#oh how often I mourn for a man who dies when I let him

[arthursfuckinghat]

The tragedy that is Arthur Morgan is something that keeps me up at night.

That man lived day to day thinking life was just a tally chart of his sins and that he was forever damned, to the point where he was silently suicidal.

He lived and died thinking that no matter what good he did, it would never make up for his existence - in the type of life he didn't get to choose.

And what's worse is that he still tried. He tried and gave absolutely everything to the people he cared about, to the people he loved, and he watched all of it crumble before him.

He was a dog that was tricked into thinking it was a wolf, a stag who was taught to be a moose, that died to unwavering loyalty.

[tojisun]

sunnyyy!! omg omg okay so idk what you put in your toxic dbf series but im sure its crack cause i know its freaking hurtful but i love it!! ur mind is >>>>>

alsoooo, i have this idea that i plan on writing for miguel but idk where to start SO IM GIVINF IT TO YOUUU!!

so lets call her bunny in this one. say bunny is enough of his shit, won’t let him do her dirty anymore because she refuses to be stupid. she’s no longer cassie howard and moves on to another man. a man who knows what he wants and who isn’t afraid to let her know that he wants her. he’ll cherish her, he adores the fuck out of her, he shows her off and he makes a promise to put a ring on her finger,

but simon doesn’t like that. not even one bit. and it ticks him off because why is he like this? why is he so worked up that she finds someone who finally treats her better than she can? yet, he can’t let it go. he lets her know. she has to know.

and so, at two am he comes knocking at her door. flowers in his hand, nicely dressed for the first time to let her know that he’s doing it for her and only her. not erin.

and it takes a lot in her to not slam the door in his face because she’s happy right now,

“you look at him the way i wanted to be looked by you, sweetheart” he admits, swallowing the lump in his throat. “and i envy that.”

she stares at him with a deadpan look. not really feeling a single thing anymore, leading him to continue.

“i have no right to say that, i know but—“ he pauses to take a deep breath. “i want to be with you. i want to be your man and i want you to let me”

she doesn’t want him to

ANA?? ANA MY LOVE???? THIS MAKES ME VIOLENTLY ILL

thinking about this in the dbf!simon series??? oh but im absolutely sobbing // same timeline as this !!

thinking about how you cry and wail and mourn for the years wasted on simon. thinking about the way you crumple on your bed, curling underneath your sheets, your cries now having been reduced to silent tears—this doesn’t mean you feel any better. instead, you feel even more distraught, upset in a way that feels bigger than yourself.

thinking about the promise you make to yourself. how, when the morning breaks, you will move on. that no matter how painful it may be—and it will be—you will strive to let go of simon. truly and completely this time around.

and that’s what you do. you fall asleep in exhaustion, heart heavy and mind buzzed. in the morning, you blink your eyes open and lay in bed for a few more minutes, suspended above your heartbreak, before it all comes crashing down on you. tears trickle from the corners of your eyes but you stay resolute, strong grip corralling your grief into the corner of your heart, before you get your day going.

you start by throwing everything that reminds you of simon: polaroid pictures and framed photos, shirts and clothes and socks and lingeries, towels and bedsheets, trinkets and accessories from across the globe—little souvenirs he’s brought to appease you.

(in the long haul, many of them were actually donated, while some were sold. but today, as you submerged yourself in your heartache, you dumped everything in a black garbage bag. out of sight, out of mind.)

blocking simon’s number actually turned out to be last. you deleted the pictures you have with simon in your phone prior, and then blocked and deleted his number altogether.

you breathed in deeply once you’re finished and collapsed to your bed again, trying to ignore the bareness of the walls and the emptiness of your room (let alone your heart).

the tears come again—they will come more often than not—and you let them. you open the locked corner of your heart and let the grief out. you mourn for what was lost; for what could’ve been. but most importantly, you mourn for the ways you’ve let yourself be trapped in such an unhappy moment.

moving on comes slowly; it comes so torturously that you thought it would never happen. but it does, and it does so during one quiet afternoon.

on that day, you realize that not once did you think of simon. not once did the memories trickle in to rip you away from the jovial present. and as you stand there in your kitchen, the sounds of the microwave beeps piercing through mutedly, you feel remade.

you feel whole, once again.

-

simon noticed, of course. he noticed the way your messages stopped coming in, or the way you no longer use your dad as an excuse to meet simon, or the way you just fell off the radar.

simon tried to reach out to you once and realized that you’ve got his number blocked.

it’s whatever, he thinks. because simon has never known you well, has never tried to learn more about you, so he thinks that this—your silent treatment and your detachment—is all a ploy. something like you playing hard-to-get.

so simon doesn’t think much about it until days turn to weeks, and weeks turn to months, and months are slowly building up to turn to a year.

simon doesn’t hear from you and, despite all his posturing, he realizes that he’s missed you. so he decides to drive by to pick you up for dinner and maybe apologize for whatever it is now that he’s done.

he gets to your dorm and rings your room. the intercom scratches awake, the person from the other side, your dorm mate he’s sure, asks who it was, and simon tells them his name. then, he tells them that he’s here for you.

there is silence for a while, almost loaded in a way that simon knows it’s not the intercom breaking up, and he gets his answer when he’s given a curt reply of, “she doesn’t want to see you. bye.” there is the distinct screech and then the line drops before simon could even ask why.

and simon feels lost. untethered.

-

john is a good man. that’s the first thing you realized. it terrified you, at first, how much you looked forward to meeting him. how much of being with him—simon’s friend—makes you happy.

you waited for the other shoe to drop, shoulders perpetually hunched as though that can shield you from the inevitable of john leaving you. of john using you.

but john is so warm. john is so gentle and kind and patient and loving.

john holds your hand and you know he isn’t looking for more. he drops you off at home, tells you to rest well and to say hi to your dorm mates, before taking off on his bike.

john kisses your cheeks and you know he isn’t looking for something more passionate. more heated. and you crave for his touch, yes, but there is something so special in the way john shows his affection—all crinkled smile and quiet chuckles; all whispered words and promises fulfilled; all soft and tender and secure.

it was a love so different, so beautiful, so really it wasn’t surprising at all when your relationship grows, thriving alongside your healing.

(he promised, you know? he promised, as he played with your hand, that he’ll one day put a ring on your finger. your lips wobbled and you told him to stop making loaded promises such as that, but john just turned to you with a soft smile and said, “i look forward to the day we share the same vow, bunny. if you would have me.”

you hiccupped sob and threw your arms over his shoulders, nodding because, “i would. john, i would!”

he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close and sharing warmth with you. you burrowed your head on the crook of his shoulder, breathing him in, letting his presence wash over you.

john, you thought. johnjohnjohn.)

-

simon drives to you the day after he confronted john. he drives to you with all of his messy heart spilling from the ridges of his ribs, beating only one name—yours.

he’s never felt this way before. not with all the pretty people he’s gone out with, or his first love, or even erin. erin who simon once imagined a future with. erin who simon once loved. not even that could triumph over the expanding turmoil that simon’s basking in.

he calls on the intercom of your dorm again, begs your roommate that may you please hear him out, and then he sees you.

god, you’re just as beautiful as he remembers.

“love–”

“what’re you doing here?”

your words are soft, quiet, but simon isn’t fooled. he sees the anger in your eyes, the hurt having festered into resentment. he wonders how apologies could trickle from his lips—where to even begin?

“please,” you say when simon’s silence stretches on. “just tell me whatever you want and then leave.”

“this. this is what i’m here for. the anger in your eyes– it’s just–…” he breathes in sharply. “i saw you and john, you know? and the way you look at him, it’s how i want to be looked at by you, love.” he swallows the lump in his throat. “i didn’t know what i had until i lost you and i’m so envious of him, i am, so please.”

you stare at him with wide eyes even when your face is smooth of any emotion. simon wonders what you must be thinking but he bulldozes through, hoping that you can give him one last chance.

he promises this time, truly, he’ll be better.

“i have no right to say this, i know, but–” he pauses to take a deep breath, his fists balled tightly. “i want to be with you. i want to be your man and i want you to let me.”

a heartbeat passes, and then, “simon, you are a selfish, selfish man.”

your words are barely louder than a whisper but they scratch at simon’s heart. he looks at you, gaze turning desperate when he sees nothing but bubbling fury and disappointment in your own.

“how dare you,” you say. “you tell me that you saw me and john, and then what? instead of letting me go, instead of letting me move on, you come in here and demand that i return to you?”

“love, i–”

“don’t call me that!”

your anger tips over, now spilling out. he watches the way your eyes glisten, tears dripping to stain your cheeks.

“i’m not your anything, si! not anymore!” you take in a ragged rasp of air, choking on your sob. it tugs at simon’s heartstrings and he moves to comfort you but you pull away, sneering at him in your anger. you wipe at your eyes, scrubbing furiously.

“everything about what you’ve said just now, everything, was all about your wants. all about you. just like how it’s always been,” you murmur, the fight leaving you.

you looked small, hunching into yourself, and simon is hit with this feeling; something that lodges itself in his throat.

“lov–… i’m sorry,” he says because he is.

gods he is.

“just go,” you tell him, meeting his eyes for one last time because he knows that this is the end of it all.

you turn away from him then, closing the building door behind you. he watches from behind he glass doors as you disappear into the hallways and stepped into the elevators and, just like that, simon’s lost his chance of making things right.

ANA MY GOD THIS MADE ME FERAL!! i hope u would like this one bb :(( hope i gave ur vision justice

[dent-de-leon]

Listening to "Bedtime" from the Little Mermaid soundtrack and just,,,, thinking about how Taliesin said Molly was based on mermaids and not having a soul but Ariel gets her happy ending in the disney version and Kingsley gets a happy ending with the Nein and just,,,,

Taliesin Jaffe how dare you do this to me on this, our pride month

AH yes I love that Mollymauk is Taliesin's interpretation of a mermaid so much, it's so fascinating and tragic and bittersweet. Also, I just listened to the song and it's lovely. Makes me very nostalgic.

But yeah, that clip of Taliesin explaining his initial pitch for Molly still just breaks my heart. His acknowledgement that, "Mermaids are fucked," because they supposedly exist without a soul, "Empty" and eternally doomed from the start...it's just so tragic. "I want a body where the soul left, and the body just kept moving. Whatever was in there got pulled out, and went to the Raven Queen. And they just kept walking, like a mermaid--no soul....just someone who was a total blank slate."

And while he does get the fairytale happy end and get to live on with his loved ones, I think Tealeaf's narrative very closely mirrors the darker aspects of Hans Christian Andersen's original version. Especially given the premise of a being without a soul--someone who was supposed to be forever Empty, yet still became whole--

And one of my personal favorite mermaid parallels: A deal made with a witch for an impossible dream. Offering up a vital part of yourself in exchange for a false hope that can never truly be. To me, it echoes both Lucien's own family bargaining away their child to a hag--as well as Lucien later offering himself to the Somnovem. He might not have known Azrahari always planned to keep him as one of her puppets--"My beautiful boy...I had hoped to make you mine one day. What a perfect specimen you would have made. Oh, how you would have been merry with laughter and dance..." But he always lived in fear that it was a possibility.

His parents abused both him and his siblings, were willing to offer up one of their two remaining children to a witch for some fantasy; they passively stood by while they forced Lucien to lure victims to a deadly hag as a mere child--marks who were often bandits, murderers, and monsters as surely as the witch. Abandoning Lucien to them and Azrahari both. Azrahari, who promises she can finally make Lucien happy, return him to those childhood days of song and laughter and dance, if only he would let her carve out his soul--

Again and again, Lucien is promised happiness and safety at the cost of his own freedom and autonomy. The witch can take all his pain away, he just has to surrender all his willpower to her. Exist forever as a hollowed out, Empty shell, her glassy-eyed cadaver of a doll to puppet and put on display.

And the Somovem can make all of his dreams come true, can make his fairytale Once upon a time and happily ever after a reality, he just has to submit to their thrall completely. And, like with the Little Mermaid, it will also come at the cost of unimaginable pain. A girl who can dance beautifully, but every step feels like shards of glass in her feet. The pain of her transformation never leaving her. The Somnovem promising Lucien the whole world, and when he asks what it will cost, they decree, "Pain and pain and pain. A dear price for a man, a pittance for a king, and nothing to a God, cosmically ordained."

And while the Little Mermaid longs to meet her love, she also mourns the fact that, while mermaids live far longer than humans, they have no immortal soul. No eternity or gods or heaven awaits them. They merely fade away, dissolve into seafoam and cease to be. (Just a body without a soul, an abandoned vessel. Hollow. Empty.)

I don't think it's a coincidence that's the fate that awaits all mermaids--and that when Lucien dies, his soul is scattered into dust across the Astral Sea. "It's one thing to be in a different body, it's another to have your very essence scattered. Your very immortal soul divided into pieces, like so much confetti. I believe you seemed to fall for one of those pieces that stuck behind..."

To me though, a parallel that really stands out is the narrative culminating in a decision where you have to either kill someone you love or turn that blade on yourself. Hans Christian Andersen's Little Mermaid is granted a last gift at her darkest hour--a way out where she doesn't have to fade away into nothingness. A chance to live on with her family beneath the sea--a family who loved her enough to barter with the sea witch for one last chance at her freedom. And all it will cost is a dagger through the prince's heart.

But of course she can't bear to go through with it. She tosses the witch's dagger into the sea and falls after it to her death, choosing to sacrifice herself instead of the person she loves. And Mollymauk? When faced with the reality that he could only save the Nein by tearing apart Lucien--and himself along with him--he doesn't even hesitate.

He digs his claws into his own wound and lets himself fall to pieces. He never once thinks of self preservation, tries to barter or plead or find a way to save himself at the last moment. He knows either the Nein will survive or the Nonagon will--and perhaps through him, a part of Molly, even just a piece--but he chooses a painful, agonizing death over Lucien's warped perception of godhood and eternity.

All Mollymauk has ever wanted was to live--in spite of how harsh and cruel the world always was to him. He still wanted nothing more than to walk Exandria and fill that clawing Emptiness with joy and love, have just one more day out of the grave to live and feel and be almost real. And still, he chooses to offer up himself if it means sparing everyone else. When Matt narrates Kingsley's nightmares of Cognouza, he emphasizes that to Tealeaf, "It was worth it. It was worth it." As long as it's to protect the people he loves, letting himself pay the blood price will always be worth it--

"Looking out from within your prison, pushing against your invisible bonds--when your heart found the strength, giving all that you are to help those who gave you purpose in return. It was worth it. It was worth it...The moment you gave yourself and broke your prison. The lights, so many around you free to move on. The warm catharsis of letting go..."

Like the merfolk of the original tale, when Mollymauk sacrifices himself, it's not just death that he faces. It's total oblivion. Offering up all that he is. And he does it gladly.

But when the Little Mermaid sacrifices herself, she is welcomed by warmth, and light. Given a chance to earn an immortal soul through good deeds. And by the same token, when Mollymauk tears apart both the Nonagon and himself, he falls back into the Moonweaver's welcoming embrace. Given another chance by both her and the Wildmother--divine, higher powers that looked at this supposedly "Empty" vessel and saw a warm, bleeding heart. A "forgotten fragment" that was loved so much--and loved so fiercely and selflessly in turn--they became real and whole.

“Light gathers around the body, the magic attempting to reach out into whatever space holds the souls here in the Astral Sea, as so many go scattering outward now to search for one. A fragment of one. Or is it a whole one? If souls can grow from but a piece…”

I think it's both terribly tragic and heartwarmingly bittersweet that Mollymauk's ending echoes the Little Mermaid's own--a gutting sacrifice that leads to hope and a new beginning. A second chance and a soul made whole. Being saved and held together by the very love you sacrificed yourself for. It's also suitably a very romantic end to me, which fits Tealeaf perfectly. And the fact that the character who was inspired by mermaids goes on to become a pirate king...I do wonder if Taliesin did that on purpose, because I think it's adorable--

Anyway, I love Mollymauk, and all the Little Mermaid parallels, and wish we could listen to Taliesin talk about mer inspired Molly more. Also, this bit of character building makes mer widmauk one of my favorite au's--

[fromchaostocosmos]

I have written about the Golem so much on here. I can not stand how it is done. It drives me bonkers.

The only time I can recall seeing Golem being used where I was happy was when it was not even a Golem. In Scott Westerfeld's Leviathan series in one of the books there is a Jewish community that has their own Clanker (what in the series is the name for giant machines that can be operated sort) that they call a Golem. If I am remembering it correctly

Also add the Leviathan to the list with Dybukk and Golem of Jewish creatures/entities/beings/idk what to call them that get just done terribly in pop culture/media. Oh lets not forget Lilith and the fuckery that goes on there.

The way that things get taken from our folktales, folklore, traditions, mysticism, practices, and culture to be used for pop culture/media is really gross because we are a closed culture, but also because it involves a stripping and butchering of sorts in the process. There is no aspect in which it shows a cultural appreciation or respect to the source.

It is just a cruelty.

A really perfect example of this is Tim Burton's The Corpse Bride.

It is totally stripped of its origins, of the tragedy behind it, and of the kernel of hope carried within it.

Throughout all of Diaspora, throughout the ages it was horrifically common for Jewish brides to be murdered before their weddings, often being raped first, and then discarded somewhere they would not be found by groups of non-Jewish men.

