#rambles from within the vale

[pluralcollector]

it takes two to make a story: one to deliver it and one to receive it

a toh emperor acolyte au fanfic.

(emperor acolyte au by tumblr user pespillo.

warning for allusions to and discussions of child abuse, both physical and psychological / emotional. assuming you're familiar with the emperor acolyte au that this is set in, you can expect similar heavier themes.

king is humanoid in this story.)

“every story has a happy ending if you wait long enough. death is only the end if you assume the story's about you. wouldn't you prefer to escape stories and endings altogether?”

--paraphrased from an episode of “welcome to night vale” by joseph fink and jeffrey cranor (but then we added some inferences)

“i’m the hero of this story, don't need to be saved. (hey, open wide, here comes original sin.)”

--quoted from “hero” by regina spektor

“how does our story end?” king asks, his voice rippling through the previous quiet like the chiming of a bell that signals the termination of one thing while shepherding in the next -- a clear and clean distinction that hazards no space for ambiguous twilight.

king’s been watching the collector read for well over an hour, a habit he indulges in not infrequently (though he prefers to avoid describing it as frequently -- such convoluted employments of language help keep king’s paradoxical state of being just slightly more palatable, and he's never counted with much of that to begin with).

usually, the collector interrupts their reading swiftly anytime king makes his presence known within the same space (the same applies to some instances of the collector noticing king's presence without king intending to, but at other times the collector can prove remarkably adept at discerning when king, like a feral cat or a skittish rabbit, wishes to be in the collector's proximity without directly engaging them), greeting him amicably before inviting him to hear about whatever fabulous and fantastical adventures they're reading through this time around.

king, in turn, tends to promptly acquiesce, though he is usually more interested in just hearing the collector talk than in the content of books themselves. it works out for both of them this way: the collector gets to ramble enthusiastically about something they're really interested in, and king gets to be soothed by the continued production of the voice he's grown simultaneously most familiar with and in most need of hearing.

today, though, there is a slight modification to that routine: the collector has delved into a particularly engrossing escapade, and thus has refrained from immediately reacting to king’s presence. that's fine, king thinks: he'll wait; just being able to see the collector is almost as good as hearing them, and he's in no rush anyway.

king can discern the outward signs of the collector struggling between the gravitational pulls of king's presence and the book in their hands, their gaze periodically flickering towards king for an instant before scrambling back to locate whatever sentence they were in the middle of reading, reminding king of a compass that's been placed by a magnet and thus lost all sense of orientation, floundering in erratic pirouettes as if every direction could somehow be pointed at simultaneously (as if pointing at every direction simultaneously could communicate some secret, meaningful logic, and not merely an unhelpful paradox). this fortifies king's resolve to remain patient, but desires often clash unsettlingly within him, and, as time drags on, king starts feeling like a piece of furniture that has become so old and commonplace that it no longer elicits any reaction from whoever selected it as a suitable addition to their household, and this proves too disconcerting for king to not immediately attempt to dissolve.

hence king’s question: “how does a story like ours end?”

he phrases it differently the second time around, having become embarrassed -- as well as alarmed -- by the potential implications of the question he's rather carelessly blurted out in his haste to entice the collector to pay attention to him. both versions encapsulate feelings he's been mulling over for quite some time now, though he's unfortunately just now figured out how to parse them with deceptively effective concision -- unfortunate because he would have much preferred to have put that question to himself in the privacy of his own mind before alerting the collector to its existence.

at least the collector is paying attention to him now.

the collector sets down the heavy, leather bound tome they've been perusing and quirks a quizzical eyebrow, regarding king with surprise. this has the (presumably) unintended effect of making king feel like a bug that's unwittingly wandered into a glass jar and is now being scrutinized closely by the owner of said jar, which is hardly any improvement on the unnoticed furniture scenario.

king meets the collector’s gaze with steady solemnity, endeavoring to expose none of the loud, messy feelings presently thrashing within him like a shark hauled out of the water by a pair of inexperienced hands that hold on despite understanding viscerally that it will lead to getting bitten and the shark escaping back into the sea anyway (perhaps putting up the appearance of struggling, like refusing a gift before capitulating to the giver’s insistence purely as a pretense of politeness, is important in some interactions, but king does not think this is one of them -- now that he's dropped this load unexpectedly and unceremoniously onto the collector, he'd rather pretend that's always been his intention).

the collector stares at king silently for a handful of seconds, understanding dawning on his complexion with a steady slowness that reminds king of flipping through pages of stop motion illustrations, appreciating both how they must all play out in more rapid conjunction and how distinct and essential each individual snapshot is. king isn't sure if other people also experience this clarity while interacting with the collector or if it is yet another curious quirk of king's special closeness to them.

“i don't know, king,” the collector answers honestly, both eyebrows furrowed with obvious concern now, their pupils darting almost imperceptibly as they take full stock of king’s appearance. they vocalize with a seriousness that mirrors king’s, though king suspects theirs is more genuine. “i’ve never read a story like ours.”

there's a pause in the conversation, the collector raising a thumb and index finger to frame their chin and tilting their head sideways as if to examine a painting from another angle, their mind clearly churning with the effort to provide their best friend with a satisfactory or at least worthwhile answer. but, strive as they might, they have to admit when they're stumped, and they'd rather say so to him than pretend otherwise.

king waits a breath’s length longer for the collector to muster something further -- only once he realizes he's been holding his breath for an uncomfortably long period does he exhale -- another bell ringing to signal a transition.

“you really don't know then,” king remarks, trying not to sound disappointed while also feeling that concealing how he really feels might prove a dire mistake in this situation -- the conflict between not hurting the collector's feelings by exposing his own feelings and not hurting the collector's feelings by withholding his own feelings as present and alive as ever.

“i don't,” the collector confirms, apparently uninjured -- but not unbothered -- by king's disappointment. their eyes are swirling with growing worry, gray clouds gathering into each other’s embrace and steering steadily towards a downpour.

the last thing king wants is to make the collector cry, but perhaps he doesn't deserve to ask a question like this without being punished a little -- it is, he recognizes now, a bit cruel of him to even confront the collector with it.

what other answer could the collector possibly give king without lying? did king just need to hear directly from the collector what he already knew to be true? is this just another one of his petty, ill-mannered attempts at making someone else feel as bad as he does because he's so self-righteously indignant by being completely alone in his grief? or was some part of him -- some awful leech of a part of him -- actually hoping his best friend would lie to him?

if the collector had lied, king is now forced to wonder, would he have been relieved and pretended to believe them? or would that have been exactly the excuse that leech part of himself always seems to be seeking out like warm blood to stage a vicious and melodramatic upending of their entire relationship, claiming -- as he'd surely claim to have been certain of all along, even though he is presently not -- that the collector does not trust him enough to award him the truth, and, adding insult to injury, thinks king could ever fail to slice through such a shallow farce? (this hypothetical scenario somehow coexisting with the one where he is eager to be lied to and to internally gaslighting himself into believing he really does not know he is being lied to and what both of their behaviors suggest about their relationship).

“that's worrisome,” king states flatly, more to avoid saying nothing at all as he feels himself start floundering in his own internal ruminations and dissociating from the reality presently surrounding him, as if he really does believe he can just drop these potentially highly distressing things on the single most important person in his life with neither warning nor explanation, then silently retreat into himself without a care for its potential consequences.

king spent too much time alone with his own thoughts when he was younger, blurting things out aloud because there was no one around who could or would answer, slowly and effectively desensitizing himself to any and all severity that they might carry.

numb to his own feelings then, and, now, also numb to how his feelings make others feel. it's a hard habit to smother.

