#presumably if things had gone on longer this would have resolved into a reveal that this is an approved secret training program designed to

[princeofallthots]

produced by the ol cranium during the most recent dreaming:

fleshsculpted big-tiddied motorcyclegirls, a perfect fusion of flesh and machine whose riders get gradually neurochemically conditioned to drive as riskily as possible bc the closer they get to crashing without actually causing one the closer they are allowed to get to cumming while riding

[peachbear88]

A Whole New World (Pt 3)

A/N: So I have another idea for a oneshot or maybe series. "Forbidden Love". I think the name might already have been used but THIS IS THE PERFECT NAME FOR THE NEXT STORY AHHHHHHH! Anyways, back to the actual story at hand.

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You sit down cautiously in the leather seat in front of you, almost sighing. The chair is much more comfortable then you thought.

"So... what do you want from me?" You ask timidly, shifting uncomfortably in your seat as his gaze sears into you.

"Why do you think I want something from you?" He asks and you meet his eyes, noticing the amused glint in them.

"Because you didn't hand me over to the police and instead, brought me here." You gesture to the spacious, glamorous office. He chuckles, standing up to look out the massive floor to ceiling window.

"Touchè." You fidget nervously, waiting for him to continue. "I saw you paying a visit to the youngest Maximoff." Your breath hitches in your throat as he turns to look at you. "Very skilled, the whole, swinging from the tree branch." You flush and he smirks. "Young love. I presume you'd like her hand in marriage as well." Your face turns an even brighter shade of red and he chuckles. Not a genuine, hearty chuckle but a cold, dark laugh.

"She has to marry someone that benefits the company though." You pause, letting the smallest sliver of hope leak into your speech. "Right?"

Loki laughs cruelly, crushing the liquid hope you had.

"Correct. But. I can help you." You look up into his icy green eyes and he smirks. "I can make you rich enough to qualify for her hand in marriage. Powerful enough." You lean forward eagerly but he leans back, knowing fully well he had you wrapped around his little finger. "Nothing comes for free though."

You reach into your pocket, pulling out the brooch and examining it. You take a deep breath, steeling your resolve before turning back to him.

"What would I have to do?"

-----------

"All I need is for you to go into that cave and fetch me an object. A simple oil lamp to be specific." You arch an eyebrow.

"Easy peasey." He stops you, pulling you back from the mouth of the cavern.

"Not so fast. You cannot touch any of the treasures in there, no matter how tempted. And trust me, you will be tempted." You gulp, noting the ominous tone in his voice.

"Got it. How hard could it really be?" You mutter, slowly inching down the cavern. A pebble slips, sending you tumbling down the semi-smooth stone slide. You scream as you fall, hitting the bottom of the slide with a grunt. "Didn't see that coming." Dusting yourself off, you slink through the dark, ominous cave. The further you descend into the cave, the more tempting the mounds of gold and jewels become. The cavern expands, leading into a massive area, dozens of tall, sharp pillars looming above you. Dead in the center, perched upon the tallest pillar is the desired lamp. You smile, stepping towards the pillar only to be upended by a small gem. You go flying, squeezing your eyes shut as you prepare yourself for the harsh impact but it never comes. Instead, you find yourself on a fluffy carpet. It ripples beneath you, and for a moment, you fear the whole cave is coming apart. Then the carpet pushes you off it and you shriek. The carpet, the carpet that just caught you is moving. You examine it curiously, pacing around it.

"A frickin' magic carpet." You exclaim as it watches you inspect it, impatiently gesturing towards the giant slab of stone crushing it. You scratch your chin before slipping your fingers between a small gap under the rock. "Alright, here we go." You grunt, heaving the rock. The carpet tugs and the moment the stone lifts a little, the carpet zips out, dipping and whirling around the cavern, sending gold cascading everywhere. Eventually, it calms down, circling around you and patting your shoulders enthusiastically. "Not a problem bud." You return your attention to the towering pillar in front of you. "Alright. Let's do this."

You pull yourself up, following the pre-set trail you had created for yourself as you grip another sharp handhold. A bit of blood trickles down from a thin cut on your palm and you grimace before continuing your steep climb. Your muscles are on fire, the thin cut on your hand tearing wider and wider every second. With one final pull, you reach the top of the pillar, the dusty lamp shining right back at you. Not wasting a second, you grab the lamp and slowly lower yourself down to where the carpet stands, watching you with anticipation.

"All right! Now to get out of here..." You dust of your thin, ragged pants, leaving a thick line of blood smeared on the fabric. After a few moments, you locate the tunnel you came from and make your way up the steep slope. Your footsteps echo off the large cave as you reach the large stone slide. A gem next to your foot catches your eye and you lean down, examining it. The carpet frantically waves at you, even slapping you but you push it away, picking up the gem. "No one's going to notice one small gem missing. I could go without stealing for a whole month without this gem." You shrug before slipping it into your pocket. The effect is instantaneous, a roaring voice echoing through the cave.

"You have touched the forbidden treasure. Now, you will never again see the light of day!" Molten lava spews forth from the cracks in the cavern, rapidly covering the stone. You jump up, leaping from stone to stone, clambering up the rocky slide. At the mouth of the cave, Loki stands, watching you frantically scale the rocky wall, unable to find the strength to pull yourself up the last bit of the wall.

"A little help would be nice!" You cry and Loki peers down at you, golden staff in hand.

"Give me the lamp first." He sneers and you resist.

"No. Your hand first!" He leans closer to you and his once handsome features contort into an angry scowl.

"Give me the lamp first." He repeats and you relent, reaching into your pocket and handing him the lamp. He examines it greedily while you cling onto the rock face.

"Now your hand!" He looks back down at you, all the kindness from before gone.

"How about my foot?" Your eyes widen as he raises his foot and steps on your hand, squishing it. You cry out in pain as he relentlessly twists his foot, agonizing pain shooting up your arm. Unable to hold on any longer, you fall, the sweltering heat radiating against your body before you hit a soft surface, soaring up into the air. Prying your eyes open, you look down to see carpet, speeding towards the entrance of the cave where Loki stands, still entranced by the lamp. The carpet speeds up and you reach out, snatching the lamp from Loki's hands. Loki roars in anger, pushing you backwards with the butt of his staff as the cave crumbles. Rocks tumble down, covering the entrance as you fly backwards towards a certain doom. Right at the last moment, carpet catches you and the two of you go tumbling back down into the darkness of the cave.

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

"Ugh..." You groan, your eyes fluttering open. You're greeted by a brightly colored carpet hovering above you. "Hi." You mutter, pushing yourself into a sitting position. The lamp is still tightly clutched in your hand and you stare at it, wondering what that man could've possibly wanted from such a dusty relic. You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck before returning your attention to the carpet. "Well, you know any way out of here buddy?" The carpet makes exaggerated gestures with it's golden tassels at the lamp. You hold up the lamp, confused. "This old thing?" The carpet nods vigorously (at least you think it's nodding) and you shrug. "What's the worst that could happen." You take a deep breath, slowly rubbing at the lamp with your injured hand, blood smearing over the dusty brass surface. Slowly but surely, a thick blue fog spirals out of the lamp, revealing a massive blue figure. You stumble backwards, still clinging onto the lamp.

"Oh great one who summons me, terrible one who commands me, I stand by my oath, loyalty to wishes three." The figure roars. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out, just a pathetic little whimper.

"Eh..."

He clears his throat, peering down into the darkness.

"I said, 'Oh great...'" His eyes land on you. "Excuse, me, dude, where's your boss?" You stand there, gaping as he waves his massive blue hands in front of your face. "Help me out here, where's your boss? If I was just gonna talk to myself, I could've stayed in the lamp."

"Eh... Uh...." You gulp as he stares at you impatiently.

"Hellooooooooo!"

"I uh.... I'm talking to uh.... Smoking blue giant?"

"No! BRRRRRRRRR." He hums out, shrinking down and swirling around you. "I am not a giant, I am a genie. There is a difference." He retorts, waving his finger in front of you. "Giants are not real." He reclines back, leaving you frozen in shock. "Where's your boss?"

"Uh, my boss?"

He sighs.

"Look, kid, I've been doing this a long time, all right? There's always a guy, you know..." You watch his hands, noting how he uses them to gesture with every word he utters. "He's cheated somebody, or buried somebody." He explains, teleporting behind you and floating around. "I mean, you get my point. Where's that guy?" You nod in understanding.

"I know that guy. He's outside." The genie's face lights up.

"So, it's just you and me down here?" A telescope appears in his hand with a blue puff and he scans the cave through it, his brown eye bulging out from the glass. You nod, unable to form coherent words. "So you rubbed the lamp?"

"Uh-huh." He scratches his goatee.

"Huh. Do you mind if I just, you know, stretch it out over here?" He asks, already floating away from you. You look around the cave, searching for another being that the genie could possibly be asking.

"Uh, are you asking me?" He groans as he stretches out.

"Yeah, you're my master." You laugh dryly, swallowing.

"Yeah no, you look like you should be my master."

The genie shrugs, looking you up and down.

"Yeah, but that's not quite how it works." You stare at the lamp, mystified.

"How long have you been in here?"

"'Bout a thousand years." You stare at him skeptically.

"A thousand years?"

"A ThoUSanD YeARs." He mocks you, sitting down on a rock. "Is it just me or does everything surprise you?" You don't answer and he sighs, floating towards you. "So you really don't know who I am. Genie, wishes, lamp, none of that ringing a bell?" You don't respond and he looks taken aback. "Wow. Well, that's a first." He teleports a few feet away, snapping his fingers. "Monkey!" A small, frail looking monkey appears with cymbals and a band drum attached to it's back. It starts clapping the cymbals together rhythmically and blowing into a small kazoo. You stare at the monkey and the genie brushes you off. "Oh, don't worry 'bout him, he's fine." The genie starts clapping along before bursting into song.

"Well, Ali Baba, he had them 40 thieves,"

"Scheherazade had a thousand tales."

"But master, you're in luck,"

"Because up your sleeves, you got a genie that never fails!"

He finishes with jazz hands, the monkey's kazoo dying off with a slight squeak. You look at the carpet apprehensively only to see it clapping it's stray threads off.

"Whoo!" The genie exclaims, zooming around. "I'm the best." You stare at him, unbelieving. He sighs.

"Not enough, huh?" You don't reply. "I'm kidding, watch this."

A beam of blue light shoots out of his finger tip, hitting the monkey, who goes flying. The monkey lands on a tall pile of rock, behind a drum set. A jazzy upbeat tune fills the dark cavern.

"Here I go!"

"Uh! Ooh! Whoo!"

"Back up!"

The carpet disappears, reappearing on another tall pile of rock, shaking a pair of maracas rhythmically.

"Uh-oh! Watch out!"

He scats and a trumpet appears in the monkey's mouth, blasting out a high note.

"You done wound me up!"

"'Bout to show you what I'm workin' with. Uh!"

"Well, Ali Baba he had them 40 thieves,"

"Scheherazade had a thousand tales!"

"But, master, you're in luck because up your sleeves,"

"You got a brand of magic never fails."

The genie appears behind you, the golden shackles on his forearms glowing with power.

"You got some power in your corner now,"

"Heavy ammunition in your camp!"

His arms turn into golden cannons that fire bright blue blasts to emphasize his point.

"You got some punch, pizzazz,"

"Yahoo, and how?"

"All you gotta do is rub that lamp,"

"And then I'll say,"

"Missus, man what's your name, whatever, what will your pleasure be?"

"Let me take your order I'll jot it down,"

"You ain't never had a friend like me."

He picks you up and plops you into an elegant restaurant where a menu is thrown in front of you.

"Life is your restaurant and I'm your maître d'."

"Come whisper to me whatever it is you want,"

"You ain't never had a friend like me!"

"We pride ourselves on service!"

"You the boss, the king, the shah!"

"Say what you wish, it's yours, true dish!"

"How 'bout a lil more paprikash?"

You disappear behind mounds of the Sokovian delicacy, reappearing between racks of clothing.

"Have some of column A,"

"Try all of column B."

Blue strings attach themselves to your arms and you find yourself being whirled around, dancing, but from your point of view, you look like a flailing chicken.

"I'm in the mood to help you dude,"

"You ain't never had a friend like me."

He starts scatting as he pulls you around like a puppet.

"Can your friends do this?"

You point to a clone of the genie, who's standing on his head, his lower half spinning around like a disco ball.

"Can your friends do that?"

You point the other way to another clone of the genie who is whirling around a magic lasso.

"Can your friends pull this,"

"Outta they lil hat?"

He reaches into a top hat and slowly pulls out the magic carpet.

"Can your friends go,"

He starts beatboxing, bright flares shooting illuminating the cave.

"I'm the genie, of the lamp, I can sing rap dance if you give me a chance."

A couch appears behind you and you fall backwards, landing on the plush cushions.

"Don't sit there buggy eyed,"

"I'm here to answer all your mid-day prayers."

"You got me bona fide,"

"Certified,"

"You got a genie for your charged affairs."

He slaps a certificate into your hands and the couch zooms forward at light speed, throwing you off. You wave your arms desperately, attempting to balance yourself as you teeter precariously above a pit of molten magma. The genie pulls you back by the hook of your jacket.

"I got a powerful urge,"

"To help you out,"

"So whatcha wish,"

"I really wanna know."

"You got a list that's 3 miles long no doubt."

"All you gotta do is rub like so."

The lamp goes flying into your hands as the genie appears next to you.

"Missus?"

"Y/N." You reply.

"Yes!"

“One wish or two or three?"

"Well, I'm on the job, you big nabob,"

"You ain't never had a friend,"

"Never had a friend."

"You ain't never had a friend,"

"Never had a friend."

"You ain't never."

"Had a."

"Friend."

"Like."

"Me!"

He scats as fireworks go off, lighting the cave up in blue, red, green, gold and purple.

"You ain't never had a friend like me."

The scene fades and you stand there, still trying to comprehend the turn of events. The genie's large blue face appears in front of you.

"You can clap now." He smirks, imitating a mic drop. You raise your hands slowly to clap and he immediately stops you. "No, no no, please, please. You can thank me outside. In the sun. When you wish us out." You smile numbly before shaking your head.

"Wait so.... how does it work?" The genie's face drops into disbelief.

"You're.... You're kidding right?" He sputters, shrinking back down to a normal size. "The- The whole song was the- The instructions!" He grabs your hand, sighing. "Obviously you can't dance and listen at the same time. "So here's the basics." The lamp appears in his hand and he mimes rubbing it. "Step one, rub the lamp." A second head appears on his body. "Step 2, say what you want." A third head appears. "Step 3." The other two heads disappear as you continue walking hand in hand with the genie. "There is no step 3! See, it's that easy!" He waves his hand. "You get three wishes.They must begin with you rubbing the lamp and saying 'I wish' got it?" You nod slowly.

"I think so...." He smiles.

"Great! A few more rules. You can't wish for more wishes, 3 is enough. I can't make anybody love anybody." Pink hearts float around his head. "Or bring anybody back from the dead." Papyrus wraps around him, muffling his speech and giving it an eerie feeling. "Feel free to interrupt me anytime you don't understand." You give a sigh of relief, opening your mouth to ask a question but he immediately cuts you off. "I'm kidding, don't ever interrupt me, no matter what." You close your mouth. "Now, I usually don't have to go through all this because by the time the guy." He emphasizes 'the guy' with little quotation marks. "Gets to me, he already knows what he wants and it generally has to do with," He clears his throat expanding to a large size, a red glow hugging his blue skin. "Tons of money and power! Mwahahahaha!" He exclaims evilly, money raining down from the roof of the cave. He shrinks back down into his normal size. "Do me a favor, do not drink from that cup. I promise you, there is not enough money or power on Earth for you to be satisfied. Good? Well, what's your first wish?" You scratch your chin thoughtfully.

"Well, I have to think about it. I mean, if there are only 3," The genie scoffs in disbelief. "I mean, why are there only 3 anyways?" He cuts you off, waving his hands about.

"I don't know! Who cares?" You smirk, approaching him.

"You don't know? I thought you were all knowing."

"That's 'cause you don't listen. I never said I was all knowing, I said I was all powerful." He quips. "The most powerful being in the universe." He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Look, whatever I don't know, I know I can learn it. Outside in the sun. Why are you playing hard to wish?" He exclaims exasperatedly. "Give us some sun!" You relent, smiling and placing the lamp behind you.

"All right Genie. I wish for you to get us out of this cave."

"Boom! Booyah!" The genie zooms around excitedly. "She has made her first wish!" He reappears in a flight attendant uniform holding a safety brochure. "Thank you for choosing Genie Airlines. Please don't forget to tip your genie on the way out!" 3 more genies appear behind him in similar uniform, waving at you. "Hold yourself kid!" He whirls around you, bright blue fog enveloping you until you finally reappear outside on the outskirts of Sokovia.

"Whoa." You mutter, nauseated at the sudden movement. The carpet does a flip, soaring off into the air. "Why is the monkey still here?" You gesture to the little frail monkey next to you.

"Oh. Uh, consider it a gift." You shrug, picking the monkey up and depositing it on your shoulder. He snaps and the two of you are sitting under a makeshift tent, a chess board between the two of you. You gulp, holding your head. "Can you warn me before you do that?" He waves you off.

"You'll get used to it. So, have you decided what you're going to wish for?" He bites into an apple. You shrug.

"Nope. Haven't really thought about it." The genie laughs, depositing the apple on the chess board.

"Wow. You really are not that guy." You sit up in the woven tanning chair, watching the genie.

"So what would you wish for." The genie examines you thoughtfully before staring back at Sokovia.

"Easy. I would wish to be free." He raps his knuckles against the golden bands on his forearms. "To not have to say," Poof! He reappears in front of you in a waiter's uniform. "How may I help you?" Poof! He reappears in the chair beside you in his normal outfit. "Freedom. I wish to be human." You look at him curiously.

"Why don't you just set yourself free?" He laughs derisively, clapping.

"Only way I can be set free is if the owner of the lamp uses one of their wishes to set me free. The last time that happened was like, the fourth of Never-ary."

"I'll do it." You volunteer. "I've got 3 right?"

"Actually, 2. You used one to get out of the cave." The genie corrects and you smirk.

"DId I? Or did you? I thought I had to be rubbing the lamp."

"Okay little street-girl. Let's rewind the tape." He imitates a cassette tape rewinding. He examines the playback. "Okay! I see what you did there." You smile at him.

"At least now I can use my last wish to set you free." He leans forward in his woven tanning chair..

"See this is the thing. The more you have, the more you want." You look out at Sokovia.

"That's not me." The genie hums skeptically.

"We'll see about that."

"But... There is something." You sigh and the genie instantly notices the lovesick expression on your face.

"Oh! Seen that look before." With a blue puff, he appears in front of you, lying on his stomach, his chin resting on his hands. "Who's the guy?" You don't look at him.

"It's.... It's a girl." He smiles at you supportively.

"Well, I can't make anyone fall in love with anyone." You quickly shake your head.

"No, no. We had a connection." He quirks an eyebrow at you.

"Alright, alright."

"She's smart, kind, incredibly beautiful. But she has to marry- Hold on, can you make me rich?" The genie teleports back to his chair.

"Kid, there is a lot of gray area in 'Make me rich'." He snaps his fingers and a rich business man in a stylish black suit appears a few feet away. "I could just make you rich." You immediately backpedal, shaking your head.

"No, no, no." The genie nods.

"Right 'cause then you'd be stuck with this guy. Be specific with your words. The key is in the detail." He advises and you nod. "Which I don't really understand because if she already likes you, why change?"

You shrug.

"I told you, she has to marry someone that benefits her family's business." The genie stands up, fiddling with his fingers.

"Alright, I can do that. An official wish this time, for those of us that are counting." You clear your throat nervously.

"Genie, I wish..." He snaps his fingers, pointing at the lamp. "Oh right! Sorry." You pick up the lamp, rubbing it. "All right. Genie..." He raises his hands in mock surrender.

"Don't hurt em Genie."

"I wish... to become rich." You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for the worst. The genie smiles, waving his hands.

"Back up kid, I need some room to work. I'm gonna fabulize you."

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Taglist: @username23345 @musicinourlips @gingerbreadcookieforlife @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @trikruismybitch @ima-gi--na-tion @nicole-rayleigh-hot

[murasaki-murasame]

Thoughts on Higurashi Sotsu Ep10

I’m kinda out of it due to a mix of toothache and painkillers, so bare with me on this one, lmao.

Anyway, thoughts under the cut. Also lots of Umineko spoilers, probably.

I’m genuinely kinda shocked that this arc STILL isn’t over, but at least it makes a lot more sense now why it ended up being longer than I expected, lol. I still think it probably could have been condensed by an episode or two, but still. It turns out that way more was going on with Satoko behind the scenes in this arc than I thought.

There’s also the whole possibility that Ryukishi might have intentionally laid out the script of Gou/Sotsu so that this whole sequence of Satoko definitively accepting that she’s a witch and killing her humanity happened on the cumulative 34th episode [24 from Gou and now 10 from Sotsu]. I’ve been wondering if anything could actually justify the extremely slow pacing this has had up to this point, but this might actually be dumb enough to make me think it was all worth it, lol.

Also, I’ve been trying to avoid saying it, but I looked at the whole batch of leaks from this arc when they got posted about a month ago, and it looks like we’ve officially covered everything that was in those leaks. I kinda regret looking at them, since it spoiled that Satoko would have an internal conflict that gets expressed literally in usual WTC fashion, but in a funny way I guess I ended up getting a misguided idea of what was going to happen just from looking at the leaks.

For one thing, I completely forgot about the leak of Satoko shooting Teppei until I double checked it a few days ago, so I was mostly just focused on the stuff about her two sides fighting against each other, and I guess I thought it would have made her seem a lot more redeemable than how it ended up actually working out, lol. I thought that it would basically go in the opposite direction and this would signal the start of her spiraling into regret and despair over the course of Nekodamashi, but basically the opposite happened.