Out of this horror a folktale sprung up across the Jewish world where a Jewish man practices the specific Hebrew phrase he must say under the Chuppah as he puts the ring on the forefinger of his bride. He says this phrase putting the ring on a branch, a root, a stem, a something it varies by location of community.

He does not know that what he thought was a piece of nature was in fact a finger bone. Finally his wedding has come and it is the time for him to do has he so diligently practiced, but before he can even begin to say the words our dead bride in a state of decay, but still within her wedding garb that was lovingly made for her has arrived to claim her husband.

Each story will have some variation to what is specifically is said and what shenanigans ensue.

But the end result is that she is able to lead them to her body where it is recovered and given a proper funeral via the Jewish funeral rites and buried in their Jewish cemetery, pending on the version it maybe alongside any family that has died since her murder. This brings her peace and brings closure to her family and community.

The man and his living bride are able to get married after a period a mourning is over.

This folktale existed as a way to talk about this very common occurrence, as way to give over history to next generation and to not let the history die, it was a way to give a sense of peace to the multitudes of families who never found their daughters by saying maybe one day they will come home in this way.

But if you saw the Corpse Bride movie you would never know the origins of where it came from. You would never know about how Europe and Asia are filled with hidden corpses of Jewish brides who were murdered for simply being Jewish.

Though I’m sure they’re out there I’ve never seen any Jewish people complain about the use of golems in fantasy. In fact, I’ve never seen any Jewish people talk about the use of golems in fantasy at all and I’m curious what your thoughts are on the subject if you’re Jewish.

As someone who has Jewish roots that were completely lost during WWII not because my Jewish family was killed but because they hid their religion and pretended to be Christians even to their own children to keep them safe, going so far as to claim our dark hair and brown eyes were due to a single Spanish ancestor, I’m always deeply fascinated by the use of golems as an allegory for Jewish heritage, but I also thought the use of golems as moving gardens in Dungeon Meshi was unbelievably cute. However, while I relate to gentile characters with lost Jewish heritage I don’t consider myself Jewish and wouldn’t dream of giving my opinion on anything as a Jew, which is why I really want to know what Jewish people who grew up in a Jewish culture feels about the use of golems in fantasy like Minecraft and Dungeon Meshi.

[name-s-are-not-important]

Oh damn, where do I start...

I personally see him in a few different ways but they all meet in one point. No kid of sixteen years old would try to murder their own sibling if not given such idea or at least prompted that it’s something that is okay to be planning and trying to do. Of course the world knows some cases of kids being murderers but the thing is... Ferris is way more of an emotional and sane man than Halt (and I’m saying it with all the love I have for that grumpy ball of trauma and denial of it)

Let's not get into the details of how instead of a proper villian feared by the Halt himself, canon made Ferris into a comedic relief.

He is not a sociopath, he is not devoid of emotions, he's not even cruel. Let’s be honest, if Halt showed up randomly at the home of any other villian, he would be attacked, especially if the villian had even a little power. And here we're talking about a literal king with a literal army in his literal castle.

My theory is, the whole family was broken, to put it lightly. Ferris was a kid, when the conflict between him and Halt started. Their parents were around and no one gave a single damn. Now, we know that Halt 1. often lies, 2. can be an unreliable narrator while telling a story. The way he sees it and tells Will and Horace, is a version he memorised as a kid. And once again, I will stand my ground with the theory that he did not tell the whole story then, because he never does, only when forced to he tells some of each.

So, Ferris was a kid as well, when it all started. In some of my fics I place him as a favourite kid, hence his ambitions and greed for power and the crown, in others I see him as the forgotten child. Always unseen, left by himself and to himself, the spare that was needed only in case of something happening to Halt...

I could go on and on but my main point is, Ferris could have been a victim of some sort of child abuse, neglection or toxic traits they were learnt, as well as Halt, and most likely Caitlyn. Of course that does not make his actions justified. Just not all victims had the chance to become heroes.

Another argument about that which I have from the books is that eventually Halt sees Ferris as someone else that he himself told us he is. He mourns Ferris and hunts down his killers. He reacts on his death in a strong way, while he did not care at all when his nemesis died (I know, I know, he was trying to save his son then). Ferris was (I think so) meant to be the bad guy who started it all, the whole Halt’s story, and had such a strong impact on him, that Halt choose to stay 'dead' for all his family, including his sister for so many years.

Ferris was meant to be the first and the final villan.

But at the end no one, including Halt, sees him that way.

I have just picked up my Ranger's Apprentice fanfiction again (with the intention to finally finish it), and in the process, I started looking into the dusty cobwebs that is my Google Drive and rediscovered by Caitlyn O'Carrick fanfiction plans. I did some thinking about it, and I gotta say... the more I plan out this story, the more I feel more sympathy for Ferris, NOT THAT HE ISN'T A TERRIBLE PERSON but I just think there could be something more than pure greed. (AKA I've made it so that Ferris isn't just a one-sided villain and have actually given him a personality). No spoilers for when I do eventually end up writing it, but I just wanna know... what are y'alls thoughts on Ferris O'Carrick?

[onecanonlife]

Tommy and Wilbur fell apart a long time ago, and there was never any time to mourn the pieces of what they were.

But here's the most important thing: Tommy doesn't give up on the people he cares about.

(Or: on grieving, graves, a past that refuses to let go, and learning to look forward at long last.)

(word count: 5,619)

--------------------

“You know,” Tommy says, “I never really got to—to mourn you. Not properly, anyway.”

He’s not sure what response he’s expecting from Wilbur. He’s not sure why he’s saying anything at all. He’s not sure why he’s here.

That last one is a lie. He scuffs the ground with his shoe, and then pretends that he didn’t.

“I wasn’t expecting you to mourn me,” Wilbur says, in that stupid, even, condescending tone of his, the one that he uses whenever he thinks Tommy has said something incredibly obvious, when he’s got an idea in his head of how things are and what people mean, regardless of the way it all actually is. “In fact, I rather thought you wouldn’t. Shouldn’t, even.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He has no patience left. No patience left for the look in Wilbur’s eyes, no patience left for the way he focuses straight ahead, barely sparing him a glance, no patience left for the way he speaks, measured and calculating, every word he says carefully weighed against the end result, curated for intent and impact. No patience, and he had precious little to begin with. “I’m not even—this isn’t about you.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. It makes him look like a prick. “Oh?” he says.

“Because I would’ve,” he continues, doggedly. Now that he’s started saying it, he’s damn fucking well going to finish it. “But, y’know, you blew it all up, so we had to rebuild, and then I got exiled” —His voice doesn’t waver at all— “and then shit just kept on happening, so I never got to decide. How I felt. I never got to think about it.”

Wilbur laughs, then, and it’s the laugh that he hates, because it’s the laugh that’s not genuine. He knows what Wilbur sounds like when he’s happy, and this isn’t it. Hasn’t been it for a long time.

“Not sure there’s much to think about, there,” Wilbur says, and he scowls.

“Shut up, you prick,” he says. “And yes there was. That’s not something you get to choose. What I feel.”

“I’m not trying to—” Wilbur starts, but he shakes his head, going back to talk over him, because no, he’s not doing this. Not today, and not here.

“You are though, aren’t you?” he says. “You always do this. You go, you go mimimimi, I’m Wilbur, and I understand everything about how people think and I’m always right and you are all wrong, and you, I dunno, man. You just. You just don’t. You don’t know. You think you know things, but you don’t. You’re not always right. And I’m—I don’t fucking know why I’m bothering with this right now, but it’s not so you can tell me that I shouldn’t be. Because that’s not something that’s up to you.”

“Then why are you bothering with this?” Wilbur says, and his voice isn’t unkind, but it’s not kind, either.

“I just said I didn’t know—”

“Because if you’re asking me if you should mourn me, you already know what I’m going to say to that,” Wilbur says. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s the fucking problem,” he says, and tacks on a quick, “Not like that,” but Wilbur’s face has already hardened, and yeah, there’s a million better ways he could have put that, but that’s the thing about talking to Wilbur. His brain is never firing on all cylinders, as it were, because it’s too busy trying to figure out if he should associate him with warm summer days and the haze of potions and a strummed guitar or explosions and drifting smoke and blank eyes and the awful realization that what he thought would make everything right didn’t do anything at all, and that nothing would ever be right again.

And before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater stretches out, vines trawling over the edge, leaves sprouting from between the rocks, sunlight catching on the pool at the bottom, the flag fluttering lightly in the wind. Before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater has grown over, time pressing itself into the cracks. Before the both of them, L’Manberg is a crater. It wasn’t always.

“You make everything so fucking difficult,” he says.

“It’s what I live for,” Wilbur says.

“It’s what you died for, too,” he says.

Wilbur pauses.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t.” But for once, he doesn’t elaborate, and Tommy glares at him. Only for a moment, because there’s no point in glaring when someone won’t see. Won’t look. Wilbur has his eyes turned to the crater, and Tommy has his eyes turned to Wilbur, and something about that is how it’s always been. The vines have grown over the earth’s old wounds, but Tommy can’t help but feel like they’ve curled around his ankles, holding him to the spot, the moment, and every moment that came before.

I never got to mourn you, he doesn’t say again. I never got to mourn you, and I feel like I should. But you’re here, and what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Wilbur won’t hear him. And if he does, he won’t understand.

-----

He collects bits of the past like buttons, or stamps, or memories.

He has his discs. He’s hesitant to play them, even now. Hesitant to take them out of his enderchest. He has his home, still in the same spot, all this time later. His hill, his hole, his garden, their bench. He sat on that bench and heard Wilbur, once, reaching out from beyond the grave, and Wilbur told him he was proud, and something in him ached in the same way that his scars now do when it rains.

He has some of Friend’s wool. Just that, just wool, because he doesn’t know how to knit, and he doesn’t know who would teach him. He can sew a little, but it was something born of necessity, of the need to patch up uniforms and close the tears over freshly dealt wounds, and he can still feel the needle pricking into his fingers, again and again and again. He never could figure out how to hold it so that it wouldn’t. He bled for L’Manberg in more ways than one.

Deep inside a chest, he has two uniforms. Blue and red and white. One is a size too small. The other is several sizes too large, and always will be.

He still goes to pray, sometimes, though not as often as he did. He got the chance to meet god and found no one there, so it’s a little tricky, these days, being faithful. But he’ll go to Church Prime, because no one else really does, so he’ll have the whole building for himself as he strides up to ring the bell, to ask for guidance and favors, to pay his homage at the feet of a higher power that he cannot believe cares. On the best days, he’s tempted to try to conduct a service. But there’s no point when there’s no one to hear it but himself. Even he can’t bring himself to put on a show for empty pews.

He prays, and nobody answers, and sometimes he can’t help but remember the void, the tearing, ripping nothingness, raking him to shreds again and again, where he was not alone and yet nobody came.

He considers visiting Tubbo. But Tubbo has his own life, and a mansion he hasn’t moved into, and a town that Tommy does not belong to, and an allegiance that Tommy does not share. He considers visiting Ranboo, but that’s either the same as visiting Tubbo, or it’s the same as visiting Techno and Phil, or it’s the same as visiting Wilbur.

So he looks at his discs and doesn’t play them, bunches his hands in wool that he has no use for, and calls out to a god he can only now offer false homage. He holds to the past, and wishes he could believe he has a future. Wishes that he didn’t see obsidian and curtaining lava whenever he closes his eyes.

-----

The first time he hears Wilbur play again, he hides in the forest like a fucking coward.

The guitar is strummed hesitantly, haltingly, interspersed with silence every few seconds, as if Wilbur is struggling to find the old positions, struggling to move his fingers just right. He wonders, then, if limbo took away his calluses. He didn’t think to look. Thirteen odd years without playing a guitar is bound to make anyone rusty. Tommy wonders if Wilbur’s fingers will bleed if he presses down on the strings hard enough, and then he banishes the thought from his mind, because something in him revolts at the idea of Wilbur bleeding. Of Wilbur trying and trying to play until he—

There is something to be said, here, about using yourself up in the pursuit of something greater. There is something to be said, here, about holding matches ‘til they burn down to the skin, about stairs without handrails, about things that are never meant to be and yet claw their way into existence anyhow. There is something to be said about pushing too far, too quick, and flying too high.

Wilbur’s not singing. Is just going from chord to chord. And Tommy hides behind a tree, pressing his back against the bark, because it has been so very long. Wilbur didn’t play in Pogtopia. Wilbur barely played in L’Manberg. The last time he heard the twang of this instrument was sitting by a campfire, plans for a van in the works, the night sky starry and welcoming above them, his chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the flames. And Wilbur smiled at them, smiled at all of them, and his voice was light and sure, his notes soaring.

Wilbur’s not singing. After a moment, he starts humming, softly and meandering, and each turn in the melody hits like a wrench, like he’s dragging the notes out behind them, yanking at the tune whenever it goes somewhere he doesn’t like. It’s a lot of leaps and skips and jumps, a lot of highs to lows and then highs again, and something about it sounds like wailing. There are no words, and there is no happiness.

But he’s playing. He’s playing, and does that count for something? There was no music for such a long time, no music in the darkness and no music even in the light, and now there is music in the grey twilight, and it is not happy music but it is music. Wilbur is playing again, and Tommy’s not going to cry, because what kind of pussy cries about hearing a guitar? So he doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t venture out from this spot, either. He stays there, and listens as Wilbur sends his voice shooting up into falsetto and then back down again.

It’s good that there are no words, maybe. They’d be sad. He can tell.

“That sounds nice,” Ranboo says, all of a sudden, and Tommy jolts at the same time that Wilbur’s hand must jerk, a discordant clash of notes, something that can’t even be called a chord. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“You didn’t,” Wilbur says, after a pause. Tommy almost creeps out to see his expression, because he can’t picture it. Can’t tell from his voice what his face is doing. “I was just about done anyway.” There is another pause, and a rustle of clothing. Standing. The crunching of leaves underfoot. It’s nearly autumn again, and already the leaves are changing, falling.

It would be wrong of him to resent Ranboo. He’ll never admit it aloud, but he likes him. Rather a lot. Hiding it is probably pointless now, though that doesn’t stop him from trying. But Ranboo is occupying the space that should be his, that once was his. There is a van in a forest, and a guitar song winding its way through the branches and the roots, and everything is different and everything is the same, and the new story is written without him in it. He doesn’t know what he wants, but he thinks it is not this. He thinks it is not to be left behind.

And Ranboo does not know Wilbur well enough to hear the lie in his voice.

They go off together through the trees. Tommy stays. Runs his hand across the tree bark, and tries not to put his emotions into words. Better to let them drift along as is. Better not to give them voice, because whispers turn into shouts all too easily, and there is not enough space here for shouting.

-----

There’s a thing about graves. There’s a thing about graves and who gets one, and who doesn’t.

He didn’t think about it at the time, the fact that Schlatt—Schlatt the tyrant, Schlatt the enemy, Schlatt the man who had Tubbo executed—got a funeral, and a tomb, has one even to this day, and Wilbur got rubble and a room sealed off and untouched. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no burial. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no gravestone to deface or to ornament with flowers or to kick or to scream at or to kneel beside and speak to or to cry or to do any or all of those things. He didn’t think about it at the time, because there was rebuilding, and then there was a house on fire, and then he doesn’t like to think about it.

And there was Ghostbur.

Wilbur hates Ghostbur. It makes him angry, the way that Wilbur hates Ghostbur. Ghostbur was good, and Ghostbur was kind, and Ghostbur tried his best, and Ghostbur did not deserve to die in the way that he did, terrified, with no one there by his side, with only shouted numbers to soothe his terror, and Ghostbur does not deserve to be stuck in a train station for all of eternity. So he makes Ghostbur a memorial, because it’s all he can do, and the first time he’s next to it at the same time as Wilbur, he meets his eyes squarely. A challenge. A dare. And Wilbur looks right back at him, and then to the gravestone, and his lips curl into a sneer.

And he says nothing at all.

He says nothing at all for a long time. Until he does, and it’s all made so much worse.

“Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” Wilbur asks, and it’s all very even and nonchalant, so much so that it might have him fooled if he didn’t know better, hadn’t heard time and time again exactly what Wilbur thinks of the ghost he left behind him.

“The fuck kind of question is that?” he demands.

“An honest one,” Wilbur answers.

“Right,” he says. “Because you don’t lie anymore, or whatever the fuck.”

“I don’t,” Wilbur agrees, and that is a lie. Tommy would be insulted if he weren’t so tired of it. “Really, I’d like an answer.”

“What does it matter?” he snaps. “He’s not here anymore. He’s not here anymore, and you are. No changing that. I’m fucking stuck with you. You’re like, you’re like a leech, you know that? A leech in my brain.”

Wilbur smiles tightly.

“I’d rather be a leech in your brain than dust in the ground,” he says. “Like he is.”

“Shut up,” he grits out. “Don’t—just don’t fucking talk about him.”

“Alright, then,” Wilbur says. “I won’t. If it upsets you that much.”

And he doesn’t. And the grave stays.