“more worrisome than feeling yoked to a predetermined destiny?” the collector inquires, smiling slightly in a fashion that clearly conveys that he intends the question in a lighthearted, theoretical, thought experiment sort of way -- not in relation to any specific real world situation.

yoked, king thinks, finding it, for a moment, exceedingly amusing that anyone would use that word in a conversation not about cattle or some other beast of burden type -- an effect of just how much the collector reads, this aspiring literati tendency to season their otherwise perfectly ordinary statements with the occasional poetic lingo.

but then king considers the actual implications of being described as yoked, even in a metaphorical sense, and gets the dreadful sense that maybe he is a beast of burden type -- he's certainly a beast, and he was certainly raised to shoulder burdens, so what really sets him apart from an ox physically yoked to the plough they will someday collapse next to, dead from the exhaustion of doing nothing throughout their life except dragging it along for someone else's benefit?

king tries to muster some compassion for the collector's careless misstep by focusing on how profoundly apologetic they look after quickly realizing the potential implications for him, but, alas, it does not succeed in softening his tone when he next speaks.

“at least back then i knew what to expect, and i could prepare myself,” king snaps sulkily, seeming to shrink into himself as he wrinkles up his dirt smudged nose, but with the careful calculation of a snake that only withdraws to aim better upon lunging. “but a story that doesn't adhere to a formula is sure to be filled with unexpected plot twists, and how am i ever supposed to get comfortable with how things are when i’m always expecting them to change?”

despite the tension boiling between them like a cauldron of soup that's seconds away from spilling over if the heat isn't quickly and dramatically toned down, the collector smiles with pleasure (and a dab of pride) at king’s reference to literary tropes -- proof he's been paying attention during their rambles.

the collector decides to try continuing the conversation through this lens -- perhaps it can help king feel less antagonized if he is not so obviously

being discussed.

“surprises are good in a story! they can lead to something entirely new, which has never been experienced before!” the collector proclaims, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically to be entirely credible, but king does find the ease with which they deflect his animosity without anything like an equally acerbic retort quite the relief (as well as a target of envy).

at times like this, king gets the intoxicating sense that there is no insult, argument, or otherwise hurtful remark either of them could make that their relationship could not somehow survive -- intoxicating because it occasionally tempts him to recklessly test the collector with an egotistical need to prove to himself just how valuable he is to them (too valuable, he hopes, to be permitted to push them away so easily), but also because it might someday actually lull king into a false sense of security.

“besides,” the collector adds, waving one hand in the air with such fluidity that a cornucopia of tiny, prismic stars burst like confetti from the tips of their fingers -- an entirely unconscious and -- to king -- entirely endearing use of magic. “a story with no surprises isn't much fun to read!”

king’s mouth twists sideways to land somewhere on the spectrum of smile to snarl, his upper lip curling back in that characteristically animalistic fashion that he is simultaneously proud of and disturbed by, without quite reaching the point of exposing his fangs any more than they normally protrude from his mouth -- a compromise between the desire to backtrack to explicitly addressing himself and following his best friend into this detached anonymity, as if either of them could ever mistake this conversation for anything other than what it has been from the beginning: king’s -- and now, as king has so selfishly dragged them in, also the collector’s -- anxiety over the future of their relationship.

“it can be… reassuring,” king tries, as cautiously as a hiker that is as noisy as possible in hopes of scaring away any nearby predators, king’s halting words and darting gaze an implicit plea for the collector to gently steer him away if he wanders too close to territory that might prove too treacherous for even the two of them to navigate at this stage in their shared and individual development.

the collector waits quietly for king to continue, patient and expectant as a hound plopped down at the foot of their human companion in anticipation of the occasional, much relished head scratch -- a comparison king instantly detests and chastises himself internally for even conceiving of, certain it's just him who keeps projecting his weird hierarchical complex onto the collector, and any mention of any of this to them would leave them utterly baffled (and serving as further proof of how out of touch with reality king has become that he can not even be friends with another person without constant anxiety over either being exploited or him doing the exploiting).

“to not have to be guessing all of the time. to not have to struggle to understand what is happening and why,” king offers by way of explanation, gripping both of his hips so he can tap his fingers nervously against them, his tail swishing just as restlessly as a dog that thinks there might be a reason to wag happily but isn't quite convinced they won't be disappointed by the complete withdrawal of the hoped for reward. king hates exposing uncertainty, but this, naturally, only heightens the outward signs of it.

“to be able to just go along for the ride, without doing any additional work,” king huffs, sounding -- to himself, at least -- exactly like a child that knows he'll  be told he's correct if he's just petulant enough about it, because no one else wants to deal with arguing with him anymore.

sometimes, it feels simply impossible to turn off the urgent sense -- which instilled in him years ago -- that he has only ever earned anything through coercion and domination, through the bullying of people that would rather give him his way than deal with the wrath and cruelty that they're certain -- that eveb king is certain at times -- would follow any failure to do so. in king’s mind, he is always only ever a tiny emotional flare away from reverting back to his most bestial qualities, a monster whose vision turns red with fury and can no longer distinguish between an acceptable and drastically disproportionate response to any perceived slight. even in a casual conversation between best friends, king does not feel safe to be around.

“as a reader,” king clarifies quickly. “a reader doesn't always want to deal with the emotional whiplash of surprises. it can be pleasant to not be surprised.”

the collector watches king pensively and he can tell that they agree with him, both in a literary sense and, more pressingly, in regards to life itself: there is comfort to be distilled from mundanity, from the repetition of routines and the fulfillment of expectations, from a seed planted in the ground and watered regularly growing into a sprout and following the steps laid out in a manual building a functional radio and eating lunch together with a best friend being filled with fun chatter and laughter and the same sense of revival and renewal that the rare good night’s sleep provides but by far more easily and more reliably.

“besides, king blurts out, continuing with an urgency that suggests if he does not share it now he might quickly forget it forever and then no one will ever know about it, “nothing is ever really new. even the unexpected relies on expectations, which means it also follows a formula, albeit a more hidden one. but it can still be cracked.”

the collector raises their eyes from the spine of a book they had been idly tracing, affixing king with the excited glimmer that he recognizes from invitations to go exploring and play grudgby and dance together. even if the collector’s lips have not moved, king can see that their eyes are already smiling.

“what's your strategy then?” the collector asks eagerly. “do you try reverse predicting outcomes? figure out what the obvious cliché would be and expect the opposite?”

“i’m afraid i may already be doing that.”

there it is: king once again making explicit that he is still thinking -- still talking -- about himself, that this entire conversation, to him, revolves around him (even as he knows an equally critical part of it is entirely about how the collector fits -- and will fit -- into king’s life, choices, future). does it make king seem honest and vulnerable, in that peculiar manner others sometimes find compelling, or is he just coming off as hugely egotistical?

perhaps all deliberate vulnerability is, to a degree, an egotistical act: to expose -- to offer -- one's vulnerability is to assert it is of value, that one’s struggle matters not just to oneself but to someone else, too.

what if this doesn't matter to the collector like it does to king? what if the collector doesn't care about king’s anxiety regarding the future, doesn't deem it worth attention, or -- worst of all -- finds it laughable? has king just lost respect in the mind of the collector, has he been diagnosed as weak, ridiculous, neurotic?

while king is agonizing over the potential disaster he may have deliberately staged, the collector is doing their own calculations, peering at their best friend as if through the wall of a cell, wondering if enough pressure has swelled around them to permit the process of osmosis that might lead the collector straight through the barrier and into the shell of an abode that king has sequestered himself within. too much pressure, and the collector may well be forced back out -- but it might be worth the journey if they can reach king through that distorting blockage for even a brief moment.

the collector decides to try.

“would you prefer to still have everything laid out for you by someone else?” the collector asks at point blank, eliciting such a choking gasp from their best friend that they feel the impulse to take it all back, apologize, and promise to never bring such things up again, but they muscle through their own defensive barrier and determine to endure the stabbing discomfort exuding from both of them. “it might seem like it was easier when you thought you didn't have any options, when you thought no decision you made was your own, but…”

the collector trails off, biting their tongue from the embarrassment of having lost their nerve at the most crucial moment. king, however, has heard enough to draw his own conclusion.