I guess this probably answers the question I’ve had of what could stop Satoko from just immediately shooting Rika after the cliffhanger from Nekodamashi, since this raises the possibility of her ‘human side’ literally stopping her from doing it.

Though at this point I’m starting to seriously wonder if there’ll be some big meta twist about how Sotsu has actually been a separate set of loops to what we saw in Gou, and maybe Nekodamashi really did just end in tragedy and then everything got reset. I’ve been toying with that idea in my head for a while, mainly just as a way to try and make Sotsu feel like more than just a literal retread of Gou, but this is giving it a bit more validity as a theory.

For one thing, Eua already implied during Satokowashi that she had a history with Satoko, and going by something Ryukishi said in an interview, there’s already been a time where Satoko called her Eua, so it’s possible that Satokowashi onward is an entirely new loop where both Satoko and Rika have had their memories reset, but Eua still remembers it. Presumably the ‘Gou loop’ would have just ended with failure some way or another, and Eua decided to do it again. She’s given Satoko a pretty definitive failure state in Sotsu, but it’s possible that wasn’t always the case, and up until now she’s been willing to just do it over and over again until she gets the right outcome.

There’s also the theory some people have suggested that maybe the conflict between Satoko’s two halves represented a literal split in the timeline of some kind, with Tataridamashi maybe being a version of events where her human side won out, if only temporarily, and Teppei stayed alive to attack Keiichi at the end of the arc. That’d at least be one way to explain the weirdness of Satoko killing Teppei in this episode after we saw him attack Keiichi at the end of this arc in Gou. I’m not entirely sure I support this exact interpretation, though, even if I like the idea of these maybe being different arcs.

I think that for now my theory about the Teppei situation is that either 1: it was some kind of hallucination from Keiichi, 2: it was a fictionalized account of events that she fed to Ooishi to help trigger his L5 state, or 3: it’s the same sort of thing as the ‘Illusion of Witches’ in Umineko, and we as the audience were directly being shown a fantasy version of events by Satoko. Which is basically the same thing as the second option, but still. Considering how this seems to be barreling it’s way towards being some kind of Umineko prequel, I’ve been wondering if maybe they’d go that far with introducing narrative concepts here that get expanded upon more in Umineko. This would at least be a pretty straightforward example to use to illustrate the idea of how fantasy is used as a device in Umineko. And since there were infamously major issues with people not understanding what Ryukishi was trying to do with those scenes in Umineko ep2 which lead to him having to rewrite ep3 to explain it more clearly, I can see why he might go as far as to include an introduction to this idea in this series.

It’s possible that it’s just a hallucination, but I kinda doubt it at this point. For one thing, it’d feel kinda weird if THIS was a hallucination but not the whole fight scene between Keiichi and Rena, but it’d also just feel kinda weird since Keiichi didn’t really seem to be going L5 in this arc, so it’s kinda hard to imagine him jumping straight to that level of insanity on such short notice.

At least if we assume that this leads into the ending we saw in Tataridamashi, and not something entirely different, I think the real version of events is probably that after leading Keiichi to her house, Satoko attacks him with the bat [or she rigged some kind of trap to knock him out], and then when he wakes up he sees the aftermath of Satoko killing Teppei and he assumes he did it. Though tbh even at the end of Tataridamashi I’m not even sure if Keiichi acknowledged any memory of what happened with Teppei, so I’m not even sure if we need to explain how he’d end up convinced that that version of events happen. For all we know it might just be something that the audience alone was being shown, and from Keiichi’s POV he just gets knocked out and then wakes up in the hospital.

It’s possible that Ooishi ends up attacking him, but I kinda doubt it, at least after how this episode went. Even in the midst of HS, he seemed aware of the fact that Keiichi was at worst just being unwittingly manipulated by the villagers, and that he genuinely thought he was helping her, so I doubt that Satoko would be able to convince him to attack him. And at this point it just seems more likely that Satoko would attack Keiichi herself instead of pointlessly relying on someone else to do it for her.

We do know that he shows up at the festival with the bloody bat, but he could have just entered the house after hearing the commotion of Keiichi getting attacked, and then Satoko told her version of events to him, and he just picked up the bat from the crime scene and took it to the festival.

It’s also worth noting that apparently in the manga version of Tataridamashi, Satoko never even leads Keiichi to her house in the first place, and he just gets shot by Ooishi at the festival, which makes it seem more likely that Keiichi himself isn’t super relevant to how this arc ends. At least in the manga version of the arc, it seems like Ooishi probably just walked in on Teppei’s dead body and then picked up the bat and went on to do his killing spree.

Now I’m also wondering what’ll happen in the next episode, since it seems like they literally only have the festival left to cover before this arc ends. I guess there might just be a lot of content related to what happens with Satoko in the fragment space between this arc and Nekodamashi, but either way it feels like it shouldn’t take long at all to reach the big climax of this arc, especially since Satoko has already steeled her resolve. I mean, I doubt that human-Satoko is gone for good, but the rest of this arc is probably just gonna be witch-Satoko putting her final plans into motion, so there shouldn’t be much to cover there.

There’s a possibility that they’ll also speedrun through all of Nekodamashi from her POV in the next episode, but I kinda doubt it’d go by that fast. In spite of it mostly being a montage from Rika���s POV, and there presumably not being much worth showing about the mechanics and reasoning behind how Satoko set up the different mini-loops there, I think there’s still a fair bit to be shown from her perspective in that arc. For one thing, we’ll probably get a reveal of what was really going on behind the scenes with how Hanyuu suddenly gave Rika a new set of powers, and the whole deal with the sword. And even after the loop montage, I think that stuff will go on behind the scenes with Satoko and Takano to lead into the scene where Takano apologizes to Rika.

At this point my main question is how long it might take to get through all of that, since we only have five episodes left. At least as far as we know. There might be some kind of continuation yet to be announced, but I don’t want to bet on it.

It just feels like there’s a whole lot of stuff left to do before we end this. Like the stuff I’ve mentioned before with the OP having scenes of the club members as teenagers wearing outfits different to their ones from Satokowashi, and the scene of teenage Rika and Satoko fighting in the fragment space.

I’m also wondering at this point if we’ll get some Bernkastel origin story stuff to go with the apparent Lambda origin story. At the very least, they never really explained why she ended up being Featherine’s miko in Umineko, aside from the vague ‘Featherine is probably some version of Hanyuu’ thing. Which has been especially weird since Eua has been using Satoko as her pawn against Rika in this series. But this episode also makes it seem even more likely that Eua doesn’t even like Satoko, and is just using her as a pawn towards a greater goal of entertainment, while probably also playing both sides, so I could see this leading to a situation where she ends up working with Bernkastel instead.

There’s still the question about if this is even a Lambda origin story in the first place, but at this point I think that it’d just be a straight up waste of time if it’s not. That basically feels like the entire purpose of Gou/Sotsu’s existence right now, so if it’s all some sort of elaborate troll, then that just feels like it’d make EVERYONE pissed off. It’d obviously annoy the Umineko fans who like the idea of this being a genuine prequel or tie-in of some kind, but for the people on the opposite end who hate that idea, I don’t think they’d appreciate being told ‘I was just spending nearly 50 episodes tricking you into thinking this was something you’d hate, lol’. It just seems like the worst of both worlds.

Also, I’m pretty open to different variants of how they could pull off the specifics of this being a ‘Lambda origin story’. Like, I still think it’d count if this ends up being set after Umineko and is some kind of elaborate reenactment of how Lambda came to be, or whatever. There’s a lot of specific ways it could be executed, but it’d basically just be the same thing at the end of the day.

I know that witch Satoko right now doesn’t have the same sort of personality that Lambda had, but like with how Beatrice went through multiple design iterations that changed her personality, Satoko might just end up going through more development that makes her closer to the Lambda we know in Umineko. There’s also the fact that the end of Umineko already implied that Bernkastel was just ‘playing the villain’ for fun, so Lambda’s whole personality there might have been somewhat manufactured.

I guess at this point I just have to wonder if we’ll see Satoko come up with the name Lambdadelta for herself, lol. Even back in Higurashi we saw how Rika came up with the name Bernkastel, so if they’re really going in this direction, it’d make sense. I know Satoko is still calling herself Satoko by this point, but just a few episodes ago she denied that she was becoming a witch, and now she’s calling herself one, so these things can change, lol.

Anyway, this whole episode ended up being more Umineko-y than I expected. Even aside from the obvious stuff with them using the term witch, the whole fight between the two Satokos in the fragment space was exactly the sort of thing you’d see in Umineko, down to the fact that it was a gun fight like the love trial was. The imagery of the red cracks on the black background, and the entire screen shattering like glass, also felt like it was lifted straight out of Umineko.

Even if it might be kinda cheesy and forced, the monkey brain part of me really likes this stuff, lol.

Come to think of it, I guess this also makes it a lot more likely in hindsight that her classroom panic attack in this arc really was [at least in part] a representation of her two sides clashing. I think she always planned to do it as a recreation of that scene from Tatarigoroshi, but when it actually started her human side bled through and her genuine regret came through as well. I also assume that all the shots in this arc of her looking uncomfortable or depressed, especially around Teppei, were probably also setting up for this. Which I think is fine, but they probably should have been a little more clear about it, since it came across as her just faking everything, and this ended up feeling more sudden than it should have. I get why people would still see it as being sudden and unearned, but I don’t really think so. They probably should have included more stuff like that during the first two arcs of Sotsu, though.

I’m curious to see if I’ll end up being right about my theory that the sword will end up being used as a plot device to completely separate Satoko’s witch self, and maybe Rika’s as well, into their own beings separate from Rika and Satoko in the ‘real world’. It still feels like the only way to have this actually set up for Umineko without having things end in total tragedy for Rika and Satoko in general.

There’s probably a lot more I could say about this episode, but I think this has gone on long enough as it is, lol.

[bestintheparsec]

The Same Coin - Part 2

Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

A/N: The pace is ~slowly picking up for these two😌 I didn’t allow any pining yet but it shall come soon and I hope you like the mild softness in this part😏 I hope you like this one, and as always thank you so much for any feedback!

Words: 3.0k

Warnings: a hint of angst, slow roast burn?, a crumb of Tender™

You roll your neck and shoulders, trying to relieve some of the aches from the day. As of late, you’ve been sedentary at work, and it’s starting to have an effect on your muscles. You look across the desk at Steve, who’s been in the same boat. This new management is really starting to get on your last nerve. Lately they've been restricting the amount of time you're in the field. Before anything makes it to your desk, it has to first collect dust on the ambassador’s, then the colonel’s, then Messina’s. They’ve claimed all this funneling of information is for “efficiency”—you’re not entirely sure they know what the word means. By the time any intel makes it into your hands, it may as well have never been reported at all. You can imagine the laughs this system has given Escobar as he continues to be a free man from one day to the next.

Steve puts out his cigarette and meets your tired eyes. “You good for the day?” he asks, the same exhaustion in his own voice.

“I’m going to try to get ahead on some of tomorrow’s bullshit before I head out,” you say with a sigh. “Can you take some of Peña’s stuff to him if you get home first? I’ll bring the rest after.”

He nods and stands up, tucking his gun behind his back before grabbing the files and heading out. Your desk lamp is the only thing lighting up the space as you work quickly to get the files sorted. You’re the last one here, but you’re nearly as alone as you are during the day, with only your thoughts and the messy stack of papers keeping you company. 

~

“That’s all we had for today,” you say, dropping the heavy stack of files onto the marble countertop. The large red stamp that says “CLASSIFIED” across the top of each folder is deceiving in its urgency; it’s more than likely just another pile of useless leads that Escobar’s already one step ahead of. But it has to be sorted through nonetheless, much to Javier’s annoyance—another long night of mindless paperwork awaits.

Javier’s off his crutches and back to work now, but only to an extent. He’s still unable to walk fully without a limp, and is currently assigned to working from home unless absolutely necessary—though he’s convinced that this is less about his safety and more about preventing him from going on another undisclosed mission. He’s only been back at the embassy a handful of times since getting shot, but if he can’t be involved in the action out on the field he may as well stay in his own place and let you and Murphy deal with the assholes that hover over everything you do.

He skims the stack of documents before looking up at you. “This is all?” he jeers sarcastically, raising his brows. 

“Hey, you didn’t have to deal with the shit that Steve and I had to look over today,” you remark. “Consider yourself lucky.”

Yeah. Another fucking wasted day. Real lucky, he thinks, huffing quietly as he flips the first folder open.

He observes silently as your eyes dart to the medication bottle on the counter, then to the kitchen. You carry the same tension in your posture every time you come over here—always making sure things are in their place, even off-duty. He almost rolls his eyes, but unconsciously stops himself before you turn back to him.

You don’t say anything, but he knows you’re just itching to mention the excess bottles of liquor, or the lack of any real food on his shelves. He’s been taking his meds and cleaning his wound like he’s supposed to, if only so you would leave him the hell alone about it. Or maybe you were starting to get to him, more than he thought—and certainly more than he’s allowed.

“Do you need anything else?” you ask, tapping your fingers on the counter. It’s all become routine now—you ask if he needs anything, he replies that he’s a functional adult again and therefore should just be left alone. The usual. Though he’s recently noticed you don’t fidget with your hands or the fabric of your clothes as much anymore, for a reason he doesn’t know—why he’s caught on to this, he doesn’t know either. 

Javier shakes his head, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and lighting one.

“Well, then...I’ll leave you to it,” you continue. He watches as you leave his apartment for what has to be the thirtieth time, quietly locking the door behind you—as if he can’t do it himself—the familiar sound of metal clicking into place followed by your footsteps fading away.

~

As you drop off today's documents, you wonder if Peña notices the slight change in your voice, the growing darkness under your eyes. Steve certainly had. “You look like hell,” he'd told you at the office today. Truthfully, you’re just tired. Tired of running in circles and chasing someone who might as well be a ghost; a ghost that leaves chaos in its wake and haunts you at night. Tired of bosses who don't seem to have a sense of urgency about any of it. So you probably do look a bit rough. But you’re too preoccupied to care. 

“Murphy told me it was a long day,” Javier comments, breaking your momentary reverie. You look up at him. 

It's been longer than that.

He takes a sip from his glass and gestures up and down at you with his free hand. Your hair’s a mess and your blouse is untucked and unbuttoned all the way, revealing the tank top you’re wearing underneath. “Have you, uh, slept recently?” he asks with a smirk on his face, his tone laced with teasing. You’re not in the mood for it.

“I don't want to fucking hear it, Peña.” You say it in such a way that it wipes the grin off his face. 

If he’s bothered by your remark, he makes no indication of it. Instead of responding, he leans against the counter, waiting for you to continue.

“Work was work, but the ambassador gave us hell,” you explain, abruptly slamming today’s files down on the counter. “I don’t know what anybody’s problem is anymore—do they want to catch these bastards or not?”

Javier meets your eyes, speculating when the last time you actually got some rest was, if you slept as restlessly as he did. He quickly pushes the thought away—why should he be concerned? But he nods anyways, knowing the feeling well.

“I have access to better CIs than the bullshit we're given,” he remarks. “You're the one who won’t get on board.” 

Your mouth twitches, and you can't resist. “Another informant? Jesus, Peña, doesn’t your leg hurt?”

He glowers at you. "Not that kind of informant," he quips, muttering under his breath.

“Anyways, I don’t know what’s worse, mindless paperwork, or busting our asses while trying not to get killed out there,” you say under your breath, mostly to yourself.

A brief silence passes. “I know,” he finally says with resignation. He rubs the area over his brow bone, seeming to contemplate what else to say. “I know how those assholes are,” he adds, and you’re surprised that it sounds genuine.

The lack of a sarcastic response is unexpected. It’s almost as if a silent but mutual understanding has materialized between you, and you’re not quite sure how to feel about it. For now, at least, it’s a somewhat nice change.

Your lips curve into a reluctant smile. “But I have to deal with those assholes, and you, too,” eliciting an eye roll and soft chuckle from him.

Another few ticks of the clock go by before you both turn to the stack of documents. Peña sighs.

You don’t know what overcomes you when you speak again. “I can help you go through it...if you want,” you offer with a shrug, though it sounds like a question.

He looks at you, a brow raised. “Why?”

You want to answer but you’re not too sure yourself. “The faster we can get this shit done, the sooner we can get back on the field.” Just this once, you think. If Peña’s thrown off by your suggestion, he doesn’t let it show.

Without another word, you each take half of the pile and get to work.

~

There are many things you’ve never noticed about Peña’s apartment before—you ponder this as you sit on his couch, leaning over the coffee table perusing today’s documents. You’ve been here too many times now, but have never paid attention to the smaller things. The frames that line his wall don’t contain photos of other people, but of a few dogs; presumably his, but it makes you wonder if he’s not close enough to anyone to have a picture of them. There’s a lot of books stashed away on some shelves, covered in dust but worn as though they were once well-loved. A month ago you would’ve thought the only books Peña read were those titled How to Be an Asshole 101. But most of all, you realize his apartment is just about as empty as your own; minimal decor and just the essentials. The years have gone by here in Colombia, but you have never bothered to make the place feel more like home. A job is a job. Things may change by the minute when you’re DEA, but somehow the days are all exactly the same. A heavy conscience is all that fills your empty apartment, and that’s more than enough clutter for you. 

You snap out of it when he comes out of the bathroom, having just changed his bandages. The bullet wound has mostly resolved—that's what he tells you, anyways. But he still walks with the limp, and you can tell he hates it; you know he’s not someone who can sit still and do nothing for such long periods of time. Fortunately—or not—he can do some work at home. Somehow you’ve found yourself staying over more often to help get the work done; much more than the one-time occasion you'd convinced yourself it would be. At first it’s just a few spare evenings, quiet nights that would have been dull anyways; a few extra hours after work here and there, slowly making a dent in the piles of busy work you’re given. Steve comes over occasionally, but he actually has someone to go home to so it’s never for too long.

Several times you argue over the correct method to go about hunting down a new lead—conventional versus methodical, straight-forward versus roundabout. You bite the inside of your cheek when he doesn’t agree and he groans with exasperation. But how much of it actually matters? you wonder. At the end of the day, Escobar still walks free. The last time you were on the field together, La Quica slipped from your fingers, and then some.

At some point, you attempt to explain your thought process; the reasoning, the logic. It’s not the first time you’ve tried to, but for some reason, Javier listens. Really listens. And, even stranger to him, he starts to understand. His world doesn’t turn and he won’t change his mind anytime soon, but he slowly figures you out. And somehow, the few hours you spend in his flat have slowly turned into longer evenings that go well past midnight. 

It takes you longer, but down the line you unwittingly start to understand him, too; not a lot, and not completely by any means. But for the first time since working with him, you no longer have this urge to shoot daggers with your eyes when you look at him.

Tonight looks to be another one of those long nights. You rest your chin on your hand, watching as Peña plots out a map of the city, narrowing down the potential hideouts of Escobar’s men. These late nights are getting to you, and you let out a big yawn without noticing. He stops mid-sentence and meets your eyes, and for a second you think you see a hint of amusement; it’s quickly replaced by his usual stoic expression.

You take a moment to stretch your arms and back, and Peña gets up to walk over to the kitchen. You decide to move to the floor for a change, crossing your legs on the cold, hard tile. He comes back with two glasses and a bottle of liquor he didn’t even have to read the label on before grabbing.

“Drink?” he asks, setting the glasses down and joining you on the floor.

You nod and push your hair out of your face, taking a glass as he pours the clear liquid into it.

“Do you think we can find them?” you suddenly ask, swirling the drink around. “Any of them?”

He looks surprised by your question; not because it’s a strange one but because it’s not something that’s ever discussed. Plans are put into place, actions are taken, orders are followed. “We’ll get him”, is the only thing spoken, a motto repeated in the face of defeat. “One way or another.” For a long time you’ve all been running on autopilot, simply chasing down one chance after another. More losses than wins, yet everyone refuses to back down. It’s the sort of thing that starts to wear a person down when they’ve been doing it long enough.

He must be lost in the same train of thought, taking a few seconds longer to realize you’re waiting for an answer.

“I wouldn’t stay here if I didn’t,” is all he says, raising his glass.

It’s nearly the same thing you tell yourself, especially on nights when it’s harder to sleep. You purse your lips and nod, turning your attention back to the files at hand.

~

Javier turns out the lights and pulls himself under the covers, letting out a heavy sigh as he runs his hands over his face. He needs this damn leg to heal itself soon—every day he’s not on the field is another day he can’t go after those assholes. He considers contacting one of his CIs again, but for a second he feels a sensation he can’t explain. Doubt? It’s not guilt—he can’t feel something that’s already made a home in the back of his mind. It’s fleeting, gone before he can think anymore of it. He thinks of you and wonders if it's the same things that keep you up, because it’s obvious that something does. When he finally lets himself close his eyes, he realizes he’s thought of you too often for his own liking. In his defense, you have been at his place more frequently. But so has Murphy, to some extent, and it’s not like he’s been thinking of him in his free time.

He groans and rolls over onto his good leg’s side and moves into the middle of his empty bed,  waiting for the images that fill his thoughts every night to lull him into another restless slumber.

~

You’d come over straight after work tonight, not bothering to drop your stuff off at your own place first. 

Recently the higher-ups passed a new lead into your hands—a good lead, and a usable one, for once. Finally having something interesting to follow, you’ve spent many more hours poring over the details. 

You haven’t even so much as looked up from the pictures on the table for at least an hour. Javier blinks the dryness out of his eyes as he leans back and massages the back of his neck, tempted to have another smoke. The clock reads 2:03. It’s later than he thought.

He stands up, putting the papers down on the table. “I’ll be back. Gotta change this dressing again,” he says quietly.