And it is not until later that he thinks about the thing about graves again, about who gets one and who does not. There is no grave with Wilbur’s name on it. There was no soil to lay him to rest, only cold, hard stone, a room undisturbed, a monument to destruction. And had there been time, he would have thought about it more. Would have taken it upon himself, perhaps, because the thing is, in the end, that maybe Wilbur deserved better than to be remembered as the man who destroyed his nation. Deserved better than to be remembered solely by the ravine’s dark corridors and the smoke that clung to him like foreshadowing and the way his eyes looked dead, dead, dead for a long time before Tommy watched Phil plunge the sword into his chest.

Because he was not only that. It hurts to think about, how he was not only that. But sometimes, things that hurt to think about ought to be thought about. Because Wilbur was shattered edges that Tommy knows only now that he could not fix, because Wilbur did not want fixing, but Wilbur was also laughter and a gentle hand on his shoulder and the words “I’m proud of you” that lit him up like sunlight, and he was kind and he was kind of a dick and he was brilliant and Prime, maybe Tommy should have known. Should have known that there was going to be a fall. But he looked up to Wilbur like a child to a shooting star, and it’s a long time before children understand that shooting stars aren’t stars at all, and that the wonder of them comes from self-destruction.

But before Wilbur fell, he shone. A beacon in the dark. Hope, freedom. And before he was those things, too, he was Tommy’s brother. Just that, and nothing more, because more was not needed.

And he received no grave.

It’s a question of time again, and a question of mourning, and a question of how he was ever supposed to grieve when there was no time for it at all, and when a ghost shadowed his every footstep and dripped blue from cold fingers and insisted that nothing was ever wrong. But for the first time, he wonders how Wilbur thinks about it. Graves, and ghosts. And who gets a grave, and who does not.

Who is mourned, and who is not.

Who is given up on, and who is not.

The question echoes once again: “Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” And this time, Tommy hears no taunt in it, no mocking, no cruel joke about the ghost who deserved so much better. Only bitterness, and exhaustion, and resignation. Like Wilbur already knew what answer he would be granted.

That’s a realization of some sort, that Wilbur believes he prefers him dead. It’s a realization of some sort, but he doesn’t know what kind.

There’s ghosts and there’s graves, and there’s the living and there’s the dead, and both are left waiting for relief that never comes. It’s thirteen years in a train station and it’s months without knowing what to think, without having space to breathe, without being able to process that his brother was unwell and then that his brother was gone. It’s too much time and too little, too much distance and too little, and Ghostbur did not deserve what he got, but neither, he thinks, did Wilbur.

That thought feels right. And wrong all at once. Bitter, heart-wrenching. That Wilbur deserved better. They all did, that he knows—but Wilbur did too. And that thought is muddled up in all the rest, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, but it’s there. If there’s anything to be done with it at all.

-----

Here is a fact: he kept Dream alive for Wilbur’s sake.

Here is another fact: he doesn’t know if he regrets it.

Because here is the thing: he remembers that day, remembers the pain and the fear and the devastation, and he remembers the moment it all turned around, cowering behind Sapnap and behind Eret until the time came to step forward, to take the axe in hand and deliver the blow, to deliver himself to safety, finally, finally. And he remembers the words bitten out from Dream’s mouth, panicked, desperate, and he remembers what he said. He will never forget.

And the decision, in that moment, was far easier than it had any right to be.

It became harder, later. Because he made the decision thinking, in large part, of the person that Wilbur used to be. Of a quick, charming tongue and flashes of smiles and music and song and leadership and knowing what to do, always, and Prime above but Tommy missed that person. And so maybe he deluded himself. Maybe he thought, in that dark room, with the portal swirling behind him and the entire server at his back, that he could get that person again. That Wilbur would return, and that it could all go back to the way it used to be. Discs spinning in the sunrise, the server at peace, his brother with him.

But death put those thoughts to rest.

Because death proved to him that Wilbur had only gotten worse. Because in death, Wilbur was happy he was there, did nothing but talk to him and make him play competitive solitaire as he was torn apart atom by atom. Because Wilbur—he became so very certain that Wilbur, if released, would bring nothing but harm to the server again, would tear everything down, because there was something in his voice, in his eyes—

But that was then. And now, Dream still lives in prison, rots but lives, and Wilbur has a burger van in a forest with a friend and spends most of his days lounging about or making eyes at Quackity or talking up a storm but doing jack shit, and Tommy doesn’t know what to make of it, and doesn’t know how to admit that maybe his idea of what Wilbur would be like and what Wilbur would do wasn’t entirely accurate.

And he still doesn’t know if it was worth it. Worth the constant fear, worth knowing that one day, Dream will be out, will come to him, will try to finish what he started. He tried to prevent it and only made it worse, only led Ghostbur to his doom by his innocent, trusting hand, and Dream resurrected—

A monster, he would have said, once. He no longer knows if that is fair.

Because here is another fact, one that he is only now beginning to understand: Wilbur is very, painfully human. He’s always known, and yet he hasn’t, because once, he thought Wilbur hung the stars and the moon and all things bright and glowing and good, and he thought that Wilbur could never be so human as to be fallible, and then it turned out that he was wrong. And it was easy, in the aftermath of that, to figure that Wilbur was perhaps some kind of monster instead, and everyone around him said as much.

But that, he thinks, goes too far in the other direction.

His hopes will never be realized. He will never have the old Wilbur back. He clings to a past that clings to him right back, that has him in a chokehold and will not let go, but Wilbur is something else entirely. The rest of the past does not live and breathe, is contained in his overflowing chests, in uniforms that don’t fit him, in the church’s empty hall. The rest of the past is made of things he can hold, but he has never been able to hold Wilbur. Not then, and not now. And there is no hope of making of them what they once were.

There is no going back.

So was it worth it, then? To keep Dream alive, and to receive this, this man who varies between manic energy and calculated calm, who speaks with a whip in his tone at some times and unbearable softness at others, who proclaims Dream his hero and then claims he would have killed him, if he could, for what he did? Was it worth it, and is it worth it, and how is something like that measured at all?

Wilbur is a tightness in his chest when he speaks and a ghost that won’t leave and a ghost that died and a thousand words like a thousand stinging hornets and no picture that could encompass all of them, all of what they are and were. Wilbur is Wilbur, and Wilbur is not safe, not anymore, and perhaps Wilbur is not even good—but there, that, that is wrong, and he won’t make this mistake twice. Wilbur is good, it’s just that he’s forgotten that, and Tommy is so, so very tired of having to be the one to try and remind him. And Wilbur is empty space and Wilbur is a space too full and overflowing around the fractured edges, and Wilbur is too bright and too loud and too quiet and too little and too much, and even now, even still, Tommy does not know where they stand.

Was it worth it, to have this?

He doesn’t know. But sometimes, he imagines what it would be like if Wilbur were still dead, if Wilbur were never, ever coming back in any shape, in any form, and his throat closes up and his eyes sting, no matter how much he has laid out his hatred for the man, his regret at going into the prison that day. He tries to imagine a world without Wilbur in it, in which he has given up on Wilbur, and even now he doesn’t like it, even though maybe he should, and that is, perhaps, answer enough.

-----

“Why do you keep coming here?” Wilbur asks him.

“I dunno,” he says, instead of a hundred other things. “Why don’t you ever fucking leave?”

Wilbur just looks tired. There are bags under his eyes. Tommy thinks he can guess why; he so rarely slept during their exile, but Tommy is thinking about limbo, and train stations, and how whenever he closes his eyes, part of him is convinced that his heart has stopped beating. He wonders if Wilbur, for all his sunrise-obsession and constant movement and moments of utter wonderment at the world around him and the way he doesn’t move whenever a creeper approaches him, feels the same way.

“There was a reason I asked Ranboo to do this with me instead of you,” Wilbur says, suddenly, apropos of nothing. Tommy feels himself still. “I mean—actually, I asked Phil, and Phil was all, oh, Wil, go and make friends, and I was like fuck you I’m not twelve years old anymore but Ranboo’s pretty great so it worked out. But I—I guess what I’m getting at is that I don’t get it. Why you choose to keep coming ‘round here anyway.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “What’s not to get?”

Wilbur shoots him a look, eyebrows going up and mouth slanting all sympathetic-like.

“Tommy,” he says, slowly, as if talking to the child that Tommy has not been in a long, long time, “I’m not what you want.”

Several answers form in his head, and then dissipate just as quickly before he’s able to reply. “‘S that right?” he says, and something boils within him, hot and snapping and popping.

“I can see it when you look at me, man,” Wilbur says, and he doesn’t even sound upset. “You’re—and I mean, I don’t blame you for it. I was awful to you, Tommy. I don’t deserve anything less than your scorn. But you and everyone else, you’re all waiting for what I’m going to do next. You’re all waiting with bated breath. Scared of the next disaster I’m going to cause. So you don’t—you don’t have to be here, Tommy. Not if you don’t want to be.”

There are so many things he could say. Your disasters always cause the most damage to yourself, is one of them, and then there’s a simple, you think I don’t know that? Because how many times has he told himself that same thing? That he doesn’t need to be here? That it would be better for him if he wasn’t? And some part of him must listen, because he’s not actually here all that much. He has other things to do. A life outside of this, outside of this forest on the edge of a fake desert and a van that makes pretty shitty burgers and one Wilbur Soot, like a portrait from the past and yet nothing like that at all, because portraits are shadows, still images, permanent and unchanging, with mo mutable future, and Wilbur Soot is none of those things.

He has a life. He has Tubbo, still, even if it’s all changed. He has others. He’s not alone.

Wilbur’s right that he doesn’t have to be here.

“Stop fucking doing that,” he says. “Stop trying to make my decisions for me.”

Wilbur’s eyebrows furrow. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says. “You always are. It’s my fucking choice whether I want to be here or not. And I’m making that choice. Not you. Me. And sure, maybe one day you’ll manage to get rid of me for good, but you’re gonna have to fucking work at it, and I don’t see you trying.”

“I thought you didn’t want me here, Tommy,” Wilbur returns, and the words seem to fall so effortlessly, like easy acceptance, and why, why is it this of all things that Wilbur seems to take in stride? Why is it this and not a thousand other things? Why is it this and not the fact that despite it all, despite every warning sign and every indication that maybe it might be better for him to give up after all, Tommy is still here?

“I didn’t want you gone, either,” he snaps, and Wilbur falls completely silent. So he continues, because who knows when he’ll have a chance to say this again? That’s the thing about chances; they’re difficult to count, impossible to anticipate, and he bollocksed up the first one he got, to try to break through. “I never wanted you gone in the first place. So maybe I don’t—maybe I don’t fucking know what I want. Because I never got to just live with that. There was never a chance to—there wasn’t even a fucking grave for me to visit. I never got to figure anything out, and now you’re back and nothing’s the fucking same, so maybe I don’t know what I fucking want. Maybe I don’t fucking know if I want you here, but I didn’t want you gone. I didn’t want you to be dead. And then you were. You just were, and I couldn’t—did you expect me to be alright with that?”

It’s a question of mourning, and a question of graves, and a question of chances and who deserves them. And Wilbur just looks confused.

Fuck him.

There’s so much more to say, and he can’t say any of it at all, and the past chokes him like a knot of vines or a clump of flowers in his throat, but he’s still breathing. He’s still breathing, breathes again, whatever, and Wilbur is the same. They’re the same in a lot of ways, maybe. On the other side of the final death, trying to hold onto and release the years gone by all at once. Moving forward, but stuck in quicksand, and they’re never going to get out if they don’t let each other.

“You’re my brother,” he says, and that’s all. As if that explains everything.

And maybe it does.

Wilbur blinks.

“Ah,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Fucking ah.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says.

“You’d better be,” he says.

And impossibly, the vines uncurl, and the flowers come floating up, and when he takes a step forward, it comes easily.

There is a van in this forest, and it is not the same van. Some distance away, there is a crater in the ground, and nature has draped itself over the ruins of the lives they once had, and the flag still flaps at the bottom, and they are never, ever going to be able to rebuild what they lost. The crater will always be a crater, a scar in the earth. Healing, healed, grown over and stitched shut, but still a scar.

And there is a man standing in front of him who is not the same man that he knew. Not the same man that he claimed for his family, and who claimed him in return.

But he is not the same, either. Perhaps nobody and nothing is. The past clings, and he clings tighter, but perhaps he needs to loosen his grip, because despite everything, there is a future out there, somewhere past the next sunrise. They are going to get older. They are going to live. So he has his discs and his uniforms and his wool and his prayer, and he has this, too, because it is his choice. To take a step forward, and wait to be met in the middle. To dare to turn ahead, to believe that there is something awaiting him. The both of them.

And he thinks he might finally be able to let himself grieve. Grieve, and let go. Grieve the dead, and what they had, and what they might have, and grieve for the fact that there was no grieving, no grave.

And then, let himself hope that they will have better after all.

-----

The next time he hears Wilbur play, he steps out from behind the tree.

And maybe the song is a little less sad.

And maybe nothing will ever be the same as it used to be.

And maybe it will be alright.

[dancingamongstdust]

Creepypasta Scenarios - First Meeting Part 2

Hoodie

The area where you lived had a ton of back alleyways that acted as shortcuts in a pinch. They were generally safe but you often got an uncomfortable feeling when using them so you preferred to take the busier roads if you could.

Unfortunately, when you had gone to leave work that day, you had spotted the customer who had been harassing you the entire day. It wasn’t anything creepy but it was over-the-top persistent and you weren’t in the mood to deal with it. You slipped out the backdoor as a result. At least you’d get home sooner.

For the most part, you didn’t encounter anything too suspicious and the light from the streets illuminated where you were going.

The large bins outside the grocer’s home indicated that you were getting close. You sped up and rubbed your eyes blearily.

Ahead of you, a dog was barking from inside one of the buildings. It was a pretty noisy animal and you began peering around to see what the source of its agitation was. Ironically, you ended up bumping directly into him.

“I’m sorry,” you apologised, rubbing your shoulder.

The guy was tall, wearing dark clothing and standing right in the shadows. You could have probably noticed him if you were a little more awake.

He turned and your breath caught.

His face was obscured by a dark mask with red features stitched onto it. His hoodie which originally seemed dark was now illuminated into a soft yellow or orange, stained with a dark substance.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. His voice crackled out, clearly coming through a voice changer of some kind.

“I – I was just taking a shortcut home. I live near here so I thought… I really didn’t mean to bump into you. I’m super tired.”

“Tired or not, you shouldn’t have seen me,” the guy said. “Do you have a phone or a camera?”

Slowly, you reached into your bag and pulled out your phone. “I don’t have any cash in my wallet –“

“I don’t want your money!” he snapped. “I’m not some petty thief, believe me, I have better things to do with me time. Unlock this.”

You did so and he went through it with a gloved hand. He didn’t have a weapon but something in your gut warned you to just go along with it. Nobody covered up everything, including their voice, when they were up to something good. This guy may not be a thief… but the alternative didn’t feel too much better.

He shoved your phone back at you. “Get out of here and don’t breathe a word of this to anybody. Consider yourself lucky that I’m in a good mood today.”

You swallowed nervously. “Thank you?”

“I’m serious,” he warned. “I can let you go just because you seem pathetic enough to not take this to the police but unless you want to catch a bullet in your back, you’ll keep quiet. My boss doesn’t like people getting involved with this nonsense.”

“A bullet?”

He didn’t answer and your heart thundered in your chest. Part of you wondered if he was going to kill you while you ran away but his attention seemed to have moved away from you. You hurried away, holding your breath the entire time. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, the guy remained unmoving.

When you reached your home, you locked the door tightly and slumped against it in exhaustion.

Homicidal Liu

The sunset was beautiful over the graveyard – the only beauty to an otherwise morbid place.

You stared at the purples and oranges dancing across the sky. The wreath pricked at your hands after a while and you stared down at it. Why did you still bother with bringing flowers? Hadn’t it been long enough? Still, you made your way down to the grave and placed them there, not even bothering to read the name on there.

Lately, your graveyard visits had becoming fewer and fewer. Time hadn’t been on your side recently and thus, your precious solitude had to suffer. You relished in the way that nobody really bothered you here.

An orange glow warned you when the streetlights came on. Perhaps you had been there for longer than you thought but this was to be your last visit.

Better to make it count.

Something caught in the wind made you raise your head. A piece of fabric was stuck in the nearby fence, identifiable as a scarf when you ventured closer.

You took it from the fence and looked around for its owner. Nobody was in view… maybe it had been blown off one of the graves? It did seem homemade.

Guessing, you began to place it on a grave when a voice startled you.

“I’m sorry to bother but I think you have my scarf?”

The man was standing far too close for you to have not seen him when you were glancing around but you blamed that on your night vision. He wore dark clothing and seemed awkward just to be speaking to you.

“Thank goodness,” you said. “I was just going to leave it on one of the graves because I didn’t know who it belonged to.”

He thanked you for it, wrapping it around the lower half of his face almost immediately. “That would be a waste,” he said. “Especially to leave it on this one. Thank you for grabbing it.”

A harsh wind blew through the graveyard, carrying with it the smell of an incoming storm. He grabbed his scarf just in time to prevent it from going flying away again.

“Seems like the weather is determined to steal it from you.”

“Far more powerful things have tried.”

You buried yourself further into your jacket and smiled. “I haven’t seen you around before, are you new in town or just coming to visit a new grave?”