“i’m a coward, then.”

king spits out the words like a bullet he hubristically thought he could catch between his teeth but instead let jam into his tongue, resentful yet matter-of-fact, accepting of something else he has failed to hate into nonexistence.

astonished, the collector’s eyes go wide as he shakes his head, trying and failing to muster any verbal opposition.

as for king, his eyes roll towards the back of his head, an arc as smooth and graceful as it is dismissive. the collector cringes reflexively.

“to miss being controlled, to want to go back to it, to think it's the only way i can be -- i’m a coward for that,” king continues, crossing his arms over his chest and shooting his best friend a defiant glare -- a misdirection of the contempt he feels for himself.

the collector, to king’s surprise, does not answer with any trace whatsoever of anger, instead reaching for king’s hand -- which, upon registering the familiar and coveted warmth of the collector’s skin, immediately releases its grip on his arm and capitulates to being cradled by the collector’s like a wild animal that knows there is no point even trying to swim against the river’s tide, that, wherever it might lead them, they are better off submitting passively to its will.

there can be great comfort in such a giving in, but king is not quite ready for it yet.

“being afraid isn't the same as being a coward,” the collector says softly, taking a step towards king so they can stand closer, so their fingers can thread freely through king’s claws while their equally warm breath sprinkles his face like the misty spray from a waterfall -- gentle, refreshing, and agonizingly ephemeral.

it doesn't have to feel ephemeral, king thinks, then nearly laughs aloud at the notion: like he'd ever have the courage to tell his best friend how intensely he longs to feel that warm breath on his face, those warm fingers cradling his hand, this warm proximity between their bodies -- without having the entire experience dampened by the certainty of its brevity, by not being able to simply say -- with words or otherwise -- please just stay this close to me for a while longer. king really is a coward.

“but it leads to the same,” king contends gruffly, like he's refusing some medicine he knows will help him feel better because he's determined to just weather the symptoms until the illness resolves itself (while also knowing this particular illness can not resolve itself on its own).

“i can't imagine ever thinking of you as a coward, king,” the collector counters, correctly ascertaining that king’s anxiety balances precariously on the collector's perception of him but managing, unknowingly, to set off a different source of said anxiety. “not after everything we've been thr --”

“so you don't have any expectations for me, then?” king challenges with blatant hostility, his upper lip successfully retreating into that dastardly snarl that makes him look and feel like an old and battered beast that just doesn't know how to stop picking fights with everyone and everything. “i’ve already fulfilled my role as poor, sacrificial lamb -- suffered enough to earn eternal adoration, regardless of everything i do after!”

king is shouting and he knows it's alarming the collector, tightening their muscles and quickening that normally pleasant breeze of a breath of theirs, but king has moved squarely into wanting to see the same despair that consumes him reflected in someone else -- it suddenly feels like the only way he can ever come even close to being understood.

the collector, king knows, is highly empathetic, and with none more than king himself. king really is a monster for doing this to them.

“i could do nothing for the rest of my life and you'd keep on loving me just the same, no more and no less than if i’d done any number of other things instead!” king yells. he knows he's gone too far, burdened them both with this terrible experience, but he can't stop, not when every despicable feeling he's ever harbored for himself is suddenly bubbling up his throat and no one but him seems willing to state aloud the veracity of it all -- if his best friend won't condemn him, he can do the work for both of them.

“it's all the same to you, even if i were to - were to - to -!”

king is sharply cut off in the same instant he realizes he is entirely out of breath, his eyes widening with a trickle of panic as his unoccupied hand clutches the area across his chest that guards his heart. he wheezes for a smattering of seconds, gaze lowering to the library floor with a melangé of shame and despair.

the collector remains silent for a spell, which feels as eternal and bewitching as actual magic, their eyebrows furrowing with the agonized consternation that only encountering king’s pain can elicit in them. the collector sucks on their inner cheek, eyes darting across the covers and titles of the various books scattered across the table, as if their recollections of how the stories contained within them were resolved could provide the collector with some answer, with some formula to carry the two of them safely through the trials before and between them.

king stiffens as he feels the collector lean closer, but otherwise restrains himself from reacting. slowly and gently, the collector cups their palm around king’s cheek, and nudges him towards meeting eyes with them.

king’s breath catches in his throat like vomit he refuses to expel, striving with feverish impotence to reverse the process and fill his lungs with enough carbon dioxide to force him to pass out and thus escape this situation altogether.

unfortunately for king, life has honed him into far sturdier material, and he's disappointed by the sharp inhale that parts his lips like a knife prying open the shell of a still living oyster. he's still panting slightly, trying to recover from momentarily depriving himself of oxygen, when the collector speaks.

“i love you, king,” the collector begins simply yet intensely, hitting king quite like he has never heard such words from his best friend or really anyone else before and thus proportionally deluging his nervous system with both ecstasy and terror, the sort of whirlwind thrill that he imagines must keep recreational skydivers hooked to periodically flinging their lives in death’s direction. he wants terribly to hide his face behind his hands and run away, find some niche he can crawl into and expire without ever being found again, but he is even more intensely transfixed by the delectable sound of his best friend’s profession and, like with the echoes of a bell that continue to ring in his ears long after the bell itself has stilled, he can do nothing to rid himself of it.

“loving you doesn't mean i don't expect anything from you,” the collector continues gently. “but it does mean i won't stop loving you just because you diverge from those expectations. you're full of surprises, king, and that's a big part of why i love you!”

the collector’s words taste so sweet to king that he is reminded of those excessively elaborate confections that the collector is so fond of indulging in: whipped cream and meringue and sugar cubes that melt on his tongue the instant they touch it -- so ephemeral he can only continue to enjoy them by eating copious amounts of them, and even then they eventually run out and he is left with a yearning for their return.

it's that kind of yearning that king feels for the collector, a need for company and conversation and closeness and comprehension that is never fully satisfied, that always begs for more. king is like a child that failed to develop object permanence, but with his relationships: anytime the collector isn't actively paying attention to him, the strength and certainty of their friendship might as well never have existed.

“besides,” the collector adds, a suspiciously mischievous sentiment tugging one corner of his mouth into a lopsided smile, like they've just orchestrated a marvelous heist or other such plan to get the two of them into a lot of fun and a lot of trouble. king envies their ability to find such carefree joy in the midst of this situation.

“it's not like there's a limit to loving someone. there's no set amount of love you can either gain or lose forever. i’m constantly finding new reasons to love you. and if there's ever trouble between us, well, we can work it out -- and then maybe our love will be even stronger because we got through that together!” the collector says, seeming quite convinced by this theory.

king wants so profoundly to also believe it that, for a moment, he allows himself to imagine a future where he does -- it's a fleeting vision, like reading an especially fanciful science fiction story, but even implausible stories reveal something of what is plausible.

“love evolves as relationships do,” the collector concludes with an air of satisfaction, as if they have indeed reached the conclusion of a particularly stressful story, one in which, despite the greatest of odds, everyone ends up happy. “it's not quantifiable. it's qualitative.”

king is so shaken by what the collector has said to do much besides stand there, rigid as a mouse that knows moving in any way will give its position away to a nearby predator and thus seal their demise -- though he does manage to lift his gaze when he feels his best friend’s fingers brush against his forehead, watching utterly transfixed as the collector guides a lock of dark, curly hair away from his face and tucks it behind his ear.