Somewhere between the complete silence and the sound of Peña shuffling around in his bedroom, you toss your pen down and lean back against the couch. Your back aches and the back of the couch is cool and comfortable. You uncross your legs, trying to relax for just a minute.

It's a while before Javier walks back out into the living room, about to say something when he sees you leaning against the side of the couch with your eyes shut. You’re holding your hands close to your body, as though you didn’t mean to let yourself get comfortable. He initially resists the urge to smile at the sight, but lets out a chuckle when it becomes obvious you won’t catch him. He debates waking you up, assuming you’d rather not stay overnight at his place. But after a few moments he decides against it, turning to go back to his room.

You’ll just be grumpy if he wakes you up. Best to save himself the trouble of dealing with it. Javier tells himself this as he pulls a spare blanket from the closet, then limps back out towards the couch. He gently shakes the thin blanket out and drapes it over you. It smells faintly of mothballs, but it’s clean and serves its function—his other guests usually share his blanket. He’s about to go back to his room when the loud roar of the AC suddenly brings a cool breeze into the room. He looks at you again, readjusting the blanket and pulling it up over your shoulders.

He pauses before turning off the lamp beside the table, his gaze lingering on you. You haven’t moved; it must’ve been a longer day than you let on. You’ve still got those tired lines under your eyes, but when you’re not nagging at him, you almost look peaceful. It’s such a marked disparity from the world outside that, just for a moment, he feels a bit at ease himself.

When he sees you like this, Javier decides that maybe you’re not so bad after all.

~

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[adenei]

Hi adenei!! Can I request this prompt? Ron is presumed dead on a mission and his wife Hermione is in mourning. But he comes home and they snog each other senseless??

Hey @darkwizard1207! So, I actually am tying this into a prompt that I did a while back on Halloween. Thanks so much for the ask and Happy Birthday!

***********************

Part 1 can be found here

Miracle

It’d been a week since Hermione had received the news that Ron was presumed dead. It’d been a horrific time for the whole family, and Hermione was so thankful for her parents and the Weasleys for stepping in and helping to take care of the kids when she could barely contain her own grief. 

At first, the Aurors had told Hermione that he was dead because their headquarters had been infiltrated, but then when they’d gone in after the fact, Ron’s body couldn’t be found. Hermione and Molly were putting off any type of service until they could receive more closure. Hoping that something could at least be found. It didn’t feel right to have a funeral service for an empty casket. Now that a week had passed, she’d resolved to start making arrangements. Maybe it might help with the healing process. 

It was late on a Monday night. Hermione had finally picked up the packet of papers the aurors had left her when she was ready to start making arrangements. The kids had settled and were in bed, so Hermione knew she needed to turn her attention to this now. Harry said he would try to pop by to help her begin making decisions. 

Hermione had started glazing over the first few pages when she heard the door open quietly. She assumed that it must have been Harry, but grabbed her wand and went to meet him at the front door regardless. With a flick of her wand, she cast a silencing charm on the stairs so that the kids wouldn’t hear their voices and wake up. 

She was not expecting the person she saw taking off their boots and hanging up their coat. Hermione let out a scream as one hand covered her mouth and her wand instinctively shot up in defense.

“Hermione, I know look like hell, but you don’t need to wake the kids up,” Ron was smiling back at her. He really did look like hell. Covered in dirt, sweat, grime and blood. 

Her mind was spinning. They said he was dead. That he wasn’t coming home. How could she be sure? A question! That was it. Just like when they were knee deep in the second wizarding war! She kept her wand at the ready as she asked, “What gift did you give me fifth year for Christmas?”

“What? Hermione why the-” Ron started to ask.

“Just answer the question.”

“Okay, okay. I bought you that bottle of perfume that you told me smelled ‘interesting.’”

That was all she needed as her wand dropped to the floor and she ran at him at full speed, leaping into his arms. She didn’t care what he looked like. He was alive. Somehow, some way, he was alive! Hermione kissed him like she’d never kissed him before. It reminded her of their first kiss in the room of requirement, but she didn’t care. They had a second chance now. 

Ron kissed her just as eagerly. “God, I missed you. What’s with the warm welcome, though? I’ve been gone on longer missions than this.”

She looked into his eyes. “Y-you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“They said you were dead. The aurors came to the house a week ago and said the mission went wrong. The safehouse was infiltrated and your body couldn’t be found.”

“Bloody hell.” Ron was shocked, and didn’t know what to say. “So, does everyone think I’m-” he couldn’t finish his sentence.

Hermione nodded. 

“Fuck. I’m done, Hermione. I promise, I won’t go on any more missions. I’ll offer strategic support, but I won’t do field work anymore. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” He leaned in and kissed her fervently.

Hermione was about to ask what had happened when Harry came through the floo. “Hey, Hermione, sorry I’m- RON?!” Harry looked at Hermione for confirmation. She nodded.

Harry ran over and hugged his best friend. “We thought you were gone! How did you-?”

“McNichols and I escaped through the trapdoor we could escape out of if need be. There’s a secret bunker in every safehouse we’ve got. One of the attackers blasted the door though, so we were stuck for a while.”

“They have bunkers underneath all the safe houses?” Harry asked in disbelief.

“Yeah, but they only tell those of us who may need the access. Good thing we knew. It was stocked with enough food and water for about a month. Thankfully we didn’t need that much.”

“No one thought to check?” Hermione asked. 

“Well, the rubble was probably so bad, they thought there was no way we weren’t crushed to death.” Ron shrugged.

“Why couldn’t you just apparate out?” Hermione asked.

“Because those fuckers must have placed an irreversible anti-apparition charm on it,” Ron growled. “So we had to dig our way out. I didn’t even bother returning to the Ministry. I just wanted to get home to you and the kids.”

Hermione had refused to let go of him the entire time he was explaining the story as they were sitting in the living room. She was afraid he might disappear before her eyes, or she’d wake up and realize it was a cruel dream.

“It’s a miracle you’re still alive, mate,” Harry said. They all nodded. “Should I send for the rest of the family? They’ll want to know.”

Honestly, Hermione just wanted her husband to herself, but she knew the rest of the family would want to know. 

“Maybe just let me get cleaned up a bit first?” Ron asked. He stood up, but Hermione was reluctant to let go. “Mione, it’s okay, I’m not going anywhere. I’m okay.” She nodded as she let go of his hand.

Hermione and Harry continued to sit there in shocked silence until Ron came back, looking much more like himself. “So, everyone ready to reveal that I’ve come back from the dead? You’re not so special after all, Potter!” He laughed, and smiled with that lopsided grin Hermione loved so much. 

She couldn’t even be mad at him for joking about his death because he was here. She and Harry began sending off patronuses to the family for the best reunion Hermione could have ever wished for.

[imaginedhaven]

Rules of Engagement: Chapter Thirteen

Link to Masterpost

Well, it seems you guys were as torn as I was about what to do with the fact that I finished this chapter so quickly, so I figured I’d go ahead and get it out so I can turn my attention to the next few updates sooner! We’re definitely getting toward the end of my outline now, probably 3 or so more chapters and then an epilogue.

Without further ado...

~*~*~

Aedion paced in the hallway before Aelin’s door, fingers harshly combing through his own golden hair. Whitethorn had stopped by briefly earlier and let him know she had awoken, which meant he needed to visit, needed to speak with her.

That said, he still wasn’t entirely certain what he was going to say to her.

The first thought that had come to mind was to forbid her from ever taking such risks with her own life again. He’d relished that thought for several moments, and it was still sorely tempting, but he knew even without asking that she would never listen to it. Aelin would never be content to rule from the sidelines; no, she would be a queen that would lead by example, never shying away from even the most difficult task.

He’d know that for years now, and he loved her for it. Once this mess was over and she could be crowned, he intended to swear it on her blood and his for all to know. It was difficult, though, to accept that her dedication would occasionally lead her to be injured as she had been.

He hadn’t seen the marks himself, of course, not being stupid enough to get between Whitethorn and Aelin in such a delicate moment, but he’d gotten reports from the healers. He was elated and proud and terrified all at once every time he thought of what he’d heard; elated because he served someone so strong, proud because she’d taken everything he’d taught her and put it to uses he never would’ve imagined, terrified by the thought of her ever doing something this risky again.

He was still debating exactly what he would say when the door opened, Aelin peeking back out at him. “Are you going to come in, cousin, or are you going to wear a hole through the floor?” she teased.

He quickly entered her room, and she closed the door again behind him. “Before you say anything, we have much to discuss,” she said quickly. “And I have both forgiveness and a favor to ask.”

Aedion sat quietly at her desk, struck dumb by the admission and knowing in that moment that his cousin and queen already had his forgiveness, regardless of what she said next.

“There’s been a lot I have kept from you over the past few years,” she admitted. “You know it, I know it. Perhaps in time I’ll be able to tell you about it. But… for now, know that what I’ve done closed a door on a chapter of my life I can never forget, but would just as soon move past.”

Aedion nodded his understanding. “I hope you’ll find it within yourself to tell me one day. You know I’ll listen to anything you have to say.”

She looked at him from where she stood beside her bed, a sad smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I know, cousin,” she said. “Perhaps another day. Only… only Rowan knows everything, now. Even Lysandra only knows a piece of the story. Everyone else is dead.”

“So you did kill him, then. The criminal you set out to catch.” He hadn’t truly doubted it, but hearing it from her was different from reading reports.

Aelin nodded, looking away with a grimace. “It had to be done.”

Aedion crossed the room then, tugging her into an embrace. “I wish you hadn’t felt you needed to do it alone, is all,” he said, soft but fierce. “I read the reports. I don’t disagree with your assessment, but I wish I could’ve helped.”

“You did, though,” she said into his chest. “You were there to find me. Rowan says you made sure we weren’t followed.”

“I did. But you know I would’ve gone in with you, right?”

“I know,” she replied. “It’s why I couldn’t tell you beforehand. I had to do this alone. Besides, if you had gone in all of Erilea would know it was a move by Terrasen against someone who was ostensibly an Adarlanian citizen.”

Aedion nodded. Now that the situation had been resolved, he could understand the reasons she had acted as she did. That hadn’t made it any easier to bear in the moment, though.

She continued to speak. “I know we haven’t openly spoken of our future roles, but I’m certain by this point you know I’d like to bestow the honor of the blood oath on you.”

Aedion felt a thrill rush through him at the confirmation of his hopes. “I’d hoped to hear you say that, someday. That isn’t usually done until after the coronation, though, so why are you addressing it now?”

Aelin sighed. “The events that led us here were part of a bigger scheme. I’m working now to put all of the pieces together, but in the end I may need to give the oath to another as well. I know that’s not how it’s been done in Terrasen, and I’m not going to set out to do it, but…”

“You’re talking about Whitethorn,” he realized. “Do you think your oath could break Queen Maeve’s?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Much knowledge about the blood oath has been lost, at this point. But if that’s the only way… well. I wanted to make certain that you could at least get it first, if you wanted, in the event that you can’t be the only one.”

Aedion frowned, uncertain of how to feel. On the one hand, he understood her desire to free the warrior from a bond that had revealed itself to be an entrapment. On the other, a royal of Terrasen giving the blood oath to more than one sworn fighter hadn’t been done for centuries.

“I’ll take it once you’re crowned, and not one moment sooner,” he decided. “If it comes to pass that you must give it to another, I can learn to live with that, but the ceremonial oath is mine.”

Aelin finally smiled at him. “It’s always been yours. You know that, right? Ever since we were children.”

“I’m glad to hear you say it,” he admitted, finally releasing her and sitting back down at her desk.

“There’s more we must discuss. About the coming weeks, and about what I think is likely to come to pass based on what I’ve learned.”

Aedion leaned forward. “Tell me what I need to know.”

~*~*~

Dorian smiled as Aelin stepped into his office. “I had hoped you would come to see me,” he said as she closed the door behind her. “I am glad to see you seem to be recovering well from your… ordeal.”

“Chaol tells me he had to tell you everything,” she replied softly. “I’m afraid I must apologize for my deception. I told him you were better off not knowing or being involved.”

So they were getting straight to the point, then. Dorian could work with that. “Tell me, was this entire courtship simply to gain access to Rifthold?”

“No!” Aelin looked horrified. “No, it was convenient that the trail led here, but if that had been the only reason I would simply have asked to visit you. I did come to speak with you about our arrangement, though.” Her fingers twisted nervously at the ring he noticed she was wearing on her thumb, the ring he had given her upon her arrival. “I also came to ask a favor.”

Dorian leaned forward, curious. “What part of our arrangement did you wish to discuss?”

Aelin glanced at the door behind her and then smiled sadly at him. “Do you think we could’ve been happy, in another life?”

It was a strange question, and Dorian wasn’t exactly certain how to respond. “Is there a particular reason you’ve been thinking about this?”

“The past few days have come with a lot of realizations for me, chief among them that I no longer wish to live a lie.” At this revelation, she twisted the ring off of her thumb altogether.

Dorian breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the gods,” he muttered.

Aelin lifted an eyebrow, though her own relief shone in her eyes. “Would it truly have been such a nightmare, to be blessed by my company for the rest of our lives?”

“Terrible, I’m certain, though I have a feeling I’ll be burdened with your company regardless,” he teased.

“I was hoping you’d say that. You truly have been a friend this entire time, and I don’t want to lose that when I return home.”

As he watched, she moved to set the ring between them on his desk. Before she could, though, he rested a hand on top of hers. “Keep it. I meant it as a gift for you knowing that in a perfect world we would both be going our separate ways around this time.”

Aelin glanced down at their hands and then back up at him before throwing herself around the desk and wrapping her arms around him.

To his credit, Dorian only hesitated out of surprise for a moment before returning her embrace. After a few moments, he ventured to speak. “I believe you mentioned you had a favor to ask, and I presume the favor isn’t telling my parents that we aren’t to wed after all.”

Aelin laughed. “No, but I think you might enjoy it all the same. Shall we venture toward the library? I’ll tell you all about it as we go.”

Dorian chuckled and offered his arm. “I already like this favor.”

They were about halfway to the library when Aelin began to speak. “As you know, I only have a few short weeks left in Adarlan. That���s not a lot of time, and I need to work as quickly as possible while involving only those I can trust.”

“I’m honored to be considered among that select group,” he replied.

“You should be,” she grinned back. “I recently came into knowledge that threatens not only my kingdom, but yours as well. I’m afraid I can’t provide too many details right now, as I have only my suspicions and I do not wish to accuse anyone without proof.”

“Of course not. So you wish me to help you obtain proof.”

Aelin nodded. “I need to find the oldest histories you possess on Doranelle, and I need to know all I can about the different bonds the Fae possess and create, including the blood oath. You know the libraries here better than I, and I know you would enjoy a chance to spend more time in there.”

“Are you certain we wouldn’t work out?” Dorian teased. “You truly offer me the best things.”

Rather than respond verbally, Aelin turned them into a little alcove and kissed him.

He responded automatically, one hand settling on her waist and the other sliding into golden hair. They pressed together for a few short moments before breaking apart at the sound of a startled intake of breath and hurried footsteps fading into the distance, Aelin glancing up at him with a wry smile. “You’re good at that,” she murmured. “But if I had to venture a guess, I would presume you didn’t feel anything either.”

It was true. Despite there having been nothing objectively wrong with the contact, he couldn’t help but compare it to the few stolen moments he’d had with Sorscha. What was more interesting to him, though, was the last word she had spoken. “So you found someone you would rather be kissing?”

A rare blush graced Aelin’s features then, and she looked away. “There’s very little that can come of it right now.”

“Why not?” Dorian asked as he leaned against the wall. “Your warrior prince certainly seems very interested in you.”

His gamble paid off with the reward of her turquoise eyes going wide and her hand physically covering his mouth. He had guessed correctly, then. “Quiet,” she hissed. “Have you no sense of tact?”

Dorian grinned beneath her hand before pulling it away. “It’s not one of my best talents, no.”

Aelin grumbled wordlessly in response and dragged him into the library. “If you have time to mock me, you have time to make yourself useful. Where do we begin?”

And so they dove into the shelves of Rifthold’s library in search of answers, Dorian leading her into the darkest corners where the oldest and least-read tomes were kept and where they would remain for most of the day.

~*~*~

Several weeks passed, and soon it was time for Aelin and her escort of friends to leave Adarlan. She had spent most of her days with Dorian, reading through every book she could get her hands on that might grant her insight to her problems. Her evenings were spent with Aedion, carefully planning her next move while Lysandra prepared Evangeline for bed.

She had seen precious little of Rowan since she had killed Arobynn. She had been so busy learning as much as she could in the time she was given, and he appeared to be avoiding her as well. She couldn’t be certain of why, and every time it occurred to her to simply visit her carranam and demand answers he was conspicuously absent. She was trying not to let it bother her; after all, he was certainly preparing for their inevitable separation just as much as she was. Perhaps reducing the amount of time he spent with her was his idea of easing their parting later on.

Thankfully, between reading and planning and wondering what on earth was going on with Rowan she had had precious little time to attempt to sleep. It was truly for the best; ever since the events of several weeks prior she had had a difficult relationship with sleep and with dreams. Besides, the less time she spent sleeping the more time she had to compile the results of her research.

The day before she was to leave Rifthold, Aelin slipped into town and paid for messages to be sent to Orynth as well as to several of her friends. They deserved to be updated on the dissolution of her engagement to Dorian, and she suspected she would require aid from several of them in the days to come. She also left a copy of her summary of all she and Dorian had learned on the prince’s desk, knowing he would be as interested as she in the results of their work.

Lysandra had already assisted her with packing, and so she found herself with nothing left to distract herself after the evening meal. Before she knew it, she found herself dozing in the warm light of the candle she’d lit at her desk.

Some time later, after the candle had long since blown out, Aelin awoke with a scream and the memory of lines of fire along her back.

Trembling, she made her way to the couch before the fireplace, setting it ablaze even though it was the height of summer and she didn’t need the warmth. The soft crackling soothed her nerves, as did the material of the blanket she drew around her shoulders. She was so entranced by the sounds of the fire that she almost missed the sound of her door opening.

Rowan stood in the doorway, concern and hesitation warring on his face. “Are you… I heard…”

Before he could either finish his question or think better of it and leave, Aelin launched herself at him.

Rowan’s arms came around her waist, though the surprise on his face suggested this was more automatic and less deliberate. Before he could rethink his response, she burrowed closer and rested her face against the muscles of his neck and shoulder, delicately inhaling the pine-and-snow scent that rose to meet her and reminded her of home.

She felt more than heard him speak as he finally found words. “What’s wrong?”

Rather than directly answer his question, she asked one of her own. “Do you ever stop seeing them in your dreams? The things that happen to you. The things you did. The people you did them to, or the people who suffered because of you.”

Rowan sighed, his arms tightening around her in response. “Do you want an honest answer, or a comforting one?”

That alone was answer enough, but she replied nonetheless. “I think by this point we’ve agreed to be honest with each other, don’t you?”

As he led her back to the couch, the warrior was clearly gathering his thoughts. Finally, with troubled green eyes, he said, “They never leave you altogether. Or if they do, they haven’t left me yet. But it does get easier, in time. The dreams come less frequently. I find it helps to remind yourself of the end goal. Yes, you killed an assassin king. But given the same knowledge and the same set of decisions, I know you would do it again. And for what it’s worth, I think you made the right decision.”

As he spoke, she felt the nervous trembling leave her, only to be replaced by exhaustion. “I’m so tired,” she said simply.

“You know you could come to any of us if you’re having trouble sleeping, right?” There was a moment’s pause and then his fingers were in her hair, delicately carding through the golden waves.

She sighed happily and relaxed into the touch. “Aedion’s got a child keeping him up at night now. He hardly needs any help from me.” And Rowan had been doing whatever it was that had been keeping him away from her, though she chose not to bring it up. Not now, when he was so close and everything felt so right.

“Surely your prince would be all too happy to assist.” There were the faintest traces of disdain curling around his soft accented voice, almost too faint for her to detect. Was Dorian correct? Was it possible that Rowan…?

Hesitantly, hardly daring to believe she was actually doing so, she lifted a hand and traced a trembling fingertip along the swirls of the tattoo that marked the side of his face. When she was close to his ear, she let her touch graze over the delicate point she found there before skimming down to his jaw.

His hand caught hers, long fingers wrapping around her wrist, and when she glanced at his face his eyes were flat with anger. “Don’t touch me like that,” he snarled, and she snatched her hand away as though she had been burned.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “Gods, Rowan, I’m so sorry.”

But he didn’t reply, except to quietly stalk out of the room and carefully close the door behind him.

Aelin stared after him, as though focusing on the door could make him come back to her. How had she misread the situation so terribly? Where had everything gone so wrong? She’d been certain, so certain, that if she’d approached him she would be welcomed, or even gently let down, but this…

Aelin shook her head. On second thought, she wasn’t certain why she had ever expected anything different. He’d lived for several centuries longer than her, and already had and lost a perfect mate. By comparison, how was a demi-Fae who had several years before finding out if she would Settle into immortality supposed to compare?

Despite the sorrow and rejection swirling around in her core, though, she was only all the more resolved to see her plan through.

She only hoped Rowan could forgive her eventually.

~*~*~

The moment the door closed behind him, Rowan shifted, sending a breeze to open the nearest window before he flew through it. The currents of wind rushing high above the palace were a match for his state of mind, all fast-paced panic and swirling eddies of confusion, and he circled the palace several times before soaring along the river nearby.

It didn’t take him long at all to realize that his reaction to her touch had been a mistake, and not just because it had stopped something he’d been quietly longing for. Allowing her to continue would’ve been the simplest way to follow the orders his queen had sent and disrupt her courtship with Prince Dorian, even if it had broken what was left of his heart along the way.