“I’m not visiting a grave,” he admitted. “I just thought that this would be the way back to my house… I grew up in this town but only recently moved back and I’m already lost. It’s a little embarrassing if I’m honest.”

“Well, I like to know everybody,” you said. “What’s your name?”

“Su – I mean, Liu,” he said. “Liu. Sorry, I nearly gave you my surname.”

You laughed. “Oh that’s no problem. It’s nice to meet you but I really like your name. Is it Chinese?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He looked around and began walking away. “I really have to go. Thank you for getting my scarf and all that.”

“I’ll see you around,” you said with a wave.

It was only later when you realised how suspicious that entire interaction was. You had never seen Liu before in your life and he was just hanging around in the graveyard? He hadn’t seemed too creepy at least. Maybe you would see more of him in the coming days.

Jane the Killer

It wasn’t that you were unobservant or inattentive toward girls but nobody had really caught your eye until Jane.

She was stunning in a way that few people could ever match with dark hair that tumbled past her hips and soulful eyes. Her walk was always confident, her smile always perfect, and her attention always desirable. Your main regret about life was that you didn’t speak to her sooner – especially when you thought back on what happened not too long after your first meeting.

You organised with your friends to somehow bump into her but instead, you wound up getting treated for a pretty painful bruised hip. Your second plan didn’t work out either and your third never even left the drawing board.

“Just go up to her and say hi. Tell her that she’s beautiful,” your friend encouraged. “She’ll say thanks and then you’ll be able to talk to her.”

“That’s so boring though,” you said. “It’s not like something out of a romance novel.”

Your friend groaned and stood up. “Well, I’m going home. We have like three months left of high school and I’m not going to spend that time obsessing over how to speak to a girl. She’s literally a regular person.”

They were right and you knew that. No matter how you tried to set up a sweeping romance, it probably wouldn’t work out.

So you tried.

And you tried.

Two weeks later, you were about to give up on mimicking a romance novel and it appeared that your friend was thinking the same thing. She grabbed your arm and began to drag you somewhere, muttering about changing the topic. You had a vague idea of where you were going but you didn’t fight too much.

“What if she’s still dating that Woods boy?” you asked. “The older one.”

“They broke up after literally a month of dating. I don’t blame her – those Woods boys are pretty enough but the older one has something seriously wrong with him. And the younger one is always talking to himself…”

“I really don’t care about the Woods’,” you commented.

“No, you care about Jane who is honestly quite weird as well,” they said. “But that is going to be your problem and not mine.”

They dragged you directly up to her group. It wasn’t large – despite Jane’s beauty, she wasn’t incredibly popular due to her associations. Your friend wasn’t the only one who was a little scared of the Woods boys and Jane had hung out with them for quite a while.

“Hey,” your friend said before even letting you go. “You have no idea who we are but my friend here has a massive crush on you. Could you please just say hi so they can get it out of their system?”

You were sure that it was unhealthy to be as red as you were. It felt like your heart was about to leap from your chest.

Jane laughed, a soft and gentle sound. “I’m not really interested in a relationship,” she hummed. “But thank you. That’s very flattering.”

Somehow, your heart sped up still and you awkwardly rubbed your arm. “No problem?”

“Why don’t you join us for a little bit?” Jane offered. “Just because I don’t want to date anybody doesn’t mean that we can’t become friends. You look like my kind of person.”

You stumbled over your words but somehow, your conversation managed to go extremely well. Jane was brilliant in every possible way and you quickly grew attached to seeing her every day. That was why you mourned so greatly when she died.

Jason the Toymaker

The sun was so warm against your skin. You could stay there forever, stretched out on the grass and basking in the sunlight.

“It’s done,” your friend’s voice broke through your daydreaming

You opened your eyes and rolled over to see exactly what they had been working on for the entire trip. After realising the first few times that you weren’t going to get a reaction, you had decided to wait for them to finish working before you tried to have a conversation.

“I didn’t know you could draw,” you said. “That’s amazing.”

The hyper-realistic man was sketched to perfection with a top hat, a fur coat, and a small mouse sitting on his left shoulder. It felt like his eyes could piece into your soul.

“Who is that?” you asked them.

They stared blankly at the image and shook their head. “I don’t know,” they said. “He’s been in my dreams for so long. I think it has something to do with my amnesia. Maybe I knew him once before.”

“He’s a little intimidating,” you said. “I could imagine him to be a ringleader in a circus that’s like a secret cult. Maybe he’s why you lost your memory.”

“Maybe…” they said, tapping the picture. They suddenly shoved it into your chest and stood up. “You keep that. I don’t want it anywhere near me. I need to go talk to my parents.”

You watched them race out of the park in confusion. The man in the picture stared up at you with haunting eyes.

Folding it in half so it didn’t freak you out, you stood and dusted off your clothing. Maybe it would be best if you headed home. It was getting late either way.

Later on, you’d call your friend and check up on them.

About 10 minutes away from your house, the feeling of being watched snuck up on you. It hung heavily around your shoulders like a cloak. You glanced around but saw nobody.

Still, you didn’t feel comfortable leading whoever was following you back to your house. You made a point of walking amongst large crowds and headed for the police station.

They were watching you the whole way.

You sped up. A few people bumped into you and you apologised as best as you could. Your grip on the picture was getting tighter enough for you to tear it. The later it got, the fewer people were on the streets and so you were pretty much alone when you bumped into him.

It took you a few seconds to recognise the man from the drawing.

If you thought his drawn eyes were captivating, they had nothing on his real ones which glowed with an almost ethereal light.

“You’re him,” you breathed.

He stared at you, smile falling from his face in confusion. “Who?”

You shakily held out the drawing and he yanked it from your hands. “My friend drew that,” you explained. “They said that its of somebody from their past. They have amnesia you see.”

He was unmoving as he studied the picture. You began feeling a little uncomfortable and then his gaze snapped to you. “Is that so?” he asked.

You nodded and took a small step away from him. “Maybe you should go and talk to them? See –“ you swallowed nervously. “See if you can help them remember?”

“No need,” he said, dropping the paper on the ground. “Who are you?”

Your name came out as little more than a soft whisper. Something about the entire scenario made you uneasy. His appearance was too unnatural.

A gust of wind came by, picking up the drawing and whipping it away. You watched it go and when you looked back down, his eyes were locked on you.

“Such a pity,” he said. “You would have been the perfect doll.”

Wearily, you took a step backwards. His words made your stomach churn uneasily. “What are you talking about?”

He smiled. It was kind and warm but it only made you more nervous. His eyes looked like they had almost changed colour; shifted a shade darker than previously. “Thinking aloud my dear,” he said.

“About dolls?” you asked.

He tilted his head a little towards you. “I’m going to have to bid you goodbye. It seems I have other matters to attend to.” He brushed past you, stopping briefly when directly next to you. “Consider yourself lucky.”

He was gone before you could even spin around to face him.

Jeff the Killer

Pausing the song, you removed your earphones as quietly as possible and placed them down on your desk. According to the blinking numbers on your phone screen, it was nearing 2 AM. Far too late for anybody to make an excess of noise.

You listened closely. The music had been too loud for you to hear anything and you almost brushed the strange noise off as your sleep-deprived imagination. Until something squeaked like shoe soles on tiles.

In retrospect, you should have immediately called 911 but you didn’t want to sound a false alarm.

The light switch was thankfully directly outside your room. The hall illuminated most of the house when they were on and it steeled your nerves. Your roommate’s door was open, allowing you to confirm their sleeping state, curled up in their bed amongst the piles of mess. They had had to move to the spare room due to a faulty window earlier in the day and had clearly given up sorting items.

You glanced into the apartment’s other rooms before heading to the kitchen. There was nothing odd. The scuttling when you entered the kitchen just suggested that your neighbour’s rat infestation may be migrating.

Making a mental note to call the exterminator, you turned to switch off the kitchen light.

Something slammed into you, forcing your back to collide with a wall. A hand covered your mouth and the overwhelming scent of blood and decay invaded your nose. Something cold and sharp pressed against your neck.

“Shut up and stay still,” the man snarled at you. “I don’t think anybody will appreciate you getting blood in the kitchen.”

Your heart leapt into your throat and your body stilled. The man in front of you was terrifying. His skin pale and mutilated. Eyes far too wide for a normal person and dancing with an insanity that sent chills down your spine.

And his mouth… a bloody smile carved across his face, stretching halfway to his ears.

He studied your face carefully and his expression twisted. “You’re not the right one,” he snapped. The knife moved away from your neck, so he could point with it. “I had this all planned and yet when I came into that room, I found it empty. Why?”

Even if he hadn’t been holding your mouth shut, you doubted you would have been able to formulate an answer. The pounding heartbeat in your ears was nearly blocking out his voice.

He lightly tapped your cheek with his knife. “Not that it matters,” he said. “I’ll just have to adapt my original plan. You’re not the right target but I’m a huge fan of collateral damage.”

A small whimper escaped you and tears welled at your eyes. You didn’t want to die.

“Don’t blubber!” he ordered. “View it as a good thing. You’ll be all over the news. Another victim of Jeff the Killer. Hell, you might even be added to a Wikipedia page or something.”

You could recall that name from the news. Often followed by a lengthy list of deaths and the police chief begging for any information about the murderer.

Jeff stared at you for a long minute before he pressed the knife’s blade to your throat and moved his hand away from your mouth. “Scream and I will remove your vocal cords,” he threatened. “Who are you?”

It took several deep breaths and a flicker of impatience in his expression to give you the ability to talk again. You stammered out your full name as quickly as you possibly could.

He rolled his eyes and tilted the knife so it scratched your skin. A sticky and warm substance ran down your throat in small droplets. “Pathetic.”

“Sorry,” you whispered on instinct. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Why not?” he asked. “You ruined my earlier plans to take out my original target by interrupting me before I could find them. Why shouldn’t I settle for you instead?”

You didn’t have an answer.

He took the blade away from your throat. “If you call the police and report what happened here tonight, I will slice you into little pieces.”

It was almost twenty minutes after he left before you regained any movement in your body. You slumped into a heap on the kitchen floor and started sobbing.

Kagekao

Things had been going missing around your house.

Initially, you had thought it was just due to you forgetting where you’d plopped things because it was simple things. Drinks that vanished, keys turning up on the opposite side of the house, and random spills that you didn’t remember making.

But then it started getting weirder still.

You would make food and pack it away, knowing that you would eat it later, and find it gone. Picture frames disappeared, never to be seen again. Your rug half-unraveled during the night and you found it in a pile the next morning. A candle in your bathroom fell over and, somehow, the curtains on the other side of the house had caught alight.

It was suspicious, to say the very least. You began to think that you had some kind of intruder – once, the news reported that a woman found a homeless man living in her attic and eating her food when she wasn’t looking.

So you went out and bought cameras, setting them up throughout your house.

For two weeks, they caught nothing until one of them ended up breaking. You went to get it repaired and the company managed to recover what it had last seen. Which was nothing on your first glance.

But you were soon to realise, that was only because you had been looking at the floor.

While you were rewatching when you got home, you noticed something. The window was sitting wide open and the camera’s angle only allowed you to see half of it. Right toward the end of the feed, a gloved hand appeared on the side of the window and a slight shadow indicated something climbing through.

So you got reinforced windows and made sure that none were open unless you were in the room.

Things still continued happening.

You were beginning to get really annoyed by this. It was tempting to go to the police and let them just handle it but that was going to be a lot of effort that you really didn’t care for. You didn’t feel like you were in much danger. Nothing had happened in your bedroom.

Your next plan was to set up a trap of some kind. With a hidden camera set up, you made extra food and left it on the counter to see if something happened.

The next day, you watched as a plastic toy of some kind was thrown directly into the plate from somewhere off-camera, breaking it and leaving an absolute mess everywhere.

Still not considering it to be anything dangerous, you just cleaned up the mess and loudly cursed out anybody who was listening. You stalked the house after that, searching every nook and cranny with a bat in hand. The final place was the closet in your bedroom and you peered in, expecting nothing.

When you turned around though, you spotted something sitting in the corner of the room.

It was humanoid with arms twisted into awkward positions and a mask on its face. Half the mask was black and the other white, both sides bearing an unnaturally smiling expression. The creature cackled when you saw it and scuttled out of the door, stuck to the roof the entire time.

A second passed.

Then another.

You pinched your arm hard and waited to wake up. Surely there was no way… I mean, why would… humans didn’t generally crawl along the ceiling? Well, you were quite sure they never did that. You must have been imagining it.

A second laugh corrected you on that.

You swallowed thickly, walked over to your door as calmly as possible and locked it. Then you took out your phone and finally called the police.

Kate the Chaser

The day when Kate was sent away remained very clear in your mind. It was a moment that brought extremely change to your life, mixing up your friend group and sending you in a different direction.

The years has passed and you had never gotten over your best friend. They said that she had lost her mind and you knew it was true. All those games investigating the woods and ghost hunting must have put a toll on her mind. Sometimes, you blamed yourself for all the pranks and you knew that Lauren had similar doubts.

And now she was back.

Lauren and you hadn’t remained close, the entire situation feeling too real with one another. Your greeting was stilted but neither of you wanted to be the first to approach the house.

“Do you think that she remembers us?” Lauren asked.

“If she didn’t then her mom wouldn’t have invited us over,” you said.

You stood in complete silence, staring up at the house. Would you even recognise Kate? The last time that you had seen her was when you were both young children and her face remained at that age in your memories.

Eventually, you gained your confidence before Lauren and you walked over, knocking on the door before anxiety could find you.

Kate answered the door and you forgot why you had ever been nervous.

Time had slimmed her face and shortened her hair. Her eyes were still a gentle brown and the cockiness had faded from her smile, but it was recognisable from your nostalgia. It made you feel warm and known – an aura that you had missed without even realising it.

“Hi,” you greeted.

Kate pulled you into a tight hug and you returned it, clutching at her tightly as though she could slip through your fingers. It really had been too long and when you moved away, she held onto Lauren with the same enthusiasm.

“How have you been?” she asked. “You have to tell me everything.”

The three of you spent the rest of the afternoon having tea and just talking about the world at large. Kate didn’t have many stories from the hospital – she claimed it was because the place had been extremely boring and neither of you pushed to find out more about it. Honestly, it was more comfortable to act as though she had simply moved away.

Lauren had to leave first and you were going to go with her but Kate had looked so down that you remained just a little longer. That was when things got weird.

“I’ve missed music a lot,” Kate sighed.

“Did they not allow you to listen to music?”

She grimaced. “No, they did but often I couldn’t hear it over the static. Its mostly gone away now but it came back last night… it fills my brain and all that I can think of is a way to make the pain stop.”

The colour drained from your face as you stared at her. You didn’t know much about what happened to her but you had thought she would be okay now.

Realising it, Kate hurried to reassure you, “I really have recovered,” she said. “My hallucinations have faded and my medication keeps my emotions in check. You really don’t have to be scared of me.”

You stared down at your cup awkwardly. “I’m not scared of you,” you reassured her. “You’ve never done anything to me.”

She nodded. “It will be alright, you’ll see. I’m ready to get back to a normal life with my friends and not have to worry about that ghost stuff ever again.”

Laughing Jack

It was on your leg…

The glare you fixed the small child with could wilt plants. It didn’t care though and merely clutched at your clothing with a happy smile. “Come play with me?” it asked. “I can introduce you to all my friends!”

“How old is she again?” you grumbled at your friend.

Your friend laughed and ruffled their cousin’s hair. “I had an imaginary friend when I was 10. She’s only 6, she’s still at the stage where they’re a big deal.”

The child was oblivious to your conversation and reached out her arms. “Come on. The parents are being boring. I have candy that my friend gave me. We can share it.”

“I agreed to come along to your family get together to keep you company,” you said to your friend. “You know I don’t like children. Babysitting really isn’t my forte.”

All you received for your complaining was laughter.

By the time you had the 4th teddy bear had been introduced, you were done. Why did one kid have so many toys?

“Now which one of your friends gives you candy?” your friend asked. “Because if it’s from Princess, I don’t think it’s edible. What if she secretly puts glitter in it?”

Expected to play along, you sighed. “Unless it’s glitter from rainbows because then it’s got magic powers and allows you to fly.”

The child liked your thumb-sucked statement because she jumped up in excitement. “I don’t get it from Princess. Jack gives it to me! But if Princess can make me fly, I want to have that kind of candy instead!”

“Which one’s Jack again?” you asked, eyeing the line of toys.

“He’s not here right now,” the child said, biting her inner cheek. She turned in a circle. “Sometimes he hides in the cupboard though!” She ran over to her cupboard and pulled the doors open. “I don’t think – OW!”

She reeled backwards, clutching her cheek. Both you and your friend immediately jumped up and ran over to her. A tiny slice mark ran across the side of her face. It wasn’t anything serious, but she was sobbing as though it would kill her. You presumed a small edge on one of the boxes in the cupboard had been the cause.

“Do you want me to take you to mom, so she can kiss it better?” your friend asked. “Your new best friend can wait here and make sure all your toys are safe.”

The child nodded, and she got led out of the room. You rolled your eyes at the sensitivity and reached into the cupboard to push the box out of the way. A clawed hand reached out of nowhere and grabbed your wrist tightly.