“you really are cute when your hair gets all over your face,” the collector murmurs, with such naked tenderness that king thinks they must certainly mean those words only for themself, having only accidentally -- and, judging by the unperturbed serenity that frames their facial features, unconsciously -- uttered them aloud. “you have such gorgeous hair…”

and there it is, king thinks: the possibility of a different kind of love -- a love that makes room for the sort of physical and emotional intimacies that king daydreams of but dares not make known with any sort of declaration or request; a love that can encompass and account for the fervent intensity of king’s feelings for the collector; a love that requires no secrets from either of them and instead demands a radically transformative honesty in all matters; a love that might entail king finally placing his own hand on the collector’s cheek and feel comfortable in the certainty that this gesture can only ever be a welcome and pleasant caress, and not the dangerous proximity of his claws to his best friend's throat. but whether the collector is thinking -- or, indeed, has ever even considered -- this sort of love, king has no way of judging for certain. and so, with a regretful resignation that has become entirely too familiar to him, he lets the moment -- the opportunity -- pass them both by, offering his best friend nothing beyond a steady and attentive gaze.

even if king can not express his true appreciation for the collector’s proclamations, he will, at the very least, ensure they know he's paying attention to each and every word.

the collector smiles with a serenity that king finds himself perplexed to be the target of, fiddling with the strand of his hair and managing to wrap it around their finger -- a sight that elicits a soft chuckle from deep within the collector’s throat and a ricocheting heartbeat from king. it all looks to king like nothing more and nothing less than an excuse to remain this physically close to king, and king, despite his outward guardedness, hopes against hope that the pleading within him for the collector to just continue this way indefinitely somehow permeates through his petrified expression and reaches his best friend.

despite his yearning -- or, perhaps, perversely, because of his yearning -- king can not bring himself to say anything back to the collector, so the moment, once again, goes no further.

king tried not to visualize punching the petulant muscle that is his heart.

“here, why don't i tell you a story?” the collector offers, breaking a spell king is now fairly certain both of them are pretending to not be aware of.

the collector performs a small jump to propel them into the air, pirouetting on their way up until they're hovering next to one of the shelves in the bookcase that are too high to be reached by king. he watches anxiously as his best friend runs their index finger across various spines, considering each title for a moment before moving onto the next.

“i’ve read some pretty fun ones lately!” the collector exclaims, shooting king an amicable grin before seeming to decide none of the books presently within reach will do for their best friend and instead churning up something from memory -- king always prefers when the collector gives stories their own personalized spin, after all.

when king doesn't respond, the collector adds hopefully, “it might help get your mind off what's bothering you. and, if not, well… at least we'll spend some time together, and that's always nice, right?”

the question feels, to king, entirely rhetorical, but he nods his assent anyway, which -- mercifully -- broadens the collector’s smile to the point that the dimples in his cheeks become visible, like beautiful islets that only rise above the water when the tide is at its lowest.

“is it an allegory?” king asks, more to force himself to start using his vocal cords than anything else, though it's also true that he's hoping to dispel the residual anxiety that buzzes around him like a flock of gnats that just won't give up on their quarry.

“every story is an allegory if you're willing to put yourself in it!” the collector answers breezily, sweeping aside the various books scattered across the table with magic so they can take a seat right at the center of it, legs crossed and hand beckoning at their best friend.

king finds himself unsettled by this response, but climbs onto the table anyway, plopping down in front of the collector with a pair of eyebrows that remain stubbornly -- and frustratedly -- scrunched.

“okay,” king concedes. “let's find out what allegory we can find in this story then.”

the collector beams, then reaches for king’s hand again, meeting no more resistance than the first time around. king swallows with noticable difficulty.

“i’m glad you said we,” the collector says, drawing attention to something king had neither consciously intended nor noticed until then.

king thinks, but doesn't say: i’m glad there's a we to speak of, and i keep having to say we aloud just to remind myself we are a real thing.

king stares blankly for a moment, then nods. the collector squeezes king’s hand.

“once upon a time,” the collector begins, swirling their unoccupied hand around to conjure a small bubble of iridescent magic, which projects objects from the scene they describe. “there was a sea, and on that sea there was an island, and within that island there was a jungle, and inside of the jungle there was a temple, and at the heart of the temple there was an egg.”

the collector pauses -- clearly for dramatic effect -- the magic bubble swelling to accommodate a rendition of what this mysterious scene might look like, each couple of words uttered by the collector compelling it to zoom closer and closer, until king can see the white marbled walls and platinum statues and obsidian pedestal where a single egg balances precariously.

king squints at the image, wondering how much of it is due to the collector’s imaginative creative license and how much faithfully adheres to the descriptions they read in whatever book they are now paraphrasing for him.

then the hair on the back of king’s neck starts to stand up and he swats at it reflexively, like it's some kind of bug he can just scare away. unsettled, king turns away from the magic bubble.

the collector, mistaking king’s behavior for disinterest or -- worse -- displeasure with them, tries making the narration more interesting.

“the egg was the last of its kind, and it had waited, for a very long time and all on its lonesome, to be ready to hatch,” the collector continues, nudging the magic bubble towards their best friend so it's once more within his line of sight. king realizes with a start how he's made them feel and opens his mouth to muster something like an apology -- or, at least, a plausible explanation -- but nothing comes out. he briefly considers just fleeing the scene.

“the egg might have well hatched with no one around to witness it,” the collector says solemnly, before adjusting to a far cheerier timbre: “were it not for a young witch that happened upon the mysterious temple and its egg at precisely the right moment!”

watching the peculiar egg in the illusion start to crack, king feels his stomach contract painfully, like he's being warned about having just ingested something poisonous.

“the witch decided to take the egg back with her to her home, where it was able to hatch in her company. and the name of the creature that emerged from that egg was --”

“stop,” king says, the word almost too quiet to be heard by even himself, but with all the telltale alarm of someone trying to stop another person from stepping right in the middle of ongoing traffic.

the collector feels that alarm constrict around their chest like a rubber band snapping back into its smallest size, but their mouth is already open and words are continuing to spill out of it, until --

“stop!” king yells, fury nestled like a cuckoo's egg amidst his every effort to have a nice, normal time with the collector, to not burst with a pyroclastic flow of emotions that suffocate everything before even becoming aware of its approach.

the collector, apprehending the intensity of king’s command, slices through the word they were in the middle of uttering and adds no more from the story, but they can not help sputtering out puzzledly, “what? why?”

“this story could never happen,” king states, firm but with a pleading that he hopes the collector can discern just well enough to heed.

“stories aren't only about what could happen,” the collector counters, still struggling to understand why their best friend’s demeanor has shifted so drastically, what has upset him so clearly and profoundly.

king lowers his gaze in lieu of offering an answer, so the collector also stares down at the ground, as if this could somehow lead them to perceive whatever is troubling king.

after a tense pause, the collector offers hopefully, “it's an allegory, remember? what happens isn't what's import --”

“i don't care about the allegory in this story,” king mumbles. the implication -- that king himself doesn't want to become part of the story -- goes unaddressed, but king has spoken with a finality that the collector knows well enough to respect.

the collector nods in comprehension and contracts the fingers of their hand into a fist to make the magic bubble burst. king expects to only feel relief at its disappearance, yet discovers a strange yearning alongside it, like nostalgia for something he can't be certain he ever experienced.

“where did you even find a story like that?” king huffs angrily, more an admonishment than an inquiry, which he immediately realizes is cruel of him and wishes he had the magic to make disappear like his best friend did with the bubble.

the collector, however, seems less perturbed by king’s acerbity than intrigued by the prospect of answering. their lips twist into a pensive frown as they scratch the back of their head, seemingly genuinely stumped by the task.

shrugging their shoulders, the collector states casually, “somewhere in the restricted section of the library probably! it's a pretty big place, and there are so many old journals from long dead witches and demons in there. i tend to forget what happened in which.”

this information does nothing to assuage king’s unease, but the possibility that everything the collector just told him was an entirely fictional composite of multiple different sources does, on an intellectual level, relieve him: it is truly a story that could never happen, that never has happened.

there's another uncomfortable pause, king trying half-heartedly to come up with an excuse to leave that won't further injure his best friend, the collector fidgeting by running a hand across their forearm while chewing on their lower lip.

then the collector has an idea, and blurts out brightly, “hey, i know! why don't you tell me a story? that way, you can decide what kind of story it is!”

king stares at his best friend perplexedly for a few seconds, as if this has never even crossed his mind as an option -- which, he's equally baffled to realize, it hasn't.