His hawk let out a shrill cry as he dove for the water and then quickly climbed again, high enough to remain out of sight to the humans below. He had been doing a terrible job of following that order, truth be told, and he knew he would be punished for it once he returned home to Doranelle. Once his queen learned that he had spent several weeks avoiding Aelin and her prince, all because he had seen them kissing on his way to the library and been unable to control his own reaction to the sight…

Another cry into the night that would forever go unanswered issued from his beak. He was supposed to be better than this, stronger than this, more controlled than this. He should have allowed the night to continue, to whatever end. He was under no illusions that a future queen such as Aelin could possibly actually want a battered and scarred fighter like him for anything longer than a handful of nights, but a few careful hints of such activities could have easily ruined her courtship and allowed his orders to be fulfilled. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it, had panicked instead of allowing the princess to use him for whatever unstated and misdirected desire she’d felt.

He’d thought he had long since given up self-preservation as an instinct, from the moment he had discovered Lyria’s death and proceeded to lose himself as well. Perhaps he still had; the consequences of running away in the moment to protect a heart he’d long thought permanently frosted over would be severe, painful, and likely unending.

Would it be worth it in the end? What had Aelin even hoped to achieve with such a gesture? Was she simply seeking company to forget her fears and regrets for a night? If she was, why hadn’t she gone to her prince for comfort? Was it that she hadn’t planned on seeking someone out, but he had made himself available?

Rowan dove for the river again, hoping the winds rushing past him would take his spiral of confused thoughts with them. He didn’t know what to do next, he realized. He would have to return with Aelin to Terrasen for at least a few more weeks, until he deemed her training to be complete.

That was perhaps the one thing he could be genuinely proud of in this whole situation. Once she had gotten past whatever had been blocking her from shifting, her powers had blossomed. After weeks of careful tutelage her control was almost everything he could ask for, especially from a fire-wielder. As she did not have the guarantee of centuries to perfect her craft, there was only but so much more he could reasonably expect her to learn. Not to mention that he was hardly the best teacher for control in purely academic settings such as those she would likely find herself in. No, he had hardened his magic into a weapon just as he had trained his body to be one. For all her appreciation of the art of fighting, and for all of her evident skill, it was likely that she would never see true battle.

It was a shame, in a way, that a warrior-queen such as herself would find herself so leashed. Perhaps her prince would see fit to allow her to handle any conflicts they found themselves embroiled in, seeing that her skills with a blade far outmatched his.

Regardless of her future, he would have to depart sooner rather than later. He wasn’t certain if it would be better at this point to linger as long as possible, or to return to her immediately and declare her training complete so he could depart and never see the way she and the prince behaved around each other again.

Either option meant talking to Aelin at least one more time, and he knew immediately that she would deserve an explanation for his actions. She would never ask for one; no, she had asked for shockingly little from him from the moment they had met. Perhaps she even felt as though she didn’t deserve one. It would be easy for him to simply declare her training done and leave, or even for him to rejoin her company and never say a word about what had passed between them. But it wouldn’t be right.

No, he would talk to her and explain that he had panicked. He would explain that the delicate nature of their situation meant that nothing could come to pass between them, that his heart couldn’t take it if they came together in such a way only to be torn apart.

Quickly, he turned back toward the palace and called on the winds to carry him faster. The longer he lingered, the harder it would be to say what would be required of him. And so he flew, making for the window he had left open and shifting rapidly once he landed.

A careful knock on her door gave no reply, and he sighed quietly. Perhaps she had finally managed to find sleep, or perhaps she was ignoring him. If she was ignoring him, it would certainly be nothing less than what he deserved. He found that he was unable to leave the question unanswered, though, and so he thought a silent plea for her forgiveness before carefully opening the door.

The bed was carefully made, and there was no sign of the princess. Perhaps she had gone to speak with her friend or her cousin. A darker part of his mind whispered that perhaps she had sought out her prince after all. But no, a closer look at her room revealed two of the bags she had packed to be missing.

Aelin had fled in the middle of the night, leaving no indication in the room as to where she was going or what she was doing.

Shit. He was in deep, unending shit, and he had no idea how he was going to explain this to any of the people likely to ask.

~*~*~

Tagging:

@ireallyshouldsleeprn @queen-of-glass @fangirlprincess09 @sassys-world @morganofthewildfire @superspiritfestival @perseusannabeth @sis-it-dont-add-up @jlinez @julemmaes @emilyoftheshadows @thegoddessofyou

[iturbide]

Character Breakdown! - Marianne 💖 and Dorothea

MY GIRLS

How do I feel about this character?

I love her.  I love this gentle girl who has gone through so much pain and hardship, who’s lost her parents to what she believes is a curse that she shares, who is afraid of herself as much as she fears the hatred of those around her.  I can’t tell you how many times I started talking to my screen while going through her supports, because you’re wrong Marianne you do deserve happiness you are good at things I believe in you even if you don’t believe in yourself.  She’s very relatable, honestly, with her shyness coupled with self-deprecation as a defense mechanism to keep people away, not to mention the deep depression; again, mental health issues are generally a taboo thing in media, so I was more than a little shocked when I got her A support and realized just what she’d been praying so fervently to the Goddess for.  But I also love that about her: she held strong, and she made it through to a better place, which is such a wonderfully hopeful story for anyone with similar struggles, showing that things can get better if you just hold on.  

Who do I ship this character with romantically?

I have an answer this time and technically I spoiled it in an earlier character breakdown.  Because it’s Dimitri.  I love these two broken people and the idea of them managing to support each other, using one another as an anchor to keep from falling further and slowly pulling themselves back out of the lonely places they’ve fallen, both with the other’s help and with the other in mind.  I think they would make a wonderful pair since they understand the other’s struggles so deeply, and I’m aiming for their paired endcard in my AM run in progress.

Also, not gonna lie, I do low-key ship her with Hilda because cotton candy girlfriends.  I just think they’re sweet and I love how Marianne laughs in their A support, how bright and open and cheerful it sounds.  It just does my heart good.

Who is my brOTP for this character?

Marianne deserves to have so many friends.  Aside from Claude (who is friends with just about everyone, this is non-negotiable with me), I really love her supports with Ignatz, and how he’s so gentle in coaxing her out of her shell and reassuring her that he enjoys sharing time with her.  They’re sweet, and I love their friendship dearly.  Also, surprisingly, Lorenz is another one who comes to mind; their A support was one of those that hit me right in the heart, and the fact that he’s so conscious of her feelings and urges her not to force herself to talk about things that upset her makes me think they would be very close friends, with Lorenz looking out for her and even running casual interference for her when she gets overwhelmed before inviting her to tea so she can calm down.

What’s my Unpopular Opinion™ about this character?

Okay so I know that Fandom loves the idea that Marianne is Berkut and Rinea’s kid.  And my unpopular opinion is that that is a terrible, terrible thing to do to her.  

It’s not that I don’t find the idea appealing, because in all honesty, I do.  The notion that Berkut and Rinea, or some reinarnations of them, had another chance in Fodlan and fell in love and had a daughter is delightful, and I would love to see it.  But let’s not forget that canonically, Marianne’s parents disappeared and are presumed dead, deeply traumatizing her and leaving her terrified of her own Brand and the monster she might become.  After what happened with Berkut and Rinea in Valentia, having them meet a fate that scars their daughter so utterly in another land and another life is utterly devastating, so I would much, much rather have her parents be anyone else than see these lives destroyed again and in the process destroy their child’s peace of mind.

What’s one thing I wish would have happened with this character in canon?

Okay so this is maybe a weird one but I wish she could appear in every route even if you don’t recruit her.  Because I obsessively collect every student I can recruit in my own runs, I’ve had to do a fairly substantial amount of digging for fic writing purposes, but everywhere I look for non-VW runs...you don’t see Marianne.  She doesn’t appear at Gronder in AM, nor does she appear at Myrddin or Derdriu in CF.  And while it’s entirely possible that her absence has a benign cause...well, if you’ve read her Supports, there’s a far more likely, far more dire explanation -- and that thought breaks my heart like little else.  So I wish she could have appeared somewhere over the course of non-VW routes, just so that we can see she made it through her depression and found something to cling to.  Even if it does open up the possibility that she might fall on the battlefield, the idea that she might have fallen outside it where no one could see or know hurts somehow worse.

and of course the diva herself

How do I feel about this character?

Glorious.  Stunning.  Inspired.  Dorothea is a phenomenal character, someone who I endlessly enjoy seeing and talking to through the game.  She’s cultivated this perfect image of herself for the monastery to see, but as you get to know her the truth is so heartfelt: while she comes across as just a girl looking to find a husband during her time at Garreg Mach, she came from nothing, enduring abuse during her life on the streets of Enbarr before she was found by chance and brought into the Mittelfrank Opera Company; she’s terrified of going back to that when her looks and her voice no longer pass muster, and she’s looking out for her future with a keen and critical eye, even though she has no real expectations of finding love through it.  And this can all come out before the timeskip, no less: afterward it’s...honestly a little heartbreaking, to see how deeply the war has affected her.  

While Marianne has found something to fight for and managed to get her depression in check, Dorothea has gone in the opposite direction, seeming to succumb to depression instead.  The war has had a dire effect on her mentality, such that she feels it’s stripped her of all but the ability to survive (”only thorns left on this rose,”) and so many of her lines and comments just feel bleak and lost.  There aren’t that many characters in 3H who really embody the impact that war can have on people, because so many of the characters are stepping up specifically to fight for what they believe in and holding strong to their resolve for the sake of their loved ones and their homes.  Dorothea is the standout example of someone who’s fighting just to make this all stop, because she can’t take it anymore.  The war affects her so deeply, in ways that it doesn’t seem to hit other students, and I end up feeling like she more than anyone is at risk in the War Phase because of it. 

Her character is just very raw and very powerful in surprising ways and I love her.

Who do I ship this character with romantically?

hhhhhh

it’s Lorenz okay

It’s always been Lorenz and you know what I’m already under the cut so just skip to the next header if you don’t want to read my long rambling explanation of where the fuck this comes from.

So in my first playthrough (Golden Deer forever), I spent...roughly 170 hours getting to the end.  This is almost entirely because I played on Normal mode and did an endless number of auxiliary battles grinding supports between all the characters -- and since I did, in fact, go the extra mile of recruiting every single student and professor I could in my first playthrough, I had a lot of characters to work with.  (I actually still missed out on some because I didn’t unlock their C’s soon enough -- Marianne with Ashe and Ingrid with Annette didn’t get unlocked until my next run since I knew what to look out for.)  This is a big part of how I ended up liking Lorenz in the first place: I worked through all his supports this way, and saw the full measure of him rather than just writing him off after how rough his C supports were mostly across the board.

Out of all his different supports, though, there were three in particular that stood out to me: Leonie, Mercedes, and Dorothea.  With Leonie, he learned to relax his strict notions of separation between nobles and commoners and accept the idea of friendship with her as equals.  From Mercedes, he got rightly scolded about treating commoners as beneath his notice and unworthy of consideration where marriage was concerned, and rightly corrected when he floated the idea of marrying her since it continues to fall in line with valuing nobility and Crests over personal character.  And in Dorothea, he absolutely met his match: not only is she someone who has near-identical motives in her quest for a spouse (not necessarily looking for romance so much as the perks that come with an advantageous marriage), but she’s someone capable of playing him directly, playing his emotions to reveal the folly of his mindset.  The way he laughs in their A support...I don’t think he laughs like that anywhere else.  It’s open and it’s earnest and it’s joyous, even as he concedes that she has utterly bested him.

And that, really, is what sold me on them.  Having grown so much over the course of those years, having met so many people who affected him and broadened his view of the world, when Dorothea bested him at his own game, I think he really did fall for her in truth, rather than just admiring her beauty and her craft.  In the end, both of them get everything they wanted and more: Dorothea gets the reassurance that she’ll be taken care of for the rest of her life, Lorenz can boast if he wants about marrying the star diva of the Mittalfrank Opera...but more than that, they’re equally matched as partners, both bringing different strengths to the table to improve conditions in the Alliance for everyone (and especially the commoners), and able to engage in productive back and forth with one another, challenging the other thoughtfully and coming to agreements and compromises on good terms.  I love how well-matched they are and how well their personalities play off each other and I think that they could have an incredibly powerful, productive partnership.

...also I totally ship her with Petra too because their supports are fantastic and also Petra is wonderful and deserves the best.

Who is my brOTP for this character?

Ferdinand von Aegir.  I love their supports so much and how he goes out of his way to try to understand her perspective, and changes her understanding of him as a person in the process.  She understandably has things to work through, given their history and her own misconceptions about him back then, but I love the idea of them banding together as dear friends who do their best to support each other as best they can.  Also, Dorothea and Bernie is a delight, and I love the idea of Dorothea keeping in touch and helping to draw Bernie out of her shell bit by tiny bit.

What’s my Unpopular Opinion™ about this character?

Are.  Are there popular opinions about Dorothea?  I actually don’t see that many character impressions about her: most of what I see is fanart, and it mostly seems to be because she’s pretty.  I guess if I had any unpopular opinion, just based on the way I usually see her on my dash, it’s that she’s a whole heck of a lot more than just a pretty face: she’s cutthroat when she needs to be, incredibly capable as a fighter as much as a singer, and would probably make an excellent spy if the situation called for it.  I don’t think it’s fair that she’s treated mostly as eye candy when the truth is that her character is so much deeper than shallow beauty, both before and after the timeskip.

What’s one thing I wish would have happened with this character in canon?

This is silly but I wish we could have heard her sing more.  The only real song we hear from her if I’m remembering right is in her supports with Edelgard, where she improvises a few lines about the Empress-to-be.  And her voice is glorious!  I would have loved to hear her sing more, rather than getting so much from Manuela (which was...pretty painful, honestly, I do not care for her singing voice at all).  Especially considering how important singing is to her, not just as a former opera diva but just as a part of her life in general, it feels like a shame that we couldn’t hear her sing more throughout the game, either in her Supports or even in the choir sections at the monastery.

Give Me a Character  

[rachelkaser]

Stay Golden Sunday: Big Daddy

Blanche’s Southern gentleman father visits with unusual news. Sophia curses a neighbor.

Picture It...

Sophia and Dorothy meet in the kitchen the morning after a big storm. Sophia is cranky because Rose woke her up, afraid and wanting comfort. All four Girls meet in the living room, where Blanche excitedly explains that her father, who she calls Big Daddy (who everyone calls Big Daddy, in fact), is coming for a visit. She excitedly reminisces about how beloved he was by her community growing up, getting caught in her remembrances of her saccharine Southern upbringing (which Dorothy finds ridiculous). Blanche hurries out to go get gifts for him.

Rose goes out to the lanai, and calls out for Sophia and Dorothy. They find that the storm has knocked a tree down on to their lanai furniture. Their next-door neighbor, Mr. Barton enters and notices the tree. When Rose says it’s fortunate his tree didn’t fall on his house instead, he takes exception to it being “his.” He refuses to move the tree despite Mrs. Barton’s attempts to smooth over the situation. When he makes a derisive remark about “you Italians” to Dorothy and Sophia, the latter gives him the Evil Eye. He’s now cursed until he moves the tree. Mr. Barton scoffs and leaves with his wife.

DOROTHY: Oh Ma, why’d you do that? You just made matters worse with that ridiculous curse. SOPHIA: Ridiculous? The curse works. Believe me. I’ve used it before. DOROTHY: Oh, when? SOPHIA: Baltimore Colts, New York Jets, 1969. Draw your own conclusions.

The next day, Dorothy says she’s confirmed via their property map that the tree definitely belongs to Mr. Barton and he has to haul it away, though Sophia still things the curse will do the trick. Blanche emerges in a mint-colored Southern Belle gown, but when she answers the door, it’s Mr. Barton. He’s convinced Sophia slashed his tires, and refuses to move the tree. Dorothy opens the door in a fury after Mr. Barton storms out, only to see Big Daddy Hollingsworth, in a Colonel Sanders suit with a ten-gallon hat on.

Blanche excitedly introduces everyone to her father. Big Daddy pays great compliments to Rose, who he compares to Dinah Shore (which... yeah, I can see it); and to Sophia, who he praises for her stunning, classical “Eye-talian” beauty. (Sophia: “You need boots to listen to this guy.”) He tells Blanche he has a surprise for her: He’ll be singing at a club the next night. Blanche is stunned, and asks why he’d do that, and he says singing is his “calling.” After he leaves, Blanche worries at his apparently out-of-character behavior, and Dorothy encourages her to talk to him instead of jumping to conclusions.

BLANCHE: I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for why my daddy’s lost the stuffing out of his comforter.

Big Daddy returns that night, and Blanche is waiting up to talk to him. He effuses about how much he loves singing, and plays her one of his own compositions. It’s a genuinely terrible song that leaves Blanche cringing. When he finishes, she tells him this sudden career change concerns her, and tells him to go home and rest. He reveals that he sold their family home to fund his singing career, and Blanche explodes, forbidding him from continuing with his schemes. Big Daddy takes exception, and yells back until the other Girls come in. He apologizes to them and leaves the house.

Blanche is still upset and tells the Girls her father’s really gone off the deep end, selling the property he spent his lifetime building. As the Girls drift into the kitchen, Blanche is having trouble reconciling that her father is no longer the pillar he once was and has reached an age where they need to start thinking about his mental health. Dorothy and Rose comfort her, with Rose reminiscing about a time her father pulled a tuna-shaped parade float up a hill singlehandedly while dressed as a jar of mayonnaise. Blanche says her dad’s always been there to take care of her, and now she’ll have do the same for him.

BIG DADDY: You know, if there was some rain coming down, and a soft train whistle in the distance, this moment would have the makings of a first-rate country song.

The next night, Blanche, Rose, and Dorothy are off to see Big Daddy’s show at the Sagebrush Club -- Sophia declines when invited. Mr. and Mrs. Barton arrive, and Mr. Barton is a mess, asking to see “the witch.” He begs Sophia on his knees to remove the Curse, as he’s suffered several other inexplicable misfortunes. Sophia agrees when he promises to remove the tree, and he quickly hurries out. Mrs. Barton stays behind to apologize to the Girls and reveals that she did all the “curse” work to get her husband to act right.

The Girls arrive at the rather seedy Sagebrush Club, where Blanche pretends not to know every man present or that there’s a mechanical bull in the backroom. She asks a waiter about their reservations, and he reveals management canceled Big Daddy’s second show after the first show. Blanche goes backstage to comfort her father. A very stereotypical cowboy named Rusty attempts to put the moves on Dorothy and Rose, but Dorothy quickly puts the smackdown on him.

Blanche enters Big Daddy’s dressing room and tells him how sorry he is that his show was canceled. Big Daddy says he’s just going to have to try again. Blanche asks him why he’s going to continue when he’s no good. He tells her he knows he’s no good, and opens up to her about the real reason he wants to try this: He’d always wanted to have a big adventure, but settled down with Blanche’s mother. Now he wants to try something new, something adventurous. Blanche apologizes for not hearing him out, and sings the chorus of his song with him.

“Excuse me, Rose, but have I given you any indication at all that I care?”

Both the A- and B-plots this week are excellent, and the characters all have some great zingers. Big Daddy, Blanche’s very Southern father, makes his first appearance on the show, and after being talked up by Blanche both in this episode and in previous episodes, he doesn’t disappoint. He honestly wouldn’t look out of place as a one-off character on Dallas.

I find it interesting that both Rose and Blanche have already had episodes where they have to learn how to interact with their parents as adults. Dorothy and Sophia are already on that level, so I suppose it makes sense that those two need to learn how to do the same thing. Outside of Sophia, parents don’t play as big a role in this show as children do, which makes sense considering the Girls are grandparents themselves -- Big Daddy is the only one who will play any kind of recurring role.

BLANCHE: Now listen girls, my father is an old-time Southern aristocrat, who is used to fine manners and gentility. So please, please, please be on your best behavior. *they all look at Sophia* SOPHIA: Why’s everyone looking at me?!

The A-plot’s a bit melodramatic, but it’s mitigated by the scene where Big Daddy tries to sing. It’s such an hilariously terrible performance, but I think the funniest part actually comes from the audience. After he strums the final note on his guitar, there’s a beat for the audience reaction, and you can hear one or two members hesitantly start to clap, as if they’re not sure if that’s the expected reaction, but other than that it’s silence until Blanche says her line.

This is one of the final roles of character actor Murray Hamilton. It’s not often I get to say an actor appeared on both of my favorite older TV shows: Golden Girls and Perry Mason. If only he’d also appeared on I Love Lucy, then I’d get the hat trick -- I’m still looking for the actor who was on all three. Hamilton died just four months after the episode aired, which is presumably why the character was recast when he appears in a later episode. He’s very convincing as Blanche’s gentlemanly father, even though he was only 10 years older than Rue McClanahan. Though it is a bit disconcerting that Blanche’s father looks younger than some of the men she’s dated.

No one says how old Big Daddy is, but presumably since Blanche is in her 50s (she wouldn’t admit that on pain of death, but come on, she has a 16-year-old grandson), he’s got to be in his late 70s, early 80s. While it might be a bit late to launch a career as a country-western singer (who does Beatle medleys for some reason), the message that you’re never too old to try new things and your mental health should not be called into question for it is still a good one.

That said, the part that worries me is when he tells Blanche, almost as an afterthought, that he’s sold his family estate to fund his new venture. Since that’s a property that presumably his four children would have grown up on and that they’re now not going to inherit, it’s actually kind of concerning that he just sold it without making any of them aware of it. I know I got on Kirsten back in the episode about Rose’s will for acting entitled to her mother’s money and getting mad that Rose would have spent it, and I still stand by that.

