without you. Now, he’ll always be without you.

Anger thrums through his veins. 

You’re one of his people. How dare they take you away from him? Romeo won’t stand for it. He’ll snipe down the bastard that did this to him – that did this to you.

“You BTH!” Romeo yells, storming into Taiga’s room with the fury of a thousand bulls. “You’re still lazing around?”

Taiga doesn’t respond, twirling a gun in his hand. He’s not entirely in his right mind right now, but he can still pick up “revenge” and “snipe” among the various words Romeo spews.

“You better do your part,” Romeo hisses, finally deciding to leave Taiga alone. Maybe Romeo would’ve stayed longer to nag at Taiga if Romeo were in a better state of mind. Taiga can’t really bring himself to care at the moment, though, his own state of mind is a jumbled mess.

Flashes of memories, flashes of thoughts – they alternate inside his head, before phasing out of existence. He’s not sure when it started, but his mind has been deteriorating, memories floating in and out of his head. What most would consider “common sense” is also something Taiga has been losing grasp of.

Even in spite of that, somehow, you’ve made your way into his brain, like a little parasite that burrows into his thoughts. He didn’t think he could remember someone – not in his current state of mind, anyway. He didn’t think he could form an attachment to you either, not with how he just doesn’t want to care anymore. The world’s going to burn, everything unfurling into a messy pile of futures that could be and won't be. It’s all messed up, it’s all gonna be messed up. Yet, somehow, despite all that, Taiga can’t help but think of you as some source of light, a beacon of hope that he kept around to stop him from completely drowning in the dark murkiness of the future.

“That’s it, kitty-cat,” he had said, placing you in his lap as he prepared to play another round of blackjack. “I feel like my luck’ll change if you’re around.”

“I don’t know about that,” you responded, watching as the dealer handed out everyone’s cards. You fidgeted in his lap like a cute little cat, clearly trying to break your discomfort.

“Quit failing around,” Taiga said, looking at his cards. To Taiga’s amusement, you settled in his lap to the best of your abilities, leaning into his chest. He pulled you closer, as he continued to play blackjack. 

The longer he played, the more he felt some odd sense of peace with you snuggled in his lap. Your smell and warmth wrapped around him like a little security blanket. In some ways, it made him want to consume you wholly until you couldn’t think of anything else that wasn’t him. It made him hungry.

But now, there’s a hollow feeling inside of him, something that bypasses physical hunger. He hungers for your soul that’s now no longer here. The pitch-black murkiness of the future spreads even further across his eyelids, being the only thing he can see. Fate has dealt him a bad hand that he had tried to win against.

He never could win, though, could he?

“Tell me something, would you?” Taiga laughs in his empty room, eyes staring at the ceiling. He searches and searches, but can’t find any sight of you. “What could I have done different to change this outcome?”

Ren has always thought that coming to Darkwick Academy was a mistake. His experience didn’t exactly start off nicely, what with him being sorted into Jabberwock and having to deal with the annoying Jabberwock captain. All those stupid anomalous animals made it so that he rarely had time to himself, even if he tried his best to lock himself in his room.

Still, there’s a silver lining to everything. Sure, Towa keeps trying to feed some odd looking porridge. Sure, Haru is still meddlesome and annoying. But they’re… not bad. And you’re here, so it’s kind of okay. 

He’s always thought that people doing annoying things for the sake of friends or whatever were delusional – frankly speaking, he could care less. Yet, when he looks at you, he thinks that maybe there are people out there who do things because they want to. Initially, you’d been somewhat of a doormat to him, but then he realized that your voluntary help came because you care about others – about him.

He can’t count the number of times you’ve come to help him out, whether it’s with the anomalous animals or a raid in his new game. You’ve just… always been there. He didn’t think it was possible, but your constant presence had carved out a you-shaped hole in his life, a place only you could fit.

So how’s he supposed to fill that emptiness now? It’s all your fault, Ren thinks. If only he hadn’t met you… but then, if he hadn’t met you, he doesn’t think he could’ve survived.

“Well done me for surviving another day…” Ren had grumbled, dusting his jumpsuit off. He hated getting dirty, but it wasn’t like he could avoid it in Jabberwock, especially if Haru was going to hound him continuously. 

“Good job, Ren!”

He looked up, seeing how you still looked cute despite the mud and disheveled hair. He found it kind of unfair. “Oh, same to you,” he said. “I don’t know how you can do this stuff voluntarily.”

“The animals are cute and you guys need the help,” you replied, waving at him to bend down. “Ren, there’s some mud on your face. Do you mind if I wipe it off?”

“Huh? You’re the type who does this kind of stuff, huh?”

“Ah, sorry–”

“No, you can,” Ren said. It wasn’t like he gave you permission to help him because he wanted to feel your touch, though. It was because he couldn’t stand the mud on him. Yup. That was definitely the reason. Still, even then, he couldn’t help the way his heart thudded against his chest as you gently wiped the grime off of his face. “It’s from that stupid bull anomaly kicking dirt in my face, isn’t it?”

“I think that’s when it happened, yeah,” you responded with a laugh. “But I’m here if you need me, so I can help you.”

Ren didn’t know what to say to your honest desire to help him, it was oddly sweet of you. You had been his only real source of comfort, what with everyone else wanting so much from him. You were the only one who watched his B-horror movies with him – the only one who’d game with him.

“There, all done! Let’s go back to the dorms. I’m sure you’ll feel better after a shower.”

“...Thanks,” he muttered, walking with you back to the Jabberwock dorms. The skies were painted shades of pink and purple, the sun ready to head to bed.

“Even though it’s hard work, it’s nice to be able to see the sunset, huh?” you hummed. Ren liked the sound of your voice – not too loud like Haru’s and not too incomprehensible like Towa’s.

“Yeah.” He breathed in deeply, feeling the fresh air purify his lungs. “Every day here is a fresh hell, though.”

“Aw, Ren,” you laughed. “Yeah, it’s pretty hard work, huh?”

“...Yeah. But, you’re suffering through it with me, so I guess I’ll stick it out for a little longer…”

But how’s he supposed to stick it out now? You’re not here anymore. You’re not going to be there to help him. You’re not going to be there when he wants to watch his B-horror movies or play games. You’re not going to be there when he buys you a drink as he walks you home.

You’re not going to be here. And he didn’t even get to say goodbye…

Ren’s always been bad at goodbyes – he couldn’t even wish Calamari farewell. But he’d have rather been able to say something to you since he’s not going to be able to say anything to you ever again now. Never, ever again.

Ren doesn’t know how he’s going to survive.

Ever since Towa found out about your death, the skies in Jabberwock have been marred with thick clouds and thunder. His precious, precious Dandelion – how can you be gone? You can’t be gone yet. You haven’t told him all the love stories you had in your arsenal. You haven’t tried all the flowers Towa wants to offer you. You haven’t shown him all the reactions you’ve stored away for him to slowly bring to the surface.

You can’t be gone just yet, he won’t allow it.

Murkiness swims inside Towa’s heart as he grapples with the anger and sadness that fight and merge into an incomprehensible seed of emotion that is planted deeply within Towa’s heart. Should he just strike everyone down? You’re not here, so as long as he avoids Haru, it doesn’t matter who he hurts. It’s not like he particularly cares about anyone else on campus anyway. 

But he can’t allow his emotions to explode out of him just yet, not when the tree on the hill is dying. You care about that tree as well, after all. 

But then where is he supposed to spill his anger? His grief? Where does it all go?

Is this what love is? This agony?

Towa hasn’t ever really been certain about what “love” is. 

“Well, love can be a lot of things,” you had said, laying by his side on the hill with the tree. You were enraptured with the stars, but Towa couldn’t help but look at you. You were so much like a dandelion, your resilience and strength shining through despite your troubles. And you were cute like a Dandelion. Your voice was nice, too, like the wind that carried dandelion seeds across the world. “Like… there’s romantic love, platonic love, familial love, and all of that, you know? Even within romantic love, it can be a lot of different things.”

“Like what?” Towa asked, making you hum in thought.

“Uh… like soulmates, I guess? Some people meet their soulmates, some don’t. But even if you don’t meet your soulmate, you can still find someone you romantically love. Maybe you’ll meet your soulmate but not realize they’re your soulmate too. It’d be hard to tell, right?”

“When you meet your soulmate, it feels like getting struck by lightning. Did you know that? Have you felt it, Dandelion?” Towa’s words made you turn your head towards him, finally paying attention to him instead of the stars. Towa liked the way you looked at him.

“I don’t think I have,” you responded, truthfully. “But I’m not in a rush. I’m sure I’ll find the person I love, even if they’re not my soulmate. Hell, maybe anyone can be your soulmate. Maybe soulmates are made when you love and grow with each other. Who knows?” A yawn escaped your mouth as you finished your thought.

“Heh heh.” Towa’s eyes crinkled at the sight. “Are you tired, Dandelion? You’re so weak. It’s cute.”

“Hey!” you laughed. “I’m getting stronger, y’know.” Flexing your arm, you show off a small bit of the muscle you’ve been building up. Towa couldn’t help but be amused at your little display of strength, miniscule in front of his own power. It was hard not to find it cute that you tried to carry so many burdens on your shoulders despite your own weaknesses. Towa could only surmise that your resilience came from the love within you. He hoped that he could be a part of that love inside of you.

“Do you like me, Dandelion?” Towa inquired, smile bright. “Because I love you!”

Towa doesn’t fully know what love is – it’s an idea he’s always been in love with, but has no experience and understanding of. You’re the closest he’s ever gotten to potentially finding the answer he’s been looking for. But now you’re gone. He doesn’t know how he’ll understand love now.

He hugs the great tree on the hill, tears trickling down his face.

 When the little mermaid turned into seafoam, did she feel this way too?

Haru is always busy. He wakes up busy and sleeps busy. Nothing ever seems to stop for him, time constantly slipping through his fingers like sand no matter how fast he runs.

So why did time have to stop for you?

Even as Haru makes his rounds, Towa’s lightning in the backdrop as he works, he can’t seem to keep his mind busy enough to not think of you. Thoughts and memories of you run around his head again and again and again. They run so fast that he can’t seem to catch up.

So Haru does what he can do to maintain routine. At the very least, maintaining routine should help him adjust, shouldn’t it? But as he carries out his daily chores, all he can think about is how you’d help him around Jabberwock. How you would give him sweets to amp up his energy. How you loved Peekaboo like it was your own.

“Boo…” Peekaboo says, aware of the tenseness and wariness on Haru’s shoulders – aware of the fact you’re no longer there. Peekaboo’s tears make your death weigh even heavier on Haru’s heart as he cuddles the small beast in his arms.

“You sure are fond of the Honor Student, aren’t you, Peekaboo?” Haru had asked, looking at how Peekaboo cuddled up against your chest as you fed it. “You did nothing but bite me for the first three days after we met.”

You laughed brightly, releasing a sound that Haru was quite fond of. “The only reason Peekaboo’s not biting me is because it’s used to you, you know.”

“You reckon?” Haru responded, reaching out to pet Peekaboo who welcomed the touch.

“See? Look at that. Peekaboo loves you so much.” You gave Peekaboo a kiss on its cute fluffy forward, making the small anomalous animal make happy little squeaks. “You like your dad quite a bit, don’t you?”

The sight of you and Peekaboo together made Haru’s heart warm. He was constantly managing things by himself that he never really expected to find a stable support system. Towa, while competent, could be quite moody. Ren, too, while able bodied, refused to do a lot of the work. So, of course, work always fell on Haru’s weary shoulders. He never expected to find someone that could provide him the support he needed – like the other parent of Jabberwock. “Then you’re a bit like Peekaboo’s mother, eh?”

“I wouldn’t mind – not when my child is as cute as Peekaboo!” you replied brightly, patting Peekaboo’s back to allow it to burp. After releasing a burp too large for such a small animal, Peekaboo cuddled into you, satisfied. You hummed out a little tune as you rocked the little anomalous animal to sleep. Seeing you made a smile stretch across Haru’s face.

“Really learned the ropes here, haven’t you?” he said, gently ruffling Peekaboo’s fur. “Once we have a little cash to spare, I’ll buy you your own Jabberwock uniform!”

You’d no longer need it, though, Haru thinks, thumb brushing against the fabric of the Jabberwock uniform he had gotten for you. While you aren’t officially a part of the Jabberwock House, it’s hard not to feel like you belonged. 

But you’re no longer here – you no longer belong to the living, so how could you belong to Jabberwock? Haru wishes that you were still here, though. It hasn’t even been a day, but he already misses you. Even if you couldn’t help him out every day, just getting a text message boosted his spirits. Just thinking about the fact that you’d help him with Jabberwock duties and his personal issues helped him get through his cumbersome day.

You were someone he could depend on and he wanted to be someone you could depend on. But, in the end, he couldn’t protect you.

His responsibilities sit heavily on his shoulders.

Sho has always kept himself busy. Whether it’s cooking, playing sports, training, or something else, Sho has always liked to do something. Maybe that’s why he’s in the kitchen, cooking your favorite meal, while he tries to process what the Masterpiece Newscasters had prattled on about earlier.

You’re dead?

There’s no way. You can’t be.

He thinks back to the first case you worked on together, the one with Takeru. He had failed to protect you then and vowed he wouldn’t put you in the way of danger like that again. So how? Why?

Who killed you?

Sho slams a fist on the kitchen counter, lips pressed in a thin line. Frustration bubbles inside him as curses leave his lips in rapid succession.

You can’t be dead. You can’t. Not when you’ve been working so hard. Not when you’ve been doing everything in your power to survive. Not when you’ve inspired and helped him to the point that he still feels like he has to repay you. Not when he hasn’t done or told you everything he wants to.

“Fuck!” he yells, slamming his fists on the kitchen counter once more.

You jolted when he yelled a curse, slamming a fist on the wall.

“Shit, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” Sho said, sheepishly rubbing the nape of his neck. You were fun to tease and get reactions out of, but that didn’t mean he wanted to scare you.

“What’s the matter, Sho?” you asked, putting down your knife. “Tell me. I might be able to help you.”

“It’s nothing,” Sho started to say, before the look on your face made him stop. He snorted at how displeased you looked. “It’s just that some back order stuff got delayed. I won’t have enough forks for tomorrow.”

“Oh, is that it?” you asked, looking relieved. “I have a bunch of plastic forks back at the cathedral, actually. Do you want me to get them?”

“Huh? Why do you have a bunch of plastic forks laying around?”

“Uh… let’s just say that I had some ordering issues.” You waved a hand to dismiss the question. “Anyway! I can go get them.”