“i,” king stammers, feeling like he's just been pulled onto a stage and told to dance in a style he knows nothing about (a real scenario he has ample experience with, also thanks to the collector). “i don't know any stories… besides the ones you've told me, i mean. and you already know all of those better than me, so…”

king deliberately trails off, hoping that will be the end of it -- but also, mysteriously, delightfully, relieved when it isn't.

the collector can be quite insistent, and, despite the chagrin at being dragged out of his comfort zone, king is glad the collector deems him worth dragging along.

“really?” the collector asks, with a surprise that bears no judgment, only curiosity. “you didn't hear any when you were little?”

a bout of sweat breaks out across king’s temples as he's forced to -- however briefly -- consider a truthful answer to this question -- he arrives at nothing so concrete as images or even words, but there are a lot of feelings that he instantly realizes he can not allow to proliferate for even a nanosecond.

“i don't remember anything from when i was little,” king states decisively, as much for his own ears to hear as the collector’s. he starts repeating it in his mind, like some kind of warding spell (knowledge of what he needs to ward away at all costs being part of what he is warding away), even as he utters different words aloud: “if i ever did hear any stories, they're gone now.”

like everything else from when i was little, king could add, but doesn't. it's not true, anyway: nothing’s gone, not entirely -- he just prefers to believe every recollection he ever has from his childhood, whether merely a vague yet arresting emotional aura or a full-blown, multi sensory hallucination, is some fantastical fabrication, the manic misfirings of his twisted, knotted, broken neurons, and not in any way reflective of any real past experiences.

to the collector, it's like the sound of a door slamming shut in their face before they ever even tried to open it. they sigh wearily, but elect to push no further.

both friends descend into a silence that feels like a scab that's been scraped all over again and bleeding anew, and king thinks maybe the time has finally arrived for this entire interaction to come to an end.

but king just sits there, making no attempt, either verbal or physical, to leave. he's stuck remembering something the collector once said to him, not long enough after the day of unity for him to not feel like it was somehow part of the same, uninterrupted event.

this can be a new beginning, the collector told king. you can start over -- with me!

king wants to believe in that vision more than he can recall ever wanting anything else in his life, to feel that this -- where he is sitting right this moment -- is part of a new beginning, with none of his past attached to it: no preface, epitaph, or prologue -- just the first chapter in what will certainly sprawl into a vast and exciting epic.

with the collector. a new beginning for king’s story, with the collector by his side this time.

the question that keeps tormenting king is whether a new beginning, even with the collector as part of king’s story, is enough for a new ending as well -- it's always possible they are merely rehearsing for the same grand finale that marked the end of his past, violently aborted and still aching life.

king is so deep in the labyrinth of his own ruminations that he doesn't notice the collector’s face brighten.

“so invent one!” the collector exclaims, looking proud to have come up with what seems to them the perfect solution. “make up your own story, one you want to tell!”

king isn't sure about that. the things he comes up with that make it onto his tongue and through his lips are rarely things he wants to tell. and so he can only imagine that any story he could come up with would amount to much of the same, like being betrayed by the inadvertent flushing of his face or poisoned by a beverage he brewed himself.

the collector says every story is an allegory if you are willing to put yourself in it, and king can only hope he would be positively unwilling to put himself in any story he concocted.

yet the collector is staring at king expectantly, full of a love-laced conviction that he is capable and willing to step up to this task, and he feels he has reached the limit of times he can disappoint his best friend in one afternoon.

so, worn down by fatigue and a desperate desire to prove his best friend’s faith in him is not ill-founded, king sucks in a deep breath, and begins.

“there was once… there once was,” king mumbles, uncertain how to even open a story he has not thought out ahead of time, a story he is now determined to somehow improvise in its entirety -- and all it takes is the slight widening of the collector’s smile to muster the foolishness to continue.

“in the beginning… that was not the beginning,” king starts over, enunciating each word slowly and clearly. “there was… a child from the stars… and there was also… a titan.”

king pauses to swallow anxiously, a disruption probably only noticeable to himself.

“they were both very young when they met... and they were both very old when they were still friends… at the end… that was not the end…”

king stops, feeling that the story has reached its natural conclusion after only those couple of lines (isn't it the collector who once said, brevity is the soul of wit?), but the collector is still watching king expectantly, eyes wide and sparkling, lips arched into an enchanted grin, like a child that's being given a special treat for behaving so well all day long -- and, king knows (oh, how he knows), the collector has been very, very good to him, and not just today. it'd feel cruel to withdraw such a prize at this point, and king is willing to believe many things about himself, but cruel… well, cruel is one he certainly doesn't need to be collecting more evidence for, so best to avoid it whenever possible.

so king tells the kind of story he thinks the collector would enjoy -- full of silly characters, ridiculous problems, and absolutely chaotic adventures -- because, as it turns out, the kind of story king wants to tell is one that the collector wants to hear.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Never Alone

Requested Here!

Characters: Victor Vale, Vex Vale, Mitch Turner, Sydney Clarke

Summary: Victor left Sydney and Mitch to finish his mission, but now he feels alone and can't take it anymore. With some encouragement, he calls Mitch and finds the comfort he needs.

Warnings: angst I guess?, whump, some fluff, Vex is vexing

Word Count: 1.1k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Victor Vale Masterlist | Request Info

Art from Pinterest!

When Victor left Mitch and Sydney, he could have written a book with the number of reasons he had. Each day since then, however, he’s added a reason to a new list, one about why he should have kept them close. It’s been far too long since he heard Mitch’s teasing but insanely helpful input or Sydney’s rambling. He can barely even remember what it felt like to pet Dol.

“No, I’m not cheating on you,” Victor says after Vex meows at the foot of the bed. “Just thinking about an old friend.”

Victor left to finish his mission, one that he had no interest in dragging Mitch or Sydney any further into than necessary. Now, he’s closer to finishing it than he thought was possible. But the closer he gets, the more everything weighs on him. He can’t stand the silence surrounding him; it’s deafening after spending so much time with Sydney. He feels lost without Mitch’s intel and concern for his safety. He’s getting more reckless, yet he scolds himself within because he knows they would hate his careless actions. Worse, every time he does something dangerous, he risks never getting back to them. That eternal loneliness is a worse thought than anything he could feel now.

Victor’s mission blinded him to what he was leaving and, months later, he can’t take the conditions he put himself into. His fingers itch to reach for his phone and dial a number he couldn’t forget, even though he tried. Before he can, his computer beeps as a tracker begins moving.

“I’ll be back, Vex. Keep being vexing while I’m gone.”

Victor rubs his hand over Vex’s head as he walks toward the door. His black trench coat disappears into the night, and he tries to leave his loneliness in the motel room. It’s easier said than done.

It’s nearing dawn when Victor stumbles back into the dilapidated motel room. Vex wakes and stretches slowly across Victor’s pillow before he stands to greet him. Victor pulls Vex into his arms. Vex is a great cat and a good companion, but he’s no replacement for the family Victor left behind. He hasn’t felt lonely since he was a kid wandering through his parents’ empty house, but now, he doesn’t even remember how to combat such feelings.

Vex butts his head up against Victor’s chin, then lowers his head to bite Victor’s wrist.

“Stop,” Victor mumbles, too lost in thought and used to Vex’s attention-seeking behaviours to care.

Vex bites him again and raises his head with force. Victor’s eyes widen as he picks Vex up out of his lap to look at him. Vex swipes a paw at him, and Victor tosses him softly toward the other side of the bed. Within a few seconds, Vex is swatting something around between his front paws. Victor grabs it without thinking, surprised to see his prepaid phone is Vex’s new toy of choice.