SOPHIA: Play it safe. Stick with the curse. DOROTHY: Ma, I’ve stayed with you all these years. *Sophia raises her hand to administer the Evil Eye again*

But the difference here being Blanche is more upset that he would do something so impulsive after having spent so much of his life building up that estate -- and I’m with her on that, not because it points to a potential health problem, but because it’s reckless and foolish. And it doesn’t really get resolved. Blanche just agrees to support her father and doesn’t seem to address the fact that he’s now effectively homeless.

One of the funniest parts of the episode is at the beginning, when Blanche is reminiscing about her Southern upbringing and makes it sound like she grew up 100 years in the past -- what with all the sipping mint juleps under an old magnolia and exchanging prize-winning pecan pie recipes. That’s funny enough, but what makes it funnier is that Dorothy and Sophia have about as much patience as you’d expect two Brooklyn women to have for such gauzy nonsense:

DOROTHY: Tell me Blanche, during any of this, would the farmhands suddenly break into a chorus of “Dem Old Cotton Fields Back Home?” ... BLANCHE: I want him to feel right at home. SOPHIA: Then get the Millers across the street to tar and feather their lawn jockey.

The B-plot is what really makes this episode great. While Blanche and her father working out their issues is engaging enough, but Sophia steals the show when she goes to war with Mr. Barton. The Evil Eye she directs his way is nothing short of epic. I also enjoy that Dorothy is just as invested in it as her mother is, getting equally offended at being referred to as “You Italians,” she tries to get Mr. Barton to back down through the power of civic justice and a property map, and when all else fails, echoes her mother calling him “Mouth,” albeit accidentally to Big Daddy.

Also, bravo to this show for fleshing out Mrs. Barton. She appears in two scenes and at first appears to do nothing but try ineffectively to correct her jerk husband. Then comes the revelation that she was actually responsible for all the misfortunes that befell him -- I admire her ingenuity, because that’s the only way a stubborn bastard like her husband would ever apologize to his neighbors, despite clearly being in the wrong.

DOROTHY: Blanche, who do we see about our table? BLANCHE: Oh I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve ever been here. RUSTY: Well howdy Blanche! COWBOY: Howdy Blanche. Ladies. BLANCHE: No, I’m wrong. I think the museum did have its Christmas party here.

By the way, is it just me, or is there a lot of interest in Sophia’s Italian-ness this episode? Not only is her subplot about the Sicilian evil eye (when I was a kid, I thought that was made up -- I’m obviously not even remotely Italian), but Mr. Barton uses it as an insult, and then Big Daddy compliments her “Eye-talian” beauty. Sophia’s Sicilian flavor is one of my favorite things about her, and this episode has some of her best moments.

Out of all the characters, Rose is the one who ends up getting short shrift this week. I’m noticing something from this first season: Whenever there’s an episode where one Girl is left out of the bulk of the story, the writers compensate by giving her a big monologue in roughly the middle of the episode, usually in the kitchen over cheesecake. Once you notice the pattern, it’s impossible to un-notice it -- several episodes in this first season alone have followed this pattern.

ROSE: What on earth do you do with a mechanical bull? DOROTHY: Introduce him to a mechanical cow, Rose.

Still, if Betty White only gets a handful of lines and one monologue this week, she makes full use of them, and it’s especially cute that, unlike Dorothy and Sophia, she seems to enjoy the very Southern-ness that Blanche and her father exude, saying “It’s like being in Gone with the Wind!”

Episode rating: 🍰🍰🍰🍰 (four cheesecake slices out of five)

Favorite part of the episode:

The entire curse B-plot, especially the lines: “I can’t sleep! I can’t eat!” “You can’t sit.”

[pascalls]

Deciding that he’s over their mutual depression, Charlie convinces Skinner to follow him for some time away from their worries where they allow themselves to forget, if only for one night.

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

“Alright. I’m sick of you moping.”

It was a proclamation. And one that he often wanted to say to himself. Since things had been going south for both he and Skinner, both at the mercy of two men who didn’t seem to want anything but to use them, Charlie had spent quite a few days with Seymour in his office once the students had gone. Most of the time was spent downing a few flasks full of vodka, but that was a secret they kept between themselves. But enough was enough. 

Nothing would change as long as both he and Skinner were just going to sit around, drowning their sorrows in cheap liquor and waxing poetic about the things they wanted but couldn’t have. Nah. Nope. Charlie had a bit more life to him than that - he liked to imagine, anyway - and with the other man severely lacking in any real drive to do much of anything anymore, it was up to the hybrid to take the lead and get them both back on their feet.

They didn’t have much in common, Charlie thought. Seymour was a self-proclaimed momma’s boy; a fairly straight-laced and somewhat boring heap of a man who had all but given up on trying to assert himself to anyone except school-aged children. He wouldn’t stand up to Chalmers, wouldn’t stand up to his mother, and wouldn’t take the reins to turn things around when he found himself at a loss. Charlie, on the other hand, was normally a spit-fire. He didn’t like to make a habit of pitying himself. He’d resolved to turn his own life around. Maybe once he’d been able to relate to the other man, but no more. No longer being human had one perk and it was to be different than he used to be.

“C’mon,” Charlie continued, reaching to snag Seymour by the sleeve and tug him out of that oversized office chair of his. Being annoying in his insistence. “We’re gonna go out and… do something. Go somewhere. Stop being all of… this.” He gestured to Skinner’s general… aura. To which Seymour frowned, unsure if he should be offended or not.

“But I’m supposed to pick up dinner for mother!” He began to protest, despite the fact that his feet were moving and he was indeed letting himself be pulled out of his chair by the masked hybrid who had yet to discard his disguise that he wore during the school day. 

“She can Doordash it. It’s 2020. She’ll live.” Charlie was not sympathetic. And though Seymour sputtered a few weak attempts to persuade Charlie otherwise, none seemed to work. He eventually gave up in favor of following the other out and about, leaving the school building behind as they set forth to God knows where. 

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

By the time they got to their destination, Skinner’s curiosity was almost driving him crazy. Not only was the anxiety about his mother’s waiting anger hovering in the back of his mind, but he had no clue where Charlie had dragged him out to. They seemed to be in the lowest, most downtrodden part of Springfield, the buildings largely abandoned and the streets all but empty, save for a few broken down cars here and there. Presumably with people sleeping inside them… The thought skeeved him out. A little.

“This is the last time I trust you to bring me anywhere,” he said with an agitated huff to Charlie who had abandoned his disguise several minutes before. In favor of the appearance that only a few were accustomed to. Seymour didn’t mind it. He’d seen Charlie several times at this point and the shock seemed to wear off after the second or third. 

“Oh shut up,” Charlie replied, though he didn’t seem to be upset about the jab. In fact, there was a little bit of a pep in his step as he led them onwards, a few more blocks before he came to a stop in front of a set of doors with a heavy industrial lock on the front of it. A jubilant “we’re here!” accompanied the reveal, even though Skinner’s response was anything but impressed.

“Uh-huh. And where is here exactly?” He was skeptical, glancing up at the doors. How were they even supposed to get inside?

“Well. Not here YET. We gotta go around.” Charlie snagged Seymour by his sleeve again - a habit that almost annoyed Skinner, though he seemed to allow it, for now - and tugged him around to the side of the building, guiding him to a small stairwell that took them down to a much smaller door. At least this one didn’t seem to have a lock on it. But Seymour was beginning to think that he shouldn’t have followed Charlie at all. Still, he remained silent. If only to see what kind of horrible things awaited them on the other side. 

Charlie gave a little knock on the door which popped open just a touch, a sudden deep thrum of bassy music beginning to eek through the opening. A soundproof door, Seymour thought. Huh. But the music was beginning to clue him in. And he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it. Besides nervous. But he didn’t have much time to swish the idea around in his mouth before the hybrid was, again, tugging him right inside where the music grew louder and the light grew dimmer.

Down a hallway, Charlie led him, no longer clinging to his sleeve, but Seymour kept close all the same, not wanting to get left behind or lost. He was entirely out of his element. And all things considered, he was putting a lot of trust in this lizard man who seemed to be practically skipping with excitement. 

One last corner was rounded and the bass was overwhelming. He’d done a lot of… interesting things in his life, but he couldn’t say that he’d ever stepped into a place like this before. Lights flicked back and forth with life and vigor while the music blared all around them. Other people crowded the large room that they’d stumbled into. It had to be at least a hundred, if he were to give it a cursory count. Not that he could. The lights made it almost impossible. 

“Charlie…!” He called out to the hybrid who was in the process of handing a few dollar bills to a younger guy, trading the cash for little glowy trinkets that Charlie fashioned around his wrists and neck, holding out two for Skinner with a grin once he’d adorned his own. “What are we doing here?!” He did his best to be heard over the music, though he found himself having to close the distance between his impromptu companion and himself to do so.

“We’re here for FUN!” Charlie said, his emphasis placed firmly on the last word. “You and I - MOSTLY YOU - are not gonna let this bullshit stop us from living! And YOU need to loosen the hell up!” Adamant, he reached to snap a few of those bright, glowing bracelets around Seymour’s wrist. Skinner could only watch with a little bit of a frown. Entirely out of his element. But admittedly… It didn’t seem like anyone seemed to notice them come in. And if Charlie didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that his scales and tail were out in full view, maybe nobody would notice that Seymour was in there either. He had a professional reputation to uphold, after all. And he could only imagine what Chalmers might say…

“Come on!” The hybrid continued, taking Seymour’s hand in his own. Not his sleeve, this time, Skinner noticed. “Just for a bit. One dance. Don’t care how bad you are at it! Just give it a try!” Charlie offered the other a toothy grin, practically begging in all but his words. And Seymour, for all of his huff and bluster, found it increasingly hard to refuse. 

Surely, there couldn’t be any harm in just one.

“...Oh fine,” he relented, allowing Charlie - pleased as fucking punch - to pull him out into the throng of people before he could add any insistence to not tell anyone about their little night out. But by the time he allowed himself to soak in the atmosphere, the distinct scent of fog machine and the muggy warmth that came with so many others crammed in the same space, he didn’t… seem to care much. Not when his dance partner seemed to be having the time of his life. Happier than Seymour had ever seen him, anyway. He always seemed so sarcastic and quick to offer nothing but dry wit whenever he dropped by to check on him in the nurse’s office. This was, admittedly, a very different side of the hybrid.

But not an unwelcome one.

As time ticked on, Seymour allowed himself to forget that there was such a thing as time at all. They carried on, both temporarily oblivious to anything but the music, the lights that illuminated the space around them, and each other. Charlie would have to convince himself later that he didn’t overtly enjoy seeing Skinner do something exciting for a change. His face started to hurt from grinning so damn much, somewhere around hour three. But he didn’t mind it. Especially not when they drew closer and shared more than just a few coy - and admittedly flirty - looks. Maybe it was something in the water. If Charlie could remember even drinking water at all. 

At some point, Seymour thought he felt his phone give a few buzzes. If he did, they would be calls from his mother, no doubt. But even when his mind very nearly gave way to those familiar nerves, Charlie caught him by the waist, pulling him closer and into another flurry of movements that made those little buzzes from his phone seem like nothing but phantom memories. 

He would stagger home close to sunrise that night. And his mother would yell. As she often did. 

But this time he’d let it just fall from his shoulders - 

Drowned amidst the lingering thrumming in his ears from the beat that they danced to. 

[lunadiane]

continuation of amnesiac marinette + reverse crush

introduced here

Ladybug is gone while Marinette recovers from the accident. She doesn’t show up when Chat goes on patrol, and he gets increasingly worried.

Hearing about Ladybug’s disappearance, Master Fu pays the Dupain-Chengs a visit and discovers that Marinette is hospitalized. He keeps tabs on her until she wakes up and it’s found that she has partial amnesia.

Thankfully, she still remembers Tikki, and being Ladybug, so Fu comes in when no one else is visiting her to have a talk about her current situation.

While Marinette has her memories of being Ladybug, she doesn’t remember Chat Noir at all. Any attempts to recall her previous escapades saving Paris all come up with empty spaces. She remembers the Akumas, her Lucky Charms, but gaps come up when she tries to piece together the entire solution. How did she break those ice skates? How did she dodge that unavoidable point-blank attack? How did she get from Point A to Point B? Fu tells her that it was the work of her partner, Chat Noir, who she doesn’t remember at all.

He advises to just pretend that she remembers who he is. Fu damn well knows that Adrien is her classmate, and Ladybug’s extended disappearance combined with amnesia would immediately reveal her to be Marinette. 

To prepare for meeting her partner again, Marinette watches videos on the Ladyblog to familiarise herself with the agile, flashy black catboy who casually throws puns about in the thick of battle, all while nonstop flirting with Ladybug.

Marinette blushes a little.

She asks Fu what he’s like, and is told that he’s loyal, determined, sweet, a jokester, and completely in love with Ladybug.

Marinette blushes deeper. 

Okay, she already knows all of this. Since they weren’t dating, she doesn’t have to worry about not knowing anything about their previous relationship since her old self presumably didn’t have any feelings for him.

This doesn’t prepare her for the real thing during a night patrol where Chat practically bounces up to her, gleefully yelling “My Lady! You're back!”. He’s nearly a head taller, and that grin full of flawless teeth is like sunshine with how warm and joyful it is. She could see that he was good-looking from the video interviews she’d watched, but no one told her how handsome he was in person.

Marinette giggles a little nervously. “A-Aha, Sorry about that, Chat. Had a family emergency I couldn’t cancel out on.”

“Aww, you should have told me! I’ve been feline so lonely all this while, wondering where my Lady has been~ They say curiosity killed the cat, but this kitty can’t help but wonder what happened to my bugaboo?” He extends his baton into a staff and leans on it, their faces close. She can’t help the sudden flush on her cheeks.

Marinette’s about to explain that she couldn’t have told him since she got into an accident and was hospitalized, but remembers she can’t say anything that would hint at her identity.

“Sorry about that, minou.” She responds, remembering the way she spoke about him in their interviews. “Gotta keep this-” She taps her mask, “-secret.”

She isn’t expecting him to grin even wider. 

“I understand, bugaboo. Master Fu did let me know you would be indisposed.” He leans in even closer, their faces almost touching. Marinette’s heart beats faster.

“W-Well, we’re wasting moonlight. L-Let’s go!” She stammers, ducking away to blindly throw her yo-yo out and begin patrol. She hears his delighted laughter from behind her as he follows. 

Chat’s a ball of energy, rivaling the sun with how bright he is (and he even has golden hair to fit!) He loves calling her bugaboo, and all Marinette can think is of him is cute. There’s no end to how many affectionate nicknames, sincere compliments or bad puns he can come up with, always seeming to produce a rose out of nothing to give to her. Marinette smiles and sticks it in one of her pigtails, which just seems to make him happier. It all feels as natural as breathing and never feels forced. She’s only known him for a short while but they feel like the best of friends and the most bonded of companions. 

He’s so sweet, Marinette thinks. Surely her old self could have at least gone on a date with him.

As her civilian self, Marinette’s no longer cowed by Lila’s manipulations. “Prove it.” Her tone is dubious, and Alya rolls her eyes. “Girl, I know you don’t remember, but we’ve been over this. Lila’s just being nice.”

“Okay, fine, but I don’t know why Nino can’t also enter his audiomixes into the upcoming competition even if Lila’s going to recommend him to that music producer.”

“Lila’s our friend! I’m sure she’ll put in a good word for Nino!”

“What if the producer isn’t into the same genre? You’re not going to ask Gabriel Agreste to put out a punk fashion line, are you?”

“Are you doubting me, Marinette?” Lila asks, her feigned hurt as fake as plastic. Marinette narrows her eyes. 

“Probably? I don’t even know who you are.” Marinette replies simply, as shock crosses the faces of her classmates. She frowns at their reactions. Even if she doesn’t know remember Lila, she can still tell bad advice when she sees it. “I think taking all the opportunities you can is the best approach, Nino. It’s the best of both worlds. You have the competition if the producer doesn’t take up your work, and if you get both, then you can just drop out of the competition, right?” 

Nino nods. “Good point. Thanks, Marinette.”

She doesn’t miss the coldly furious look Lila gives her, and wonders what her deal is. Alya sighs and interjects again. “Look, you have got to stop competing with her for Adrien-”

“Why would I do that?”

Alya blinks, wide-eyed. “Because you have a crush on him-”

“I do?” Marinette glances at the boy in question, who is clearly eavesdropping and returns a sheepish smile. He’s a model, Gabriel Agreste’s son, and clearly looks like it. “He’s pretty good-looking. Makes sense my old self would have a celebrity crush on him, I guess.”

Alya’s jaw drops. Adrien’s cheeks go pink. Lila butts in, her sweet tone syrupy and sick. “So you won’t have any problems if I ask him out, right?”

“Sure? Go for it.” Marinette says dismissively, but catches how Adrien shoots her a look of panic. Something’s not right here, and Adrien clearly isn’t comfortable with Lila. Marinette resolves to keep a look out for him.

When Lila loudly and publicly asks Adrien to hang out with her after school, Marinette’s surprised when Adrien, as loudly and publicly as Lila, claims that he’ll be at Marinette’s house to play Ultimate Mecha Strike III. It’s just something they do every Wednesday, apparently. Marinette can see the desperate look he gives her and quickly plays along. Lila glares at her, and Marinette resolves not to trust that girl.

“Oh, that’s a four-player game, right? Mind if I join?” Lila’s expression has snapped back into friendly again in an instant, and Adrien furiously shakes his head.

Marinette blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I’ve only got two controllers, Lila. Sorry!” 

Adrien profusely thanks Marinette after school as they walk to her house. He seems like a nice enough guy, and is the guy who she apparently had a crush on, if her parents’ knowing looks and suggestive winks at her mean anything. But she never confessed to him, so they’re just friends. Good enough for her, since she’s much more interested in another leather-clad blond catboy,

[calligraphist-artemisia]

Just Another Cinderella Story (Chapter 1)

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was left in the care of his uncaring stepmother. Raised in a life of servitude and seeing his stepbrother lavished with praise and given everything he desired, the boy knew there was only one way he would ever be free. If their dreams of marrying into a life of luxury came true, then he would be left with his childhood home and he would finally be able to turn his life around.

Of course, Fate often has other plans in mind.

Also posted on AO3 under the username Kishirokitsune

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1. Saponaria officinalis

It began as all old tales did, with a child who was pure of heart and thrust into a situation beyond their control. In this case, the child was a boy whose kind father was taken from him far too early, leaving him in the clutches of his wicked stepmother.

He grew up in servitude and hoped that one day things would get better. Perhaps one day, when his stepmother's wish to marry her perfect son to a rich princess came true, they would leave his father's house and him behind. Until then, he would keep his head down and work as hard as he could.

It didn't always work. There was always something his stepmother found not to her liking and his stepbrother was even worse with his constant criticism.

His life wasn't all bad, however. Every now and then, under the guise of gathering wild berries in the woods, he could get away and visit a friend.

Keith met Takashi Shirogane purely by accident.

It happened on a hot summer day on one of the rare occasions he opened his big mouth and talked back to his stepbrother, earning himself a series of painful lashings that split the skin across his back badly enough to bleed. He was then sent out into the woods to gather wood for the stove. When he inevitably collapsed, Shiro was the one who found him.

The man was called a witch by the townsfolk and he lived in a cabin with his partner, Curtis. The two of them took Keith in, cleaned and bandaged his wounds, and fed him before allowing him to leave.

Keith couldn't go to them often, but whenever he felt his patience wearing thin he found an excuse to get away.

As always, Shiro and Curtis welcomed him to their cozy cabin with open arms. Shiro took his basket from him and gestured for Keith to take a seat, while he filled the basket with a variety of herbs and berries, giving credence to Keith's excuse.

“Thank you,” Keith said as he sat down, sinking into the soft furniture with a relieved sigh.

“How is your back?” Curtis asked from where he stood in the kitchen. There was a dusting of flour covering his hands and the front of his apron, and luckily there was none was sprinkled through his brown hair. (Keith had yet to see Curtis not looking like a mess while he was baking.)

“It feels tight sometimes, but it doesn't hurt anymore,” Keith said.

Shiro stopped filling the basket and went to a nearby cupboard, where he selected a green clay container. He uncorked it and looked inside, nodding in satisfaction at what he saw.

Knowing what was coming next, Keith stripped out of his shirt and folded it up in his lap, turning so Shiro had better access to his back. He pulled his hair forward so it was no longer in the way either.

Shiro sat down on the couch next to him and dipped his fingers into the jar, scooping out a generous amount of salve. He gently smoothed it over the scars and smiled at Keith's initial flinch, knowing it was due to the unusual coolness and mild tingle it produced on contact. “This should help with the tightness. You know if you allowed me to apply this more regularly, you wouldn't be able to tell that there are any scars.”

“You know I can't do that,” Keith murmured, relaxing under Shiro's light touch.

“They don't deserve you.”

Keith had nothing to say to that. It was a conversation they had every time he saw Shiro and it always ended with Keith returning to his personal hell.

He knew he could leave and his so-called family would presume him dead and continue on with their lives, glad to be rid of him. They weren't the reason he stayed. He stayed for the manor; it was his father's home and the place which held all of his fond memories of what little time they shared together. The thought of leaving made him feel as though he was abandoning all of that.

“How long are you staying today, Keith?” Curtis asked.

“Long enough that I no longer want to strange Lotor with his stupid hair,” Keith grumbled in response, earning a chuckle from the other two men.

“Ah, so you're moving in,” Curtis joked with a grin.

Keith tried not to smile, knowing it would only encourage them. “I might stay the night and leave before sunrise, if that's alright.”

“You won't get in trouble for being gone for so long?” Shiro replaced the cork on top of the jar and stood to put it away.

“They're entertaining for the evening and gave me specific instructions to stay out of sight. As long as I'm back to serve them breakfast, they won't care.”

Shiro stood up and headed back to the cupboard to put away the jar. “In that case, I'm going to prepare a proper bath for you. I know I just applied the salve, but there's one that will work even better after you've soaked for a while. No arguments.”