Before you could even shout, it lifted you off the ground by your arm and a second hand had wrapped around your mouth.

The monster’s body appeared out of the closet.

It was a clown. Easily 7ft tall and comprised of monochrome colours with a sharp, pointed nose and long, greasy hair. Its black lips spread into a smile, revealing pointed teeth and a sickeningly sweet breath.

You writhed against its grip, trying to scream or do anything but it was insanely strong, and it just laughed at your efforts.

“How mean,” it purred, leaning in close to your face. “You ask who I am and then, when I appear to you, you insult my appearance. Awful etiquette. Your parents should be concerned about how rude you are to strangers.”

You strained your memory to think about what you had been doing before it grabbed you but the adrenaline was clouding your mind. What had you asked? You struggled more with the lack of memories.

The clown shook its head. “I haven’t revealed myself to somebody so old in a long time. You should be flattered but instead you choose to try and kick me. This is why I don’t do this. Children are far more polite.”

He released you suddenly and you landed hard on the ground. It winked and disappeared, right as your friend and her cousin returned.

“You met Jack!” the child shouted excitedly, pointing to the candy lying next to you.

You shoved it away from you as quickly as possible.

[azenkii]

A Long List of Trash Fire Lord Zuko Headcanons

...that i couldn't get out of my head:

(warning: SUPER LONG POST i havent figured out how to trim posts yet)

he's the one who unchains azula despite iroh's protests. she doesn't even try to fight him, just cries into his shoulder and keeps mumbling about how father's going to be so disappointed in her. he takes her to her rooms and has her drink a sleeping draught, then stations the best guards he has left outside her chambers.

his first council meeting takes place literally a day after sozin's comet. he hobbles into the council chamber shirtless with his entire torso covered in bandages and every council member just looks at him like '...what'

he does NOT sleep for like,,a week after sozin's comet and then another two weeks after his coronation. katara, aang and suki try to persuade him to sleep and he doesn't listen. eventually sokka, toph and mai team up to literally drag his ass to bed and tell him he's not allowed to get up until he sleeps (does mai pin him to the bed with her knives? yes. is it kinky or sexual in any way? definitely not.)

he drinks So. Much. Tea. at this point it's practically tasteless to him but he drinks it anyway because he just needs something to do and tea is something familiar. he keeps iroh on his toes because he's constantly asking for new tea blends, uncle, i think i actually tasted the last one,

he flat-out refuses to grow his hair for at least a year after ozai's defeat. the second it starts getting close to his chin he shears it off himself, with his knife, and his stylist has a heart attack every single time

when he's tired he'll occasionally jump up when one of his guards moves. it stops after a bit, but for the first month and a half or so he's really twitchy. when sokka asks, the only explanation he can come up with is that he's not used to having people stand behind him silently and not want to kill him, much less want to protect him (sokka immediately takes him out for a shopping trip and makes a point of walking behind him the entire time, but only on zuko's right side, where he can clearly see it if sokka moves towards him)

when the healer declares azula mentally unstable and in need of an institution, he shuts himself in his office for the rest of the night. no one's allowed in, not even iroh. he finally emerges in the morning, eyes red from crying and sleep deprivation, and tells the librarian that he'd like a list of the best mental institutions in the country, please, the best in the world if you can get them

he loves theatre (is this even a headcanon?). unfortunately it practically died out in the fire nation along with the rest of the creative arts, leaving nothing but small troupes like the ember island players. one of zuko's personal goals (meaning things he wants to accomplish that aren't as important as restoring his country) is to bring back theatre; he finally manages to do it after about eight months or so of being fire lord, along with other arts like dancing, music and sculpture

he establishes a national day of mourning, on the first day of autumn every year, to commemorate the genocide of the air nomads. from 100AG onwards, every calendar printed in the fire nation has it marked. at first it was called the day of repentance, but aang persuaded him to have it changed (by arguing that he didn't want guilt to be a literal staple of fire nation culture)

he introduces literally So Many educational reforms, plus a mandatory class that teaches students about the cultures of the other nations (air nomads included) and how some of their traditions overlap

he turns down the offer of having a statue put up of him in the capital. toph ignores him and does it anyway.

he visits azula regularly, makes sure she's (relatively) comfortable and well-fed, and sometimes just sits down outside her door and tells her about everything that's going on right now ('some of the far colonies have developed their own standardised writing, azula, you wouldn't believe it, and i've asked the fire sages to come visit more often—but you never liked them, did you? oh, well; i'll make sure none of them go into your chambers by mistake')

(he doesn't know it, but when he does this azula sits by the door and listens. she wonders what kind of writing the colonists have developed, and whether or not the fire sages have taken on some new recruits.)

he hates being above anyone else. never sits in the throne if he can help it, nor does he sit on the dais in the council room. when he talks to people shorter than him, he finds himself stooping a little bit to talk to them on their level (the exception to this rule is sokka, who he mocks for being shorter all the way up until sokka grows taller than him, the bastard)

the first time he visits the earth kingdom, the earth king's ministers call a toast. he ends up being the only one who has to sit out, because he's too young to drink by earth kingdom law

once his servants figure out he won't kill them for talking to him, they start becoming a lot more bold, telling him off when he doesn't take care of himself. at one point, they force him to let them take care of him so much that he literally just bolts into the gardens and hides there until the staff rope in mai and ty lee

when he needs to escape, he does one of two things: (a) he dresses up as the blue spirit and does some parkour until he calms down, or (b) he goes to work at the jasmine dragon. (b) happens less often bc the jasmine dragon's in ba sing se, but there's been a few memorable incidents when an earth kingdom diplomat walks in and yells, 'LEE?!' when they see the fire lord

the first court artist who draws him also happens to be the one who drew azulon and ozai. he draws zuko without his scar. zuko takes one look at it and tells him, very calmly, that he'd like him to leave, please.

zuko burns the portrait. he doesn't fire the court artist, but he never calls on him again unless he has to. a second court artist is called, and can't help but be a bit confused when the fire lord tells him to be sure to include the scar

he forgets the crown. a lot. sometimes he walks into council meetings in his sleepwear with his hair tied up in a messy ponytail and a bunch of scrolls tucked under his arm. none of his councilmen have the guts (or the heart) to tell him that this is not, in fact, formal council wear

he goes to feed the turtleducks when he's stressed. he thinks he's being subtle. he's not. the entire palace knows, and they consciously give him space when they see him in the turtleduck garden

most of his staff are older than him, so they look at him and see this teeny tiny fire lord who is So Small and who Must Be Protected. the day after zuko's coronation, the head chef holds a meeting where they commence Operation Do-Not-Let-That-Boy-Turn-Out-Like-His-Father (subsection He's-The-Only-Good-Thing-We-Have)

one night he wakes up to find suki sitting in his room, decked out in full kyoshi warrior garb and makeup, and just about screams blue murder. suki tells him there are suspicions of an assassin in the palace, and would you please stop yelling it's very distracting, we won't be able to hear anyone coming over that racket

zuko gets very, very paranoid of random spirits after that. yeah, suki looks like a possibly malevolent spirit when she's wearing her makeup, what about it? (when he tells sokka he's highkey terrified of spirit shenanigans, sokka just looks at him and says, 'man, the stories i could tell...', and THAT'S when zuko remembers sokka spent like six months more than he did travelling with the avatar)

on his first visit to the southern water tribe, he removes his boots and leg guards, rolls up his pants and kneels barefoot in the snow. even though chief hakoda immediately starts trying to pull him up, he's stubborn as hell and stays kneeling for the entirety of his very long, very sincere apology-on-behalf-of-the-fire-nation speech. he nearly loses his toes to frostbite after that, and both sokka and katara never stop giving him shit for it

the first time he grows a 'beard' is completely accidental. he's stressed over some trade miscommunications with chief hakoda, hasn't slept in a few days...and then when sokka arrives as water tribe ambassador to help smooth things over, he takes one look at zuko and says 'man, facial hair does not suit you'

zuko: facial what now

he checks a mirror to find that he's got stubble covering his chin, dark enough that it almost looks intentional, and holy gods how the fuck did he not notice this before

'UNCLE WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME' 'i assumed you were doing it on purpose' 'WHEN HAVE I EVER DONE ANYTHING ON PURPOSE'

he shaves it all off immediately, of course, which prompts a lot of teasing and rib-poking from sokka until zuko finally snaps that he's scared it'll make him look like his father. sokka stops after that.

(the day after sokka leaves, zuko finds that a mysterious someone has scribbled all over ozai's royal portrait, giving him a frankly ridiculous beard and moustache that literally CANNOT be grown in real life. oddly enough, he can't bring himself to care about the defamation of royal property. he's too busy laughing.)

his paths cross with toph and sokka more than any of the others, because sokka is ambassador and toph is technically still a beifong. most of the time, at formal functions, he ends up sequestered in the corner with toph and a hoard of snacks, and they talk and swear much more than they usually do (zuko's ministers once heard him when he was drunk with toph, and the servants swear the older ministers' ears started bleeding)

he restores fire nation cultural festivals, and in doing so subjects himself to learning a lot of complicated dances

during one memorable week, he wrote so many letters and drafted so much legislation that he ran out of paper. he had to go visit the nearest school and ask for some

he keeps up with his firebending and sword training even though it's hard to fit into his schedule. his ministers refrain from reminding him that he has guards to protect him now; it's still hard for zuko to trust his safety with anyone but himself (team avatar is the exception).

he started sleepwalking about two months into his reign. no one knew why. one time, he nearly sleepwalked right off the edge of a balcony, and one of his guards had to grab him by the back of his robes.

the sleepwalking stopped after around a month and never happened again. at this point it's practically palace legend.

after freeing the war prisoners, he went around collecting every single earthbender-proof wooden cell he could find in the capital and surrounding areas. when he'd gotten most of them, he gathered them into a huge pile in the city square and set fire to them with his own hands.

unfortunately he couldn't do that with the waterbender metal cells but he did get toph to come in and bend them all into pretty shapes (well, toph thought they were pretty shapes. everyone else thinks they're meaningless squiggles)

he learned how to write with both hands at the same time out of sheer necessity (he refused scribes until it became clear that he'd be putting some people out of a job; that was when he started letting scribes write very, very minor things, but all important documents/drafts/letters are still written by him)

he once put the wet end of an ink brush in his mouth instead of the wooden end by mistake. didn't even realise until he bit down to keep it in place and ink went oozing everywhere

when his guards rushed in to find him coughing and spluttering black liquid all over his desk they thought he'd been poisoned but no he's just stupid

on his 17th birthday, his first one after being crowned, he got tackled by team avatar in the middle of the ballroom and ended up at the bottom of a cuddlepile for like ten minutes

this cuddlepile happened at an event that was very much public and very much formal. it was a scandal for weeks

just. fire lord zuko, guys. so much potential

[the-great-ladyg]

Oh, of course, specially about 🩸🐲

Everyone says he was like the worst person that ever existed in ASOIAF, the worst king ever, bla bla bla. But he wasn't, I can tell you worst kings than him that people often forget about or don't talk about: Aenys I, Aegon II and IV, Baelor I, Aerys II, fucking Joffrey Baratheon, but yeah, let's shit on 🩸🐲.

People often forget that many of the things 🩸🐲 supposedly did were rumors or things Tyanna did, and they also forget that "Fire and Blood", and that also means Westeros' history, is recorded by maesters, is biased on their disgusting point of view that made them write things like "Rhaenyra, a crazy woman that did stupid things bc she was a woman". The history around🩸🐲 reign is so biased because he ignored his Hightower wife (and remember the Hightowers live in the Oldtown, where the Citadel with its maesters are, is also the place of the Starry Sept and where the High Septon lives, aka, the Hightowers live in the Vatican), he killed some Grandmaesters and started a war against the Faith of the Seven (which was understable, like, readers don't seem to understand or choose to forget that the Faith had an army, that said army attacked the common folk during 🩸🐲 reign but then people decided to support them like if nothing ever happened). Some readers shit on the Faith and the High Septon based on what they're doing during a Feast for Crows, but don't say a thing about what happened during 🩸🐲 time, like "we don't talk about what happened during 42-48 AC".

Also, the great houses of Westeros (Lannisters, Tullys, Arryns, etc.) supported him at the beginning, but then decided to oppose him because he raised taxes, aka, rich people want to be still rich. Some readers shit on Houses like the Freys, who like to show off their money and power over The Twins, but don't say a thing when the Houses decided to stop supporting 🩸🐲 because he raised taxes to continue hunting down the Faith's army, suddenly everyone decides that's the right side of the story.

Also, history and readers don't shit enough on Alyssa Velaryon, who did some things that if someone like Cersei or Catelyn did they would receive so much hate, like making fun of 🩸🐲 for not having a dragon (my fucking God, Alyssa, he's your cousin and your husband's brother, and he's also known for being grumpy, what made you think it was a good idea to make fun of him and talk about how your daughter has a dragon?), or how she abandoned Viserys and didn't come back for him or mourn him after he died. Readers like to shit on Cat for releasing Jaime during her mourning of Bran and Rickon so the Lannisters could let Sansa go (aka, a mother that has lost two of her children does something to get back the only daughter she has left), but they don't say anything about Alyssa and how she did stupid things, how she was a bad or horrible mother for almost all of her children (letting Rhaena and Aegon get married and travel through the SIX kingdoms knowing many people feared the Faith or hated them for their incestuous marriage, abandoning Viserys in the Red Keep knowing there was Tyanna, or not supporting Jaehaerys and Alysanne until Rogar started acting like a power hungry idiot), or married a man that could only want her for her power as a Queen Regent during Jaehaerys' first years as a king.

No TL;DR, read it all, but I just hate how people shit on 🩸🐲 but decided to not do it with worse people than him.

Proselfshippers! Is there anything commonly misunderstood about your f/o or favorite ship? What's something people always seem to misrepresent?

Let us know!

[havenoffandoms]

72 for Geralt/Jaskier?

I meant to post this a lot earlier... sorry about the wait, nonnie. I hope you like it anyway. I'm not sure how it came out in the end after I agonised over this for the past couple of days, but it was fun going back to my Geraskier roots.

Masterlist

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Prompt 72: Character A has a secret. Character B does whatever they can to find out what it is. When they find out, they wish they hadn't.

Warnings: brief angsty episode, mention of Geralt's traumatic childhood

Also, I love that art! Holy Shit!? So of course this had to feature before the fic <3

Travelling with Jaskier had its downfalls.

For one, the bard talks a lot. He never stops, not even in his sleep, and that would drive any man insane if you ask Geralt. He listens to Jaskier waffling about poetry all day, every day, he doesn’t have to endure a lecture on the benefits of iambic pentameters when he’s trying to fall asleep, thank you very much. Jaskier also likes to complain about every little thing that causes him discomfort, which when they’re on the path, ranges from fly bites all the way to sore feet. Travelling with a human also means that they travel considerably slower, unless they’re both riding on top of Roach, but Geralt doesn’t like putting his best girl under that kind of strain very often.

For all of Jaskier’s flaws, Geralt would hate to have to separate from his bard. At least, when Jaskier is close by, Geralt can keep an eye on him and make sure Jaskier doesn’t get himself into any unnecessary trouble. Having Jaskier travel with him gives Geralt peace of mind. He appreciates the singing as well, even if he could stand to tell Jaskier this a bit more often. Geralt deems that his bard’s ego is plenty inflated without Geralt making it worse. Not to mention that life always seems a little bit brighter when Jaskier is around, and the nights are a little less lonely as Geralt gets to pull his bard close and fall asleep to the sound of his beating heart. Knowing that Jaskier is safe is the only thing that lets Geralt sleep peacefully at night.

You’d think that after nearly two decades of knowing his bard, Geralt would have figured out Jaskier’s secret by now. Geralt is, of course, referring to Jaskier’s near supernatural ability to always come up with coin when he and Geralt need it most urgently. Geralt has no idea how the bard does it - his songs are popular, granted, and on a good night Jaskier makes enough to buy a nice room for the night and the better pieces of meat from the kitchen. Still, being a bard doesn’t pay that well, not even if you were as famous as Jaskier. Just last week, Geralt’s horse and most of his belonging were stolen by bandits, leaving Geralt travelling on foot and too poor to afford to buy a new horse. Two days later, Jaskier came trotting up to their camp atop a gorgeous mare, looking mighty pleased with himself but refusing to tell Geralt how he managed to afford to pay for the horse.

“Would you believe me if I told you I stole her, Geralt, my dear?”

“Not in a million years,” Geralt admitted deadpan, pulling an offended squawk from his songbird.

“Just because I’m a bard you don’t think I can steal a horse?”

“I don’t think you could ever steal a horse because you’re as stealthy as the proverbial bull in the porcelain shop.”

It’s not just the horse, though. Geralt’s armour needed replacing and good armour doesn’’t come cheaply. Geralt doesn’t hire the services of just any blacksmith or armourer to craft his weapons and protective gear. He has his regular suppliers, the ones he always goes back to because he knows that their work is reliable and of the highest quality. And even though these people know Geralt by now, even offer him a friends and family discount on occasion, their wares still come at a hefty price. Geralt, as it turns out, didn’t have the coin to replace his armour for a few months. He desperately needed new boots, though. A new pair of breeches wouldn’t hurt either, and his silver sword broke in half whilst fighting a particularly vicious griffin a few weeks back.