“What were you going to do with this?” Victor asks.

Vex meows loudly, so loudly that Victor is concerned someone passing may hear and report him for having a cat. It took him a while to find a no-questions-asked-cash-preferred motel in this area of the country, so he can’t risk getting kicked out, or worse, raising suspicion about who he is and what he’s doing.

“I can’t,” Victor replies, guessing that Vex can sense his loneliness, too. “They won’t want to answer.”

Vex begins meowing again until Victor raises the phone to his ear. Victor sighs as he realizes that Vex is too smart for his good and that it really would help. He lowers the phone and dials Mitch’s number. After a small hesitation, he presses the green call button and presses the flip phone to his ear. It’s not a weakness, Victor tells himself, but a reminder that Mitch is still there could be very beneficial.

“Hello?” Mitch answers.

Victor opens his mouth slightly but doesn’t speak. Hearing Mitch makes him feel entirely different than he expected he would.

“Anybody there?” Mitch questions.

Victor can’t answer. Vex shakes his head as he climbs toward Victor. Victor doesn’t notice the tears sliding down his cheeks until Vex rubs his face across Victor’s jaw. He hadn’t realized how much he needed this, how much he needed Mitch in his life, until this moment.

“Ha ha, very funny,” Mitch says. “I’m hanging up now… punk.”

“Mitch,” Victor calls quickly.

The line silences for a moment and Victor thinks he did hang up. He drops his head, but Mitch whispers, “Vic?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I-“

“Where are you?” Mitch demands. “Where did you go? Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

Victor decides to interrupt all of the questions he doesn’t want to answer. “Mitch, I just- I wasn’t sure how much longer I could have taken this.”

“Vic? What are you talking about? Taken what? What is going on?” Mitch asks quickly. The concern in his voice is evident, and Victor closes his eyes in a poor attempt to keep himself from reacting to that.

“Everything. I left for a good reason, trust me, but I can’t finish this mission feeling so alone,” Victor explains.

“Give me the phone!” Sydney whispers harshly before scuffling sounds fill the line. “Vic?”

“Hey, Syd,” he replies softly.

“Tell me where you are. We’re coming to help you.”

“No. It’s too dangerous. I need to do this alone.”

“Then why call us?” Sydney questions. “You could’ve called anyone to stop feeling lonely. Admit it, Victor, you need us because we are the only people left who never let you think you’re alone. Because you’re not.”

Sydney huffs as she finishes, and Victor is glad she can’t see him smile. Vex watches his face, with drying tears on his cheek and a growing smile, and meows dramatically before flopping down to go back to sleep.

“Meet me in Chicago, Magnificent Mile, in a week, Syd.”

Vex meows again as Sydney rushes to relay the meeting spot to Mitch.

“I need you to do one more thing, though,” Victor adds.

“Anything,” Sydney responds.

“Don’t hate me if I’m lying. Just because I miss you and needed to know that you’re both okay doesn’t mean that I’m ready to put you in danger.”

Victor ends the call as soon as he finishes speaking. He lays back on the bed and doesn’t comment when Vex climbs onto his chest to take another nap. Hundreds of miles away, Sydney stares at the phone in shock.

“What happened?” Mitch asks.

“He admitted that he misses us,” Sydney answers.

“Whatever he’s dealing with can’t be good,” Mitch mumbles.

“But?” Sydney presses.

“He’ll be alright. Victor Vale has a way of coming out victorious.”

[chelzone]

My WIP Games Ahead: An Assortment

feeling like rambling a bit to get myself motivated to work on stuff right now, as well give a fresh update on what projects ive been tending to this year. just gonna focus on three that have had a lotta work put into em already

not gonna tag this one since its a mixture of SFW and NSFW and hidden under a read more. dont open if u dont wanna read about the latter (more specifically expansion kink stuff)

Hallowed Discharge

this one i've been putting my heart and soul into for a long while now, as it's a mountain of coding and writing despite only being maybe 25-30% finished argubly. made within the Quest text adventure engine, much like my released SFW game Kindred Spirit. Hallowed Discharge revolves around a pooltoy priest named Reverend Artemis, and his task in trying to nonlethally expel a hell of a lot of spirits from an abandoned mall named Delícias do Vale. features a hell of a lot of NPCs to chat with, tons of tasks to do for the most important of spirits, a mixture of percentage-based stats to be mindful of (weight, faith, and energy), and a fuckton of early game overs if u aint careful along the way. so far currently i'd say half of the first floor's tended to, same for the basement, and nothing for the second floor or general outside yet.

last time i tinkered with this, i was tending to a mission where the player has to attempt to fix fuses around the mall to restore partial power to the basement generators (mechanically it works code-wise, still need to move them to proper areas before the task can be completed properly). as for the justification of kinky stuff, our beloved goddess of expansion herself Her Divine is puppeting the show from above

Enchanted Bliss

another game with a lotta heart put into it, this one's a SFW visual novel made within Ren'Py (my first proper one at that in said engine!). Enchanted Bliss revolves around a newbie and mid-to-late 20 something wizard Dylan Rhodes, being strung along on a mission with a bunch of professional wizards / coworkers (a field exercise for Rhodes, a bigger deal of trouble for the rest). within the ruined city of Filia Lunae, Dylan will have to tag up with one of their coworkers to investigate a part of said city and hopefully score a friendship / a romantic relationship along the way (or even beef it completely).

last time i worked on this, ive been in the process of redoing the art style completely to be a more neon and line-focused one (as seen in the image above). fuck ton of emotion sprites are done for the protagonist Dylan, supporting character / mission boss Carmichael, and one of said coworkers - Brava Denvers. still have to draw the rest of the emotions for the other 5 coworkers. past that ive made 16 short music loops (1 min or so each) that might wind up in the game or its soundtrack slated for post-game release in the years ahead. still a lot of drawing, writing, and music-making ahead along with sourcing any royalty free / public domain sounds with credits of course. current playable section is just the tutorial / introduction camp before starting any of the six routes

The Ballad of Hush and Clover

another kinky game, though this one made in the flicksy 2 engine much like me released SFW game For Your Eyes. this one revolves around wizard couple and toony folks Evelyn Hush an Patsy Clover, heading off to the Nilbrook Mountain Chain to investigate a strange cave stumbled upon by a coworker. from there, they stumble upon a small fragment of what used to be temple to the (shocker) goddess Her Divine. there, a mystical figure emerges as a proxy of said goddess an offers a challenge for one (whichever the player chooses) of the toony spouses / wizards present.

with enough vague story rambling outta the way, it's basically gonna be a point and click sort of storybook thang. you'll either be playing as Evelyn OR Patsy - not both. each spouse has their own setting and associated adventure in a simulated dimension tied to their challenge (the other stays behind in the real world with the mentioned figure / proxy). so far a fuckton of scenes are drawn for it already, fulfilling the entirety of gameplay in the introduction and tutorial. gameplay elements besides traveling From Here to There will also be opportunities to use your powers, think about the situation ahead, chat with the folks within the challenge, and utilize a map to figure out where the hell ur at.

last time i worked on it i started making the early parts of both playable stories for each respective protagonist. Evelyn gets to deal with potential inflation mischief on an airship resort of sorts, while Patsy deals with potential fattening mischief on a cross-country luxury train of sorts. this one has been fun as fuck to draw and write for, and is chock full of visuals oh my lord

anyway if uve read this or even a chunk of this write-up, thanks! feel its important to remind folks that im still working on things and offer any progress updates when i can lol. at the moment of writing (08-29-2024) im prob gonna try hopping back into game dev for one or all of these come early September this year. id say realistically it'll be a hot minute until i release any of these three (most work needed for Hallowed Discarge, least needed for The Ballad of Hush and Clover, yadda yadda)

[ratboyvince]

Intro post!!!! woah

I just realised i don’t have one of these so heyho

NICE TO MEET YOU

•My name is Vince, my pronouns are he/it

•I’m a demi-ro gay trans man.