Keith made a frustrated sound, but Shiro was already heading for the back door. He watched as Shiro paused for a moment to whisper to Curtis before he walked through the door and disappeared into the sprawling garden.

He knew there was no point in arguing. Shiro would give him a sad look and Keith's resolve would crumble, unable to stand the idea of disappointing someone who genuinely cared about him.

Keith turned his attention to Curtis instead. “Who are you baking for today?”

“Well, I suppose it's for you since you'll be joining us for dinner,” Curtis said, giving him a fond smile. “Shiro suggested I make it. He does that sometimes, when he believes we'll have a visitor who could use a good meal. I hope you like blackberry cobbler.”

“That sounds incredible,” Keith said, unable to say for sure if he would like it. As long as Curtis was the one doing the cooking, he was sure it would all be delicious.

Keith struggled to properly relax while he waited for Shiro to return. He was so used to working all day that it felt unnatural to sit and do nothing. Maybe Curtis would let him clean the pots and pans?

He doubted it.

Shiro came and went, flitting about like a man on a mission. He didn't stop to talk to either of them. All of his focus was on the task he had set for himself. Just when Keith was about to beg Curtis to give him something to do, Shiro returned and herded him to a smaller room where a deep tub of steaming water was waiting for him. It smelled faintly of herbs, but Keith couldn't tell which ones.

Next to the tub was a bench that held several jars of soaps, a towel, and a fresh set of clothing.

“Shiro-”

“You deserve this,” Shiro firmly cut in, not allowing Keith to finish his sentence. “Wash up and relax. I'll knock when I think you've been in here long enough and then you can get out. I'd like to apply the new salve before you put a shirt on. After that, you're welcome to help me with a few things before dinner.”

“Don't do anything to my normal clothes,” Keith said.

Shiro sighed heavily as though he really wanted to disagree, but instead he promised he wouldn't do anything to them.

Keith waited for him to leave before removing his threadbare clothing, carefully folding each item, and setting them aside in an attempt to keep them reasonably neat. He then eased himself into the hot water, letting it soothe his aching body. The soft scents of whatever herbs Shiro put into the water lulled him into a relaxed state, clearing his mind and giving him a moment of peace that he hadn't realized he needed.

He felt incredible by the time Shiro knocked on the door and it was with some reluctance that he climbed out of the tub and began to dry himself off, leaving his hair for last. He then swiftly dressed in the undergarments and pants, marveling over how soft it was and feeling a little undeserving of such finery.

Keith carried the shirt and accompanying vest with him out to the main room, where Shiro swooped in to rub a new salve over his back, though he first ran his fingers through Keith's damp curls,  tugging free any tangles he found.

“Don't bother. I'm going to chop it off soon,” Keith said, reaching back to pull his hair from Shiro's hands.

“You shouldn't,” Shiro said in a tone that implied he knew something but wasn't ready to reveal what he knew. He uncorked a new jar and spread its contents over the scars on Keith's back, one at a time.

Unlike the first salve, it felt surprisingly warm and remained that way once Shiro was done.

“You shouldn't have any more problems with your back,” Shiro said.

“Really?” Keith twisted around to look at him in surprise. “What's the difference between this one and the one you used earlier?”

“The other one relieves pain and softens the scar tissue so it doesn't pull as tightly. It's a quick fix for anyone who needs to stay active and is normally best suited for minor aches and pains. This one heals more deeply than that, but you can't strain yourself for at least six hours so it has time to work,” Shiro explained. “I've found that it also helps to take a warm bath beforehand.”

Keith didn't fully understand how any of it worked and he doubted he ever would, so he nodded along with what Shiro said and accepted it as the truth.

“So I have to sit still even longer? I thought you wanted my help with something,” he said, crinkling his nose.

“I do want your help,” Shiro said brightly. He stood up, taking the jar with him so he could put it back. “It's nothing strenuous and a little activity won't hurt anything.”

“I'll do it,” Keith agreed without waiting to hear what he would be doing. It didn't matter, so long as he didn't have to sit still.

Shiro returned to give his back one last look over and then directed Keith to put on the shirt and jacket. Keith almost left the vest off. He took a moment to trace his fingers over the white embroidery spiraling over one of the pockets and to marvel over how soft and warm the red fabric was. It was far nicer than anything he'd ever been allowed to wear and it was only the fact that it was clearly well-worn that had him shrugging it on.

Shiro nodded in approval. “Sit and turn your back to me. I'm doing something with your hair.”

“Any reason why you're determined to dress me up today?” Keith did as his friend asked without waiting for the answer. He soon felt gentle fingers return to his curls, once again working on getting rid of the tangles.

“Do I need a reason?” Shiro asked, and though his tone was lighthearted, Keith was sure he could detect an edge of frustration.

“Well, no... I guess not.”

Shiro continued to work on his hair until he could get his fingers through without catching on a single knot and then began to gather sections as he debated how he wanted to arrange Keith's hairstyle. He muttered to himself and Keith wasn't entirely sure it was fully in English because there was so much of it he couldn't understand.

Eventually, Shiro settled on a simple, single braid.

“Now you're ready to help me,” he said as he stood up. He held out a hand for Keith to take and helped him stand.

Keith expected an evening in the garden, gathering herbs and flowers of all varieties so that Shiro could dry them or do whatever he needed, but instead he was led to a room he'd never been allowed inside. He realized why immediately.

Shelves lined the walls, filled with a variety of pots and baskets. One was specifically for hanging dried plants. Another held books of all sizes. In the very center was the room was a cauldron on a pedestal, with a fire pit beneath it that lit itself the moment the door was shut.

If Keith ever needed confirmation that maybe the stories of Shiro being a witch were true, that was it. He wasn't worried though. Shiro had never given him a reason to distrust him.

“Should I really be in here?” Keith asked.

“I don't see why not. I normally get Curtis to help me with things like this,” Shiro told him. “Healing salves require quiet and I have to do those myself, but I also make soaps. That's what you'll be helping me with today. Could you get that basket of soapwort?”

Keith took a moment to look around, crossing off a number of plants before he came across one with a few white flowers still attached. “This one?”

“That's it,” Shiro said with a nod. “Take it over to the table and start chopping one of the bundles. Try and get the pieces as evenly as you can, but don't stress if they aren't. Once you have a full bundle cut, you can put it in the cauldron and add one jar of dried soapwort so it can all boil together.” He walked over to one of the shelves and plucked up a fist-sized jar, which he took over to the table where Keith would be working.

“Do you do this a lot?” Keith asked as he got to work.

“At least once a week I make a lemon soap for Curtis to take into town and sell with his pies,” Shiro said. “The one we're making is for a friend. Nettle and rose this time, I think.”

Keith focused on what he was doing as Shiro got lost in his own musings, as he was prone to do when he was working on something he found important. He found chopping the soapwort a relaxing activity and quickly finished the single bundle he was asked to do. He swept it all up into another jar – when did that get there? - and then carried the fresh and dry soapwort to the cauldron and dumped it all in. The ladle stirred it all together on its own.

The blatant display of magic had Keith gasping in surprise.

Shiro looked over at the sound. “Ah, sorry about that. It's charmed to automatically stir. I've had one too many recipes burn while I was trying to get everything in order. The wind chimes are the same.” He pointed to the ceiling, where a few copper tubes were hanging in close proximity.

“It's fine. I just wasn't expecting it,” Keith said, backing away from the cauldron with slight weariness. He breathed in, reminding himself that he trusted Shiro and that the magic was useful and not dangerous, and then walked over to see if his friend needed any other help. “So, uh, what now?”

“Now we add the rose and nettle so it can boil along with the soapwort,” Shiro said, handing Keith one jar. “Both are good for the skin, but I use rose petals specifically for the scent.”

Keith and Shiro spent most of the evening in the little room, working first on a liquid soap for Shiro's mystery friend, and then on a smaller jar of lemon soap that he insisted Keith take home for general household cleaning. By the time they emerged, laughing and joking around, Curtis was nearly finished with dinner.

“You're taking this better than I thought. Even Curtis avoided me for two days when I first showed him my magic,” Shiro complimented.

“Hey, in my defense, you didn't exactly ease me into it,” Curtis spoke up, an amused smile on his face. “And I spent those two days calling myself an idiot for running from you.”

“I suppose I could have broken in the news a bit more gently...”

Keith couldn't help but smile as he listened to them banter back and forth. It was yet another thing that generally went unsaid in regards to Shiro's life; the exact nature of his partnership with Curtis was central to much of the town gossip, always spoken about in whisper and yet somehow without judgment. It was treated as any other talk about who liked who.

All Keith cared about was how happy they were together.

Shiro stepped into the kitchen, mischief in his expression, but before he could do whatever he was planning on, a horse whinnied outside and he turned around to go out and greet their new visitor instead.

“Keith, come with me,” he instructed.

Keith glanced over at Curtis, who only shrugged and went back to cooking. With no help forthcoming he followed after Shiro. Outside they found a cloaked rider astride a dappled gray horse and as Shiro approached the rider pushed back their hood to reveal a young woman with light brown hair.

“It's good to see you, Pidge,” Shiro greeted as he grasped one end of the reigns. He held the horse steady as the woman swung her legs over and hopped down.

“Hi, Shiro. And Shiro's new friend.” She flashed a quick smile at Keith before turning her attention back to Shiro. “I hope I'm not interrupting. I know it isn't exactly one of my scheduled visits, but I had to get away for a while.”

“You're always welcome here,” Shiro said. “Keith, would you mind helping her inside while I take Jasmine to the barn?”

Keith nodded and held out his hand for her to take, which she did with a smile that seemed amused. Keith was sure that meant he was doing something wrong or not quite appropriate, but she didn't call him out on it and let him walk her into the cabin, where she also greeted Curtis and complimented him on how good the food smelled.

“Another guest for dinner,” Curtis said, sounding delighted. “Why don't you both wash up. We'll be ready to eat once Shiro comes back inside.”

There were two pumps that Keith knew of. One was in the kitchen and the other in the washroom, which was where he and Pidge headed to clean up as Curtis asked. He let Pidge go first.

“So, how long have you known Shiro and Curtis?” she asked, curiosity coloring her tone.

Keith shrugged. “A few years, I guess. Shiro's helped me out of a few bad scrapes.”

“Me too.”

Keith glanced at her, wondering what trouble she could have possibly gotten in that would mean Shiro had to step in and help. Though she tried to hide it beneath a plain cloak, he could tell she was of noble blood and likely under heavy protection. He wouldn't be surprised if she had guards stationed out in the forest to watch for any danger.

“He saved my brother three years ago. Ever since then I try and visit with gifts to thank him for everything that he's done. Of course, it's hard to get him to accept anything so it's always something he'll find useful and not all that difficult to find...” Pidge sighed as she stepped aside to dry off her hands, letting Keith access the pump.

“He is stubborn like that,” Keith agreed. He quickly scrubbed his hands clean and then accepted the towel from Pidge so he could dry off before they went to eat.

Dinner was full of lively conversation and delicious food. Keith had to stop himself from taking second helpings of everything, knowing that the richness of it all would only disagree with his stomach. He had to slow down a few times and focus on listening to what everyone was saying instead.

Pidge was especially chatty, full of witty jokes and a tendency to ramble on when she was particularly interested in a topic. Shiro encouraged her in subtle ways; through a question or a quick statement, leading her through a wide range of subjects that were all equally fascinating to hear, even if Keith didn't understand all of what was being said.

It was by far one of the best meals Keith had ever had. He was almost sorry when it was over and Shiro and Curtis shooed him and Pidge outside while they cleaned up, ignoring all of their protests.

Keith stared at the door, his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for some sign that Shiro would let them back in. Minutes passed without any movement and Pidge grew tired of waiting.

“You know, you get a pretty good view of the stars around here,” she mentioned. “Want to stargaze with me?”

The question was unexpected. Keith was stunned for several long seconds before he found his voice long enough to agree. He followed her down the path into the garden, where there was a stone bench surrounded by tall-growing flowers, all of which were beginning to close up without the sunlight shining down on them.

Pidge sat down first, laying her cloak across the bench to provide slight warmth to the cold stone. “Sometimes I get the feeling that Shiro knows more than he lets on. He's not going to let us back in until he thinks we've made friends,” she said, patting the space next to her.

“He does always seem to know when I'm coming to visit,” Keith admitted as he took a seat. “Why stargazing though?”

“You'd rather stare at the door until he lets us go inside?” she asked with a grin.

“No. No, this is better,” Keith agreed, tilting his head back. It had been so long since he last took the time to look at the stars, but as he sat there he was brought back to a time when his dad was still alive. How many nights had they laid out under the stars, telling stories based on the legendary figures dotting the skies? What kinds of stories did Pidge know?

He didn't have to wonder for long.

Some of her stories he had heard before. Others were new. And then he was able to share the ones he knew from his dad and had the pleasure of watching her face light up in joy at hearing new stories.

When Shiro opened the door to let them in, neither of them noticed.

[sylph-feather]

Wordcount: 1333

Summary: That Fenton kid… he’s not right.

Prompt: by @phantomphangphucker​

“Danny Fenton seeming creepy, unnatural, predatory, etcetera to the general population of Amity Park. Or only seeming creepy, unnatural, predatory, etcetera to tourists, while Amity Park locals are confused by anyone finding Fenton ‘creepy/intimidating’”

John fit in… relatively well, Dash noted. He was a small-to-medium sized town kid, which helped in his adjustment to Amity, and he slid right into the football team’s ranks easily, being fairly skilled and bulky.

There were two things that stuck out about him.

The first was, Dash supposed, to be expected. The kid’s parents hadn’t exactly planned on ghosts; yes, they had heard Amity was the most haunted town, but they had taken that to be a tourist trap, maybe a few odd occurrences of wind and whatnot. Not, you know, ghost laser beams that had torn up their lawn.

It didn’t help that they were on the same block as the Fentons— notorious for destruction from numerous ghosts and the Fentons themselves. John had said their nice house came unbelievably cheap, and Dash didn’t have a hard time picturing why that was, what with the constant destruction and noise, not to mention Jack Fenton’s driving and the giant Ops Center that stuck out like a sore thumb in the skyline.

The unexpected thing was that John was scared of Fenton.

“One of my neighbors is creepy lookin, man,” John had stated, brushing a meaty hand through his dark brown hair.

“If it was creepy it was probably a ghost,” Kwan mused, tossing a nerd’s binder out of his reach as the orange haired loser jumped up in vain.

“I dunno, didn’t you guys say the ghosts all looked… ghosty?” John asked, unsure.

“I thought you said it was ghosty,” Dash grunted, picking up the kid and shoving him in a locker for good measure.

John pounded it shut. “I said creepy. He still walked, and looked kinda like a person, just like… somethin’ wasn’t right.”

“Eh, there’s ghosts that do that, too,” Dash quickly ended the conversation, thinking of that no-faced ghost the Fentons warned could look like anyone save for their eyes.

At least, Dash thought that was the end of that, until John gasped and pointed, looking wigged out as though some centipede had crawled up his arm, and murmured, “that’s him.”

Dash squinted into the crowd, sizing up the many potential targets, all of which looked perfectly normally pathetic. Dash’s tone was not at all sympathetic as he bluntly asked “who?”

“Black hair, blue eyes,” muttered John, hands growing a little sweaty as he rubbed them together.

Dash and Kwan came to the same conclusion simultaneously, if their sudden outburst into wheezing, choking laughter was anything to go by.

“You,” Kwan breathed in, coughing out more laughter, “you think he’s—“ the statement dissolved into hilarity again.

“Fenturd,” Dash hacked, almost crying as fragments of thoughts escaped, “creepy.”

John had the spine to look offended. “The way he moves isn’t right,” he barked, daring a glance towards Danny only to flinch back a bit. Something in his brain told him predator, dangerous, as though he was staring into the jaws of some incomprehensible beast.

Jaws that his new friends were laughing in the face of, mocking its teeth as they breathed its deadly breath.

xXx

John had math class with Fenton.

Now, normally he wouldn’t be paying attention anyways (the only parabolas he was going to have any relation to were the arc of a ball!) he definitely couldn’t have even if he wanted to.

He sat in the back, staring at Fenton’s black head, feeling very watched. It was as though the drool of that jaw was dripping above his head, and all he could do was sit silently still as his hands quaked.

Everything about Fenton was a modicum off. This morning, his eyes had looked dead, unfocussed, and his skin overly pale and almost gaunt.

Now, he was peeling his lips back in a smile at the girl next to him’s presumable joke, and it could only make John think of a snake showing its venom. Even the way his shoulders jerked up and down in hushed laughter was more like strings were jolting at a body that was too loose.

The goth friend gave a little frown from Danny’s side, purple eyes (did she wear colored contacts just, normally?!) narrowing as they caught sight of John’s staring. A black painted fingernail gave Danny a subtle point in John’s direction.

John averted his gaze, focussing nervously on the blank paper ahead of him as Danny owlishly turned in his direction, motion slow and steady.

John could feel the metaphorical thing’s tongue as it sank its jaws around his space like a prison, breath growing short in this warm and uncomfortable space.

He dared to dart his eyes up, anxiety and danger palpable, too much to remain unknown.

John’s brown, human gaze met with the pits of death. Like everything about him, a passover glance revealed nothing overly ordinary, but John had done a double take this morning because oh it’s the Fenton’s kid I should beat him up for what his parent’s stupid net did to our mailbox, and that had resulted in finding out just too much.

A moment of gazing longer and that illusion was wrecked, and you noticed the pale skin, the sharp teeth, the bony figure, the stilted motions. It all looked as though someone were inexpertly puppeteering a corpse, tugging at strings to make the dead thing dance.

Similarly, Danny’s eyes were normal, and if he were to blink away, they would remain so in John’s mind. Startlingly blue, yes, but normal. But John was too nervous; he had chosen to meet the jaws of death, and he was going to stare it down. Under scrutiny, Fenton’s eyes swirled like an abyssal ocean was trapped underneath, reflecting twinges of green lightning.

Overcome with the irrational fear of being sucked into that abyss, John’s resolve was gone, and his eyes flicked down again.

Smited down in math class, he contemplated as Fenton shrugged bonily and turned around to his friend once again, what a thought.

xXx

It’s a week.

A week of nights full of John glancing at that one window of the Fenton house and feeling his skin crawl— sometimes, he swears there’s a faint yet threatening glow of whitish blue, and sometimes green. A week of seeing Fenton in the hallways and feeling the huffing breath of death as his body disjointedly made its way along with its menacing aura and hollow eyes and tight skin.

A week that had several times where Dash and Kwan shoved Fenton against the lockers, and John stood by feeling like they were sticking their hands down the beast’s throat, idiotically welcoming it to snap its jaws and throw them back— and everytime he felt stupid as they laughed at his fear, as the death beast that resided within and around Fenton allowed them to withdraw their hands.

A week… and it was over.

Mostly.

Fenton looked normal, and not just on first glance; that threatening aura was gone, the beast’s jaws no longer raising from the floor to gulp John down into clammy anxiety every time the boy was around.

Still, if he stared too long he’d catch a glint. With every glance, every passing day, those glints of green in his eyes and the vortex of death faded, but it was enough to jolt John out of complacency.

xXx

Another week of fading glimpses had lulled John into breathing easy.

“Can you believe you thought he was creepy?” Dash laughed as John held a prone, glaring Fenton against the locker.

“I’ll give you weird,” Kwan conceded, laughing along.

John laughed, and took Fenton’s shoulders— connected to a living, breathing, body that didn’t look like a corpse, he reminded himself, taking it in, relishing the confirmation that Fenton wasn’t scary at all— and shoved him against the lockers more.

And Danny—

Glared.

His eyes flared that toxic, radioactive green, and John felt lightning strike, igniting that fear.

Fenton’s eyes went back to blue, and John ignored the glimmers of green as Dash opened a locker for him to shove the loser in.

[mymelodyheart]

Starting Over Chapter 26 ~Hammered~

Jamie watched Quentin pour hot water and drop a teabag each into two mugs. He felt queasy from the effects of his spiked drink, and restless and at unease waiting for Claire's uncle to say something. Anything at all. Instead, the man bloody hummed. Jamie didn't really want tea. Right now, he prefered wrath, accusation and finger-pointing instead of not knowing anything or what Claire had said. Maybe anger was good because it kept him focused and stopped the spinning sensation in his head. 

After what had happened at the club, he would have happily got into a fight with anyone. Especially with someone named Forbes. Unfortunately, he couldn't deck Quentin.  Bloody hell, why does it have to be Quentin I have to face of all nights?

Jamie took deep cleansing breaths and loosened his muscles as Quentin placed a mug of milky steaming tea in front of him and ordered him to sit. Feeling like a fifteen-year-old again, he rubbed the back of his neck and did as he was told. 

He smothered the urge to gag at the offensive looking beverage. He guessed the sick feeling in his guts had more to do with the alcohol and drug that was in his bloodstream. He was about to ask for cold water when Quentin started to speak.

"I don't like the reason you are here, but it's still good to see you, Jamie," Quentin began, walking to the other side of the counter and eyeing him over his specs. 

Jamie thought he saw a small smile playing on Quentin's lips, and wondered if it was an evil smile or the drug was causing him to hallucinate. Glancing at the hammer next to the bag of walnuts, Jamie cleared his throat. "It's also good to see ye too, Quentin and I'm glad ye're well."

Quentin nodded. "Well, I'm going to cut to the chase. Here's the thing, Jamie ...Claire is not saying much, but I know she's upset over something. She normally talks to me when something is bothering her. I presume she is upset because of something you've done. So I'll need you to be the one to tell me exactly what's going on. I want to hear it in your own words, not some speech your publicist or agent or whatever you call them prepared for you."