“Nah, let’s go together.” He shuffled around, before pulling out a helmet and tossing it to you. “Here, this helmet’s for you.”

“Oh, this one looks awesome!” you beamed, turning the helmet around in your hands. It was in your favorite color with your favorite patterns. Sho huffed out a laugh at your response. You were so cute sometimes.

“Glad you like it. C’mon.” He pushed the door to the food truck open with his foot. “Let’s go.”

“Okay!”

“After this,” he began, closing and locking the door once you were both out of the food truck, “I got some time today, so I’ll take you somewhere. Anywhere you wanna go.”

He still remembers the way your arms felt around his waist as you clung to him while he drove. He still remembers the way your eyes sparkled watching your favorite scenery. He still remembers how his heart pounded in his chest, the feeling of liberation lifting his spirits, as he drove through the streets with you clinging to him.

Your determination has always felt like freedom to Sho – it’s what inspired him to put more effort into his life at Darkwick. It’s what inspired him to take things more seriously. 

But maybe he should’ve taken things more seriously when he had the chance. Now that you’re gone, so is his chance to prove himself to you. You've gone somewhere too far, somewhere no one else can reach. 

This isn’t the freedom he had envisioned for you.

Whenever Sho gets too emotional, Leo is quick to make fun of him. It's stupid to get too riled up, Leo thinks. The world is boring and easy to manipulate, after all. Why should he get upset? 

Leo has always been able to get what he wants – he even became vice-captain, for fuck's sake. He basically solved Takeru’s case by himself while also trying to get rid of you because your stupid stigma enhancement might overshadow him. Sure, he couldn't get rid of you then but it's not like he can't try again, especially when you keep sticking your nose where it doesn't belong.

But this isn’t how he wanted to get rid of you. Who said you could just die? It’s so stupid. It’s so dumb that it makes Leo feel angry. You stupidly kept going despite his scathing remarks, despite people walking all over you and disrespecting you, so why are you dead? You’re not allowed to be dead.

You still need to help him use Haxs. You still need to be there so he can get a sense of validation when he watches your reactions. You still need to be here because out of everyone on campus, your presence is somewhat tolerable. Who’s he gonna comfortably boss around now?

“Ha ha. You were photobombing one of my pics so I uploaded it and said I had a new girlfriend,” Leo snickered as you brushed his hair. He didn’t think you’d be so good at it, but he found that his hair was smoother when you brushed it. “10K interacts in less than an hour. Suckers.”

“Is that okay?” you asked, making Leo roll his eyes.

“It’s fine, Honor Roll. In fact, shouldn’t you be grateful?”

“That’s not what I meant.” you huffed, tugging his hair lightly as you untangled a knot. It felt nice. “I mean, are you okay? Don’t influencers get harassed if they post about their significant others?”

Leo hated this whole goody-two-shoes act you had going on. Why were you so concerned about him? It wasn’t like he was particularly nice to you and it wasn’t like you necessarily treated him better than you would anyone else. Were you just stupidly nice in general? “Being an influencer means you get hate mail anyway,” he responded, closing out of his social media app. It wasn’t really all that interesting anymore.

“Hm… I see.” You became silent, which made Leo feel oddly annoyed. “People can really suck sometimes.”

Leo snorted. He had been anything but kind to you, really, so he thought you’d have already come to that conclusion a while ago. “It’s whatever. They’re all basic.”

He knew that this was the point where you could say something about him coming to you to talk (which he would never do, barf), but you don’t. Instead, you continue to thread your fingers through his hair gently.

He hated to admit it, but it was relaxing.

“Okay, I think I’m done,” you hummed, removing your hands from him. He noted that it was slightly colder when you left, but chalked it up to the poor heat regulation in Vagastrom. “Oh, and Happy Valentine’s Day, Leo! I got you something.”

Leo turned to you curiously as he combed his fingers through his hair, which definitely felt softer. He gingerly took your offering, before his eyes widened. “This is that ultra-spicy chocolate they only sell this time of year… I’m actually genuinely stoked right now.”

“I’m glad!” you beamed. It was a smile that Leo thought was slightly less ugly than usual. In general, you had been looking slightly less ugly lately, actually. That thought made him feel nauseous.

“Wanna make a bet, Honor Roll?”

You blinked at him, suddenly looking wary. He used to think that expression was so stupid, but now he thought it was kind of cute in a dumb kind of way. “What type of bet…?”

“A bet over which will come first – me falling for you, or you getting hooked on me.”

There’s no conclusive way to find out the end to this bet now, not with you gone. But he thinks you probably got hooked on him first – after all, it’s not like he’s thinks about your stupid laugh or dumb words of encouragement when he feels down or anything. Besides, as far as the internet’s concerned, you’re already dating him.

He briefly thinks about uploading a post about your death. Those suckers online would eat it up, sending him pity and sympathy. But the thought is so unappealing that he drops it. It’s not like your death is gonna matter to other people.

After all, life sucks and then you die, right? It’s just a part of living and he’s not pathetic enough to suddenly miss you. But there’s a disgustingly hollow feeling in his chest as his thoughts ring too loudly. You’re just an NPC – aren’t NPCs supposed to live quietly in the background while the main characters get their character development or whatever? 

Why couldn’t you just quietly live your life like that?

You’re so stupid.

Alan has always felt like a monster. His hands – his stigma – have crushed so many things until they’ve become nothing but dust. He’s never been proud of this strength, not when he causes so many to cower. 

He had expected you to cower, too, especially after he ripped Takeru’s ghost apart in front of you, so lost in the bloodlust. But you hadn’t. You stood by his side with as much care and compassion you could muster. When he wanted to keep looking into the case of Takeru’s ghost even after it was considered “finished” by Darkwick, you offered to help him even though you didn’t need to.

Alan’s never really been a conversationalist, so he didn’t expect you to spend time with him unless it was necessary. Still, he can’t say he dislikes having you around. Even when he’s tinkering with his car, it’s nice to have you sitting nearby, talking about your day.

You’re someone he appreciates – someone who does their best no matter how dire the situation is, someone who strives to do better. How could he not grow fond of how hard you work on a daily basis?

“I pat people on the head a lot? Didn’t notice,” Alan had said, after placing his hand on your hair. He really hadn’t realized – it was a force of habit, especially when you had done such a good job. “I’m doing it again?” he murmured, removing his hand, “...Sorry.”

“It’s nothing you have to be sorry for,” you responded, honestly. “It was just an observation.”

Despite knowing that his hands were akin to weapons, Alan couldn’t help but be drawn to touching you. Unlike him, you were soft and sweet. Still, he felt guilty. He hadn’t ever wanted you to feel uncomfortable, after all. 

“I actually kind of like it when you pat my head,” you said. “You’re really gentle with it, so it makes it feel like I did a good job!”

Alan would never describe his touch as gentle, but he felt like he could believe it if it came from you.“You’re doing a good job.”

“Thanks!” you responded, giving him a big smile that he couldn’t say he had seen from other people. Most other people here had cunning smiles or looked fearful of him. He liked how genuine yours looked. “I can keep trying my best because of you and the others, you know? Thanks a lot.”

Alan couldn’t really recall if he had done anything to receive this type of praise from you, but your words made him feel relaxed. He felt like you helped him feel more human. “I’m lucky I’ve got you,” he said, trying to express his gratitude. “As long as you’re with me, I feel like I won’t lose sight of who I am.”

But now you’re no longer here. It makes Alan scared of himself in a way that he’s never felt before. He had treated you gently, like you were made of glass, because he was scared he’d break you. Yet you weren’t ever scared of him breaking you. Being with you softened up his edges and made him feel more human than monster.

You’re no longer here, though.

Perhaps it has always been his fate to become a monster.

Kaito hasn’t stopped crying since he’s heard the Masterpiece Newscasters relay the news of your death. It hurts so bad. 

Kaito doesn’t think he’s ever been so badly hurt in his life. 

Kaito’s never been one to like pain, which is why he avoids training and going on missions. He wants to be normal and being a ghoul is abnormal. The non-ghouls around him cement that on a daily basis. Yet you’re one of the only non-ghouls who has always treated him kindly no matter what.

Even when he’s a pathetic idiot or a stupid coward, you’ve always been so patient and kind to him. Kaito has liked a lot of girls on a surface level, but his feelings towards you have evolved beyond that. He thinks you’re pretty and lovely and all of that, of course, but more than that, he thinks you’re an amazing person. Amazingly strong, amazingly hard working – you’re someone he values so deeply. Even when he knows he’s being foolish, you’re there by his side because you care about him, aren’t you? So how could he not grow to care about you? You’re the few people that he feels he can truly be close to.

“Whoa, when did it get so late?!” Kaito gasped, looking at the window outside. You two had been baking since noon, but ended up goofing off at some point, delaying the baking process. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you…”

“I’m still good!” you responded, before taking a big bite out of your cookie. While chewing your sweet treat, you offered Kaito a piece, too.

“Really?” Kaito asked, taking the cookie you offered him.

“Yeah, I like spending time with you.”

Your words made Kaito’s heart swell with so much gratitude and affection that he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself. He always considered himself lackluster in practically everything, but he felt like he could do better and try to be better because you were there. He couldn’t help the cheesy grin that came onto his face.

“Oh, look, Kaito! The stars look so pretty!”

Kaito looked over at the large window in the kitchen, watching as the stars twinkled in the night sky.

“It kind of looks like granulated sugar if you squint, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I can see it!” Kaito responded, before tentatively asking, “...Do you like stars?”

“I do,” you replied, taking another bite of your cookie. “Why d’you ask?”

“Oh, um,” Kaito hesitated, feeling a little bashful all of a sudden. You weren’t the type to just reject him harshly, but sometimes Kaito felt nervous in more intimate moments. When you genuinely seemed to return his affections (romantic or not) it made him feel valued as a human being, but it also made him nervous. “I was just wondering ‘cause there’s this place where you can see them really well, so I thought you’d want to go some time…”

“I would love to!” you beamed at him with a smile that could rival the sun. Kaito didn’t think the sun needed to shine if you were around. “You always do find the best places.”

Your words of validation made Kaito feel teary. You’d always been by his side, no matter what. You didn’t have to be his princess or anything like that. In fact, you’d saved him a lot of times before. Still… “I know I’m weak, and a coward,” he began, “But I really do want to become your knight in shining armor.”

In the end, Kaito never could become your knight in shining armor. Not when you’re gone like this. He couldn’t protect you and it tears him up inside. If he had trained and went on missions, would things be different? If so, why couldn’t the other ghouls help you instead? You deserve to be alive – you deserve it so much more than anyone else.

Kaito continues to wail inside his room, frustrated that he’s upset at other people not saving you – it’s him that couldn’t save you. It’s his fault. It’s all his fault and he’ll never be able to make it up to you.

He’ll never become your knight in shining armor.

For the first time since coming to Darkwick, Luca feels numb. He’s not sure how to cope with the fact that your death has come so suddenly. He had promised you that he’d help you absolve your curse, just like you promised him you’d help him subjugate a demon. Yet… you’re gone. You’re not here. You cannot keep your promise to him and he cannot keep his promise to you. It makes him feel hollow.

Luca has always felt that honesty was the best policy, which contributed to his straightlaced nature. He’s been called inconsiderate because of this and he’s lost people who could’ve been his friend. Him being a ghoul hadn’t helped, either, since he was the only ghoul back in Emrys Academy. When he came to Darkwick Academy, all he expected was to learn ways to subjugate a demon. Sure, it would’ve been nice to make friends, but Luca wasn’t going to get his hopes up. Not when he was so set on his goal to find his brother, at least.

Most aren’t understanding of Luca’s honesty and desire to bring back his brother, thinking his one track mind is a hassle. But you’ve never treated him like he was a nuisance. You’ve always greeted him brightly and worked with him. Whether you guys looked for information on curses and demons or practiced meditation for a clearer mind, you’ve been there.

But you’re not going to be there anymore, are you? Not when he’s meditating, not when he’s looking things up in the library, not when he needs the encouragement – you’re not going to be there.

He at least has hope that he’ll be able to bring his brother back. With you, he knows he can never bring you back. You’re gone, forever. You’ll never be there to experience anything with him anymore.

“We have experienced many joys and sorrows together since becoming friends. I’m very glad we met. I look forward to walking the road ahead with you,” Luca had said one day, while you two were meditating. While meditating, Luca couldn’t seem to clear his mind from thinking about you and all you’d done for him, so he thought it was only right for him to express it.

“Me too,” you responded, earnestly. Luca liked talking with you because you were candid with him, but patient. Even when he interrupted your meditation. “You’ve been a great ally to me, so thanks a lot, Luca.” You stretched your arms over your head, before staring at the setting sun. Sometimes, Luca wasn’t sure what went through your head.

“You’ve been a great ally to me as well.” Luca could scarcely remember people who tried as hard as you. He was duty-bound to a fault that he had trouble abandoning his mission, so he had trouble understanding people who wanted to run away. You were one of the few that came back despite wanting to run away. How could he not be impressed with you?

“That makes me glad to hear!” you replied, beaming brightly. Luca liked your smile. It radiated a warmth that reminded him of home. “Let’s keep doing our best!”

“Yes, let’s.” Luca watched as you kept your gaze on the setting sun. The soft colors of the sky were quite a sight to behold, but Luca wasn’t sure why it was distracting you.

“You know, Luca?” you called, as if you could read his mind. “They say that as long as you’re on Earth, you’ll see the same sun as the people you love. Isn’t that nice?”

Luca could be slow to pick up on things sometimes, but he wasn’t stupid. He could tell that those words were meant to console you after you’d been stripped from your family so suddenly (he’d come to understand the reasons for your desire to leave that day when you were working on your first case after many conversations with you). Yet, your words carried an undertone that implied that you told him about the sun to console him as well. Him, who was far from his family. Him, whose brother had gone missing. Him.

Those words were meant for him, but he cannot see the value in them now. Not when you’re no longer on this Earth. Not when you’re no longer alive. The sun still shines so brightly over Darkwick as if undeterred by your death. It pains Luca because time feels like it’s stopped for him, yet the world seems to move on. 

Luca closes his eyes, heart throbbing.

“I’m sorry… Yet again I have failed to protect the people most important to me…”

The first thing Tohma does when he hears of your death is smoke to calm his nerves. He’s counting down the minutes until Jin calls him, but Tohma can’t seem to shake the sudden burst of numbness that shoots through his veins.

He hates to admit it, but your death has shaken him up more than he’d like. Of course, he’ll have to hide it. He’ll have to get a hold of himself – especially since everyone else will be in a tizzy. But even though he knows this, he’s having a hard time controlling his own emotions.