Geralt didn’t even mention all of this to Jaskier. That didn’t stop the bard from going ahead and commissioning a brand new suit of armour, new silver and steel swords, as well as a few casual clothes for Geralt to wear on the warmer summer days. All of this must have cost an arm, a leg and a fucking lung, and yet Jaskier acted like he didn’t just break the bank all for Geralt’s benefit. He didn’t even get anything for himself and that realisation had Geralt feeling slightly embarrassed about the gesture.

“You don’t have to buy me all this stuff, Jask.”

“I know that, dearest,” Jaskier assured him, eyes soft and an easy smile playing on his lips, “but I wanted to. Only the best for you, my sweet witcher.”

The mystery of where Jaskier managed to find the coin to pay for all this remains unsolved, despite Geralt’s questioning. Well, if Jaskier won’t outright tell him, then Geralt will just have to investigate the matter by himself.

"Where the fuck did you get your hand on all the coin to pay for all this?" Geralt asks one evening, blunt and straight to the point. There was probably a kinder and gentler way to ask this, but after spending weeks mulling over Jaskier's sudden new-found fortune, Geralt has lost the little patience he possessed in the matter. Jaskier, on the other hand, looks perfectly unperturbed.

"From the bank," he offers simply as he sprinkles expensive herbs over the hare Geralt caught earlier that evening, "you know, where people deposit their valuables? I know you witchers don't believe in bank accounts, savings and interests, but-"

"Where does the coin come from?" Geralt interrupts, hissing those words through clenched teeth.

"Why, my inheritance."

Geralt stares for a long while. It takes his brain several seconds to catch up to what Jaskier is telling him, and another few seconds to make sense of the words. Inheritance?

"What inheritance?"

"Well, when my father passed away he left me and my siblings a share of his wealth. That's how inheritance works. Say, pass me my satchel my dear, I think I have some more spices in there."

Geralt wordlessly hands Jaskier his satchel, still trying to process this new discovery. Come to think of it, Geralt knows precious little about Jaskier's family. Sure, that's probably on him for never asking, but Geralt has grown so used to Jaskier oversharing every aspect of his life that he never needed to ask his bard anything. Jaskier just… never talked about his family. Or his childhood, or his upbringing. His life story seems to always begin when he was a student at Oxenfurt.

Geralt is growing curiouser by the minute.

"When did your father pass?"

"Oh? Uh… good question. Maybe a few years after I went to Oxenfurt? I'm not sure. I received a letter from the bank notifying me that a share of my father's wealth was deposited in my account."

Geralt frowns. "You never went back to find out what happened?"

"No."

Well, that's an oddly abrupt response, and Jaskier doesn't seem like he's got anything to say on the matter. Which only makes Geralt feel more curious about the whole thing.

"Why not?"

"Geralt…" Jaskier heaves a sigh before putting on a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, too tense to be genuine. "My father and I didn't get along. I felt no need to go mourn him with the rest of my noble family in Lettenhove when he passed. That's it. That's all there's to it. I was not a good enough man to refuse my share of the inheritance, either, despite my non-existent relationship with him."

That's a lot to unpack. Geralt always assumed that Jaskier had a good childhood. Then again, he would think that, wouldn't he, considering Geralt spent his own childhood being tortured by magnanimous and sadistic mages. Where most children got to spend time outside helping out in the fields or playing with their friends, Geralt was put through drill after drill, after drill… until he was physically unable to walk so much his muscles hurt.

"Wait… did you say your noble family?"

"Hm?"

"In Lettenhove… there's nothing in Lettenhove. Only the Viscount and his family live there on a large esta-" Geralt's mouth clicks shut as realisation dawns on him. "Your father was the Viscount of Lettenhove?"

"Yes. And since I'm the oldest, after he died that title passed onto me. But I much prefer being a bard, so I graciously devolved my duties to my younger brother, who now manages the estate. Are we done with this conversation?"

"I didn't mean to make you mad…"

Geralt watches Jaskier stop dead in his tracks, his shoulders briefly tensing at those words, before exhaling loudly through his nose. Jaskier anxiously rubs the back of his neck as he straightens up and offers Geralt a sheepish smile, that one warmer and softer than the previous one.

"Sorry, dear heart. I didn't mean to be so short with you. It's just… well, there's a reason I don't bring up my family all that much."

"Hm." Geralt gently taps the spot next to him on his bedroll, and Jaskier doesn't have to be told twice. Soon, Geralt has one arm wound tightly around Jaskier's shoulders. Not quite a hug, but the intention is there all the same, and Jaskier eagerly melts in the embrace. "I shouldn't have insisted. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise. You did nothing wrong." Jaskier nuzzles the crook of Geralt's neck sweetly before depositing a featherlight kiss just over his pulse point. "Do you want to ask me anything?"

Geralt ponders over that question far too long before whispering an answer in the air pocket between them.

"Did he hurt you?"

Jaskier hesitates.

"Not physically, no. He didn't approve of my aspirations and choices. He didn't support me. I suppose it hurt a little when he didn't see me away to Oxenfurt at the age of 15, but he never raised a hand on me."

"Hm." Good, Geralt thinks. No child should ever have to suffer at the hand of an adult. Geralt earned plenty a beating at Kaer Morhen, some justified and others not so much. Just because he went through this doesn't mean he condones it.

"At least I get to spend his money on someone I love," Jaskier offers softly, eyes as blue as the deepest ocean glancing up at Geralt through dark lashes, “That, at least, the old man can’t take away from me.”

A happy little rumble bubbles up Geralt's chest, despite the blush gracing his cheeks.

"I never thanked you for the gifts." Geralt blushes a deeper shade of red at the realisation. "Sorry. It's been a long year."

"Well, good thing we're heading North soon then, hm?" Jaskier straightens up so he can cradle Geralt's face in his lute-calloused hands. Their eyes meet then, amber seeking out blue, and Geralt thinks that he must be the luckiest son of a bitch in all the Continent.

"Yes," he agrees in a whisper, tilting his face to place a kiss on the inside of Jaskier's wrist, "good thing, indeed."

Request a prompt

[galaxyedging]

When the West Was Wild

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

Silva x OFC (no description, a last name is given in later chapters)

Story summary: A women making her own way in the lawless West has her quiet night interrupted by a stranger in need. While helping him she finds a few unmet needs of her own.

Chapter summary: Some light is shed on Silva's past but it creates more questions than it answers.

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy loss and racism. Nothing explicit.

"Raymond Becker, Sir." Silva held out his hand to Sheriff Rockwood, who eyed it before taking it. "Sheriff Rockwood. Mr Becker?" Silva nodded.

"So now I have a name, can I ask why you are here? Are you a relation or something?"

"Not quite. I've worked with the family on and off over the years. We've become close friends. When William decided to move out here, he asked me for my help getting them acquainted."

During this whole interaction she had just been trying to react appropriately. The news of her husband's apparently demise hadn't hit her yet. The Sheriff kept glancing over at her, while Silva did an incredible job of spinning a tale. It was almost scary how believable he was. Had he ever lied to her with that much ease?

Finding her voice she looked the Sheriff in the eyes. To protect Silva she would have to sell this. "Will, asked Raymond to stay with me while he tended to some business in New York. Since his father thought he'd run off...I guess he didn't even..." That's when it hit. Huge sobs spilled from her. Hot tears streamed her cheeks. She may not have loved her husband anymore but no one deserved to be left for dead at the side of the road. He'd set off for home but haven't even made it. Life could be cruel with our plans.

Silva quickly carried over the chair from her writing desk, holding her hand her encouraged her to sit down.

"I'm sorry to upset you Mrs Ahlborn. Especially given your current condition." Her eyes whipped up to him. "The doctor shared the good news with me. He thought I should keep a watchful eye on you out here."

Had the doctor told him Silva was her husband? Did they have any idea when William died? She thought it best to remain silent, wait to see what the Sheriff knew. She quietly sobbed into her handkerchief.

"Not that I wasn't already looking out for you. I knocked than night someone was shot, we believed, not too far from here. Remember? You told me your husband was in the bath after hunting with the neighbour."

"He wanted to get cleaned up for his journey."

"So your husband left...?"

"The day after." She knew she had just effectively revoked Silva's protection from his past crime but the way the conversation was head she was more concerned about them being accused of this crime.

"Oh, I must have misunderstood. Doctor Robinson said your husband was here."

The Sheriff stated, leaving it hanging in the air.

"That would be my fault. The good doctor never asked my name, he was too concerned with his patient. He assumed and I didn't correct him." Sliva explained.

"You often let people think another man's wife is your own?" Sheriff Rockwood cocked an eyebrow at him.

"No sir, but honestly I was in shock. My good friend had asked me to look after his wife. Not his pregnant wife. I don't know anything about looking after a woman who is with child. My wife and I were never blessed before she passed. Sadly."

A gasp slipped from her lips, which she disguised with a sob. Was that another lie or a truth he hadn't got around to telling yet?

"But I will try my utmost to care for you both before we can get you to your family. I gave William my word. I won't break it now." Silva had crouched down to look her in the eye.

Sheriff Rockwood seemed appeased for now. He cleared his throat. "Well, I'll leave you to your mourning. My condolences. If there's anything I can do just let me know."

"My husband..William...his body....when can we lay him to rest properly?"

For the first time Sheriff Rockwood softened. She didn't know what to make of it. Maybe he had been in a similar position once upon a time. "Your husband is in the care of the Undertaker. He will be expecting you to make arrangements when you can."

"Thank you." Her voice was small but genuine. It was a comfort William was being cared for.

The Sheriff gave Silva a nod before letting himself out.

The next couple of days blurred. Arrangements were made. Silva, or Raymond, was a constant comfort as she spoke to various people about the funeral. It was held quickly as it was best to buried the remains as soon as possible. By the time they were found, decomposition had well and truly started. Even after the grave was filled with earth the stench lingered. The fresh flowers on the grave helped slightly. The Father spoke some lovely words and then it was done. William was gone.

The next day a telegram came. William's father wanted to her to settle his estate. He was contesting her claim to any money as William had left her before his death. The paper work could be filled out with a lawyer in the nearest city.

When she told Silva this he blanched. "I wouldn't be able to go there with you. I might be recognised."

"It'll be fine. I need to go sign the paperwork, there is a doctor I can see to make sure everything is going well" She reassured him.

"You can't go alone." His voice was small, almost pleading.

"I didn't say I would. You can't go but Thomas could. Sadly, no one will look twice at a well built black man escorting a well to do white woman on her travels."

The trip wasn't too bad. Well it was uncomfortably, hot and dusty but uneventful so she was grateful for that. The doctor's office was cool and clean, a welcome change once she had freshened up from the journey. After a few questions, he conducted a physical exam, during which he had made noncommittal 'Mmmms' and 'Aaaahhs.' The doctor sat her down in front of his desk.

He came around to perch on the edge of it. "Ma'am, I'm sorry to tell you that you are not pregnant."

Her heart felt like it had been ripped from her chest. Had she don't something wrong to hurt the baby? Was it because she hadn't been excited, that she didn't feel like a mother? Has she wished this on her child? "You mean I lost the baby?"

"No, Ma'am. Apart from the swelling of your stomach. There is no sign that you were pregnant. From what you told me of your illness and all the changes in your life it's more likely that you have introduced something to your diet that doesn't agree with you. That coupled with the stress could cause irrigation in the stomach. Apart from that you are a very healthy woman. I can give you something to help resolve the issue and you'd have to stay away from what ever it was that caused it but you'll be fine."

"But the doctor said..." He cut in. "How did the doctor come to that conclusion?"

"I..." She had no idea. Silva had spoken to the doctor. "I don't know. I had fainted. My husband spoke to him."

"Your doctor wouldn't be advanced in years would he? It wouldn't be the first time one of my older colleagues saw a woman of childbearing age have some symptoms and just assumed."

"I..." She was speechless. Later when she looked back on the moment she would be able to name the emotion that flooded her. Relief. It that moment all she felt was relief. She wasn't sure she ever wanted to be a mother. It wasn't that she didn't like children. She enjoyed their company. The way they looked at the world. Their innocence, their boundless joy. She just didn't see herself being a mother. She wondered what that said about her.

The doctor had sent for Thomas who escorted her back to the hotel. She explained as best she could to him befoe he left her in her room to rest. The events of the of the last couple of weeks had left her numb. The wind rattled the windows as she lay on the bed. She thought about Silva. She hadn't been in the cabin in the cold weather. She wondered if he'd be warm enough. He always seemed to run a little warm when he lay his hands on her. When his firm body pressed against hers.

What had happened to her? A handsome, mysterious stranger shows up at her door and she loses her mind. She knew very little about this man. In her heart she felt like she knew him. His company was easy, it was as if they had known each other for a life time. He was smart, kind, helpful. Thomas and Mary thought so too, it couldn't be all in her head. Thomas and Mary were the sharpest people she knew. Mary could spot a liar from a mile away. Thomas had a way with people, she had seen him break up a fight between two men at the saloon who were ready to kill eat other. He had them drinking together by the end of the night.

Still, she had to look at the facts. Whether it was self defence or not, he killed a man on her property. Thomas found a wanted poster on the dead man. It had a drawing of Silva, his description but no mention of his crime. The amount for his bounty was odd, it wasn't terribly high for murder. It was also for his capture and conviction. Someone cared about getting justice not just outright killing him. That was a rare thing out here for murder.

She weighed up her options. Silva had said he might get recognised. So it was possible that someone here might know about him. No one knew of her connection to Silva. She could find out some information, get an idea if someone was still out looking for him. As well as satisfy a few questions of her own.

The police station was only a short walk from her hotel. On the walk she debated what her cover story would be. Should she go with the guise of researching an article? Maybe not, it could lead to follow up questions, they may want to know what other articles she had written. Grieving widow it was, looking for any information on her husbands killer. Luckily, the station was fairly busy. A deputy greeted her on his way out but that was all the attention she got. There was a waiting area to the left of the main desk. There, wanted posters were displayed on the wall. The first one she saw was a man who liked to scalp people. The second was a pair of men wanted for stage coach robbery. She shuddered, it could've been them that killed William. They could have taken the life of the man she once loved. Suddenly, 'grieving widow' wasn't an act. William was gone. He wasn't in New York where her mind had tricked her into thinking he was. He was in the ground, not far from the home she had basically convinced him to move to. She was complicit in his death. A tear rolled down her cheek.

"Ma'am are you alright." A short, rotund man with greying blond hair spoke softly to her.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I...my husband was murdered a little while ago. He was travelling by stagecoach. I guess I hoped to find someone who may have done it. Having a face to blame, even if I'm not sure it's them, may have made me feel better. It's silly." She tried to look embarrassed at being caught. She wasn't the most gifted at lying. Unlike Silva seemed to be.

"It's not silly Ma'am, grief can be hard on us." As she averted her eyes they fell on Silva's likeness, the poster was partially obscured with another. Without thinking she lifted it. "Ma'am you might not want to look at that one. It's unseemly."

"Sodomy?" She read the poster.

"Yes, Ma'am he was caught..." He leaned in conspiritorily, lowering his already soft voice. "...laying with another man. A local Sheriff's widowed son. This was a while back but the Sheriff insists we keep it up."

She straightened her back in an effort to keep herself together. "So it should for that ungodly behaviour. If you'll excuse me, this had been a little too much for me."

"Of course. Ma'am." The bid each other a good day before she left with more questions than she came in with.

Tags @kirsteng42 @babydarkstar @prolix-yuy @thegreenkid @hquinzelle @fangirl-316 @gracie7209 @jedifarmerr @doommommy @scorpio-marionette @sturkillerbase @harriedandharassed @aynsleywalker @mswarriorbabe80 @quica-quica-quica

@rise-my-angel tagging you so you don't miss it.

[phoenixyfriend]

Rex and Anakin Raise a Family: Part Two

Part One

------------------

Anakin takes the news with... not grace, really, but an odd sort of resignation.

"Room to fix things," he mutters to himself, eyes set unseeing on Luke's tiny form.

Twins are often born smaller than single births, Rex remembers hearing somewhere. He hopes that's the only reason these two are so small. Leia feels absolutely minuscule in his arms.

He wishes he could ask Kix.

"Do you want to find Jango?"

Rex lifts his head to find Anakin staring at him with an earnest kind of depression. It's strange, and sad, and not helping with the question. "What?"

"You... you grew up with a lot of family," Anakin mutters, eyes cutting away to the side. "Fett would be a kid right now, yeah? He's... young. And you don't have the family that you used to have, but--"

"I'm not going to go out and find Fett to adopt him," Rex says firmly. "He was a genetic donor and once or twice a teacher. I have no interest in forming any bonds there."

He hesitates, but that was--Anakin was trying. Not succeeding, but trying. "Thank you for asking. It's... maybe if my childhood had been a little different, I'd have wanted that. But I don't, here."

Anakin winces. "Right."

Rex watches his general bounce a newborn, and thinks this is my life now.

There is no GAR to fight for, no brothers to save, no Empire to fight against. They'd thought there would be, but there isn't, not yet. They could find and warn the Jedi, but none of them would know Anakin. Nobody is going to look at Rex and see a clone. He's older than Fett, now.