Jamie frowned and shifted on his stool. "No one has ever prepared my speech, and I have nothing to hide ...from ye. I'll tell ye anything ye want to know," he said truthfully. 

"Very well then ..." Quentin waved a hand.

With a slight hesitation, Jamie proceeded to tell everything that had happened at the club, from what he could remember and what Joe and his brothers had told him about Forbes and Morag. The longer he talked and explained everything, the more he revealed things about himself, including what had happened at the awards and his life before meeting Claire. Maybe the drug in his drink and the alcohol from earlier was helping him loosen his tongue. Whichever the case was, Quentin listened carefully and attentively, his face devoid of judgement and his stance relaxed like as if they were just chatting over some sport's highlights they'd seen on TV.

When Jamie was done talking, he felt depleted; nevertheless, lighter but still nauseous. There was no point omitting things he didn't like about his past when he knew Quentin was a rugby fan and had probably heard or read stories about his escapades.

Jamie hoped Quentin wouldn't think he wasn't good enough for his niece after his revelation, but then, on the other hand, even if that was the case, it wouldn't have stopped him going after Claire. In fact, he would have torn the apartment apart if anyone got in his way, including Quentin.

"It is none of my business, and I don't normally interfere with Claire's decisions and choices, but since you're in the mood for sharing, what is it exactly you want from her?" Quentin asked. "You said you've never been in a relationship before. So what is this? A trial run? To see if a relationship is your thing?"

Christ!  All he wanted to do now was go into Claire's bedroom and talked to her, but Quentin had mentioned she was asleep.  Is she alright? Is she angry or sad? Disappointed?  He might as well stay put and try to get as many details as he could.

Jamie lifted his head and looked squarely into Quentin's eyes. "I'm in love with your niece."

Quentin took the hammer from his chopping block and smashed the walnuts in the ziplocked bag. "And? Has Claire said she feels the same way?"

Jamie didn't flinch nor break eye contact. "Aye," he admitted. "She told me so hersel'." He paused, thought for a minute and then continued. "And I'm hoping that is still the case."

"I don't know, Jamie. She retreated like ..."

"I'm not Frank!"

Letting go of the hammer, Quentin sighed and crossed his arms across his chest. "Listen, son, I might as well tell you this. I like you. Truly I do. I can tell you've always spoken the truth ...right from the beginning. As for Frank, I've never liked the man." 

Jamie felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and the urge to pump his fist in the air was strong, but he quickly tamped down the impulse. 

"He was unhealthy for Claire, and I don't think she loved him ..." Quentin paused, his brows coming down to a perceptible frown. "Well, at least not like how a person should love someone they're supposed to marry. It was probably more like she was at awe with his brilliance as a doctor. But what I think about you and Frank is neither here nor there. What I worry about is the speed your relationship is going. I see that same awe she had for Frank whenever she talks about you. Maybe because Claire's been infatuated with you ever since she'd seen you playing rugby. I guess it's fair to say she's in a happier place with you compared to when she was with Frank. But there is a slight problem. Frank has done a lot of damage to her confidence, and somewhere along the way, she's developed some trust issues. And it certainly doesn't help when there are people out there who want a piece of you, and you're some sort of celebrity."

"What are ye trying to say?" Jamie asked, confused.

Taking a piece of cloth from his pant's pocket, Quentin took off his specs and began polishing it. "What I'm trying to say is, she'll always keep running away until she's resolved those issues. I figured, with all that's happening between the two of you, she sees similarities she had with Frank ..."

"Hang on a minute ...how could ye ..."

Quentin held up his hand, and Jamie shut his mouth. "Deeds, Jamie. Deeds! You and Frank have tried to impress her to her eyeballs with your money and what it could buy. Claire is a simple girl, and she'd led a semi-nomadic life most of her life. Expensive dinners and gifts don't do it for her. And what you're doing right now ...Frank did all that in the beginning. So in her head, she's just waiting for the same pattern to repeat itself again. Your relationship hasn't even begun yet, and she's already bracing for something to go wrong."

"Christ!" Jaime rubbed his face with both hands. "So what do I do?"

"That's for you to figure out," Quentin answered, bashing the last of the walnuts. "Besides, what do I know. I've never married."

..........

Claire was woken to careful movements of someone getting into her bed. Without opening her eyes, she knew from the scent that ensnared her senses, it was Jamie. She tensed but didn't stir and tried to even out her breathing as her heart started to beat a million miles per hour.

"Yer uncle told me I can sleep on his couch tonight, but after he'd gone off to bed I sneaked into ye room," Jamie whispered, snuggling in closer till her back met his chest. "If ye're angry with me, Sassenach, please try no' to make too much noise; otherwise, yer uncle will kick me out before I get a chance to speak to ye. And to be honest, I dinnae feel very well at all." He paused for a few heartbeats. "This is kinda weird. I feel like a schoolboy slinking into yer room behind yer uncle's back, but I couldnae help it knowing ye're probably sleeping fitfully because of what happened tonight."

She didn't move nor say anything, but he continued.

"Christ, Sassenach ..." He let out a long sigh. "I dinnae ken where to begin." He slowly pulled the duvet down and slipped his hand across her waist, his hand splaying out over her stomach. "I was so worried when Joe said Geillis wouldnae answer the phone, I thought I'd go out of my mind."

A long silence ensued, and the only sound she could make out was the steady rhythm of his breathing and the movement of his throat when he swallowed.

"I'm wondering if ye can feel my touch in yer dreams ...if that's why yer heart is beating a little faster. Is yer heart still beating for me, Sassenach?"

She squeezed her eyes tighter, and her chest constricted.

"Does your heart still belong to me,  mo chridhe ?" he asked softly, his voice low and pained. 

She rolled her lips in to suppress the sound threatening to come out of her mouth, his words seducing her heart before her mind could put a stop to it. The sadness in his voice made her doubts and follow-up questions go in a thousand and one random directions, almost cancelling each other out and confusing her even more. At that moment, all she could do was hold on and feel.

"I wonder, if I kiss ye, will ye kiss me back? Or has the pain from what happened tonight, made ye love me a little less?"

His warm lips coasted along her shoulder, sending a shiver travelling down her spine, and a small gasp to escape her throat. Jamie proceeded as if he hadn't noticed her breath hitching.

"Do ye hear the things I say to ye, while ye sleep? I cannae tell ...maybe 'cos I'm drunk. I hope my words will filter through yer dreams and soothe the doubts in yer heart." He sucked in a breath as he moved closer, resting his head on top of hers. "Maybe with words, I can paint ye a life ye deserve, one where my past cannae touch ye and yer subconscious would approve of. And perhaps I can find a way to take what is broken inside of you and make it whole again so that nae matter what forces set to break us apart, we'd remain solid because we have trust." 

A single teardrop slid down her cheek.

Sighing, his fingers absentmindedly stroke her hair away from her face, and he stiffened when he felt the wet on her cheek. "I ken that my words wouldnae mean anything to ye if I didnae have yer trust. Yer trust matters, Sassenach ...it matters whether ye still want me or no' because ye matter to me. So I want ye to know, whatever happens, ye will always have me, and only ye can have me. I will be here to wrap ye in my arms when something threatens to pull you under, every time ... that's if ye will let me. Ye dinnae have to believe me now, I'm not even asking ye to, but I will prove it every day because I love you."

She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. She couldn't even string words to form a sentence. Besides, what could she say? This buildup inside of her was so unusual, and it ached. She had no idea what kind of words it would produce, and she was still wondering how Morag ended up on his lap.

"From day one, ye've had me walking on a tight rope, and I wasnae sure if I'd ever make it to the other end or fall. The not knowing is quite scary. But the thing is ...I wouldnae want it any other way because every moment with ye is worth it. I guess this trust can be likened to developing a photograph. It needs light for the picture to be well-formed. But I can see it already in my head even if it's no' ready yet. I'm leaving the timing up to the wisdom of the ol' man up there. If we only get one shot at this, I want it to be the best, and though the waiting will pain me, I'll do whatever it takes to get you and me right."

He found her hand and linked it with hers, but the doctor in her thought his palm felt clammy and cold and concluded it must be the effect of alcohol poisoning.

"Whatever it is ye read tonight in the social media, it was inaccurate. But before I tell ye my side of the story, I'd truly appreciate it if ye dinnae run away from me again. If ye do, bear it in mind, I will always come after ye, and I will find ye. And that's a promise, Sassenach. I want ye to remember that. That being said, I will never give ye a reason to run away from me either."

More tears started to pool in her eyes, and she tried to blink them back before they could escape. But it was a futile attempt.

"I guess ye saw pictures of Morag sat on my lap. The thing is I cannae remember that part. Now ye might think I had a lot to drink after ye left the private room, but that wasnae the case." She felt his chest expand as he took a massive deep breath. "The last thing I remember from last night is kissing ye before ye left with Geillis and joining the lads on the sofa. Apparently, Morag came in with Forbes soon after. But I couldnae remember the part when Forbes came in."

Her eyes flew open.  Oh, sweet Jesus!  She'd forgotten all about Forbes and seeing him in the club. After she had that emergency call from Mrs Crook telling her that her uncle had been taken away by the ambulance, she had been so beside herself from worry that she couldn't think of anything else.  Oh my God, oh my God! Why didn't I warn Jamie as soon as I saw that wicked man?  She'd already known he was trouble, but Mrs Crook's phonecall had distracted her.

"The lads had nae idea what kind of man Forbes is. Do ye want to know how Joe found me?"

She flinched and braced herself, but instead of continuing with his story, he shifted them both so she was lying on her back and he was on his side holding her against him. She shut her eyes.

"Ye're shivering,  mo chridhe," he whispered, tightening his hold and scooting closer. He pulled the duvet over them and rubbed her arms.

When her shaking finally stopped, he let out another long sigh, his warm breath fanning her hair.

"I dinnae ken how I'm going to make ye believe me, Sassenach, but I hope ye will. Joe and my brothers found me passed out on the sofa with Morag on my lap. Joe immediately knew something was wrong 'cause I wasnae myself. Weel ...so he says. He figured my drink had been spiked and ..."

Spiked?  All of a sudden, she felt sick as the dots started to connect. "Your drink was spiked?" she echoed hoarsely. "Why the bloody hell didn't you tell me? Jesus, Jamie!

"Ye're awake!" Jamie grumbled, propping himself on his elbow.

"Of course, I am awake you dafty." She threw the covers off and scrambled out of her bed. "Get up this minute, Jamie! I'm taking you to the hospital."

"Ssssh, please, Sassenach. Dinnae shout. Ye're making the room spin, and yer uncle will hear us," he whispered loudly while attempting to get hold of her hand. When he grabbed air, he fell back onto the bed. "Ach, Christ! I think I'm gonnae throw up."

After turning the bedside lamp on, she went quickly to his side, touching his face and feeling his pulse.  Ah, damn, damn, damn it! Why didn't Joe take him to the hospital?  "Jamie! Listen to me. I need you to help me to get you to the hospital. We need to determine what drug was used to spike your drink. I have a feeling your blood pressure is very low, and I can hardly feel your pulse," she explained in her no-nonsense doctor way, pulling him up in up-right position. "And that's not very good."

"It'll ssh pass when morning comes," he muttered waving his hand. "I'll sleep it off."

This time Claire noticed the slight slurring and she knew this didn't have anything to do with alcohol anymore. "Jamie, please, my love," she begged, tugging and using all her strength to budge him out of bed. But it was beginning to prove an impossible feat with his weight.

Suddenly the door to her room opened. "You bloody git! You sneaked into my niece's room! Did you think I wouldn't notice? Get ..."

"Uncle Lamb! Please! Not now! Call the ambulance! Jamie needs medical attention!"

Quentin just stood there, confusion etching his face as his gaze went from Jamie to Claire and then back to Jamie again.

"Uncle!!" Claire shouted.

"What?! How?"

"Uncle," she said in a low warning voice. "Emergency now, questions later!"

This time, her uncle listened and quickly backed away. By the time Quentin left the room, and Claire refocused her attention to the immediate problem, Jamie was already snoring very loudly. She stroked his hair back and felt his pulse again. To her relief, this time, it was slightly stronger. 

Carefully, she turned him to his side in case he vomited and ran her hand up and down his back. "Don't worry, darling. I'll make sure Forbes pay a heavy price for this," she whispered, mentally vowing she would do just that. "And if you can hear me, rest easy, my love. I'm never leaving your side."

She sighed and got up to dress.  

Ah, bloody hell! What am I going to do with you, you sweet-talking man?

[putanauhere]

so me and @foxesmouth are writing an art forgery au eh, tentatively titled by me only (didn’t run it by amy - you’re probs good with it, right?): a portrait of the artist as a con man. here’s our first scene.

--

Theo slips out of Hobart and Blackwell, walking two doors down to his own studio, just minutes before his 3 pm appointment. He takes more private sector work these days than working with museums, partly because there aren’t too many new masterpieces popping up out of obscurity these days, but mostly because he always gets the feeling he’s flying too close to the sun. 

This is the last of his appointments before he ships off to Boston for a restoration residency on a few John Singer Sargents as a favor to Peggy at the Gardner, and he’s anxious to see it resolved quickly. That must be why the thought of the appointment buzzes uncomfortably in the back of Theo’s mind, the same frequency as the persistent worry that he forgot to turn off the oven before leaving the house.

His fingers pick through the code to disarm the alarm as he shrugs his coat off one shoulder, not at all elegant as he turns to the coat rack and shrugs the other arm off to hook it up quickly. As he sets the coffee pot in the corner brewing, Theo tries his name out a few times, trying to find the cadence of it so he doesn’t embarrass himself, and settles on something that sounds familiar, if not correct, just as the buzzer goes.

His 3 o’ clock is younger than Theo expects, shorter than Theo is, and dressed far warmer than Theo thinks is necessary. Theo is given a swift onceover, then a slower one, both immediately disarming, before Theo remembers himself and steps aside to let him in. “Mr. Pavliovsky, it’s good to meet you.”

He looks amused by this. “Sure.” He has the painting tucked under his arm, wrapped in what looks like a linen sheet, to Theo’s horror. He’s already seen what Mr. Pavlikovsky has in the way of provenance, and his hopes aren’t high, but in the off chance that’s a real Renoir he’s got in there - Theo is already sweating with the thought.

Theo hangs his thick winter coat and rests the Renoir - wrapped in a pillow case, he realizes - on the intake table, itching to yank it free from its cotton prison like a grand reveal, ta daaa, but he’s a professional and lets his showroom do its showing. 

Mr. Pavlikovsky’s dark, critical eyes carefully scan the studio, eyes lighting on Theo’s work bench with its array of lights and magnifiers clamped to every available edge of the desk, surrounding like a frame to the Pissarro reproduction he has lying in wait on an easel. He moves toward the work bench with interest, leaning over to survey the painting closely but keeping his hands tangled together behind his back. Another win for the showroom. “Is this restoration?”

“God, no, I have a separate temperature controlled studio upstairs. This is… practice.”

His eyes flick up from the painting to the shelves of paints and small buckets of brushes stored above the bench where Hobie would keep chisels, hammers, and pliers. “You practice your craft in foyer of business instead of fancy art studio upstairs?”

“I - ” Theo stutters, never having been challenged on that.

“Is okay, I understand. You don’t sell art, you sell skill. Can’t frame a restored or debunked Pissarro on the wall, but you can leave gentle suggestion of experience on display.”

Theo stops up, irritated at having his intentions read so quickly, so easily by a stranger, but he doesn’t like the way it sounds almost nefarious on Mr. Pavlikovsky’s lips. Theo’s clientele often work on blind faith and reputation, and no one is allowed in his studio. Gentle suggestion is the only ammunition Theo has access to.

He turns to Theo, misreading Theo’s surprise about the easel’s placement for the easel’s content. “Did I pass the test?”

Yes, technically, yes, because everyone else tends to guess Monet, which is frankly insulting. But instead of answering, Theo smiles his customer-facing smile and gestures to Mr. Pavlikovsky’s painting. “Let’s have a look?”

He liberates the frameless Renoir from its slumber once he dons a pristine pair of white gloves and all six of its sides a quick scan before placing it down on the intake table. He knows immediately it’s a fake - one made with a lot of heart but a less than acceptable amount of skill. Nonetheless, he pulls his stool forward, switches his glasses for a specialized pair, and switches on an overhead light.

He’s joined at the table by Mr. Pavlikovsky, which is rare these days - even if his typical intakes are ten minutes or less, his clients are still glued to their phones or important business papers or a copy of the New Yorker. Theo’s not wild about having someone sit over his shoulder, he finished with that once he graduated from a formal university and from Hobie’s crash course in furniture restoration, but Theo allows him to stay in the name of customer service.

“Do you enjoy Pissarro?”

“I have seen - they have many of his paintings at the Met, is local, have you seen?” Mr. Pavlikovsky asks, and Theo’s heart shudders like someone has just walked over his grave. Shaken, he blinks his eyes firmly a few times and refocuses on the task at hand. Nobody has cared enough yet to draw the connection, and Theo himself has had no interest to check if the New York Times has immortalized the article with his name on it on the internet finally now that all copies of the paper should have been disposed of over fifteen years ago.

Thankfully Pavlikovsky doesn’t wait for an answer - he doesn’t seem to need one. “Beautiful painting of Montmartre, looks exactly like the boulevard! Have you been to Montmartre? Incredible, some things, they never change, you could paint same paintings today, same views, but with cars and tourists on cell phones instead of horses and carriages.”

“I’m sure I have seen it at some point. I am a fan of his landscapes, as you can tell.”

“Yes, you have a way with them.”

Theo’s cheeks heat up and he can’t quite figure out why, so he disguises it by lifting the canvas and taking a careful inhale down the right side of the canvas. If Mr. Pavlikovsky is concerned by this behavior, he doesn’t say so.

Theo frowns as he sets the painting back down. It’s a shame he won’t even have to get his x-ray out to get a look at the layers, but maybe he should - he could charge more for this session, and the longer an investigation, the more legitimate he seems. But from the way this conversation has gone so far, Mr. Pavlikovsky doesn’t seem like he needs the whole song and dance.

As if on cue, Mr. Pavlikovsky says, “I should leave you to work - I will come back later, no?”

“No need, I have made my analysis.” He strips his gloves and switches his glasses back out before turning his focus back to Mr. Pavlikovsky.

“Already.” It’s not phrased like a question, but the way he sounds impressed sends a wild thrill through Theo’s chest for a reason he can’t name.

“I’m sorry to say, Mr. Pavlikovsky, but this is a fake,” Theo says and braces himself for an impact that doesn’t come. Ordinarily there’s screaming and spitting, the unchecked pride of rich men bubbling over at being duped, and because they likely won’t be able to find the dealer again, Theo is the unfortunate sole recipient of their ire.

Instead Mr. Pavlikovsky grins and says, “How could you tell?”

There’s a lecture’s worth of material in this canvas, but most don’t want to settle in to listen to Theo drone on and on like the worst of his professors. Theo taps to six different problem areas, each of them having lit up like a glowing red sore as soon as Theo had laid eyes on them - poor blending, wrong paints for the time period - is that acrylic? really? - thick careless strokes that indicated speed and not care, and more. “Here, staples here, this is wrong, no fraying on the canvas edges is immediately suspicious, this issue with the verso here. And Renoir typically signed his paintings with a signature tail at the end of his r - this, at its most charitable, is a smudge - and he almost never connected his o to his i.” He snags a piece of paper and fountain pen from his desk and works out a quick recreation, the bold r, the diamond-shaped o, then taps at it. “Reno-ir.”

Mr. Pavlikovsky leans in close to Theo’s shoulder, peering seriously at Theo’s scrawled signature. His proximity is enough to make Theo stifle a shudder. “Perhaps he was drunk this day.”

“No,” Theo says bluntly.

Mr. Pavlikovsky laughs, tracing his bottom lip with his thumb thoughtfully as he leans back. “It is fake,” he says, but in a way that almost sounds like he’s confirming what Theo has said to be true, instead of mulling over this new discovery.

“I don’t wish to presume, I’m sure the price is not an issue - if you would like me to perform the standard x-ray and microscopy to confirm, I am absolutely able to. But in the interest of preserving your time.”

He nods, like fair is far, and picks up the painting to stuff it back into the pillow case. 

“Sorry - I - my apologies, Mr. Pavlikovsky, would you mind? I know it’s not a real Renoir, but it is still. You know. I’d hate to see anything happen to it.”

He gestures an invitation. “Please.”

Theo quickly trims foam for the verso and wraps the whole thing in paper like a present. He presents the secure package back to Mr. Pavlikovsky, but neither of them move to complete the transaction. Something about the thing feels unfinished - yes, the money, Theo’s brain helpfully supplies - but Theo doesn’t think that’s it.

Mr. Pavlikovsky digs out a tight bundle of cash anyway, too many hundreds stuffed into a straining silver money clip that he peels their agreed upon fee from and slaps onto the table. It feels almost dirty transacting this way, Theo used to wires, money orders, checks, and the like - cash feels uncouth. One of Pavlikovsky’s hands repockets the money and the other doesn’t go for the painting like Theo expects, but rather squeezes at Theo’s shoulder. “Well, if I can’t reward your speedy expertise with more money. Do you want to join me for drinks?”

“I’m not - um.” Theo swallows his initial objection, the way his mind leapt to that conclusion feels too telling. “Sorry? Drinks?”

“It’s not fun to pretend anymore, let you talk talk talk, Mr. Pavlikovsky this, Mr. Pavlikovsky that.” He raises his eyebrows at Theo. “I will say it hurts my feelings you don’t remember me, Potter, though I know it was very long time ago.”

It’s the Potter that does it, the fuzzy sort of familiarity with the nickname born from a cultural phenomenon he’d missed almost entirely with the timing of it. The only way it had nudged itself into Theo’s brain was through some drunk coed at a party he was desperately trying to fuck at a houseparty holding him by the waist and telling him firmly that she thinks he’s a Ravenclaw, whatever the fuck that is. And, of course, also through Boris.