You’re the only one who is stupidly earnest in everything you do, allowing him bits of amusement in his life. You’re the only one that’s helped him feel like he could forget everything he’s got to do and be. You’re the only one who tries to lift the burden on his shoulders. You’re the only one and it makes Tohma’s lungs feel empty.

What vermin had killed someone as lovely as you?

“Welcome to high society,” Tohma had said, taking your hand in his for a dance. “That outfit suits you well. With that poise, you’ll have no trouble fitting in here.” And he was right, you looked beautiful, like the belle of the ball.

“Aha, sure,” you murmured, wincing as you stepped on his foot. “Oh god, I’m so sorry! I’m still so bad at this…”

“Inexperience is not a crime,” Tohma responded, twirling you in his arms. “The important thing is choosing to not remain ignorant when you don’t know something.” While most would assume Tohma was talking about your dancing capabilities, you knew that he meant something beyond that, too. You were smart like that, after all, and so hardworking. You chose to not remain ignorant.

“You’re right.” You nodded. “I’m gonna do my best.”

“I look forward to your efforts,” he hummed. “And in times of difficulty, I hope you’ll turn to those around you for help. I will be there to keep you safe.”

Tohma takes another drag of his cigarette, watching as the smoke fills the room. He told you he’d protect you. He told you, didn’t he? And yet he couldn’t.

Perhaps a lowly servant like him could never have protected you in the first place.

At the news of your death, Jin’s first move is to slash though the expensive furniture in his room, unsure of where else to let his emotions explode. His hand tightens around his sword as he stabs his sword in the ground, visualizing whoever had the audacity to touch what is his.

How dare they hurt you? How dare they take you away from him?

You, who’s been so stupidly obedient to him without any expectation of riches or glory. You, who’s been stupidly kind to him despite his terse nature. You, who’s been by his side without complaint as long as he ordered it. 

“...I was too active yesterday. Massage me, servant,” Jin muttered, rolling onto his stomach to give access to his back. Without a word of complaint, you do as you’re told, though Jin couldn’t say you could be a masseuse anytime soon. “...What the hell was that? Put some muscle into it.”

“What? I’ve been told I give really good massages, though.”

Jin frowned. “From?”

“My dad.”

Jin snorted out a laugh. “Try harder.”

“Fine, fine,” you muttered, stretching your arms in front of you. “I’m gonna put my back into it!” Jin wondered if you’d actually be able to give him a proper massage, but the effort in itself was amusing (cute, even). Still, regardless of your massages, it was nice to have your hands on his back. He liked being close to you. “How was that?”

“It was fine.”

“What!” you exclaimed, incredulous, before grumbling, “You give a guy a massage and all he does is say it’s bad. Not even a word of thanks.”

With how you were yapping, you must’ve gotten quite comfortable with him. Jin couldn’t say he disliked it. “Never learn, do you?” he asked, rolling onto his back so that he can pull you on to the bed next to him. “I don’t take you being here for granted. I know it won’t last forever.”

Your eyes widened. “Huh?”

“That’s all I’m going to say.”

“Wha– you’re so–” you huffed, before shaking your head, seemingly pleased. “Fine, you win, your majesty. I suppose it's time for this servant to leave.” You made a move to get up, but Jin stopped you.

“I’ve got plans early tomorrow. Your house is too far. Stay here tonight.”

He still can’t forget the way you looked that night – bashful, sweet. He wanted to lock you in with him so that he could have you for as long as possible. Maybe he should’ve. He never took your existence for granted, valuing every second he’s spent with you, but when he said that he knew that your relationship wouldn’t last forever, he never thought it’d be because someone killed you. The thought makes hot rage course through his veins again.

He’s going to kill whatever bastard took you from him.

.

.

.

Faintly, your sage’s ring glows on your finger. 

It asks you a question it’s asked you many times before: “What do you desire?”

You answer the question exactly as you’ve answered it before: “I want to go back.”

The sage ring glows brighter in response.

You wake up on a train.

Your phone beeps.

[aventurineswife]

Following up from the post when the characters were sick, what if the reader got sick as well and now they're both sick?

When Weakness Brings Us Closer

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Sampo x Reader, Sick Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Caring for Each Other, Mutual Vulnerability, Slight Whump, Domestic Moments.

Warnings: Depictions of Illness, Mentions of Overworking or Stress as a Trigger for Illness, Emotional Vulnerability, Possible Light Angst (emotional moments, feelings of guilt, or unspoken tension).

The opulent room, filled with Aventurine’s usual flair for the dramatic—velvet curtains, golden ornaments, and dimmed lights—felt oddly claustrophobic. Both of you were confined to the lavish couch, a pile of tissues growing steadily on the ornate coffee table.

“You’re an amateur at this, you know,” Aventurine teased, his voice hoarse but laced with his usual wit. Despite his own flushed cheeks and drooping posture, he gestured grandly, a half-empty cup of tea in one hand. “This is why I warned you about staying too close to me when I was under the weather.”

“You were the one who wouldn’t stop bragging about your ‘impenetrable immunity,’” you shot back, sniffling.

He laughed, though it turned into a hacking cough. Aventurine’s usual flamboyance was muted by the cold, but his sharp eyes still held a spark of mischief.

“Well,” he rasped, leaning back dramatically, “if we’re both doomed to misery, we may as well make the most of it. Cards, perhaps? Or do you prefer a rousing debate about my unparalleled brilliance?”

You rolled your eyes but found yourself smiling despite your exhaustion. In this vulnerable moment, Aventurine’s charm wasn’t just an act—it was his way of making you forget the heaviness of your shared misery.

The room was unnaturally quiet, save for the occasional sound of Sunday stirring a cup of herbal tea. Both of you sat in the dimly lit chamber, his halo casting a soft glow.

“Rest,” Sunday murmured, his voice gentle but insistent as he handed you the tea. His usually immaculate appearance was slightly disheveled—his scarf hung loose, and his golden eyes seemed dimmer. Yet, even in sickness, he radiated calm.

You sipped the tea, grateful for its warmth, though your own fever made it hard to feel much else. “You’re one to talk,” you replied weakly, gesturing at his pale complexion. “You should be resting too.”

“I will,” he assured, though his actions betrayed him as he began fluffing your pillows. “Your health is more important.”

The care in his actions made your heart ache in a way no illness could. Despite his own state, Sunday couldn’t seem to stop prioritizing you.

“You’re stubborn,” you said, lying back against the pillows with a small smile.

“And you’re in no position to argue,” he countered, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles before he settled into the chair beside you. “Let’s both rest now.”

The room was a mess—half-empty cups, discarded tissues, and an overturned bottle of cough syrup bore witness to Sampo’s less-than-stellar sickbed manner.

“See? Told you we’d be in this together,” Sampo said with a grin, his voice raspy but still filled with his signature charm. He leaned against the headboard of the bed you now shared, a blanket draped haphazardly over his lap.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” you muttered, glaring at him from your cocoon of blankets.

“Oh, come on,” he said, reaching over to nudge you lightly. “It’s not so bad. At least now you have me to keep you entertained.”

“Entertained? You’ve done nothing but complain about the soup I made!”

He chuckled, though it quickly turned into a coughing fit. “Hey, I’m just saying, next time we’re sick, I’ll make the soup. I’ve got this great recipe—secret family tradition, you know.”

You groaned, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips. Sampo, even at his most annoying, had a way of making the worst situations bearable.

The Astral Express was unusually still, the usual hum of activity replaced by the sound of sneezes and groans. Dan Heng sat cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, his spear leaning against the wall for easy access even in his weakened state.

“You should be lying down,” you said, your voice scratchy as you shifted under the covers.

Dan Heng shook his head, his quiet determination as unyielding as ever. “You need the bed more than I do,” he replied, though his pale complexion and tired eyes betrayed his stubbornness.

“Dan Heng,” you said softly, “you’re not going to be much help to anyone if you don’t rest.”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to yours. With a reluctant sigh, he leaned back against the wall, finally allowing himself a moment of reprieve.

“I just don’t like being… useless,” he admitted quietly, his stoicism cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of vulnerability.

“You’re not useless,” you assured him, reaching out to brush his hand lightly. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

Dan Heng’s lips curved into a faint smile, and for the first time since the sickness had struck, the weight between you both felt a little lighter.

[strawberrycrushes]

"Ei..." You mumble softly, letting the back of your fingers graze her cheek. "Ei, I'm sorry. Please cheer up now. Haven't you been upset for long enough already?"

Meanwhile your girlfriend huffs and turns her head, swatting away your hand pettily.

"Ei," You chuckle, "It was an accident, I swear."

Ei whips her head around with a pout on her face. "How can it be an accident? I wrote my name on the box!"

You give her an apologetic smile. The Fontainian treats she had been looking forward to enjoying, it was true that you finished them off, but... "I'm truly sorry Ei, you know I am, but the box only had three sweets left. I didn't think you'd mind this much."

Ei bit the insides of her cheek. Saying it aloud like that really did make her seem quite childish. But still! Those were limited edition, and she was planning on savouring each and every bite.

Nonetheless, she thought as she stole a glance at you, perhaps you had been apologetic enough.

"I will forgive you." Ei begun, but raised a finger up just as your face was about to blossom into a bright smile. "On one condition."

You looked at her curiously, "What condition is that?"

"You have to bake me your brownies again." She spoke resolutely and you blinked. "That's it?"

Ei nods, "I have judged your crimes to be of little consequence in the grand scheme and have as such, decided to let you off with a light sentence." She says grandly and you smile.

"My god truly is merciful." You kiss her hand.

---------

The next time Ei finds you, you're hard at work in the kitchen and she feels a bubble of guilt surface inside of her. Her demand for your hand baked treats seemed fair while she was giving it out, but now that she thinks about it, don't you have to work super hard to make things like that?

Having no experience when it comes to these matters, the efforts behind these common, menial tasks were rarely on the forefront of her mind. So when she saw your focused expression, the impulsivity of her foolish display caused her cheeks to flush deeply.

She approached you from behind and wrapped her arms around your waist, hooking her chin on your shoulder.

"Dear..." She gently grabs your hand and your attention altogether, "I apologise for my...less than appropriate behaviour earlier. You don't have to actually go through with this. I was being ridiculous."

Your eyes widen before a sweet expression dawns your face and you shake your head helplessly, resuming your prior actions. "I'm making these for you because I want to, not because you 'ordered' me to or something. Seriously, you have such ridiculous worries at times Ei." You chuckle and lightly flick her nose, causing her to scrunch her face. "Even still, I should at least help out right?"

You pause.

"Ei...the last time you helped out you burned the kitchen halfway through. And that was when I asked you to boil water for me."

Ei straightens her back as her pride prickles, "I have no idea what happened there. I looked away for barely a second and then..."

You laugh and press a kiss to the bridge of her nose. "It's alright, the incident was hilarious enough to make up for itself in any case." You sigh, relaxing against her hold as your movements slow down.

Ei had always been someone quite self conscious of her actions. It was difficult to nurture her pride and inexperience alongside one another, especially since her skill was really only deeply rooted in the battlefield. Even despite that fact she still tried to handle you with love unfamiliar to her, spoiling you to no end with gifts and affection galore. Her efforts always made your heart skip a beat, yet as her lover you were not immune to the urge of spoiling her as well.

"Ei." You suddenly cupped her face, catching her momentarily off guard as you kissed her, "Don't worry about me so much. This is a small thing, and I want to do it for you." You speak firmly in such close quarters that Ei feels a sense of warmth blooming from inside her, causing her legs to go light.

Suddenly you remove Ei's arms from yourself and walk her out of the kitchen.

"Now shoo." You tease, "I have work to do. Come back to me in say...half an hour more. I'll be done by then I'm sure."

Ei turns around, "But-"

"No buts." You finish off with a laugh, cupping your face with her hand. "I want to treat you. I ate your sweets so it's only fair that I pay you back with something sweet in return. Unless..." you trail off ominously, "You're saying that you actually just don't want them."

"No!" Ei's eyes widen and you laugh at how quickly she changes her tune. "I'll let you get to work." She straightens up and dusts off her clothes, quickly walking off.

Archons you loved that woman.

[tobylix-blog]

Southern winds - Legolas x f!Reader

Content & Warnings: slight angst, memory loss Word count: 3.5k Summary: Legolas joins king Elessar during his travel through recently reclaimed lands of Harondor. He is met with the views of the vast steppe, poverty and some old Harad magic. A/n: This turned out quite differently from how I initially envisioned, so I am pretty much desperate for feedback in comments, asks or dms. P.S. Requests are open

Even though Hísimë [1] is considered to be the fading season, usually accompanied by first significantly colder days throughout the Middle-earth, South from Poros river it seems to be yet another month of autumn when days and nights differ in lighting less than in weather. The Harad road goes south taking smooth turns around rocky hills, never showing one's eyes more than necessary. But a traveler equipped with a fine cloak and a good flask of water feels welcomed by the vast steppe slowly turning to desert.

Riders left Minas Tirith over a fortnight ago. Their cloaks were black, making them similar to some crisp-edged shadows casted by a weird flock of birds. Elessar had made it clear that he wished to remain in the front of the whole group, leading the way rather than following the fame of his name. And all the more so he wished since he had learned that Legolas wanted to join him for this mission.

«These lands are pleased to witness new people,» Legolas mentioned gesturing at some small rodent that had been running along the road with them for a minute.

Aragorn smirked in response. «Your eyes are only getting sharper over the years.»

He reached into one of the bags and pulled out a hardtack. Riding closer to the edge of the road he crumbled it and scattered along the path. He slowed down the horse to watch as the animal reached the breadcrumbs and began feasting upon them.

«These lands need a helping hand. It has always been difficult for people here, but living under the constant threat from both Corsairs of Umbar and Haradrim is beyond hard,» Aragorn sighed, catching up with Legolas.

«The chance will present itself soon. Before long we will reach Forambar. I can hear the voices in the distance,» the elf replied.

«Shall we take a turn here then? Merchants were not so clear about the path.»

«Not yet, we might need to ride some more.»

Aragorn trusted Legolas' hearing more than any advice or guidance and it paid off grandly. The elf led the riders through an almost invisible path twisting between the stony hills. As they reached the highest point they could see Forambar before them. Just a village like many other in Harondor. A bunch of rickety huts and tents scattered across a narrow valley. The only notable thing about Forambar was that it was the closest settlement to Ithilien, and thus Gondor.