"We're staying here," Rex decides. Anakin looks up from Luke's little face. "I'll figure out how to get us some Republic Idents. We'll get the twins registered. This planet is safe and out of the way, and we can figure something out for the money. You're a good mechanic, that's honest work, and I'm... I don't know. We've got a ship, so I can maybe do what Fett did and take bounty work. We'll figure something out."

"I can't ask you to stay with me."

"You're not asking," Rex says firmly. "I'm telling you. You don't get to push me away, sir. We're all the other has left, and you're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Okay," Anakin says. "If that's what you want."

------------------

They don't have a whole lot of money personally, but this was Padme's ship. She'd been rich, and prone enough to danger to know the worth of hiding money where she could. They may not have more than a few weapons on here, but they have money.

For now.

Rex knows his general is itching to go to Tatooine, sees the man muttering and twitching about it, needing to do something, and that the something has to do with Tatooine.

"Can it wait?" Rex asks.

Anakin stares at him, uncomprehending.

"Your kids are only a week old," Rex tries to explain. "They need you right now. Is this something that can wait a few months, where I can watch them while you take a week or two to handle what you need to do?"

Anakin takes Leia from Rex, and doesn't bring it up again.

------------------

Rex goes with Anakin, when they visit the nurse. He catches gossip about the two of them, but people don't go out of their way to approach. Mostly, people are just repeating the 'died in childbirth' cover that he gave before, telling each other who the strangers are, and why they shouldn't try to get involved.

The nurse asks only enough questions to get a medical baseline established for the twins. Anakin doesn't volunteer much, and when the Twi'lek woman asks if they'd like her to set up medical files for either of them, Rex has to immediately decline.

He has no idea what his blood is going to turn up. Genetic fuckery and something to deal with the advanced aging, maybe. He's not sure he wants to know, but either way, it's probably not going to be something this small clinic can handle.

"I'll have to set one up if you want to take the lactation aid," she tells Anakin.

"Yeah, okay."

She takes blood. Almost everything is mostly normal, except.

"Your midichlo--"

"I know."

"Are you--"

"Jedi aren't allowed to marry."

She doesn't dig further, just glances at how Anakin's holding Luke, and nods.

"It doesn't seem like there are any complicating factors. I can write up a prescription right now and you should be able to get it filled same-day. There will be a list of instructions and side-effects on flimsi when you pick it up, but I'd like to go over it in person first. Do you want Mr. Torrent to stay here with you as we do that, or to wait in the hall?"

"Up to him."

"I'll stay," Rex promises.

------------------

Three pills a day, one with every meal. Tissue stimulation by massaging the pectoral area, and allowing the twins to suckle even before there's anything to actually drink. Expect soreness and increased appetite, don't drink caffeine or take any form of stimulant while nursing. Here's a list of possible side-effects, the best way to handle the minor ones, and which ones to contact a medical professional about.

All very normal.

Anakin's rarely ever done anything with less than his whole heart, and Rex isn't surprised to know that Anakin is this dedicated a parent as well. He's... he was proud to serve his general, but he thinks there's something just as fulfilling as being by his side here and now. There's something better about helping raise the little ones that would never be found on a battlefield.

"Do you want them to call you Uncle Rex?" Anakin asks during a feeding. "Or... ba'vodu? Or do you want to just..."

"Just what?"

"...we're going to be co-parenting," Anakin says, not meeting his eyes. "And every time I try to suggest you go and find something for yourself, something that doesn't revolve around me, a person you were literally tube-grown for, you say you don't want to leave. So if you're going to be sticking around, really staying for years and years... we could tell them to call you buir. If you want."

"Oh."

Oh.

It's a lot. It's something Rex has maybe fantasized about before, getting to be a parent instead of just a soldier, but he'd also resigned himself to the fact that it wasn't really an option. Even now, he'd just expected to be a friend of the father, maybe an honorary uncle if he was lucky, or--

"Are you sure?" Rex asks, before he can start to hope. "I don't--I don't want to take Padme's place."

"You're not," Anakin says, fierce as anything. "You won't--nobody can ever take her place, but there are people with five parents, or none, and I'm not going to--I don't want to--"

Anakin squeezes his eyes shut and breathes harshly for a few moments. Leia fusses, like she's seconds away from crying, and Rex watches as his general holds the child in his arms closer to his chest, visibly focusing on calming down in a way he rarely, if ever, had during the war.

"It's okay, Papa just got a little upset, it's fine, we're calm, I'm sorry I got sad, honey, I'm sorry you had to feel that," Anakin whispers under his breath as he bounces the baby.

(Raising Force-Sensitive children was never going to be easy anyway.)

"You're sure about this?" Rex asks again.

"You want to be involved in their lives," Anakin mutters. "So... yeah, you should get to be their dad in name, too. And if you use Mando'a, it'll be easier for them to have different names for us."

"People are going to think we're together."

Anakin shrugs. "People think a lot of things."

Rex wants this. He wants to imagine the twins toddling up to him, grins on their faces, calling him buir and meaning it. He wants to have what he saw at the Lawquane's, where a lack of blood connection and a half-sliced age hadn't stopped those children from claiming Cut as their father. He's only thirteen, technically, but he wants to have a family, even if it's as broken as what they've found here.

"I'd be honored, sir," Rex says. "I... thank you. I can't tell you how much this means to me."

"You don't have to," Anakin mutters, refusing to meet his eyes. "I can feel it."

Right.

"They already love you," Anakin continues, as if his goal today is to just smash Rex's decorum to pieces. "Part of that is just baby stuff, I think; they don't exactly know more than us yet, but you're around them all the time and are primary caregiver whenever I'm not... not okay. So they love you, so much, and I just... I'm not going to ignore that when you already love them too. So you should get to be their dad. If you want."

He does want.

"I'd like that," he says, and knows that he hasn't bothered shielding in days, so Anakin knows just how sincere that is.

Anakin hesitates, visibly so, and then stands and crosses the room to join Rex on the couch, each of them holding a twin.

A head rests lightly on Rex's shoulder. He lets it.

"There are rites," Anakin says quietly. "On Tatooine, for the slaves lost to the desert. People that died in search of their freedoms, where there's no body to bury but you still need to mourn."

Rex knows this. He says, "the clones had mourning traditions for the brothers who died in explosions or behind enemy lines, the ones we couldn't retrieve."

Anakin knows this as well. He nods.

They sit together, quietly, as calm as they can be for the too-perceptive children in their arms, and they know they need to mourn properly.

Rex can only hold his jagged edges in place for so long.

[wondersofdreaming]

Keepsake

Characters: Captain Syverson x female reader (3rd person)

Word count: 1.827

Warnings: Death, loss, hopelessness, light cursing, sadness, melancholy, grief, heartache, mourning.

Author’s note: This story was inspired by the song 'Everglow' by Coldplay.

Do me a favour and listen to the song, while reading this, I'll link to the different versions, depending on your mood.

Everglow (original) by Coldplay

Everglow (acoustic) by Coldplay

Everglow (instrumental) by Alexandre Pachabezian

The links are for Spotify, if they don't work try this link for YouTube

I do not own any characters in this short story, except the wife, son and Elijah Reed, who are figments of my imagination.

A massive, MASSIVE, thank you to my beloved angel, @radaofrivia, for giving me the idea from just a few thoughts, for sitting through with me while I wrote this, for giving me advice and for just being there.

Please check out her stories right here: RADA'S MASTERLIST

MY MASTERLIST

Feedback is appreciated.

(Young Syverson, picture credit to @killjoy-assbutt-1112 - find it here)

Oh, they say people come Say people go This particular diamond was extra special And though you might be gone And the world may not know Still I see you, celestial

Lyrics are from Everglow by Coldplay.

The looming grey clouds were moving closer towards him. He could hear the distant sounds of the rumbling thunder. Before long it started to rain and lightning lit up the entire house. The dirt road was flooded in no time, giving the crops the liquid nourishment they needed.

The former army captain was restless. It was on days like these he missed him, more than anything else in the world. He couldn’t sit still and had planned on working on the house, but the coming storm was putting a stop to that. Instead, he sat on the porch swing he built with Elijah when Lucas bought the house.

The Syversons had moved to their farm when Lucas was 4. A few days into the move, their neighbours had stopped by with some casserole, and to welcome them to their community. Mr and Mrs Reed also had a son who was a few months younger than Luc. Elijah had hidden behind his mother’s leg, a little shy, but with some encouragement he greeted Lucas.

“I’m Lucas, but my baby sister can’t say it yet, she keeps babbling Luc, so if it’s easier, you can call me Luc too.”

“I’m Elijah.”

Sy remembered he was trying so hard to pronounce his new friend’s name. He smiled at the memory, the name had been permanent in Lucas’ mind, only using Elijah, when he was mad at him or thinking he was about to do something stupid, which he did often.

“Lija, wanna play?” Lucas asked awkwardly.

“What?” Elijah looked profoundly confused. “I… don’t know.”

“Go on, son. It’s okay,” Mr Reed tried to encourage him.

“Come with me, Lija. I wanna show ya somethin’.”

Lucas had shown Elijah his new toy tractor that his parents had given him for his birthday. The two young boys had played together, and before long were inseparable.

A round yellow object in the palm of his hand. He was fiddling with it. The coin was always in his pocket, so he could keep his best friend close to him at all times. It was an old arcade coin that you could plot into any machine and play one game.

The two best friends had each gotten a dollar’s worth of coins, but the man at the ticket booth had miscounted, so Sy had gotten an extra coin, which the two friends had fought over during their time in the arcade. Lucas being the protector he was, lost to Elijah on purpose, so his friend won the coin.

“I’ll savour it, it’s going to be my lucky coin!” Elijah has announced.

Syverson swung the porch swing with his booted foot. He stared at the coin, wondering why he had been the lucky one. Luc shook his head faintly, his face full of pain and sorrow.

The coin became a thing that decided their fate. When the boys couldn’t agree on something, they would flip the coin. The picture side was heads and the text ‘No cash value’ side was tails. It might have been worth nothing, but it was a priceless item to the two friends.

“Heads: I ask her on a date, tails: you ask her,” Elijah flipped the yellow coin and covered the back of his hand as it landed. The two teenagers looked over at the brunette cheerleader, who was laughing with her friends. Prom was upon them and they both wanted to ask her. Elijah lifted his hand, it was heads.

The dumb coin was always on Elijah’s side. Lucas let out a soft laughter of the memory. Elijah’s face had been priceless, Sy wished he had taken a picture of it. It had been Elijah’s first kiss that night.

When Lucas decided to enlist, Elijah followed him, even with a lot of arguing against it from Sy’s side. He didn’t want his best friend anywhere near a warzone but in the end, he was glad that Lija was there with him through every hardship during training, when they lost people on their team, when they had to carry the dead back to base, it was better to have a friend by your side and share the pain with.

It didn’t take Syverson long to rank up and become captain. He ended up leading a large group of soldiers in a village in Iraq, with Elijah as his lieutenant, he felt like he could conquer the world.

During one of their trips home, Sy had bought a house he wanted to renovate, maybe start a family in. Elijah had spent every moment he could, helping Lucas with the house. It had made them closer as friends, and they had heartfelt talks about their future. Elijah wanted to come home and help his ailing parents with the farm, maybe get into breeding horses, preferably racehorses. Sy hadn’t thought of his future in that sense by then. He just wanted to relax, drink beer and ride his motorcycle.

There was hardly a moment in Lucas’ life where Elijah wasn’t a part of it. Elijah was his best friend, and if he had to be a little girly, they were BFFs. His best friend’s presence had made every moment special, made them better. It was the hardest part, to not have Elijah by his side anymore. He missed Elijah’s silly, huge and sometimes irritating grin, which somehow made the world seem a bit brighter during the dark times. Elijah made his life easier… he just made it better to have a friend to share everything with.

His heart had broken in a million pieces when the building collapsed on top of his best mate.

“Captain, we need a scouting team. I’m taking three soldiers towards those buildings and see if there are enemies up ahead,” Elijah had suggested.

“Lieutenant, I make the orders here. I’m going,” Lucas commanded.

“Heads or tails, Luc,” Elijah picked out the coin from his breast pocket.

“This is no time for such thing, Lija,” the captain grumbled.

“This is the perfect time, Luc. We promised that whenever we couldn’t agree on something, we would use the coin. So, heads or tails, captain Syverson.”

“Heads.”

The coin had landed on the tails side. Lucas had cursed the coin, fuck, shit, crap, dammit!

“It’s my turn to protect you, Luc. I’m not the scrawny little kid anymore, let me show you!”

Elijah had gathered three soldiers and run between two concrete buildings with a big smile on his face. Sy would never forget the smile. It was a grin of pride and determination. And it was the last time Lucas would ever see his best friend.

Moments later a huge explosion shook the ground they were standing on. Sy watched with horror as the buildings collapsed, trapping Elijah and his team. What they didn’t know then was that the impact with the concrete walls had killed him instantly.

The rest of the soldiers watched as their captain went on his knees. Utter despair and anguish plastered on his face, tears about to escape the corners of his eyes. The usual strict army captain, the man with the muscles, the tough guy who could break you with a stare, was breaking down.

“Lija…” he whispered into the dust-filled space, his voice breathless like somebody knocked the air out of his lungs.

At night he had screamed in pain of the loss of his most beloved friend. His days were filled with hopelessness as he prepared to fly home with Elijah’s corpse in a coffin. The nights only brought nightmares, so he started writing a letter to his best friend and thinking of how to tell Elijah’s parents.

“Dear Lija. I can’t believe you’re… Shit, I can’t even write the word. Just a four-letter word, and yet I can’t fucking write it down on a piece of paper. I wish I could have taken your place, man. It should have been me. I hate you for forcing me to pick a side on that stupid coin. I hate you for being so brave. I hate you for wanting to protect me. Fuck you for dying. Fuck you for leaving me. Here. All alone. What about your parents? How am I going to tell them that you’re… how am I going to face them? You are and will always be my best friend. I wish you could go back to your parent’s farm on your own two legs, not in a fucking box. I miss you, Lija. You’re the closest thing to a brother I will ever get. So rest in peace and keep the seat next to you warm, I’ll see you on the other side. - Luc.”

Lucas had sneaked the letter into Elijah’s breast pocket of his uniform before they had shut the coffin. The coin that Elijah had on him, had been put in a plastic bag with the rest of his belongings, prepped to be given to his next of kin, his parents. But Lucas took the yellow token. He needed a memento to remember his best friend by, something that he could keep with him always. A keepsake.

It had taken every ounce of courage for Lucas to step up to the front door of the Reed’s farmhouse. A house he was so familiar with and had so many adventurous sleepovers in Elijah’s space-themed bedroom. He could smell Mrs Reed’s famous peanut brittle, making it harder for him to knock, but he did it anyway. Standing there in his military uniform, he told the two people, who had acted as a second set of parents to him, that their only son had died heroically in battle. Lucas stood frozen, watching them mourn the loss of their son. He was about to step away to give them space, but Mrs Reed grabbed his wrist and brought him into the hug.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect him,” he pleaded, his voice breaking slightly.

“Was he in pain?” Mrs Reed asked, breaking Lucas’ heart all over again.

“No, ma’am. It happened really fast.”

Sy fiddled with the arcade coin. Having zoned out the thunder, not noticing the storm had come and gone. The sun was slowly setting on the horizon. It was a peaceful ending to an emotional day.

A loud wailing came from inside the house. The front door opened and out came his beautiful wife with their young son in her arms. His face was stained in tears. The tiny boy reached towards his father the minute he saw him. In his father’s arms was the only place the boy was happy and content. Sy’s face broke into a happy grin at the sight of his son. His tiny fingers trying to grab the coin in the former captain’s hand.

“This,” Sy showed it to his son, “will be yours when you’re old enough not to eat it.”

He chuckled at the frustrated look on the boy’s face. Sy kissed the top of his son’s head.

“I love you, Elijah.”

[kaorikarma]

LET'S TALK:

The Undertaker/Cloudia theory.

Oh my. We're off to a good start, are we not?

So, we all know how this goes. Undertaker has a mourning locket for her, he has some kind of deep connection to the Phamtomhives, Cloudia's husband's name doesn't have family behind him, undertaker mentions he's been 'present for Francis' birth', which... come on, he has ABSOLUTELY no reason to be there.

On the flip-side, many argue that it makes no sense for an Shinigami to be able to have children, as death shouldn't be able to create life. Okay, fair point, I can understand that. There are also strict rules for dispatch reapers not to interfere with human lives, so getting a human pregnant would be absolute hell for a reaper if their higher-ups found out. But, we know Undertaker's already broken the rules by deserting and taking his death scythe with him, not even getting to the bizarre dolls. So, if he really did desert 50 years ago it's totally plausible that he could have decided to break one more rule and fall in love. We don't really know a lot about Cloudia, she's not been mentioned terribly often; but maybe that's in purpose. Assuming she DID fall in love with and get pregnant with Undertaker's children,If someone found out, maybe she was basically shamed by the family. After all, Ciel once mentions that he doesn't really know much about her (forgive me if that's wrong, I don't actually have many volumes of the manga, this is just my hard-core research speaking), but maybe that's because no one wants to speak of her. If Cedric k. Ros-- WAS her husband and WASN'T Undertaker, then understandably it would be a double whammy to find out that A, your wife is cheating on you, B, the man she's cheating with isn't even human, and C, those probably aren't your children.