“Shit, Boris, sorry, man, sorry,” Theo says, his face widening with a grin. “God, it’s been forever since Vegas?”

“You look good.” Boris pulls him into a hug Theo isn’t expecting, but allows himself to be collected into. “It’s good to see you.”

He hadn’t exactly kept tabs on Boris at the time beyond the few classes they’d shared together, the rare times they’d found each other in the same places, nodding affably from where they’d each stood at opposite sides of the room. 

His last memory of Boris had been at this party at some girl’s house - Hadley, maybe - and the two of them had straddled their legs over either side of a diving board over the winter-emptied pool, and tried to lean forward and take lines off the laminate, giggling and knocking heads and clutching at the sides, at each other, every time the board would shiver and shake with their movements. Theo had already been fucked up on something he’d stolen out of Xandra’s purse just to give him enough motivation to leave the house, letting the world grow opaque in front of his eyes like it’d be easier to live in if he just couldn’t see it, but he remembers Boris at the time, clear as day, like his nearsightedness had transfigured into Borissightedness. 

He remembers Boris being taller than he was at the time in a way that burned jealousy into his skin - a non-contest he is too secretly pleased to have won out in the end now - and the way Boris would wear his hair in the style that his mom used to call Needs a Haircut and his dry, calloused hands that held onto Theo’s wrists when he risked toppling over into the pool and the urgent way he’d whisper I got you like it wasn’t anyone else’s business to know.

Looking at Boris now, things shift slightly until they click into place, it’s like the sensation of sliding on glasses for the first time and realizing the world was not an impression, not muted, but all sharpness and defined edges and tangibility. Of course it’s Boris. 

“Come get a drink with me,” he presses.

Yes, technically, yes, that’s what Theo wants, but. “I can’t - I fly to Boston tomorrow morning.”

Boris checks his watch in an outrageous flash of silver. “Is sixteen hour wait at the airport, or what? You can’t take night off your busy schedule and have a drink with an old friend?”

Theo would hesitate to call them old friends. He’d hesitate to call them anything, but there’s potential humming under the surface now that had always been there back in Vegas. He hadn’t known what it was, what it meant back then - it was just shared snorting at the dumb puns Mrs. Mullin would say to get everyone excited about earth science, sitting silently beside each other on the bus when there were no more empty seats left, and holding each other by the waist only when they were wasted at a pool party on the weekend and acting like it never happened on Monday morning. 

But Theo knows what the humming is now - the desperate desire to have a friend and the fierce inability to let himself have one. Boris leaves the painting on the desk and scoops up his coat. He holds the door open for Theo, his way of telling not asking again. So Theo grabs his coat as well and thinks maybe he can let himself have something now, maybe just this one thing. 

“It’s good to see you too,” Theo says, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

--

[arthur-rex]

ooc: fic/RP idea for a retelling of The Last Dragonlord

Strap yourselves in this is a long one… just didn’t know when/couldn’t stop with the overly detailed plotting! xD

Note: I saw the actual episode two days ago. That’s why it’s all quite vivid still in my mind ;)

~~

So the story starts with Kilgharrah haunting Merlin’s dreams and telling him Camelot’s doom is at hand/the legacy of Uther Pendragon will be terrible to behold/his bloodline will be cursed forevermore for his acts against magic-kind. Merlin works out from this that Kilgharrah is dying and the dragon is invoking some sort of ancient powerful magic in the moment of his death. Merlin has failed to free him from his chains basically, and now the imprisoned dragon is getting his revenge through other means…

Flash forward to the next day. Merlin and Arthur are doing their usual things but Merlin notices Arthur being a bit more hungry haha not like that than usual. He’s also developed a bit of an itch to his skin that continually distracts him whilst training the knights. So he asks Merlin to draw him a bath that evening and while undressing Merlin notices shock horror the skin on Arthur’s back is literally peeling off! More sinister than this, it appears that something that looks suspiciously like golden scales lie underneath… Arthur asks Merlin what’s up and Merlin is just so horrified he literally plays dumb and tries not to panic, just focusses on getting Arthur ready for bed.

That whole night he’s at the books with Gaius, trying to make sense of the curse that Kilgharrah mentioned and what’s happening with Arthur. They come across some page in a book that tells them about possession/mad kings/the significance of the Pendragon line…

And it suddenly just clicks with Merlin oh shit Arthur’s turning into a dragon. Camelot’s Champion is turning into Camelot’s fiery destruction. What does this mean for his and Arthur’s supposed destiny together? What can he do to stop the curse? What will Uther do when he finds out what’s happening to his son??!

Gaius tries to calm down an obviously distraught Merlin at this point and advises that they try and bring Arthur discreetly to see him. Maybe some of Gaius’ potions and salves can slow down the transformation/buy them time until they can work out what to do.

Merlin finds Arthur in the morning completely freaking out. More of his skin is gone and this time Arthur has noticed. Arthur’s nails have also grown pretty sharp. He’s scratched and cut himself in a few places. Merlin realises Arthur’s a bit fragile mentally as he hasn’t got a clue what’s going on. Arthur asks Merlin if he’s turning into a monster. Merlin is of course stuck in a quandary, just as he was with Morgana. He can’t tell Arthur everything as that would reveal his magic, but he also doesn’t like to see his friend so upset. He suggest they quietly go to seek Gaius’ help. At various points during their dialogue, Arthur starts to lose his temper with the whole situation. He shouts into Merlin’s face for being so damn calm about it all and then unexpectedly a gust of flame and smoke almost sets Merlin’s hair on fire! Arthur shuts his mouth pretty quickly, absolutely mortified. Merlin just doesn’t even know what to say. Arthur tells Merlin his father mustn’t know. Uther must never ever know. Merlin agrees.

They go back to Gaius who’s been preparing some herbal salve to put on Arthur’s cracking skin. There are more gold scales everywhere now and Merlin doesn’t know how much time they have. Worringly, Arthur has started to mutter a strange language under his breath - seemingly trying to fight some sort of strange magic that is taking him over. When Arthur goes to sleep (Gaius gives him some sleeping draught to help him along), Gaius tells Merlin about the Dragonlords and Balinor and tells him if anyone knows of a way to break the curse, Balinor will. He also advises Merlin that whatever might become of Arthur out of this, hard decisions might have to be made and Merlin could possibly be forced to reveal the secret of his magic with Arthur in order to save him. Merlin is torn, fearful of the consequences while Uther is still king.

So then the next day in the early hours of morning Merlin and Arthur saddle up on their horses and head out to seek Balinor. Merlin is trying to be cheerful but Arthur feels dreadful. They have had to cover him now with a huge cloak as his face is beginning to change. He’s growing horns. His mood swings are also turning more violent and unstable. He keeps slipping into the dragon language when his mind wanders and Merlin has to do everything to stop that happening. Every night when he sleeps Arthur dreams of Camelot burning and hears whispers of the Great Dragon telling him this is his destiny and when he wakes up panting and scared shitless his eyes have turned golden and his pupils have become slitted like a dragon’s. As they near to finding Balinor, a worn out Arthur takes Merlin to one side for The Talk. The Talk consists of Arthur basically giving Merlin his sword and saying to Merlin. Hey look. If this mission to find a cure spectacularly backfires, you’re going to have to kill me with this sword if I’m no longer able to do it myself. Merlin looks at it and says he can’t but Arthur makes him promise. Merlin reluctantly agrees. Arthur tells Merlin to tell Gwen he loves her, if when the time comes he cannot.

They find Balinor like in the episode and Arthur’s getting really edgy but Merlin just sticks with the plan and tells Balinor his friend is really sick and needs help. A group of mercenaries appear at this point and attack the three having heard a tipoff from the tavern that strange beasts were abroad that needed slaying. This action pushes Arthur into savage beast mode(!) and as this overlarge human dragon hybrid he swipes his claws and lashing his tail at them. He kills the mercenaries and saves Merlin and Balinor but at a cost as the transformation really starts to set in and Arthur starts to lose grip of his consciousness due to the strain of resisting the effects of the change/losing his identity. He doesn’t even get a chance to tell Merlin to kill him before he’s out unconscious.

Merlin and Balinor then carry Arthur together back to Balinor’s cave where they have their little chat and Merlin asks Balinor if there is a way to reverse the effects. Balinor is a bit ‘no comment’ on this and questions why Merlin would want to stop a young dragon from coming into the world. A changeling of this kind is extremely rare, or else this is a person of royal blood under a curse. Merlin goes a bit tight-lipped after that and Balinor eventually works out this must be Arthur Pendragon with him. Feeling vindictive, Balinor says it serves Uther right, for all he did to destroy the Dragonlord people and outlaw magic in the kingdom. It’s nothing more than delicious irony that his son and heir will destroy the kingdom his father created. Merlin counters that this isn’t about Uther, this is about Arthur, and that it shouldn’t have to be the son that suffers for the sins of the father. Balinor hesitates, but he says that although he bears no ill will towards Arthur this has clearly been chosen as his destiny and he can’t avoid it. Merlin (who knows that Balinor is his father thanks to Gaius telling him) makes the sort of vague comments he does to try and make Balinor realise he is his son - they discuss Uther’s purge, Ealdor, and what all this might mean if dragon!Arthur simply burns it all down. Merlin asks one last time if Balinor will help him. Balinor refuses once more.

Merlin leaves the cave deeply upset. He picks up the sword and remembers his promise to his friend. He’s going to have to kill Arthur. Grimly resolved he goes back into the cave to do The Deed, but only to discover that Arthur has awoken and although he still looks very dragon-ish he appears to have regained command of his mental faculties. Balinor seems to imply that Arthur and he have ‘struck up a friendship’. Merlin is a bit confused/suspicious of this but realises perhaps this means Balinor does know of a way to restore Arthur to his normal self. Balinor agrees to go with them to Camelot, implying that if they travel to the place where the original dragon enacted the curse they might be able to reverse its effects.

On the way back to Camelot, Balinor and Merlin have a further chat which culminates with Merlin telling Balinor he is his son (like in the episode). Balinor is shocked, humbled, and immediately proud of his boy (as he is in the episode). He begins to tell Merlin all will be well now, the power to save Merlin’s friend has been inside him all this time, but suddenly they are stopped by patrols of Camelot’s knights. In the days since Arthur and Merlin snuck out of Camelot on their mission, Uther has set up a mega operation to find Arthur and kill/take prisoner those who dare thought to kidnap his son. Balinor and Merlin try their best to conceal Arthur but someone gets the cloak off him. By this point Arthur’s original features have been twisted so much he isn’t easily recognisable as himself, and the knights all draw their swords to slay the monster. Arthur becomes highly distressed to see his former knights and friends turning on him and this sadness melts into anger which of course triggers the full onslaught of the curse and Arthur pretty much metamorphoses all the way into a large golden dragon (about ¾ the size of Kilgarrah). Driven by the madness of his curse, he burns most of the knights alive before flying off towards Camelot. Presumably to enact his ‘destiny.’

In the wake of the destruction, Merlin emerges to find Balinor horrifically scarred by the dragon fire. He’s been burned within an inch of his life, and he is dying. He and Merlin have a final chat where Balinor tells Merlin he was right. Arthur should not have to suffer for the sake of his hatred of Uther. He then shares his secret with Merlin, that he as the last Dragonlord is able to speak to dragons and thereby tame them. He says Merlin as his son has this power too, and he must find Arthur and tell him who’s boss calm him and bring out the best in the beast. Balinor then dies.

Merlin travels on to Camelot by himself. Arriving outside its gates he finds the city already burning. It looks exactly as Arthur described to Merlin in his earlier nightmares. He fears for Gaius and Gwen, but he knows he’s got to find and subdue dragon!Arthur first. He tries to get the dragon’s attention by riding round a horse and shouting up at it. He avoids using magic initially and outright, as he still harbours this deep sense of shame for hiding it from Arthur all this time and revealing his magic now and using it offensively against him would just hurt/piss off his best friend more. Merlin then has An Idea. He searches for Gwen and takes her with him to the green clearing, thinking that Arthur’s feelings for Gwen will draw the dragon to them. It does.

Dragon!Arthur arrives and lands near to the two of them, looking very interested with Gwen (she’s absolutely petrified - Merlin hasn’t really told her everything that’s going on does he ever). Noticing Gwen is frightened by his appearance, dragon!Arthur gets very agitated and beats his wings, roaring/etc. Gwen gets thrown on the ground in the commotion, banging her head against something and falling still. Meanwhile, Merlin has his inner Dragonlord awakening moment, and finally speaks the language of dragons. 

He calms dragon!Arthur until he settles on the ground, utterly docile. Then Merlin notices the dragon is crying. He’s looking at Gwen’s motionless body. And he’s looking back at Merlin. Merlin senses Arthur’s pain. He thinks he’s killed his girlfriend, he’s destroyed half of Camelot and he’s feeling upset/shocked/betrayed by Merlin, who (although he’s managed to stop his crazed rampaging) has been keeping his powers secret from him all this time. Merlin reaches out and touches Arthur’s snout to console him. Then he goes over to Gwen. He finds she’s still alive, but desperately needs Gaius’ aid. He asks dragon!Arthur to fly them all back to the castle. They ride on Arthur’s back up to the Keep. 

Once Gwen is safely in Gaius’ care, a whole legion of knights with Uther among them spills out onto the courtyard. The sight of Uther causes the deep well of poison in the curse to flare up again in Arthur, and it looks like the dragon is going to murder the king. But Merlin places his hand on the dragon’s side again and calms him. A few of the knights fire arrows at dragon!Arthur and Merlin. Aware that Merlin wishes to keep his magic secret from people who know him, Arthur shields the warlock with his wings before picking him up in his claws, carrying him away. 

They land outside the castle. Merlin comforts dragon!Arthur as best he can. He can sense Arthur’s despair in his head. He’s tormented by what he’s done to the knights and people of Camelot as a dragon and believes he’s going to be stuck as a monster for the rest of his life. He’s lost his home, family, friends. Everything of his past life. Merlin reminds Arthur of what Balinor said about returning to the place where the original dragon cast the curse in order to revoke it. He tells Arthur to not give up hope.

They travel together deep underground into the pit where Uther chained Kilgharrah. There they find the crumbling bones of the deceased dragon and the heavy chains that have fallen away, and are lying open. Merlin pauses, unsure what they are meant to do. It takes a few moments, but dragon!Arthur eventually realises what must be done (he can feel/hear the ancient magic of the Old Religion speak to him while he is a dragon) and nudges at Merlin to do it. When Merlin realises via their telepathic link, he disagrees - no, no, no there must be another way! - but Arthur knows there isn’t. 

To break the curse on their bloodline, the son of Pendragon must suffer to be chained as Uther had imprisoned and persecuted those with magic before. The deep wrongs perpetuated against magic kind must be atoned for.

So dragon!Arthur submits to Merlin casting the enchantments to bind him to the rock where Kilgharrah was once chained. Merlin asks Arthur why go through with this? If it means he can never be free - what point is there in breaking the curse?

Dragon!Arthur speaks, and for the first time it’s not in Merlin’s mind but spoken out loud like a proper Great Dragon can speak. He wishes to right the wrongs of his father. As a dragon he has witnessed first hand how those that are magical are hated and hunted down, through no fault of their own but simply for being. He wishes for a future society of kindness and that the intolerance his father perpetuated be locked away underground and never be seen again. Merlin tells him he’s being a pompous self-sacrificing arse. Dragon!Arthur merely laughs and threatens to burn Merlin’s hair again if he disobeys. As Merlin wipes his nose on his sleeve and leaves his friend chained in the darkness, he tells him he’ll visit everyday. Dragon!Arthur just tells Merlin to have a life of his own for once, and to tell Gwen he loves her.

Flash forward to a few months into the future. Uther Pendragon, the King of Camelot, has fallen ill to a strange wasting illness. He’s literally dying, becoming more and more (metaphorically) chained to his bed as each days passes and his strength fails. The king’s ill health leads to civil unrest in the kingdom with rival factions warring over the succession to the throne. It’s all the besieged Knights can do to keep the peace. Prince Arthur has not been seen for months. He is presumed to be dead, although some blond men pretending to be Arthur keep miraculously popping up to try and claim their supposed ‘birthright’ to the throne. It both really hurts and pisses Merlin off.

Anyway, when Uther finally dies, Merlin senses a seismic shift in magic around him. Hardly daring to analyse what this means, he runs downstairs deep underground to the lair where his friend lies in the darkness in chains.

Dragon!Arthur is not there. Instead there is simply a large egg. And a blond, naked man lying in the dust curled around it. Pretty much like Daenerys from GOT in that scene

Merlin runs over and grabs his friend in a tearful hug and a shivering Arthur goes “hey I’m naked and cold, give me something to wear.” They have their moment and then Merlin tells Arthur all the latest news in Camelot. Arthur grieves the passing of his father. But then he picks up the dragon egg in his arms, and for a fleeting moment, feels the young (Pen)dragon inside moving. And he is reminded that life goes on. 

The two then carry the egg with them back into Camelot, where Arthur will claim his throne, usher magic back to the kingdom and become the first royal in over a thousand years to hatch a dragon egg (with a bit of help from his court sorcerer). They call the baby dragon Kilgharrah in honour of his grandfather and he grows to become Protector of the Realm. 

~~

And there you have it. 

I call this monstrosity of an AU “The Last Dragonlord and his (Pen)Dragon.  Note: I am sorry if many of the ideas in this fic are cheesy as sin and/or badly abused tropes. I am so sorry.

[livvyplaysfinalfantasy]

With Ramza gone and Alma in an uncertain state, the party assess their next steps. Fran expresses an intention that they learn from their failures - fitting, given her role in playing out her leader's failed requests for aid - and prompts Jenomis to think about what Ultima could have meant by "blood of the invokers" when she called Ramza to her.

Fortunately, you have a convenient Echo vision to put that question to rest.

At this point, both while watching this scene and hearing non-XIV friends react to it, it repeatedly struck me how difficult it is to explain XIV's storytelling methods once the Echo is involved - particularly when the Echo allows you to look back on things that happened far into the past. In this case, the Echo is granting you a vision of Ivalice from thousands of years ago.

King Delita, having obtained his throne, hears from Orran Durai himself that Ramza has sacrificed himself - "abandoned his mortal vessel, entrusting his aetherial soul to the auracite" - in an effort to seal away the High Seraph. Delita is agonized at the thought of his friend never returning; though he prepares to hurry to Orbonne to rescue him, Orran stops him.

Orran explains that none other than Ajora Glabados, the first Zodiac Braves, summoned Ultima. In Tactics, Ajora was a martyr with otherworldly, messianic powers who sought to gather the zodiac stones to save the world; in actuality, Saint Ajora was possessed by Ultima and gathered the stones to try to carry out the High Seraph's resurrection. Ajora's gender is also somewhat up to interpretation, to the point that listing Ajora as male in the XIV universe feels more than a bit like a cop-out. Still, the concept that Orran Durai explains in this scene is much more terrifying, if possible, than the scenario presented in Tactics: Ajora Glabados betrayed Hydaelyn herself and summoned Ultima for power. As a result, only a Warrior of Light can defeat Ultima - and Ramza Beoulve, himself a Warrior of Light, took it upon himself to do just that.

I don't know what it is about the fact that Ramza Beoulve was a Warrior of Light that gets me so emotional, but I was nearly in tears the first time I got to that point! Above all else, I think it's the idea that our own Warriors of Light are following in the footsteps of one of my favorite characters ever; it also feels like a well-deserved nod to Ramza's status as a protagonist within the greater Final Fantasy universe.

And not only was Ramza a Warrior of Light - he was also a hero in every other sense. His sister Alma arrives to explain that his last wish was to have every record of him removed from history, so that no others would feel a need to seek out him or the being that he sacrificed himself to imprison. Delita, agonized at the loss of his best friend, refuses to accept his friend's sacrifice; when Alma reaches out to him with a piece of auracite, he receives a vision only he can see of Ramza saying his final goodbyes.

Some time later, the three have fashioned that same stone into two necklaces that will help guide their future wearers to where Ramza lies. Orran insists that it's "what Ramza wished" - despite the previously-stated fact that Ramza never wanted anyone to be able to find him. My interpretation of this change is that Orran was being guided by the auracite to create a means for future generations to revisit Orbonne, though this is never expressly confirmed. With that done, Orran goes into hiding to avoid the church's persecution for the truths he's written, presumably about the nature of Saint Ajora. He doesn't mind that his works will be confiscated, as it means they'll be locked away and hopefully rediscovered once the church is no longer in power. And though Orran has been branded a heretic, he's not concerned with his own life - as he and Alma are expecting a new life of their own.

The revelation of Orran and Alma ending up together in this universe is... not entirely unwelcome; in Tactics, Orran's presumed companion is Valmafra Lenande, a church spy assigned to monitor Delita. While the relationship between Orran and Alma makes sense in the context of XIV's history I wish this scene had changed Alma's model from her childlike appearance, even a little, before they hinted at a pregnancy. That made me recoil more than anything else.

In any case, we see now the events that directly led to the Lexentales' own return to Ivalice: the "invokers" Ultima mentioned was not a reference to Ramza's own bloodline, but to the Warriors of Light - starting from Saint Ajora, who summoned her; to Ramza, who sealed her away; and now you, who will almost certainly fight her. Alma awakens in time to explain that she doesn't want Ramza's body at all: she wants yours, the Warrior of Light, and the power that would come with such a form.

One last reveal before the quest ends: Fran expresses an apology, revealing that she had had plans to take one of the auracite stones and use it to destroy the IVth Legion. Now that it's become known to her how dangerous they truly are, she resolves instead to help you rescue Ramza.

And with that, the Orbonne Monastery is unlocked!