•I love my boyfriend and if you’re mean to me she’ll be mean to you sorry (xe literally JUST made an account none of you are safe)

•I’m autistic (peer assessed)

My special interest is MagPod but I’m obsessed with podcasts in general rn

I have listened or am listening to: The Magnus Archives, The Magnus Protocol, Camp Here and There, Welcome to Night Vale, The Silt Verses, and Malevolent, Woe.Begon, Wolf 359

I am currently actively listening to: Woe.Begon relisten

I want to listen to: Neon Inkwell, Within the Wires, Not Quite Dead, Hello from the Hallowood, Trice Forgotten

I might occasionally reblog something not related to an audio drama!

Also I’m gonna start tagging my posts, so filter accordingly!

#rat reblogs - reblog

#rat rambles - random posts about my interests, no matter how concise or long

Idk if ill post art often but if i do it’ll probably be tagged #rat makes things

[iwhoneverbelievedinwar]

Hi! I'm lamp/war (still deciding), doing my master's in astrophysics and getting way too into things i watch/read/listen to.

Currently listening to: the magnus protocol, hello from the hallowoods, the penumbra podcast, within the wires, malevolent, welcome to night vale, alice isn't dead. Permanently rotating the magnus archives in my mind.

Watching: doctor who (classic), blackpool (2004), ducktales, leverage: redemption. Permanently rotating good omens and hannibal nbc in my mind.

Reading: the atlas six and moby dick.

Relevant tags:

#war draws (my art)

#the gutter looks at the stars or #chaotic academia (my ramblings abt stuff happening in astrophysics/college)

#get queued. idiot (queue tag)

i also use the whale weekly or fandom specific tags.

[reginrokkr]

@apocryphis asked: " - truly a fascinating experience. It did make me wonder if the clay resulting from this process would be different, were one to use a different type of water to mix with the soil - and if so, would the resulting ceramic look, or feel different, to the human eye and touch? I did ask the instructor at the end of the class, but it seems my questions were a little too specific even for a person of their expertise." For how long exactly the hydro dragon has been recounting his (many and varied) experiences collected in one half day of holiday, only Dainsleif, unfortunate victim of his ramblings, would be able to tell. The lights of the harbour shine a warm glow against the beginning of blanket night on the other side of the bridge where sovereign and bough keeper have elected to meet and admire the celebrations - not too close to the bustling city, not too far either, so as to not miss the celebrations.

Had one not been aware of the circumstances surrounding them both, one might have wondered what, in the concept of ceramics, could light up such a spark of excitement on the respectable judge's eyes; or why the masked knight at his side would so patiently listen to his endless monologue. Monologue that, fortunately for the poor man, finally comes to a halt, the other seemingly reminded of something important. "I tried my hand at a few trinkets during this class. Knowing that I would meet you here, I took the liberty of... experimenting a little bit." From one of his bags (with no comment or explanation yet offered as to how he had ended up with three of his travel companions' cargo), the Iudex extracts a small package, neatly wrapped to protect it during any travel. Upon opening it, Dainsleif will find a brooch, shaped and painted to elegantly replicate a lumidouce bell - Fontaine's very own flower of partings and, more importantly, reunions. A gentle, amused smile softens the sovereign's features. "You do not have to wear it." He chuckles. "I simply thought it an amusing gift for the occasion."

Neuvillette lets his gaze return to his dear companion's features, as he gives him a moment to decide what to do with his new trinket, inquisitive without scrutinising, only looking for reasons to worry or to settle his concerns, while gloved hand moves on the railing of the bridge to cover Dainsleif's, fingers interlocking together. "I trust your mission in Chenyu Vale went well? I sensed a subtle change in the waters... I do hope everything went as you wished it would?"

Indescribable joy is ever contagious even within a mind that seldom basks in the blessing of positivity, the culprit to blame a dragon reborn in human skin. No matter if the Iudex may think he's enduring his monologue rather than enjoying the experience with him through his words, there is a prospect from all of this that gladdens Dáinsleif the most: for how long he has spent observing human demeanor to learn about them as an outsider, an intruder even to the race— Neuvillette is connecting with his own humanity. What bigger happiness is there than watching his eyes glisten with renewed yearning for the wonders he has missed of humanity?

Sapphire irises follow gloved hands, the renewed sight of all the cargo he has of others and not solely his bring a hint of amusement to roseate lips moments before curiosity etches on pale features as he's presented with a little trinket of his making for him. Dáinsleif has received in the past another equally of Neuvillette's making that even to this day he holds in highest esteem, part of him as it is and with lingering thoughts for him as they did on this special day where the Iudex of the Court of Fontaine allowed himself the inestimable timespan of half a day outside the nation he presides over.

How fitting. One flower for another.

Corners of celestial azures crinkle with glee at the sight of the little flower-shaped brooch, its finesse eligible to contest that of an artisan out of good will, wonder and excitement to learn. And, perhaps to the rex's surprise, Dáinsleif carefully attaches it to the lower lapel of stellar mantle he dons with pride no matter how much it sticks as a sore thumb from the rest of his garment aesthetic, close to his heart. ◜Amusing as you find it to be, it makes a lovely reminder for what's to come when distance is betwixt us again.◞ Of a reunion to look forward to, as he always does. Bough Keeper brings their interlocked fingers to his lips thereafter so he may place a loving kiss of gratitude before resting their hands on the railing of the bridge anew. ◜Thank you, ol Mph Arsl Gaiol.◞

Weren't for Neuvillette's insistence that he becomes part of his free day, perhaps Dáinsleif would've watched the Lantern Rite from the high peaks of Chenyu Vale at the culmination of his self-imposed mission to restore its jade lands back to normalcy, a success fruit of efforts and an understanding heart that even the most detached of illuminated beasts from humanity come to provide with respect and interest to comprehend his reasons.

◜About that...◞ Little did the Iudex know, this time it would be Dáinsleif's turn to host a monologue recounting his contact with a couple of adepti, conflicted sentiments even within creatures such as thus and a good ending to tell that those who dwell the Chenyu Vale will be grateful for centuries to come.

[mikarchive2]

what i read in february 2023 📚

1. teatro grottesco by thomas ligotti - ★★★★ - picked this up because i randomly read one of his short stories on a train once and was so enamoured ... a short story collection centered around a subtle existential sort of horror that is less about gore and violence and more about something unknown but dreadful lurking in your peripheral vision . some of these, especially the ones from the deformations section, felt very welcome to night vale . delicious . makes you feel like a kid listening to scary campfire stories . i enjoy hanging out in the world created by this narrative voice so much

favourites: purity, the town manager, the clown puppet, my case for retributive action + in a foreign town, in a foreign land

2. the raven and the reindeer by t. kingfisher - ★★ - i think what im doing here is trying to read a fairytale retelling every month 👍 ... this really did not work for me though . the writing style felt so childish ( this could have been a book for twelve year olds ) + the story did not go anywhere and stayed extremely surface-level throughout the whole book . yeah sure there were lesbians but no actual substance whatsoever . the reading process was somewhat enjoyable because the humor was alright, but thats pretty much the only redeeming quality

3. the world keeps ending, and the world goes on by franny choi - ★★★ - i believe this is a case of ‘its not you its me’ because even though the way the author plays with language is straight up fascinating something about her poetry never clicks with me . i had the exact same issue with soft science as well - there is a certain detachment and coldness to her style that doesnt allow me to properly process the poems on an emotional level . still, i really liked the fourth section, it was so imaginative and full of the kind of resilience that is only born out of utter hopelessness