As the king and his entourage approached the settlement, many of its inhabitants came out to see. Some were wary of people in fine armor with the White tree on their chests. Others seemed rather curious about the unexpected guests. No matter the expressions of tanned faces, their eyes glimmered with one and the same question 'What do you bring here?'

Aragorn halted the horse halfway through the village and waited. The sparse crowd filled with whispers, swayed like a wave, and a man emerged from within it. He wasn't particularly tall or strong, but his clothes appeared finer than those of others and suggested his higher status.

«What brings us the honor to welcome guests from Gondor?» the man inquired cautiously.

«It is my will to pay visit to all settlements South from Poros and bring whatever help people of Harondor might need for I am the King, Elessar Telcontar, and these lands are once more part of my kingdom according to peace treaty with Haradrim,» Aragorn spoke, his voice clear and loud above the quiet valley. In the golden rays of the sunset behind his back he seemed a regal monument of himself.

For a moment everyone remained silent and motionless. Then the man in front, chief of Forambar, who couldn't tear his eyes away from Aragorn, got down on one knee bowing his head lowly to the king. The crowd behind him swayed once more and followed the example. Elders bowed with respect, young ones knelt.

Legolas observed the scene of recognition with mild curiosity and understanding. He knew well enough what kind of a king his friend was, that Aragorn deserved every bit of this esteem. Among all gathered people the elf noticed only one figure that remained unbent. A young woman standing in a narrow passage between tents – you. Your dark skin glowed like antique bronze in sunlight. Your hair cut unusually short was mostly covered by a scarf, its long ends hanging over your shoulder. But what caught his eyes more than a faint hint of a bow that you portrayed were your ears with undoubtedly pointy ends.

______________________________________________________________

Though Forambar had little to no resources to provide for the king and his entourage, two tents were momentarily set up on height above the village. There was something positively romantic in the way one could leave the comforting warmth of a tent and be so completely enveloped in cool night air and bright glow of stars above.

Before the dusk gave in to the darkness completely, Damon, chief of Forambar, visited Aragorn. He asked you to come along as well. When you entered the tent together he bowed deeply to the king once more, however you only bowed your head respectfully. Damon spoke quietly and verbosely, doubts and uncertainty clear in his tone as he asked for what service he could accomplish for the Great King.

You stopped him at once, as you put your hand on the chief's shoulder. «My king, let this man go back to his family. His heart is pained at the thought of not fulfilling your wish, but he can hardly do any more than he has already done,» you suggested.

Aragorn nodded in agreement. «Which is enough. Go home, friend, and let your heart be at peace.»

The chief bowed respectfully and departed hastily, leaving you behind in a company of the king and-

«Legolas of the Woodland realm,» you nodded to the elf who stood further from the entrance, almost completely covered by the shadows. «Our lands cannot remember the times when elves set their feet upon it. Truly has the new age come.»

Legolas spared you a long observant glance. He took in your gestures, unhurried and firm, your clothes, hanging loosely around your body, your piercing gaze and yet again those pointy ears. «If it were not for your words, I would have sworn you were one of Edhil. Who are you?»

«My name here is Morentir. I am the watchman in the north,» you replied and noticed a silent question arising. «North of Harad, that is. My ancestors came from beyond Harnen and brought their knowledge long ago. We have stayed in these lands ever since, grateful to them and to people, who accepted us.»

«There are more watchmen? What exactly is it that you keep your eyes on?» Aragorn inquired, stepping to the side.

«Harondor. From the shores to the mountains, we see everything. Every merchant taking the road, every nomad crossing the steppe, every shadow forming under the sun. We search for dangers and fortunes. We guide people away from ones and towards the others. A dozen and a half watchmen by the number of settlements across the land. That is who we are,» you said. «And that is why I have to be here tonight. If you wish to visit all of the villages in Harondor, you will need our guidance, my king.»

As you spoke to Aragorn, elaborating on the ways of the steppe, Legolas observed you silently. He watched how you unwrapped your scarf and laid it out on the floor showcasing the map embroidered on delicate fabric. He listened intently to your voice, savoring a thick layer of accent and arrhythmic pace, as you explained their further travel. He found something calming in the way candlelight casted shadows across your hands as they were gliding over the surface of the map.

When you got up and left the tent a good hour later, it was as if he woke up from a dream. Warmth and serenity of comfortable silence suddenly felt suffocating to Legolas. He followed the gust of fresh wind from the entrance and found himself under a vast carpet of stars. Piercing cold wind greeted him outside and a piercing gaze of your eyes. «Was there something amiss?»

Legolas considered your words for a long second before letting a faint smile touch his lips. Your question landed a precise strike to the feeling that bothered him. «Like a moon from the sky on a cloudy night.»

«I didn't know whom I had made this for, until tonight. But it seems you have come in time to relieve me of the doubts,» you murmured, passing him a folded garb from your bosom. Under close inspection it turned out to be a thin chemise, soft to the touch and intricately embroidered. Legolas' fingers followed the pattern on the front making out unfamiliar ornaments. «Wear it when your heart feels right.»

______________________________________________________________

Southern spring turned out to be even worse than the winter. By the end of Súlìmë [2] nights remained almost as cold, but during the day sun shone relentlessly, heating up Gondorians in their dark cloaks and armor like stones on the road. Many riders chose to take off their helmets and some piled their armor in the wagons following them. Since the time when they entered Harondor during late autumn the lands proved to be relatively clear of dangers that needed to be met with steel. Following the routes shown by watchmen, they wouldn't have met any of those, had Aragorn not chosen to teach a lesson to some runaway Haradrim bandits.

At the thought of that encounter Legolas involuntarily raised a hand to his chest. One of the throwing knives had come right below his hand as he was drawing the bow. That would make one unsightly scar if it wasn't for the shirt. He thought it was but a chance at first. Though the longer he spent observing the embroidery the more convinced he became that there was more to this thing than just beautiful craft.

«It is a woven shield. Harad magic,» Luintir, watchman from Urgon, confirmed when Legolas showed her the garb. «Well-worn one would cost one a good flock of sheep South from Harnen.»

The elf didn't care for sheep or gold, but knowing just how valuable the gift was took him by surprise. You who hadn't known him before gave him a thing of such power and worth. The knowledge only made his thoughts circle back to you more often.

In the beginning it was only natural to occasionally reflect on a sudden encounter and a gift. But since the middle of winter Legolas could barely name a few nights when his mind wouldn't be filled with thoughts of a woman that he only met once. It only got worse since they left Urgon and turned back North on Yestarë [3]. Weather changes didn't do enough to get his mind off you as the elf didn't suffer nearly as much as other riders.

And now as they finally were approaching Forambar Legolas felt a stinging wish to rush forward, get you away from the prying eyes and ask dozens of questions swarming in his head.

______________________________________________________________

Damon greeted the king and his men ceremoniously. Clearly the first wagons with goods from central Gondor had already reached the village in winter and the people were grateful for the help.

The stay wasn't supposed to be long this time either, so Legolas took the chance to roam along the path to the North of the village, where your hut stood just a little distanced from the rest. Small and sturdy it seemed in the dry last year's grass. He heard you before you showed from behind the building. Your steps rustled against the ground like water whispers against river banks.

«What brings you here, noble guest?» you asked him. The question rang clear through the cool air, but remained unanswered. Legolas appeared completely taken aback, his eyes wide, eyebrows drawn together, lips parted. There were changes in you, such that should not occur nor within a year, neither after a longer time. He clenched the shirt he held on his hands. You noticed it and reached out. «Was it your wish to ask about it?»

Legolas looked down at your hand, then back up at your face. «Your eyes are black.»

«As they should be. It would be a waste to be called Morentir and bear eyes of a different shade,» you replied amused by his direct statement. He only shook his head. That couldn't be true. In the name of Valar it couldn't be, he remembered clearly that your eyes were not black when you looked at him standing just outside of the king's tent.

«You Sindar are truly a mystery,» you noted, turning to the side. You could sense that this elf meant no harm, but his actions were rather strange. The turmoil in his heart was obvious to your eyes yet the reasons remained unclear. When you felt his fingers tracing the edge of your ear, you recoiled unconsciously. «By what custom would you do that?!»

Legolas' expression filled with painful confusion. «My eyes betray me... I could swear... I mistook you for one of our kind when I've seen your ears. Shaped as beech leaves were they.»

«People don't tend to have such ears,» you objected, slightly annoyed. For some reason the graceful creature before your eyes irritated you like an insect.

«I remember it clearly as day. This chemise reminded me with every touch, I wouldn't forget even if I wished to... So different you were that night. Same voice, same woman, yet so much changed.» The more he looked at you the more distinctions he could see, some subtle, others obvious. «How could that be?»

You sighed, feeling his words weighing heavily on your mind. «Go back, guest.»

Your voice struck him as a slap across the face. «Does your gift have no meaning? I learned of its value, I thought of it daily, but it holds no importance to you?»

«I do not recognize you and neither do I care,» you retorted and repeated firmly. «Go back.»

Legolas stood frozen as if a blade and not your words pierced through him. You watched something crumble inside him so loudly that it was visible in his striking blue eyes. It was so clear that you had to turn away for it to not consume you as well. For the first time in many years you cursed your role as a watchman when sensations of elf's struggle washed over you. Being able to see and hear all that happened many miles away from Forambar had never been as painful. «Go back,» you repeated once more before hiding away from him behind the door.

______________________________________________________________

By the middle of Víressë [4] Legolas crossed the Old Forest Road and entered the gentle shade of the Great Greenwood. Before long he took notice of a squirrel following in the same direction as him and fished out a few nuts for it from a bag. As his fingers grazed the inner side of the bag he noticed a different sort of texture. Upon further inspection that turned out to be sheets of paper folded multiple times.

Legolas pulled out the whole pile and looked at the outermost page first. It was filled with messy writing, black ink letters scattered across the surface. It took him a few whole moments before he managed to make sense of the words.

«Skies be good your mind will find peace by the time this reaches you for I must confess,» then followed a blot size of a fat bug and more erratic writing, «the truth. Let it be just the truth.»

«I am Morentir, one of the watchmen in the north. That means more than standing on guard somewhere high as people do in other lands. We watch over the entire Harondor with three dozen eyes. That is more than a living man can do. But when our ancestors came from the South, they brought knowledge with them. Spells that allow us to see and hear more than the best hunters can. Magic that makes us see whatever the others witness as clearly as if their eyes belong to us.»

There was a wide gap before the next paragraph just like a heavy sigh.

«This power has... a price. A cost that must be paid. Our hair is short, but even shorter is our memory. We live to guard and guide our people, but we don't live the lives of people. We forget easily and willingly, each day starting anew. We remember the lands and names, spells and runes, but none of us can say for sure what they look like. Sometimes we wake up with a different face, but we're unable to notice the difference.

That must have been what scared you then. Forgive me for that.

And truly did I not recognize you, Legolas. For that I do not seek your forgiveness. I only ask you to read the other page if your soul stirs from the memory or burn it if your heart is at peace.»

Legolas switched his attention to the other sheet without giving it a second thought. His eyes got used to the handwriting already and he easily picked out the words this time. The page seemed to be torn from a journal.

«The day was calm. The north wind brought good omens and guests. The king, Elessar of house Telcontar, who claimed our lands back from Harad and Umbar. He came with only a few of his men. And brought along a friend from afar. An elf. Long has it been, since we heard of elves, even longer since any of us had seen one of them. Legolas is his name. Son of the high king from the Woodland realm. He found the path to Forambar that our people use, that is worthy of respect. And the land liked him more than even some of our children. Truly do elves have their way with nature.

He stands tall and proud, he walks weightlessly and swiftly, he speaks eloquently but rarely. Everything in him is hardly a creation of the ground, but rather that of night air or flourishing forests. I take it that others notice but a half of what my eyes catch though. Therefore I should say more...

Long is his hair and light like the rising sun. The wind plays with it like with the most expensive of silks. His skin is fair, so unlike our people here. But he doesn't seem pale, rather the opposite – life and will is strong in him, so much is evident. His eyes are so blue that the sky seemed embarrassed for the rest of the evening, blushing with sunset... And I blushed with it when his eyes left mine.

The woven shield is asking to be gifted. I can feel the stirring of its power beneath the fabrics. Out of all possible outcomes that one is hardly predictable. But the omens are good. The elf deserves the Gift, and my soul would be free to roam the land further this way.»

There was another gap, wide like a whole paragraph. Next line began with a blot, then a few words were crossed out, another blot and finally something decipherable.

«Good be the skies. What did they send him here for? The Gift is his. I gave it away, the one I made. So easily like it was but the first of many promises.» Something crossed out again. «The omens were good. So said all of us. But it pains me to think that the path may not take him back to Forambar. He took the Gift, nothing more. He doesn't know of our customs, he doesn't seek for our ways, he doesn't belong despite the way grass catches on his boots.» More crossed out. «I will read the spell before the new moon comes. I can hardly find peace of mind if his shadow overtakes mine so easily. He may take the Gift, but not me. My watch is not over yet.»

The words by the edge were crossed out poorly, and Legolas could read them through the thin strokes of ink. «Why would his eyes be so blue? Good be the winds I forget them soon.»

______________________________________________________________ 1 – quenyan equivalent to November. Here and further I refer to months from the King's Reckoning 2 – March 3 – first day of the year, approximately spring equinox 4 – April

[cicfics]

Reread Whiskey Knot. Still astounded by your talent. Any plans to write a novel?

Hi, anonymous-scoundrel! This message feels like a sign because I set myself a goal for posting an update to Whiskey Knot at the end of this month (it's Hallowe'en themed), and I've been keeping at it. But I've been fighting thoughts like, who would even want to read this damn thing anymore? So you truly choked me up with this note. Thanks so much for still reading me, and writing to tell me so. That's so nice of you and I appreciate the support more than I can properly express. I don't have any plans to write a novel, no. I don't think I'm a natural novelist, which is a silly thing to admit to as a complete maximalist when it comes to fic. NHI is like 40 years long, it's like...two novels, lol. But nah, no novels at the moment. If something occurred to me, though-- and I do find inspiration can occur just when you've decided something isn't for you after all-- I'd ride that wild horse as far as it would take me. That's more or less my creative goal, always, just be ready to receive the flash and when it hits, be carried away by it. Like a certain young horseman of our acquaintance is carried off by true love... XXXXXXXXX From Wood II

Before Leia could process his smirk, let alone those damned dimples in his lower back that deepened with each stretch and flex, Han pulled his shirt taut around the salvaged wood and tied the sleeves in a sturdy knot. Then he straightened, bundle under his right arm, and extended his left rather grandly toward the back porch.