You may be wondering, in this case, why didn't her husband divorce her? Well, my current theory is that in that time, It was kind of a shame on a man's reputation to divorce a wife because she's an adultress. You think about the reasons why, they're quite awful. Then, we know Cloudia died fairly young. If divorce wasn't Cedric's preference, maybe he murdered or poisoned her. Even if he was unaware exactly who she was cheating with, he might have sent her body to Undertaker's, as we don't really know when Undertaker opened his doors. Whether it was out of spite because he DID know or he was unaware and just sent her to the local undertaker, it's impossible to know. This may have spurned Undertaker to start working on his bizarre dolls. We know, from rCiel's body that he can perfectly preserve a body for years. In the Weston College arc, (I think, feel free to correct me if I'm wrong) Undertaker mentions something about Agares only being his current masterpiece. Why would he mention that unless he had something better? Even after rCiel was presented I get the feeling that even for his 'masterpiece' he's still improving as he goes along, and maybe he'll never be done.

Still, this entire theory is based on whether or not A, Undertaker had relations with Cloudia, and B, whether shinigami are sterile or not. I do enjoy the mystery of this theory. Sorry, I know this went really far out, in fact I hadn't even thought this far until I started writing it and the pieces fell into place.

May you have a nice, Black Butler filled day!

[whatanoof]

Cal Kestis Headcanons that No One Asked For

So I’ve slowly been going through story mode of Jedi: Fallen Order, and I’m about to go to the Fort Inquisitorius so I haven’t even finished yet but I’m absolutely in love with Cal Kestis, so here are some hc about him, romantic and non-romantic.

SPOILERS FOR JEDI: FALLEN ORDER

Cal x female!reader

You both love it when you play with his hair. The first time was almost an accident on your part, because you were just sitting behind him on the bunk while he’s tinkering with his saber and staring at the back of his head. It’s so red, and you’d honestly rarely seen such a bright color naturally occurring, much less growing out of a human head? Your hand brushed a strand almost of its own volition, and you both just froze. He slowly turned to look at you, and you almost stopped breathing because Did you just mess up did you just fuck up the relationship oh shit shit shit--. And he just whispers, “Uh, could you do that again?” And you’re in such a state of shock and relief that you just scoot back on the bunk and gesture at your open lap. Cere walks in on the two of you later, him dopey and almost asleep with his head in your lap, your fingers running through the silky strands. She doesn’t say anything, even when Greez points out the two small braids that you left at the nape of his neck.

He’s so competitive. Like come on, this man refused to back down from  two or three separate fights against fully-fledged Inquisitors and one insane Jedi Master while he was still technically a Padawan. So he won’t let you beat him. At anything. You’re watering the latest seed that he brought back from a planet? Bam, he’s got Greez’s special plant food and he’s giving every single one of them a five-course meal. If you’re a Jedi, and you’re meditating in the back of the Mantis? You open your eyes after ten or so minutes and he’s right there in front of you, doing that little concentration face that you fell in love with so easily. If you’re a Jedi, you’re evenly matched in almost everything that you do in terms of abilities, and you teach each other where you’re not. Greez is terrified of watching you two spar, because you don’t hold back, but you’re also so equal to him in skill that it’s a whirl of light and blocking known attacks. 

Him and BD-1 were a package deal, but as soon as you were welcomed aboard the Mantis, Cal couldn’t believe how easily the little droid warmed up to you. Of course, BD sticks with Cal and is his right hand man on adventures, but Cal no longer occupies 100 percent of BD’s free time. You refuse to tell Cal exactly where, but you found a spot right behind BD’s “head” where if you scratch it, the droid is on the ground and kicking a leg in the air in happiness. If you’re a mechanic, you can usually be found in the back, tinkering with BD’s processor to make it run more efficiently, or oiling his joints again, or designing new paint jobs for the happy little droid. Either way, you’ve stolen a decent fraction of the droid’s affection, and none of the Mantis crew has any idea how you did it. It’s actually the first thing that urged you and Cal to start spending more time together, and you remember BD’s happy little hops after you’d finally kissed Cal for the first time.

There is absolutely no backing for this, but I think that Cal can sing. Nothing fancy, of course, it’s not like there are vocal lessons available on Bracca or in the Jedi Order, but he can carry a tune. It’s sometimes the only way you can fall asleep on the Mantis, because even though Greez and the crew make it cozy, it’s not home. But as soon as you’re curled up in the twin-sized bunk, and Cal starts humming to you, you’re out before he’s finished the chorus. Sometimes the songs are happy, but they’re often little ditties that he heard from the clones before Order 66, or mourning songs that fellow workers on Bracca would sing during the night when the rain was pounding on the metal and creating a natural rhythm and harmony for the tired mechanics. They’re songs of lost love, fallen brothers, and vague longings for newer, better lives. You fall asleep to his soothing voice, but you often wake with an ache in your heart for the suffering and pain that Cal has experienced and witnessed in his short life.

He’s ticklish. He hates that you know. He hates that you told Merrin, and now she can blackmail him into getting her favorite foods from supply markets. But you love the childish giggles that you’re able to pull out of him when you finally corner him and run your fingers over his neck. Tickle fights always end in make-out sessions.

+18 NSFW under the cut

So... Cal never had the chance to understand wanting intimacy before you, sexual and non-sexual. He was terrified the first time he looked at you and didn’t recognize that strange feeling in his chest. He’d never felt it before, was there something wrong with him? Was he sick? It takes a sit-down with Greez for him to figure out what’s going on, and it’s even scarier than the possibility of illness. Jedi were forbidden to love, it had always been a taboo in his mind, even if he had never had the opportunity to find out what it felt like.

He pushes it away at first. He ignores the flutters in his chest when you’re laughing with Merrin at dinner. He denies the complete shorting out of his brain when he accidentally brushes too close to you while trying to get to your shared bunk. 

He has his first wet dream, and wakes up absolutely throbbing with the memory of the dream that involved you and him and way too little clothes for his repressed childhood. He tries to grit his teeth and go back to sleep, but it’s too uncomfortable, and he can’t get the image of your body out of his mind. Jedi Masters always gave their Padawans the sex talk, and Jaro Tapal was nothing if not a good Master. So Cal knows basically what he has to do to relieve the tension so that he can get a little more sleep. He just doesn’t expect to lose control of himself to the point where he grunts your name when he comes. His heart just about stops when he hears the bed above him creak, and he yanks the sheets over his head until he’s sure that you’re not awake. He gets up early the next morning so that he can clean up without fear of you catching him.

After you get together, Cal is even more scared of the relationship. He had checked with Cere, and though she skews more traditional in her beliefs, she knows that Cal’s trauma and overcoming of it is more than she could hope to understand. Maybe this relationship could bring a stability to his life that nothing else could provide. She cautions him on the power of Dark Side, and how the fear of losing love dragged many great Jedi astray. But she also trusts you, and she knows that you would never do anything to hurt him. She hadn’t missed the lovesick puppy eyes you’d been sending his way.

You start out promising to take it slow. Neither of you had much experience in the areas of relationships and dating, much less sex, so at the beginning, you make sure to clarify that there’s no pressure to rush through anything. It’s mostly just spending more time together, slowly exploring each other. You both learn about each other’s pasts, and spend time talking through the different experiences, rationalizing and comforting each other. Before you even begin to experiment in bed, he’s become your best friend.

When you finally do, it’s short and sweet and perfect for two people who are trying to take their relationship slow. You teach him about what you like, and he gasps out in between moans what feels good and ohhh, what feels even better. 

Okay, a bit of a time skip here, but after Cal’s more experienced, he is a sucker for you riding his thigh. He’s built and strong, so the ridge of muscle beneath you and rubbing against every single spot that sparks delicious warmth in your belly brings you to climax so much more quickly than you could have expected. He loves looking up at you, mouth open and eyes half shut in ecstasy as you chase your high, your heat leaving sticky wetness on his thigh that only serves to make him harder. He’ll grind his leg up if only to hear that heavenly little squeal and whimper that he can get out of you. You’re beautiful to him even on the worst days, but when you’re above him, sweaty and on the brink of coming all over his thigh? Stars, you’re the most glorious thing he’s ever seen, and he rode a shyyyo bird over the untouched forest of Kashyyyk.

Sadcanons. Don’t read if you don’t want sad feels tonight

There is no denying that Cal’s not a whole person at the beginning of the storyline. He definitely regains some of himself back, but there are parts of him that I believe died with the clones and died with Jaro. There are times where he has nightmares, and when he wakes up, he doesn’t want to be with anyone. Even you. He’ll lapse into silence for hours and days at a time, staring at the blank wall while you try to get him to eat or drink something because damnit it’s been days and he hasn’t so much as moved. Your heart breaks at every sign of his damage, because you know that there is only so much you can do to help. This is a journey that he has to complete independently, though it doesn’t mean that you won’t be here for him when he wakes up.

You trace his scars to comfort him. He’s insecure about them, and is terrified of the memories that they bring back. But when you’re there, loving even his jagged edges, it’s all marginally better and he can bear to live with himself a little more.

He comforts you too. Whatever your background, the Clone Wars and the Purge gave everyone a little bit of damage, and you were no different. He holds you when you’re crying, and comforts you after your nightmares. He’ll purposefully pick a happy song to sing when he knows that you’re down, and he never fails to make you laugh through the tears.

His psychometry allows him to understand your trauma better than you could hope to understand his. Before you even allow him to sense your past, you make him promise to not internalize any of it. You know that he would, though it makes no logical sense. He promises. 

Oops I made myself yearn. Now back to our regularly scheduled program of single life. School’s kicking my ass right now, but this made me feel better so I can’t complain too much.

But in all seriousness, I recommend this game 10/10. The Star Wars content is absolutely impeccable, the graphics are gorgeous, it gives me a thrill in my chest to know that every single second is canon. Cal is a beautifully written character, and even though his story breaks my heart, it’s written so well. He doesn’t lash out in anger, rather internalizing his fears and pain in a way that I can relate to, and he’s scarily powerful. It’s a feel good story for me despite the pain, and I’m looking forward to finishing it this weekend!

[norestwithoutlove]

“If jimmy came back from the dead, what do you think he’d say when he finds out Dean and cas are together and have kids”

(i was asked this on twitter and shared there. but i know not all of you follow me there i thought i’d share on here too. this is how i answered)

sorry this one took a while to answer. i wanted time to think about it because i never even considered the thought before. a lot of people say to me "imagine if jimmy had never died in tbah" and kind of miss the point of the fic. like yeah, it’d be great. it’d be great if none of the people we loved had died. yeah, “imagine if jimmy had never died” misses the point - but this question doesn't. and i think it's what a lot of bereaved people wish for, anyway. just a chance to say everything, one last time.

  where to start.

  i think if jimmy came back for a day (and the thought makes me cry)... he'd knock on the door of the big white house. or they'd just find him sitting in his old armchair in the living room like nothing had happened at all. but something has happened, something massive and irreversible, so maybe him knocking on the door would fit better.

jack's probably the one to open it. he frowns and thinks he recognises the face smiling back at him, but it's older than he's ever seen it, and he's not so good with faces, so he's not sure. jimmy smiles and says hello, does castiel still live here?

and jack says “yes, why?”. jimmy still smiles. his smile is wider, warmer now. he says he's travelled very far. he says he's an old family friend. could he come in? it’s raining outside. it’s raining - and though jimmy stands under the porch, it’d be mean to leave him out in it. jack pulls open the door and says if jimmy is selling anything, they probably wont need it: they have everything they need in this house. jimmy smiles and says he's glad. he treads slowly down the hall, looking around him, like he's trying to savor it. he runs his finger along the crack in the mirror that has always been there, at least since jack arrived. he smiles to himself, but it’s a little sad.

he stops at a photo of dean and castiel playing on the tire swing they made when they were kids. his eyes pinch at their corners. jack says, “what are you smiling at?” jimmy says, i was there when that was taken. jack says “oh. that's my father”. and he points to castiel. jimmy turns to jack and smiles so wide tears wring out of his eyes. he asks, really? jack frowns and says “of course”. why would he lie about that? jimmy says, i hope he doesn't miss his own dad too much. jack says “sometimes he and dean get sad about it”. jimmy pauses. castiel and dean are friends? he asks. jack nods seriously. “best friends,” he answers. “everyone knows that.” jimmy takes a gentle hold of jack's shoulder and squeezes.

jack says “that's how dean squeezes my shoulder, too”. jimmy asks, you see him often? he asks it with a hopeful smile. jack nods with a frown, very serious. jimmy laughs and says, you know, you frown just like your father. funny thing, family resemblance. jack shrugs and says “maybe, but i was adopted”. 

jimmy falters. he blinks. he glances down the corridor again, and his eyes light on a different picture, taken decades after the one on the tire swing. he treads slowly towards it. jack follows after him, speaking. “i just think,” he frowns, and it's still castiel's frown, “if you really were close family friends with castiel, you'd know he adopted his children.” 

jimmy has stopped in front of the photograph and he stares at it, lips parted in a ghost-smile. family, friend. family, and a friend, jimmy corrects. that’s what i meant. i’m old family, and an old friend. jack watches him. “that's them on their wedding day,” he supplies. jimmy smiles. soft tears, tears like a gentle autumn rain, are on his cheeks, now. yes, he says, it is. a little late, considering, but maybe... he trails off. timed perfectly. a heavy footfall sounds on the stairs, a thunder to match the rain outside, and claire calls to jack, “dude, you said you'd get me a snack! it’s not rocket science! what’s the holdup?” but she stops short at the sight of the old man in the hall. claire's better with faces than jack. 

hello, jimmy smiles, but claire is already yelling for her dads.

it's a sunday afternoon. dean hadn't planned on being awake and active. he’d been napping while cas did a grocery run. but claire screaming to high heaven is a surefire way to set elanor into confusion. he groans and rolls out of bed, rubbing his eyes. he picks elanor up and carries her down the stairs in one arm. “claire,” he grumbles, “you know cas is out fuelling your damn addiction to lucky charms. what is it?”

he stops short at the foot of the stairs. his mouth is open and his eyes are glassy. elanor keeps asking “daddy are you okay? who’s that man?” and it takes dean a minute to stop staring before softly putting elanor down and telling her to go get her brother, jacob. “tell him there’s food in the kitchen, or something,” dean says, and jimmy hasn’t stopped staring or smiling warmly at him and his eyes are leaking autumn rain. “but there isn’t,” elanor says, and dean answers “so lie. there’s someone i—” but he can’t finish the sentence. and elanor shakes her head with serious disapproval and climbs back up the stairs.

dean steps toward him, trying to stammer out his name, but the tears strangle his voice and before he knows it he’s wrapped tight in jimmy’s arms, taller than him by far, now, but feeling eighteen again. feeling eighteen again and like he’s just finished yelling at jimmy that he doesn’t need a father, never needed a father, that he coped just fine without one, anyway. all of those things were lies when dean said them. he wants to say they were lies, wants to tell jimmy now that he needed a father, always needed a father, didn’t cope without one but that also, when he needed one most, jimmy was his father. he wants to say thank you. thank you, thank you, thank you for everything and sorry for every angry answer and scowl and bitter lie, please know dean didn’t mean them, he was just hurt and afraid. but jimmy already knows this. knew that, even then, and besides, the words won’t come. he just holds onto jimmy tight and thinks he probably did fall asleep in his bed and this is another one of those grief dreams, another one of those grief dreams that’s gonna throw him off for weeks but one he wants to savor forever.

he’s soaking jimmy’s shirt with tears. the guy smells like his old cologne. and blueberry pancakes. dean cries a little harder, afraid to let go.

“are you proud of me?”

it’s the first thing he’s managed to say to the old man. “are you proud of me?” he keeps asking, over and over again, and jimmy holds him tight and answers yes, yes, every time. yes.

and then cas comes home. cas comes home dripping from the rain from the walk to the front door and drops the damp brown paper bags onto the floor and apples roll onto the floor and he’s staring at his father and can’t speak, just like dean couldn’t speak, and can’t breathe. and jimmy is sat at the kitchen table with his grandchildren just like castiel mourned he would never be able to, and jacob is showing jimmy one of his paintings and elanor is holding his hand and claire has just made him a cup of tea, and jimmy smiles at castiel. “i see you got my last letter,” he says. and castiel steps into the kitchen and sobs that he’s sorry he never got to reply. and jimmy says that he’s sorry, too. cas shows him the little saplings they all planted for tu b'shevat, standing in a line on the windowsill. jimmy loved growing things. and cas asks how long jimmy has with them. when he’s going… back. to wherever ‘there’ is. 

and jimmy says he has until the rain stops. and castiel wishes it would rain forever, that all of kansas would be blanketed in it, a second flood, torrenting about the land, and them in their own ark, the big white house, bobbing about on the water, sharing food and stories and laughter and lost time, stolen time, time which was stolen from them. aren’t his and dean’s tears a substitute enough for rain when it stops, anyway? their tears are sure as rain in autumn, and not likely to ease soon. he wishes the rain would never stop. 

but it has to, eventually. all things do. no matter how blessed.