“Miss Organa, I thank you for a lovely evening.” Mannerly as any fine city fellow, Han bowed slightly to Leia. “May I see you home?”

Schoolmaster Thatcher wouldn’t have believed it, but Leia found herself speechless. Disarmed of all except a huff, and even that wasn’t proper exasperation, more the hapless expulsion of someone trying to keep up in a mad footrace. The man was half-naked! Dazed, Leia let Han escort her the short distance to the back porch, then up its rickety stairs to the kitchen door. She tried the latch, but the jamb stuck tight. Wrestling the finicky door open in front of Han felt like an impossible indignity tonight, and so Leia turned, pressing her spine and palms to the oak, and looked up at him.

“It’s well-shy of a full cord.” Han set the parcel of wood on the battered potting table that sat beside the back door. “But enough to get your coffee on in the morning, at least. And I’ll be along a little later, with the rest.”

His audacity! “Were you invited?” Han's gaze blazed into hers; his voice came soft and serious. “I won’t come to you unwanted.” Something in his expression took her back to Falcon Ridge: the dappled leaf-light, the freshwater kisses. The way he'd moved his lips over her soaked chemise from one breast to the other, deliberate and wild and tender. The smooth solidity of his wet bare shoulders.

Leia’s own voice left her as a whisper. “What if I don’t even open the door.”

Leaning down and so close to her that Leia could see the gooseflesh stippling his tanned shoulders—well of course, you ninny, she thought, it’s October—Han whispered back. “Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff, Princess.” He placed his palm to the door above her, his eyes lowering to her lips, and the heat Leia felt tinting her cheeks seemed to streak everywhere in her at once, so fast and consuming that she might have been tinder. But he didn't kiss her. Instead Han pushed on the jammed panel, hard enough to raise the rope of a vein from his bare upper arm. The door popped open. “This ain’t no brick house.”

There was a last crackling instant of eye contact and then Han stepped back a genteel board-length, the proper gentleman again. Leia stepped backward herself, over the threshold, and he smiled at her, oh, that small secret smile that squeezed his eyes, and it was only once she’d closed her door against him that Leia let herself breathe in. Han. His cedar smell, his shirt in her arms, heavy with firewood. In the dark house she pressed her forehead to the door. Pressed her fingers to her lips, still warm and swollen from Han’s own, and found she was smiling, too.

[reverend-dog]

The Tower

Was this death? Stone wondered.

If death were oblivion, no. He still had awareness – the mere fact that he posed the question proved that much.

The pain and stiffness which had been his constant companions no longer plagued him. Was this his reward?

Stone determined to test this new state. He opened his eyes.

A bedroom, grandly furnished. A canopied bed, nightstand, vanity, bath large enough to share, plush rugs and elegant drapes. Only the door made a jarring note, heavy and bound in iron. Somehow, Stone realized he knew the precise weight and sturdiness of the door. He could actually feel how it balanced on its hinges, like the way his arms hung from his shoulders.

That revelation spurred an avalanche of sensory epiphanies. Stone looked down on the room, as if perched between the wall and the ceiling, at the precise angle to view the entire chamber. The curtains on the windows and the bed’s canopy held sensation for him as well, and he knew that he could spread them as easily as he might spread his fingers. Deeper within himself he felt… spaces. With no more effort than turning his eyes, Stone’s vantage changed, and he overlooked another room, this one a dining hall. Another shift, and he saw a kitchen, and felt the presence of every utensil and appliance therein. A third revealed a library, and the scent of the books came clearly to him.

Understanding flooded Stone, and he howled and shook in anguish. A shriek from the bedroom answered him, and he turned his gaze there again. He had not noticed the weight that pressed on the bed, but felt it now as it shifted. With an automatic effort he drew the canopy, and stared at the woman who huddled in the middle of the bed, wide eyes darting to each corner of the room.

Stone knew the woman at once. Not only did she feature in every major celebration and parade, but her likeness appeared in many portraits and statuary throughout Sai Arcona. In this moment, though, she wore a simple but elegant nightgown in place of her usual finery. Stone fathomed the reason for his new state, but that made it no less a purgatory.

The woman sprang from the bed and dashed to one of the curtained windows. Stone drew the curtains aside, and she stopped short with a gasp. “Who’s there?” she demanded, and spun to search the room.

Stone wondered if he could speak, then remembered his cry that had presumably awakened her. “My name is Stone, Your Grace,” he intoned. The timbre of his own voice surprised him. As a man, he had spoken in reedy, nasal tones. Now, he rumbled and resonated. “My apologies for frightening you.”

Her Grace turned in a slow circle, though the arrangement of the furnishings left no cranny to hide. “Where are you?”

“With all due respect, Your Grace,” Stone let his own despair leak into his words, “You are within me. I am the tower.”

“What?” she blurted. “How is this --” She cut herself off, and nodded as she put the puzzle together. “Tillie,” she growled.

“Just so,” Stone confirmed. “My mistress has imprisoned us both.”

“You serve her,” Her Grace charged.

“I was bound to her,” Stone qualified. “In my youth, I sought her aid, and entered into a bargain. Fool that I was, I did not read the terms. The price was service for the remainder of my life.” He growled, and the sound reverberated though him. “It seems she found a way to extend those terms.”

“She can’t keep me here,” Her Grace affirmed. “Once the Crown Regent hears of this --” She interrupted herself again, and sick realization stole over her face. “The Crown Regent,” she whispered. “Of course. And Captain Romund. Both of them would have to be involved.” She stumbled to the extra-wide window sill that served as a bench, and collapsed onto it. “I’m fucked,” she muttered, eyes aimed at the floor.

Stone considered the situation. “Perhaps,” he temporized, “not so much. Tillie’s fatal flaw is her arrogance about her powers. You, I wager, have enjoyed the finest education available. I have years of experience understanding Tillie. Between the two of us, I feel confident we can find a solution to both our predicaments.”

Her Grace lifted her face. “You would help me?” she wondered. “Wouldn’t that violate your contract?”

“My contract,” Stone explained, “ended with the death of my body. Tillie may have trapped my spirit, but my will is still my own. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to foil her in this intrigue, especially after abetting so many for so long.”

Her Grace nodded, her expression brighter. “All right,” she agreed, “where do we start?”

“Two options,” Stone replied. “The kitchen, or the library.”

“Kitchen!” Her Grace exclaimed. “My stomach’s about to collapse in on itself!”

“Then, if Your Grace will follow me,” Stone invited, and opened the bedroom door.

“Yasmin,” Her Grace supplied. “Call me Yasmin.”

As he guided Yasmin downstairs to the kitchen, Stone felt an unfamiliar warmth within his cold stone body: hope.

[gretchensinister]

Ask and ye shall receive 👀👀👀 my words: receive (lol), serendipity, magic

Receive

Note: This is in the Garnetting AU. But SkekGra and UrGoh don't know that in this little fic about their experience of the Great Conjunction.

~*~

When the light comes, they whispered to each other, we will accept whatever it brings us as a gift. We will trust, and our hands will be open. We will receive whatever fills them with joy. And they looked into each other’s eyes and thought: even if that gift be death.

They did not want the gift to be death, not exactly, though they were both very, very old, and the thought of death as a gift did not shock either of them, anymore.

They had become oh-so-fragile in the past few trine. Unum by unum, they watched each other lose substance, felt each other grow shaky, saw absences and blanks spread that had always been filled before. But one remained patient, and one refused to be defeated, and they did what they could.

Their days grew simple, as tasks that had once been simple stretched to fill the hours.

They did their best to feed each other, from a garden sung lush by magic and a coop of karatick with a faded sign affixed over the little door that said “Barracks.” They were no longer strong enough to go meet the caravans, and they had not seen any signs of them for many trine now, at least the lifetime of a gelfling.

They held and massaged each other’s ever-more-delicate flesh, finding that hands shook less when pressed against each other, that they still had some power to ease the aches and pains that had multiplied so grandly in such a short time. They held each other to share what little warmth they had between them—though they could not help but be troubled that they did so even under the full light of the desert days, now.

(And sometimes, even now, this care could startle their bodies into the remembrance not just of warmth but of heat, and it was with delight they took these moments, and one or another, as gifts into each other’s hands. Hands, above all, as other flesh more and more rarely aligned with desires of the mind and heart.)

They created, still, songs and poems and a record of what it was like, with the two of them so old and the world seeming old, too, their certainties and uncertainties, fears and hopes and wonders. Most of these, naturally, touching on that final journey, of which they had no orthodoxy to turn to, which would bear no wandering on the way, which could not be conquered. But there were jokes, too, mixed in with the rest. And when words got lost, and sentences broke, they wove over each other’s gaps, for the taking up of such snapped threads was as right as it was troubling that the threads had snapped in the first place. They would always have at least one, whole mind between them, of that they were sure.

Every day, the suns drew closer.

I’m not ready.

I feel the Song humming in my bones. At least I think I do.

Hold me.

I wish we could have one more night when we were young.

One more feast?

And everything after.

Hold me.

Whoever comes after us, I hope they understand.

How good it was.

That we did our best.

Hold me.

I hope.

I fear.

I love you.

I love you.

Hold me.

Hold me.

When the day of the Great Conjunction dawned, they knew it, as undeniable as the suns’ very rising.

They put what they’d written over the trine into a chest that would keep out the sand, along with a few other things—marionettes of each of them, a small, graceful wooden carving of one, a miniature painted with the eyes of love of the other, still luminous with the finest pigments that had ever been carried on a Dousan caravan route. The chest would rest in a place where the suns would not touch it directly, but where it would not be hidden to anyone who found this place at all.

Most of what they had created over the years would have to be left to the desert, though. Their hands skimmed over much of it as they moved through the Circle of the Suns on that last day, fingertips saying farewell to the beautiful and practical, to the lovely evidence of their peaceful hours and days and unum and trine.

They put the hearth crystal together, and placed it with a note pressed in clay that explained in as many languages as they knew what it did when the halves were separated.

They fed the karatick, and shooed them away and out of the Circle of the Suns.

And then. Then it was almost time.

I think we should go out the way we came in.

And I would like as little separation between us as possible, when it is time.

The suns climbed higher, drawing ever closer. They took off their clothes, not bothering to fold them.

A moment, a pause.

A long time since the night of the storm.

But it still comes to mind so easily.

They still suffered chill, in the heat of this last day, and so one brought their largest blanket out to the ledge where they’d spent entire gelfling lifetimes in each other’s company. The other joined with the last of their bread, spread with the last of their parga-fruit jam, the greatest sweetness they could manage without the caravans. Draped under one blanket, they fed each other, and after they had eaten they leaned against each other, holding each other’s hands.

The three suns touched over the desert.

I’m thinking of the flowers.

So am I.

And the three suns shone as one, suffusing Thra with the all-transforming light that had not been seen for a thousand trine.

When it shone on them, the light of the Great Conjunction warmed their ancient flesh all through, just like sunlight should. Every pain ebbed away. The hum that had been in their bones grew louder, stronger, clearer, resolving into a chord that seemed to go beyond hearing into every sense, the final, glorious note of a symphony they had—they had—been a part of. And the light shone brighter, brighter, brighter, until it felt like it was shining through them. They looked at each other to see if it was so, and when they saw each other they saw what no other being in the universe had ever seen before.

And what they saw was good.

What they saw was wonderful.

One tiny part of that final chord: Oh. Oh. Two small and perfect sounds of awe.

The light shone brighter yet, until nothing at all could be seen.

For a moment, there was silence. Deep, true, complete silence. Just a moment. But a moment long enough to create a world.

And then the Song started again, everywhere in and on and above Thra, life roaring back, the Song clear and strong as it had not been in a thousand trine, rushing and cascading through the healed Crystal like snowmelt in spring after the hardest winter a world had ever seen.

But what notes were first played at that place in the desert, when the new symphony began and the suns parted from each other in their dance once more?

It was a small sound that broke the profound silence: a nail falling onto stone.

And for a time there was only the wind through the stones. Anyone watching—though who could possibly have been there to watch?—could be forgiven for thinking that perhaps that the clink of that dreadful piece of metal on that well-loved stone would be the final sound other than wind to ever be heard at the place once named the Circle of the Suns. Would it not have been enough?

But Thra was, is, and ever shall be, abundant. Profligate. And, too, possessive of what has come to belong to it.

And soon enough, a laugh rang out. A single laugh, that was also a harmony, fitting in so perfectly with all the chords of the world at that moment that no one could be wise and say that it was not meant to be there. A laugh loud enough that it seemed the sound should reach to a far, far distant world and shatter something there. A laugh that came from the throat of something—someone—new. Good. Wonderful.

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

Out of curiosity, how would the Noah’s Ark Circus boys be with a fem opera singer s/o?

babies, all of em <3

Lord, she can hit notes he’s never even conceived of! He’s always in awe while she’s singing; all anyone needs to do to confirm it is to look at him. As long as his S/O has her mouth open and some tune coming out of it, his eyes are glued to her, and he’s got a dreamy expression on his face. He thinks of her as sort of… fancy and unattainable. Except, well, obviously that’s a lie, because he’s got her. It’s always a shift to him, the way he can go from thinking of her that way, to lying in her lap at night while she sings to him. She’s not some held-up ideal or just an idea or a person he can never have, she’s a dream come true. Listening to her sing makes him drift off, although he teases her, “Why are y’ try’na make me fall asleep? Any dream I ‘ave ain’t gonna ‘old a candle t’ y’.”

Well, well, look at this! Another natural entertainer just like him, so it’s no surprise they get on so grandly. Does she want to use that talent of hers in a show with the circus from time to time? He’d love it; someone as incredible as her would draw a big crowd. Of course, that’s not all he’s thinking about. He could listen to her singing all day. Even if she sings in other languages, foreign operas that he’s never heard of, even if he doesn’t know what the song is about, just her voice on its own is something to be praised. Sometimes he likes to sing with her, if he starts a song and she continues it. He’s far from a bad singer, but a professional like her blows him away. Her voice is a gift, and he doesn’t know what he did to deserve it… he’s just lucky he has it. Often, one might notice him closing his eyes to soak it in whenever she sings. It’s one of the few times he actually relaxes a bit.

Ah… well… she could be with anyone, couldn’t she? A skill like that… he’s especially appreciative of it, because music is something he’s passionate about even if he doesn’t always show it. To him this is the equivalent of dating a famous actress, and he doesn’t feel good enough for someone like her. Though, that’s not to say he looks down on himself or thinks she’s ‘better’ than he is. It’s just… it’s complicated. He still loves her, so much, and is trying to work through his feelings about it. Mostly, he just quietly admires her. Particularly whenever she’s singing. The first time he starts to play his harmonica as a background for whatever she’s singing, he does it shyly. When her eyes light up and she seems to enjoy that, however, he does it a lot less self-consciously every time after. She’s his perfect partner; he couldn’t have someone he loved more if he’d handmade them himself. Once in a rare, rare while, in private… he might actually sing with her.

Damn, how long did she train to be able to sing like that? Probably longer than he had to train to be able to do the trapeze! Or maybe not. Who knows? The king of overcompensating as usual, he sometimes brushes off her singing as something she’s spent too long on, even though he knows it’s literally her career. He realizes it might come across as hurtful, but it’s like he can’t shut his own rude comments up. It’s almost sad, because that’s not something he believes. He doesn’t think she’s ‘thrown away her life’ or spent too much time singing. He’s just… intimidated. He doesn’t think of himself as special compared to her, and thinks if he can scoff at her talent, she might appreciate his. Of course, what he fails to realize is that she probably already does appreciate his talent. In more peaceful moments, he might offer some small apologies and make it clear that he thinks her voice is amazing.

(Oooh. She has as much control over her voice as you do over yours, Snake.) Most certainly, Donne. Perhaps even more so. She’s impressive. He’s even more intimidated of his S/O than Peter is in the same situation, because of his self-worth being basically nonexistent. How can someone like her want to be with someone like him…? A part of him acknowledges that they’re similar in some way, and perhaps it’s because he knows all the effort and technique that’s required to manipulate one’s voice — whether through singing the way she does or through the acting he does. He and the snakes are all thoroughly soothed by her singing, to the point that sometimes the snakes will crawl up to rest on her throat (if that doesn’t bother her) to feel the vibrations better. There are moments, where he feels very selfish, where he lays his head on her chest and asks softly, “Would you sing me something?” Though… he typically makes an excuse that it’s a snake who wants to hear. That’s nothing new.

[rockitmans]

Person A burns their tongue on hot chocolate and Person B offers to kiss it better.

We get into a heated debate in class, and I honestly don’t really care that much, but I’m having too much fun watching you get all fired up

I was admiring a bird and wolf-whistled to get its attention but you walked directly in my path and thought I was whistling at you

They're all taken from the doc I sent you a while back with the many, many prompts that sometimes give me inspiration overload lol <3

This was meant to be a drabble but the thought got away from me, I can only apologise. Have a 1.6k word 4+1 style thing based on #1.

Hope you like it Gwen ❤️

Warnings: Mentions of blood, homophobia and bullying consistent with canon.

~~~~~~

Kind of Magic

one

When Blaine is five, he meets Kurt for the first time. He likes Kurt because Kurt is good at playing dress up and and draws really straight chalk lines when they play hopscotch. But mostly it's because he's kind of magic. 

Blaine learns this after a nasty fall leaves him with a split knee and bruised pride. The nice nurse bandages him up and gives him a sucker and tells him to be brave and Blaine tries, he really does. But it still hurts a lot and he feels a bit wobbly when he goes back to Kurt. 

"Did she not give it the magic kiss?" Kurt frowns, seeing the way Blaine is hobbling.

"Magic kiss?"

"Yeah," Kurt says, like this should be obvious. "When I fall down my mom always gives me a magic kiss to make it all better."

"Oh." Blaine thinks about this. It's not something his mom does, nor his nanny, but it seems reasonable. "She gave me a bandage but no kiss. Maybe that's why it still hurts." 

"Useless," Kurt declares with all the confidence of a wronged five year old. "Come here."

They sit on one of the benches and Blaine draws his knee to his chest, rolling up his pants leg to reveal the bandage. Kurt tuts, like the idiocy of adults can only continue to astound him. 

"I'm going to kiss it better," he announces grandly to no one in particular and then plants a swift kiss to Blaine's bandaged knee. He looks at Blaine expectantly. "Good?"

Blaine flexes his leg. He's sure it does feel a bit less sore. And his pride is virtually all the way back in tact. He feels practically buoyant. "Yeah!" he cries brightly. "Thanks, Kurt."

"It's all about the kiss," Kurt says seriously.

two

When Blaine is twelve, he and Kurt are racing up and down the block on their bikes when he manages to hit the sidewalk at the wrong angle and send himself sprawling. Kurt is by his side in a moment, gentle hands helping him sit and brow creased with concern. 

"Are you okay? The ground actually shook."

"It did not," Blaine protests, rubbing his elbow. "I'm fine. It's just this." He offers his elbow and Kurt hisses. Blaine cranes his neck and sees the smear of blood. He looks away again. 

"We're gonna need to wrap that," Kurt says and helps Blaine to his feet. "Come on."

"Will you kiss it for me?" Blaine teases, remembering countless childhood healing kisses. It's just a joke, one based in nostalgia of simpler times, but Kurt freezes. 

"We can't do that any more," he snaps but he doesn't look angry. He looks terrified. Blaine doesn't understand it at the time, though he grows to. Over years of whispers and locker shoves and dumpster throws. He understands that Kurt, even at twelve, was realising something that Blaine hadn't quite gotten to yet. 

"OK. It was just a joke, Kurt," he says mildly. 

"Those kisses won't help anymore," Kurt says firmly. "Kissing other boys will only hurt." 

"OK," Blaine repeats, bemused but following Kurt's lead. Just like he always does. 

three 

When Blaine is eighteen he finally fights back. It's hopeless of course. But something in him snaps. The years of harassment that he's suffered, and Kurt even worse than him, crystallises into a single misguided punch square against Azimo's jaw. 

It hurts. A lot. He splits the skin on his knuckles and is only lucky that Azimo is too stunned to instantly enact horrible retribution. He runs. And because it's what he always does, he goes to find Kurt. 

Kurt is heading to class but diverts the second he sees how rattled Blaine is. 

"Bathroom, come on," Kurt says, steering him to the quietest one by the art rooms. He gets Blaine to sit on the counter while he carefully dabs at his knuckles with damp toilet tissue. "What happened?"

"Punched Azimo," Blaine admits. 

"And you're still alive?"

"Clocked him right on the jaw. I think it surprised him enough for me to get away. Or he's concussed. It's probably wrong to hope that someone is concussed though."

"If that person is Azimo or one of his stupid gang, I think it's allowed. Pretty sure there's exemptions for wishing pain on homophobes. And punching them."

"Well thank God," Blaine sighs. "That's not going to save me later though."

"No," Kurt agrees quietly. He doesn't ask why Blaine did it. One of them was bound to snap eventually. Instead he looks into Blaine's face and smiles mischievously. "Want me to kiss it better?"

Blaine rolls his eyes. "Ha ha." 

"You think I won't?" Kurt says, eyes sparkling with the challenge.  He's incredibly gentle, twining their fingers to bring Blaine's hand to his mouth and skimming a light kiss over his knuckles. 

Blaine's heart jolts into his throat. He and Kurt have touched a thousand times a thousand ways. But there's something so shockingly intimate about the gesture that it steals his breath from him. 

"I thought we didn't do that anymore?" Blaine says because if he doesn't say something he'll literally combust. 

"They'll hate us anyway," Kurt says. "It doesn't matter what we do. They hate us anyway for what we are. So I'm going to kiss my best friends battle scars. Because it's all I fucking can do." 

"Kurt-"

"I'm sorry, you know?" Kurt interrupts. "If you weren't so close to me I think you could have flown under the radar. I think you could have been okay."

"That's ridiculous," Blaine says firmly. Because it is. For many reasons. "I never could have hidden who I am. I would have suffocated. And I would never want to go anywhere you can't go. Even under a radar."

Kurt flushes, pink and pleased. "You're ridiculous," he says softly. But his lips find Blaine's knuckles again. 

four

When Blaine is twenty he breaks up with his first serious boyfriend. Apparently Derek can't handle how much Blaine talks about Kurt. Or how much time he spends with Kurt. Or the fact that he lives with Kurt. Or… the kissing thing. 

"It's just a bit!" Blaine tries to explain. "Like kissing something better. Purely platonic."

"It doesn't feel platonic," Derek says. 

Clearly Derek is an idiot who has never experienced wonder or love or friendship. It doesn't matter how Blaine argues his case, Derek won't be swayed. 

"You should want me to kiss your hurts away," Derek tries later. Which is just ridiculous. Because Derek isn't magic the way that Kurt is.

Blaine knows it's over between them, then. Kurt is as much a part of Blaine as a limb at this point and any boyfriend of his is going to have to understand that. 

Kurt in fact, is the one that is there to pick up the pieces. With cuddles and ice cream and some well chosen insults towards Derek.

"Honestly, Blaine, he wore crocs. I'm so glad I don't have to bite my tongue about it anymore."

"You didn't bite your tongue," Blaine points out. "You insulted him to his face on the one occasion it happened and have basically complained about it non stop ever since."

"But I could have been so much more scathing," Kurt says. Which is probably true. 

Blaine sighs and snuggles into Kurt's chest. He feels hollow. He and Derek had been together over a year. And all that was for nothing now. A year of memories now tainted with the pain of Derek's ungrounded accusations. Tears spring to his eyes and he tenses, biting his lip against a sob. 

"Is there anything I can do?" Kurt asks, soft against the shell of Blaine's ear. 

"Just hold me," Blaine says shakily. "I don't think this is something you can kiss better."

"Maybe not," Kurt concedes. But he tries anyway, tucking Blaine closer against him and dropping comforting kisses into his curls. 

five

Blaine is twenty two when everything finally starts to make sense. Newly graduated and still living with Kurt and both making ends meet with odd jobs until The Job comes along. But they're happy, and that's all that matters. 

He's on his way home when Kurt calls him with the news of a good audition. 'Good' based on vibes only, he won't know about callbacks for days yet. But Blaine wants to celebrate the victory anyway because that's what roommates and best friends do. 

He picks them up a hot chocolate at the truck just down the block from their apartment. It's simple but they both always agree that it tastes the best and stays hot the longest. 

"Hey, sweetheart," Kurt greets him happily when Blaine steps through the door.  

"Hey, you. I bought us hot chocolate. To celebrate your success."

Kurt laughs, shaking his head slightly. "Amazing," he says, taking one and cradling it in his hands. "You're amazing."

"Oh, you," Blaine jokes, but it makes his stomach flip in a way that's happening a lot lately. He hides his uncertainty by taking way too big a sip of hot chocolate."Fuck!" he yelps as the scalding liquid hits his tongue and makes his eyes water. "Shit shit shit." 

"Are you okay?" Kurt says, clunking his own drink down in alarm.

"Yeah," Blaine sighs. "Just burnt my tongue like an idiot."

"Oh…" Kurt looks at him and the moment seems to stretch as their eyes meet. "Want me to kiss it better?"

Blaine is half a breath from making a joke of it. Rolling his eyes and dismissing it. But Kurt's gaze is steady. He's smiling, but not in a teasing way. In a hopeful way. He's completely radiant, the most insanely gorgeous person Blaine has even seen. 

Blaine is reminded about all the times Kurt has offered to soothe his hurts across nearly two decades. How Blaine has never even considered forging a path that would take him from Kurt's side. How their lives are irretrievably entwined and always will be, no matter what happens now. And he thinks oh. 

Blaine nods slowly and Kurt's hands find his jaw and there's a pause that seems to take less than a second and an entire lifetime all at once. And then Kurt's mouth meets his. And it is kind of magic. 

[altschmerzes]

hey for something new and different im gonna do something i havent done in a very long time and share a bit of my original sports fiction project. this is from the very beginning of it, not the actual opening-opening but very shortly after it. it helps introduce and get to know our audience surrogate character, hockey player jesse marvel who’s just been drafted and is about to start training camp for the team that drafted him, the minneapolis-saint paul phoenixes.

buries my face in my hands anyways here’s this

Since he started high school, Jesse has been experiencing a recurring dream. It happens every couple of weeks or so, to the point that it’s an inside joke around his family’s home that Jesse got another video call from his alternate life whenever he has it. 

In the dream, he’s at a concert, standing off to the side of a massive stage, grandly lit with an inferno of blinding bright lights. The crowd is enormous, the kind you’d see at Madison Square Garden or Red Rocks Amphitheatre. Thousands of blurred out faces gather in an undulating mass of expectant fans, ready and waiting for the show to begin. The anticipation is so thick in the air that he can taste it, a metallic aluminum-copper, the adrenaline emitting from every person there enough to raise goosebumps on his arms. He never knows what band is supposed to take the stage, and every time he tries to read the banner hanging at the back of the platform it’s like he can’t get his eyes to focus on it. Then the crowd starts cheering, a wall of sound sweeps in a tidal wave across the stage, and someone plants a hand square in the middle of Jesse’s back. There’s the quick jerk of a nylon strap around his neck, the whack of an electric guitar into his chest, and a shove that sends him stumbling out, unable to stop until he stands, centre stage, staring out at the crowd that he now realizes has come to see him.

At this point of the dream, a few things occur to Jesse at once. He cannot play the guitar and in fact has never touched one in his life before this moment. He cannot carry a tune in a bucket. One time, he’d been singing in the car and his little sister Brigit, who’d then been ten years old, had very solemnly pulled a five dollar bill out of her backpack and handed it to him, informing him she was bribing him ‘cash money’ to stop. And finally, in just a moment, he’s going to play a chord, or open his mouth to sing a note, and irreversibly, inescapably, profoundly let every one of these thousands upon thousands of people down. 

Jesse hasn’t had the dream since before the draft. He’d walked up on the stage when his name had been called, selected third overall out of hundreds of talented young players hoping this would be their big shot to make it into the League, and accepted the jersey and hat handed to him by the Phoenixes general manager without a single slip-up. It was the exact opposite of the experience in the dream. So much so that he’d thought maybe the dream had just been him psyching himself out since he really got serious about making the League, some kind of subconscious hazing he’d been inflicting on himself. 

It’s not until after the draft, when he’s milling awkwardly around the hall in a surreal haze surrounded by families in fancy clothing and reporters with flashing cameras and little recorder microphones, that Jesse realizes he'd been premature on deciding that one. If the dream was meant to prepare him for anything, it wasn’t the draft. It was everything that followed. Every day he steps out of the hotel room he’s been calling home for the last couple weeks, Jesse feels like he does in the dream when the shove propels him forward onto the stage. It’s like even the walls in the twin cities of Minneapolis and Saint Paul have grown eyes, and every pair of them is trained on him. 

During the rookie showcase, there had been a reassuring degree of anonymity that had helped Jesse feel a little less like he was living a waking version of that dream. Every person there is in the same uniform, the Phoenixes standard gear complete with a blank practice jersey and helmet, none of which had a name or number attached. There, he’d just been another kid with skates on his feet and big dreams in his head, surrounded by fifteen or so others exactly like him. It isn’t until he’s at the first day of training camp, a freshly signed contract placing him in the slim ranks of players who were signed to teams their first year before ever playing a single minute of a game on League ice and a jersey screaming his last name in all-caps across his shoulders, that the feeling comes back. Everyone’s eyes are on him again, and this time it’s worse, because those eyes are the eyes of the Phoenixes.

[yallemagne]

Can you imagine Jonathan Jr growing up only hearing and reading about his father and what he did from his mother and his uncles, and wishing he had met him? And likely can't even visit his grave. (It's another reason why I'm glad he survived, he grew up without a father, and with the way that he wrote about Hawkins he longed for one, but his child doesn't have to.)

Of course I can imagine it. Are you asking me to write it because I might run out of steam.

I might... opt to call him Nathaniel... because the name means the exact same thing, but I don't have to add another Jonathan to my list of darling boys.

You don't need the body to have a tombstone in England, but I imagine it would be one hell of a revelation if you're a child and you find out your father isn't even buried where you've been visiting all this time. Though, they could exhume his body later if they had to bury Jonathan in Transylvania. It feels very morbid to say this, but they could just dig him up and put him in the right spot.

Jonathan's orphan status is why I couldn't rightly have Jonathan grandly say like Quincey that he's happy to die for Mina's sake. Because that's not how the death played out. Dracula could have been killed with no other casualties, but he wasn't. As orphans, Jonathan and Mina are both very intimate with the concept of death and the truth that there's no real honour or sacrifice to it, it just happens.

Jonathan Harker didn't want to die and leave his wife so needlessly, he didn't want his child to grow up without a father. He was scared to die, he had only very recently come into his own as an adult. That's no age to throw your life away.

But that doesn't make a good story. Nathan's uncles talk over that part. They spin stories about what a brave and legendary man Nathan's father was, and his mother doesn't know how to tell them Jonathan wouldn't want that. They make the man seem so much older, so much more masculine and legendary. They make his death into a Greek tragedy.

Nathan only finds out that his father was twenty-one when he died when he's eighteen.

"That's younger than even you were," he meekly remarks.

"Yes," his mother replies.

"I didn't know that was possible."

Then again, his mother had always told him things about his father that he thought were impossible. That the two of them would often share clothes in their youth, that the man ceased cutting his hair after the castle and let it grow past his shoulders, that he nearly hunted down an evil vampire dressed in only one of Mina's... one of their nightgowns... That he was always more beautiful than he was handsome, and he'd be proud of the young man Nathan had grown up to be.

When he's finally allowed to read the manuscript, he cries and cries and cries. Everything makes sense then. Reading his father's promise not to let his mother go into the darkness alone reassures him that his bullies were always wrong when they mocked him by saying his father was a cowardly scoundrel who just ran off.

Mina tells him secrets that were never written down, that not even his uncles and grandpa know, and he fights not to become disillusioned with men in the process of learning. No matter how much he loves them, he knows they might be less eager about praising his father if they knew everything.

At some point, he gets it in his mind to interview every person he can find who ever met his father.

A lot of lawyers, some workers from moving companies... many of them only have so much to say about him. What a kind young man he was, and a great man to depend on for drinks!

Looking through his father's things, he finds a receipt for that knife he'd inherited from him. He thought it had been a family heirloom...

The shop owner smiles bittersweetly when he hears the news that Mr. Harker is dead. No wonder he never paid a visit after that grand journey he went on... he'd hoped the young man had simply forgotten.

"Tell me he did it," Mr. Singh requests. "Tell me he killed that bastard."

"He did," Nathan tells him, "right before he died."

The man grins, though melancholy lingers in his expression. Just then, his face lights up-- "No one has told you about that knife, have they?"

The old lady and her husband at the Golden Krone Hotel are retired, but the woman's eyes light up with recognition when she's greeted by such a familiar face. She kisses him on the forehead and tells him he looks just like a boy she once met. He tears up and shows her the rosary that she had given that boy. She teaches him how to pray with it.

The Sisters at the Hospital of St. Joseph and Ste. Mary fawn over the boy as they had his father. He doesn't care for it. Sister Agatha refuses to tell him anything he hadn't already known. "Those secrets are between him and God," she says. It's not fair.

When he finally returns home, his mother asks if he found what he wanted. He wants to tell her no out of bitterness, frustrated with all the money wasted buying drinks for coworkers who only barely knew his father and the secrets the nuns kept to themselves, but he thinks of the lessons in prayer he received from Mr. Singh and that old landlady and changes his mind. Perhaps he has learned all he can now.

He resolves to find out all the rest when he finally meets his father... someday.

[grandhotelabyss]

Thank you! I wouldn’t dare write “officially” on it, since I don’t know anything about music. I also won’t deny I was swept up in the glamor and power she enjoys for much of the film—the travel, the tailored suits, the cavernous apartments, the dialogue in three languages, the seriousness and the sensuality. 

What makes the movie great is how it doesn’t try to solve or resolve anything. She’s wrong to sleep with her students and the Russian cellist is the superior player by consensus of the orchestra and she shouldn’t have preferred the Russian cellist for the solo just because she’s hot and Francesca was probably not the best candidate for the position and Francesca had every right to resent the way she was treated and Sharon was right to leave her and she loves Petra and doesn’t deserve to be wrenched from her entirely and her talent and charisma do entitle her legitimately to recognition and she helps her old mentor and the old neighbor, etc., etc., etc. It’s Shakespearean writing: here we have this grandly complicated person in this situation layered with doublings and ambiguities and hallucinations—and you figure it out. 

But as much as the writing, it’s the film’s form, particularly the sound design, that both certifies her capacity for true art and makes us sympathize with even her sins by immersing us in her sonic hypersensitivity, by literally letting us hear the roar—George Eliot’s “other side of silence”—the carapace of her glamorous-forbidding persona is keeping out and can only admit as the simplest form of erotic beauty.

Interestingly, according to Wikipedia, the film’s composer, Hildur Guðnadóttir, sees the film as the tragedy of an artist forced to be, essentially, a critic, just as Lydia argues in the film that the conductor is first and foremost an interpreter:

On setting the tone for Tár, she said that “the big frustration in her life, is that she's not really living according to what she really wants to be doing. Her passion in music and her passion in life is totally different from what she's actually spending most of her days.” She felt that Lydia Tár wanted to take her compositional work in an experimental directions in the line of Charles Ives or Henryk Górecki. But, the character ends up getting drawn into a classical world, where “she feels that she needs to be really strong and powerful and angry, where she has to kind of take everyone on head first. And the conflict in her life comes from these paths not aligning, you know, and not managing to marry each other.”

Thus and ironically, in the Juilliard scene, she’s right on the merits but, if I may, tone-deaf in the performance. I’ve made a similar case face-to-face with “woker” crowds than that and didn’t get as bad a reception because I started from where they were and used a lighter touch. The kid’s claim that she’s a “fucking bitch” is not wrong; but then again, she had to be to get from where she started to where she ended up—until fortuna turned on her and she finishes the movie back near the bottom. 

But there’s a hint that her fall is a fortunate one, because she must return to the “field” to fortify her art—to traditions outside the canon, experiences outside the high life, styles she’s less sure of possessing and mastering, just as Sharon identifies her love for her adopted daughter (who isn’t white) as her only non-transactional relationship, and just as she incorporates the dying neighbor’s medic alert tone into her piano composition despite later trying to wash off the contamination of death and vulnerability the old woman bears. 

Or maybe she’s trying to wash off the old woman’s excrement, in which we case we’re meant to recall her quip on being asked how her composition is going, “It’s like being asked, ‘How’s the shitting going?’” She had her own way of avoiding the shit, just like the youthful social-media identity-politics student robots she rightly derides, so the film lowers her into it—into that underground from which she flees the hellhound, claiming, unjustly but with some metaphorical aptness, that she’d been attacked. 

In the end, we see that she’s learned her lesson from her katabasis, first when she flees the brothel (i.e., refusing an erotically transactional relationship) and second when she takes the video game concert as seriously as any other (i.e., infusing an economically transactional relationship with genuine love). She’s like the crocodiles in the river: she’ll adapt; she’ll survive. She is a tragic heroine, an anti-heroine—maybe not a maestra, but a heroine.

[qzwrites]

Based on that last post, I was thinking about the Theory Of Romance Novels (especially as found in Romancing the Beat) that the components of a romance story fill some lack or need in each other.

So basically the void in Jaz's life that Sasha is filling is a: job dissatisfaction which is caused by b: the fatal american need to have a pretty good time (desire for Adventure and Shenanigans)

The romance novel part is from Jaz's POV so I figured that out pretty early on, even if I don't know that I ever made it explicit in any of my notes or anything. I mean that's why I have already roughed out the scene where Sasha grandly presents Jaz zeir very own ship to captain and Jaz is like "Oh. It turns out I don't want this actually." And then when ze tries to explain that like. Being a mercenary owner-captain is not going to be nearly as exciting without him around, Sasha is like AAAAA okay this is objectively nuts it has been three months but marry me? Like, the Thematic Point of that scene is pretty clear even if I do end up changing parts of it later, I think the bones of that scene are going to stick around. I have in fact referred to it in installments set in the future lmao.

But I just now thought about what Sasha is getting from Jaz here, which is mostly: LESS KAVAGORAN. Part of Miles Vorkosigan's problem is how Very Barrayaran he is, and his struggles with reconciling those values with his objective inability to embody parts of them. He does this with increasingly unhealthy coping mechanisms until he literally fries his brain and trashes his career, and I think it's pretty important for Miles specifically that he doesn't meet the future Lady Vorkosigan until he has become Even More Disabled and unavoidably so--and in a Very Barrayaran position that is simultaneously NOT REMOTELY the career path of his father or grandfather.

But Sasha necessarily (in order to get him to be more willing to acknowledge how into Jaz he is) (Miles is transparently into Bel he's just mired in internalized homophobia THIS IS TEXT retroactive text but text!!!) is a little older and had a little more success Being An Officer, it's just that his moral compass wouldn't allow him to. Be part of a military organization. Which is kind of a problem for a Kavagoran. But Sasha also spent more (or at least paid more attention to) time on Gnilles, plus he made it through the Academy, which I refuse to believe is anything other than a hotbed of furtive bicurious exploration that everyone studiously pretends does not happen, so Sasha is not nearly as concerned about being into men or nonbinary people as Miles is when he meets Jaz.

But importantly, he still has to make the Wild Series of Decisions that leads to him inventing a fake mercenary troupe and suborning an entire ship until everything snowballs out of control and he solves a civil war, so he's still Having A Time. He feels out of place in Kavagoran society, much like Miles frequently did as a youth, except this isn't youthful growing pains, this is...him taking a moral stand and a career hit and not regretting that, which kind of DOES make him regret the fact that he's planned his whole life out around a thing he's not sure he believes in as much as he thought he did. He's Too Old-Fashioned for the modern Kavagoran military (believes too much in honor and morality, which he chalks up to Being !Vor, but is really like. Pretty specific to a Certain Type of nobility who understand the Spider-Man Principle, which is not actually the entire nobility--either on Kavagor or Barrayar!) but also Sasha is Too Modern for traditional Kavagoran society (visibly disabled, absolutely reliant on modern medical technology to live any semblance of an independent life) (i mean not anymore, most of his accessibility needs now are like. extremely old technology like "joint braces" and "cane"). He's feeling at a loss! And useless! He's too Gnillesian for Kavagor but still too Kavagoran for Gnilles, and really, it's a nice planet but he's not going to build a life there! Even if it is Part Of Him!

And while shuffling through this crisis of identity he runs across Jean, a tunnel pilot who is ready to go down with the obsolete ship, and is like, Oh no this loser is My People. Plus the cyborg/disability resonance with Jean, who has literally been obsoleted by his assistive technology becoming obsolete, and was definitely being talked about like he was human garbage (as much as Gnillesians talk like that about anyone, which is more than they would claim). Sasha does the same exact scam Miles does (why fix what isn't broken, especially since it can be Humorous Backstory for why he has become a con man) and is suddenly saddled with a need to Make Money, which he has. Never attempted.

He also picks up Dimitri, who is the foil to the OTHER part of Sasha's predicament, which is: he deserted, yes, technically in the heat of battle, yes, but also, he was given a criminal order he refused to carry out and couldn't think of another way to handle the situation. Unlike Sasha, Dimitri is not a noble with connections; he's just some prole who did well in the engineering corps. He deserts to save his skin and his morals, and Sasha is like, Oh no THIS loser is ALSO My People.

(Helen gets to have the cultural knee-jerk revulsion of Dimitri as a deserter, especially since she is resentful that she isn't allowed to join up even though she would literally be better than half the fucking assholes in the military. She's unable to get even a nod of recognition from the military apparatus, and Dimitri THREW IT AWAY. She is a lot more sympathetic when she learns more about the criminal order, and conflicted about the dissonance, even though it's personal in a different way for her than for Sasha. She also gets concrete confirmation that he's Not Like Other Kavagoran Men, since around a bunch of galactics and hitting it off with Jaz, Dimitri is very chill about things like women with jobs, women soldiers, queer people, etc. He's...less immediately cool about Sasha's disabilities but he's trying? It's condescending and unhelpful, but still better than most Kavagorans' reaction. At which point she's like...okay Dimitri say more about the fact that you have a thing for me.)

But while Sasha is more okay with his queerness and his weird half/nothing cultural identity, and he's gotten better at working within his physical limitations, he's still, like, closeted about his disabilities. As much as he can be when it's visible that he's Not Right--he doesn't use his cane, he dresses to hide his leg brace or any other braces he needs, he tries not to call attention to his height, he does still also get his clothes tailored to "correct" his asymmetries, etc. He's constantly downplaying his needs and differences, mostly because of Kavagoran attitudes, but also like tbh most galactics who aren't Gnillesian are also still pretty ableist. He (feels he) gets more respect and better results when he Puts On A Brave Face and tries to look as "normal" as possible.

It really helps that Jaz is immediately thirsty for him TBH. Like, Jaz is Objectively Attractive, and also specifically attractive to Sasha, and ze is down so bad. Ze is practically vibrating with how hard ze's holding back asking to suck him off. (And, when they do get together, continues to be Very Enthusiastic while also actively attempting to accomodate him before he asks. Like, ze double checks how much force ze can use in normal things like "flipping them over on the bed". Ze asks what positions are easier for him before he hurts himself pretending he can do something. Ze asks about his comfort levels with his assistive devices and other parts of his body being touched, and doesn't push him [until ze knows him much better and is more capable of judging when he's being conservative out of shame].)

And it helps that Jaz has a non-normative body. Like, ze's totally normal to zemself, and to Sasha, and to Helen and Sasha's family (...not the Baron. is the Baron dead yet? I think so. Someone should definitely make a tasteless joke about this killing him.) but is Not Normal to Kavagor, and frankly to most galactics. Like, ambis are definitely the most well-represented third gender, people know about them, but there are few enough of them that leave Gnilles that most people don't know one personally and have never met one. Even on Gnilles, they're a minority. A large, visible minority that most Gnillesians would proclaim their pride in, but...mathematically, we know that's not true, don't we? Ambis are not half of the population of Gnilles, as they would be if everyone let chance decide the sex of their baby. They're not even an even third of the population, as they would be in a true gender ternary. They're like a quarter of the population, and most ambis are born to families that are either not fiddling with their embryos or already have ambis in their immediate family. Jaz is marked out as different in most places, despite having grown up thinking of zemself as totally normal.

And by the time Sasha meets zem, ze's been out in the galaxy for nearly ten years, Being A Minority and having to baby people through seeing zem naked. Yet, far from attempting to hide it, or blend in, ze is almost aggressively nonchalant about it. Like, ze is so Not Making A Big Deal About This that it almost shames people around zem into being cool. Ze's totally even and chill about people saying wildly offensive shit, just like "Interesting, can you expand on that?" like people aren't being weird. Ze is matter of fact about correcting misconceptions. Ze doesn't often get worked up (in public) about people being dumbasses, but ze is also not altering zeir behavior about it; ze is going to keep being openly zemself regardless of how other people feel about it. If you cannot deal with someone in the locker room wearing a sports bra and a jockstrap, that's your fucking problem, not zeirs.

And that strategy, of Pointedly Normalizing Zemself, works fine for zem. It also makes it clear when people are being unreasonable that they are the ones being unreasonable, not Jaz. Sasha will adopt more of that attitude moving forward, starting with being pan and having an ambi spouse who is very much not his wife, and moving on into using his cane in public or wearing clothes that don't conceal his braces. Why would he not use his cane? His leg's acting up and not using it will only make things worse. Why are you looking at him like that? If you don't have anything to say, at least get out of the way, he needs slightly more room to maneuver than people without mobility aids.

Jaz has also had to grapple with the contradiction of Gnillesian technology enabling passive eugenics. Like I said, ambis are not the proportion of the population they are genetically designed to be. Few people actively say they wouldn't have a baby runt, but few people choose one, if they're not already an Ambi Family. Most Gnillesians "just happen" to want girls or boys. Like most Gnillesians "just happen" to want hearing babies, and babies without developmental disabilities. There are ways the Gnillesian medical profession (with guidance and, let's face it, pressure, from the disability communities) try to limit this, but there is a fair argument to be made that screening for embryos with conditions that would endanger the viability of the infant or the health of a mother (even though few babies are carried to term in an embedded womb) is necessary. There are things they won't tell parents about unless asked, and there are things that basically never had tests developed (because people were like THE ONLY POSSIBLE USE FOR THIS IS EUGENICIST), but it's really hard to correct a societal problem on an individual level. Every individual (or couple or polycule or whatever) parent has fair and valid reasons to feel they could not care for certain kinds of babies.

There are still fewer runts born than there should be. There are still fewer little people born than there should be. There are still fewer deaf babies born than there should be.

Jaz is not unreservedly for all Gnillesian advances and norms, because some of them are bad. Ze is part of communities (ambi and queer) that are critical of some aspects of Gnillesian culture, for reasons that aren't as in your face as similar issues on Kavagor and other "less developed" planets.

Importantly, ze is also willing to fight back against those societal issues, even when they seem insurmountable. Less so for zeir own sake, but ze is super willing to fight people about being ableist or sexist, and Sasha feels more equipped to fight people for being binarist and cissexist on Jaz's behalf. They have each other's backs, and Jaz provides the support and security on top of the inspiration for Sasha to draw a line in the sand and say, no, I'm not budging on this. You move.

Lmao I think to some extent Sasha makes Jaz feel adventurous and exciting, while Jaz makes Sasha feel safe. Sasha's going to get into messes, into which Jaz will eagerly follow him, and together, they can clean them up.

Jaz would also be extremely amused by the idea that ze's providing the safety and security in their relationship. Yeah ze's so stable lmao (but Sasha has always had external stability--he has a rich and powerful family, or he wouldn't have survived to be an adult who doesn't feel comfortable being unreservedly himself; Jaz has always been unreservedly zemself, which is part of why ze was restless even while doing the objectively high-risk mercenary work.)

[ironlamb]

" YOU ARE CAUSING ME UNNECCESSARY STRESS ." cersha snaps frustratedly in reply even as she gestures to all of varyn with a sweeping hand before promptly dropping that hand in annoyance . it is with a huff that cersha moves to briefly rub her temples instead , adding , " and if you wish to goad someone about their age , you will find better luck with telessa . she is the one who seem to think her age is slowly leaching her beauty from her —  and only the gods know why that is ." cersha gestures to herself then to lowly hiss , " i , on the other hand , know with surety that i become only more enchanting with every day that passes as the gods have intended ." while the words may lean towards ironic considering the current predicament , cersha knows them to be true . after all , if it was not proven in some way every day of her life , her introduction to vaelora solidified that if nothing else . after all , would the targaryen have looked at cersha quite that way if not for her beauty ? in all honesty , as a woman her beauty was one of the greatest assets she had to offer . another was her mind , but that rarely seemed to attract as much interest . so , she will work with the pieces that she had . as she looks upon her brother that sentiment seems to echo . " and i you ." it is only the lack of possible spectators that allows cersha to accompany the words with a face that goes against near all decorum . there is only varyn there to see the childish twist in her expression , and perhaps that is the very reason why she makes it . " so i suppose we both have regrets then . a shame , truly ." it is with a sigh that cersha allows her hands to rest on her hips , watching as varyn pets his foot as if she has left him wish some sort of grand wound . cersha knows for a fact that she hasn't . as much as she wishes she were as fierce a force in brute strength as she was in sharp intellect , she knows where her talents are .

she is starkly reminded of them as varyn stands and gives her a look that makes her expression twitch . that twitch only grows in a full on furrow of her brows as varyn continues , her expression twisting in her growing confusion . she doesn't even have the wherewithal to swat her brother's hand away in her bewilderment , merely allowing him to tuck away a stray curl that she will likely find herself fiddling with in the nearest mirror in half a candle mark . " well — " cersha feels thrown off in a way that feels distinctly unfamiliar . she develops a quick distaste for it . her brows furrow tighter . " good . because this is —  of the greatest importance , and not just to me but for the entirety of our house ." cersha's voice becomes steadier the longer she speaks , and she's glad for it ; the usual backbone behind her words feels familiar enough for something in her shoulders to ease as she takes a breath before firmly adding , " you must be on your very best behavior until the wedding ." nevermind that this is perhaps what cersha has wanted all her life . this was an opportunity for all of them . and while cersha was more than ready for the weight of that on her shoulders , was born for it truly , she wasn't concerned for her . she was concerned for the pieces she had less control over . pieces like varyn , or vaelora , or gods knows what else . it is after a long moment of considering varyn , of letting his question settle that cersha sighs grandly and drops her hands from her hips to say , " if everything does not go perfectly i may very well consider murder ." she snaps out with a frustrated gesture . there's a beat before she waves his way to add , " not of you . not to say it couldn't be you , but murder in general is what i refer to ." another pause before her expression is twisting as she adds , " not to mention vaelora baffles me ." cersha sits down on the step with a frustrated huff , her nose wrinkled delicately in thought as she gestures to say , " all honor and kindness ." her brows knit together as she stares determinedly into the distance . " there is something beneath it , i know it . she is playing some sort of game , i just need to decipher what it is but ," she points sharply to varyn to add , " they will not pull wool over my eyes . i refuse to be blindsided ."

With every minute Varyn spent away from his family, his fondness for them grew. And with every minute back in their presence, he was reminded yet again why he had left in the first place. Insufferable. That's likely the word each sibling would use to describe the other. But as true as that may have been, Lannisters were no Targareyans, they would not be the cause of their own downfall. They would remain a united front. They would maintain appearances. They would do what needed to be done.

So as his sister scolded him, something she had done many times throughout their lives, his mood did not shift in the slightest. If anything, she was taking it easy on him at the present, knowing walls and doors and floors around them had ears and eyes and spirits to carry their conversation to the first available whisperer.

Eventually, he sighed in defeat, rolling his eyes as the word 'child' entered the air, very much on brand. And it served as a reminder that, while he may have been a whole of four years older than her, it would have been impossible to tell.

"You are awfully tense dear sister. It shows...right here --" he points between his own brows to indicate the location, and a cheeky smile spreads across his lips. "It will age you, I suggest you refrain from unnecessary stress. Which -- is exactly what this is." while he personally could not care less of age, finding women more appealing in many ways as they got older, he was not blind to the struggles lovely ladies of Westeros faced when it came to youthful glow and appearances. After all, it was their duty to pop out heirs and a pretty face was a direct indication of their ability to do so.

He tries to move away from the kick of her foot, but is already leaning against the wall with no space to go, so through a bit of a laugh he'll look up at her, petting gently the area that had been hit. "I should have bullied you more as a child. Truly." he does move out of her way though, but cannot help the undertone of misplaced anger. So he rises up to his feet, taking a step closer to her so she could see the genuine expression in his eyes.

"You need not fear, I am fully aware of all the many ways my actions reflect on you, sister. It is precisely why I'm here, in this cold and ugly hall 'stead out there --indulging my boredom, as you so eloquently put." he reaches for the strand of her hair, tucking it away gently behind her ear. It was rare for Varyn to show such affection, or to appear so soft. They were raised to see such action as weakness. Perhaps the road had changed him. He no longer feared...vulnerability. "I've no intention of embarrassing you, nor our good name." he takes in a breath after that promise, stepping away from her to grab the bottle he had left on the stairs. "Now tell me, why is it you are not at the party? What else is troubling you? Beside your favourite brother, that is?"

[carnal-lnstinct]

♫ ☆ insp ☆ ♫

"If you fall I will catch you, I will be waiting"

Sometimes it almost feels like he could fall out of his dreamy thoughts, and he would find the harsh Vampa sun on his skin. Then, the old man's voice would carry from some distance away or close by, maybe echo off the open cave walls to summon him back to his side. He'd immediately start throwing out orders to get this or take out another beast, or just rant about the day they would finally leave this forsaken planet for something better. Cursing the saiyan king's name came up mostly, but maybe Paragus' spirits were well enough some days to share a tale or two about the small things he had gone without and taken for granted over the last forty-plus years. Some things they should be sure to take advantage of when they got the chance. It made Paragus smile when he talked about the good of his prior life, his tone less grouchy and Broly could stand to listen more closely. His imagination could paint a picture of things he never saw from the way Paragus explained the many worlds beyond this planet, but that smile of his dad's was crystal clear above it all. Happy, and hopeful.

Broly didn't expect he could miss that after everything. Those same old stories over and over while they force down more scraps to keep their strength up for another day. Among the horrors they endured for years, Paragus was the one to keep up the spark of hope and pride for their future. Maybe it was just the older saiyan's wishful thinking and general spite to keep going, but there was so much they were supposed to do when they finally left Vampa.

Broly now gets to wake up in a place where the sun isn't so hot on his skin. There were soft places to sit and rest on and more varieties of food than he knows what to do with. And there were...friends. He never imagined having so many people wanting to care for him and help him towards a better place. But not his father. Paragus was always meant to do that and guide him through the unknown worlds, retrace all the steps back to where he was happy. He was supposed to be here for these better times in wonderful places. Their freedom to finally enjoy it all was so brief, Paragus' death leaving nothing but guilt in Broly. How could he allow himself to fully enjoy the beautiful mysteries of the universe when it was stolen from his father again?

For everything good that came in failing to fulfill his purpose, the only thing he was trusted to do by his father, Broly was left hollow in his grief. All Broly ever had to do was keep himself and his father safe. No one could change his mind about it or how deeply his remorse ached inside him. In the end, Broly deemed himself a failure. Yet he is the one who gets to enjoy the new worlds. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

All that is left for him is to just "be better" than what was put on him and it would somehow solve his problems. Friends and really good food made it easier, and he was excited to finally enjoy training again but truthfully it made him miss his father more.

As he lingered in his sorrows, Broly's memory surfaced older things from when he was still small enough to be toted around in the old man's arms. That made him smile. Even when he was afraid to fight or fussy against the orders put on him, he remembered that gruff voice of Paragus voicing how proud he was of him.

Then Broly stopped smiling. Clutched in the saiyan's hands was the robe last worn by Paragus, all that Broly could keep with him when he was able to recover it upon returning to Earth. He hung onto the way his father spoke so grandly of his strong and combative son and holding the cloth made it sound real again. Before his unruly power started to frighten Paragus. Before sparring with Ba was wrong.

He let himself forget about that...How could he? Broly can't "wake up" in the cave to his father calling his name now. Paragus can not tell him how proud he is.

He failed. He's gone.

"Broly." You knocked on the door before slowly pushing it open to enter, finding the tall saiyan sitting along the edge of his bed. "Oh good, you are up! Lunch is..." Your voice trailed to silence at the sight before you. In a defeated slump, the wild head of hair gently turns toward you with watery eyes catching the light coming through the doorway. He's stuck in the heavy sensation pulling in his chest and it overwhelms him in your presence. "What's the matter? Did you hurt yourself?"

He tried to keep himself together under your gaze, his fingers curling tightly in the light-color fabric until they trembled. His composure ultimately disintegrated as the first heavy tears fell from his face into the robe and he lowered his head. You reacted without thought, moving in closer with your arms opening to him. Broly could only lean in towards you burying his face into his father's remaining possession and sinking into your arms.

"My dad..." His sob was muffled in the cloth pushed into his face. "I-...He was..."

"Oh no, no it's okay. It's okay, Broly." You softened your voice and drew his head onto your shoulder. Grief like this could be so heavy to bear alone, hearing him give in to his cries filled your own eyes with warm tears. But it was necessary for him. The best you could do was just to help ease the loneliness of it. You blinked to keep your tears at bay and rubbed a consoling hand along his large back as much as you could reach and as long as was needed. "It's going to be alright. Take your time, I'm right here."