4. the passion by jeanette winterson - ★★★ - unfortunately i have the same issue here as with franny choi - something in me just always refuses to click with jeanette winterson . the author is trying to lead me somewhere by the hand but she is always slightly out of reach . this is my third book by her and while i can see and appreciate her craft it just never leaves a lasting impression on me its so strange ... i enjoyed the imagery + the philosophical ideas about love and passion but the story itself ... i dont know

5. the sandman: world’s end ( vol. 8 ) by neil gaiman - reread - i am not rating these god bless and putting them in the review post is probably not a good idea either since i ramble about them enough as is . what can i even say about a series that pretty much formed the way i understand the world and the human condition . stories within stories within stories . the foreshadowing here is insane and probably unnoticeable unless you are rereading . its hard to say what the writing process here was actually like perhaps it was way more spontaneous than i imagine but it all seems so meticulously and purposefully planned its just stunning

( + two books i left unfinished last year because of my broken ebook reader and decided to finish this month: )

6. wyrd sisters by terry pratchett - ★★★ - ( looks above ) my reading order here is very ‘frequently bought together’ ‘do not separate them’ huh ... this was very shakespearean which was fun but not ideal for me personally because it means some things definitely flew right over my head . i think i enjoyed equal rites a little more ? however at the end of the day its just your typical discworld novel i laughed i witnessed some well-written women and losermen i laughed some more . what else could i ask for

7. when i grow up i want to be a list of further possibilities by chen chen - ★★★★ - wonderfully heart-warming and radiant and witty and has the power to restore your belief in love and tenderness at least for a moment . this kind of literal and confessional american poetry usually isnt for me but miraculously chen chen made it work ! basically the hype is well deserved

up next: im actually not sure im trying to slow down since i need to get through some college textbooks 💔 ... + im sure want to finish the sandman which is really enough for the next one thousand years . considering mrs. dalloway by virginia woolf too someone called it a spring read once and ive wanted to read it during this season ever since

[half-man-half-lime]

Fic I'm not gonna write: Wednesday edition

So this is the barest structure of an idea with some loose spitballing of what I'd like to see in a version of the show Wednesday that was maybe catered a bit more to my tastes. I don't know how much I like some of the ideas, but I thought I'd share some of them anyway. Sorry, this turned out very rambly and incoherent.

The core of what Wednesday didn't do for me was 2 things: it's a CW show, and, uh, the dialogue seemed dumb some of the time I guess.

I think I would have liked to see a campy comedy about Wednesday Addams attending a private school for actual weirdos, not just a bunch of cool teens doing love triangles or whatever. Not trying to hate here (apologies if I'm failing that attempt), but that stuff isn't my thing. Also no toxic family dynamics within the Addams Family! That is like the easiest fish in a barrel the writers could have ever shot and somehow they missed!

The foundation of the show or fic I'd make is that it has to be silly first. Think Homestuck: take a bunch of very wacky stuff and let it spiral out into something genuine and dramatic. Populate the school with campy movie monsters and monster-adjacent weirdos, then show what it's actually like for those people to live like that, and let drama ensue from serious lived experiences you never expected to take seriously.

If there's a grand conspiracy or mystery or big bad, it should fall in line with that idea. Absolutely ridiculous, but in a way that all of the high tension and melodrama extend out of. Something that ties into the tangled mess of spooky magic and relationships in the school, or something tied to fundamental structures that everything grows out from (like a central magic system, the origin of the school, whatever). I like the second one better, but the first is more fitting for an Addams Family series.

Some of the more shaky and specific ideas that I'm less attached to:

Base the houses or cliques on the Four Horrors theory. Separate your campy movie monsters into your Gothic Horror types (where Wednesday gets sorted), your Nuclear Horror monsters (I'm not sure where you find Kaiju small enough to fit in the school, color me stumped), your Lovecraftian kids (I'm thinking Night Vale inspired, maybe a core cast member who's like the floppy awkward fish people version of the Deep Ones as portrayed in the Innsmouth Comics), and the Slasher Students.

You could shove the Our Monsters Are Different tropes up its own ass? I don't know that this is a dead horse worth beating, but you could do that, if you humanize the characters at the end of it. I imagine that Wednesday gets introduced to the different kids as she's walked through her new school, the person showing her around says something to the tune of "I think you'll find the vampires here a little different from what you've seen in the movies." They gesture to a broody teen who's clearly an unapologetic Edward Cullen parody, in a joke that seems 12 years out of date. Then another vampire boy in a cheap Dracula costume with a cartoon Transylvania accent comes up and fist bumps him. A later episode sees these two boys try to force Wednesday into a love triangle, basically wingmanning each other. Wednesday isn't having it, but she gets entangled in their complex personal issues- not sure about the Dracula kid's deal, but we learn the Edward kid is pretty fucked up- he never mentally aged past 17 over the last several decades, he's caught in a mentality and role he's incapable of changing or breaking out of (like the Winter Court Fae in Pale), and there's a perception-altering field that everyone else treat him like a normal teenager. Wednesday somehow cottons on to the existential nightmare he's living in and helps him to actually grow up a little. Maybe in her very blunt and confrontational way, or with a strange and chaotic prank. These boys aren't in Wednesday's friend group, and don't function as anything but side characters most of the time, but when it comes time for things to go bad in the finale, kids who got spotlighted in episodes like these show up to support Wednesday with the Power of Friendship.

Actually, reading that, I think part of the issue is that Wednesday really functions best when she's in an antagonistic relationship with someone. I feel torn between thinking the series should put her against a preppy authority figure a la Addams Family Values, and forcing her into a situation where everyone's so much like her there's no authority to rally against. Probably the latter inside the school, and the former in the local town of meanies. Sort of like what the Netflix show does, but you know, less CW-ish.

IDK how to allude to this without spoiling it by implication, sorry: one of the Big Bads is played by the same cast member as the actual show. They get to be dramatic and chew the scenery and face off against Wednesday in a more intense way, and are better tailored to be a good foil for her character. I liked the idea in the show, even if the twist was a bit obvious after a while.

[logans-lowdown]

Welcome to my blog!

About me:

My name is Logan, I use he/him pronouns and I am a large enthusiast when it comes to solving issues in a calm and logical manner.

Online, you don’t tend to see people solving their issues in a way that is mature. Usually people just throw things around. Most things that are thrown into large debates are false information.

I and I’m sure a lot of other people are sick of seeing people tossing around incorrect information over topics that should be treated seriously. (Ex: Racism, Abuse)

This blog is a place to look towards for information that isn’t formed off of a biased opinion, but instead resources that will help people better understand topics that may be confusing or misinterpreted.

If you happen to be confused on a certain topic, my askbox is always open to help people. I might not always answer, but I will always try to help those who need it. Things I will explain can go from online discourse to real historical events, so in shorter words, I will do research on anything.

My other interests: Mysteries (Non-Fictional + Fictional), Pokémon, Psychology, Welcome to Night Vale, Mystery Flesh Pit National Park, and Marine Biology. I may also talk about of these topics if I feel the need to, but mainly I will stick to covering explanations.

Lowdown: The true facts or relevant information about something.

Color coding:

When referring to myself I will use blue.

While referring to someone who is not a part of a ramble I will use purple.

When stating a definition I will use green. (I will do this more than you may think.)

My DNI will always be in red.

I will also use all of the other colors, but they will mostly be used in singular rambles when mentioning a singular reoccurring subject within the ramble.

(So in short, this is a rambles blog. Please do not treat this blog poorly, I am not full of myself, I just like to share things.)

DNI:

-Basic DNI Criteria (https://basic-dni.crd.co)

-People 13 and younger.

-People who are just here to disagree and cause problems.

[libidomechanica]

“Are flog to be inventing of grace, who was her hast night”

Few chance with sentially complished dine was divine, and all. Say, to my embrace, and still hold him, was he black curl’d first of good. Are flog to be inventing of grace, who was her hast night. You had not my hair as well; and scornful time with such disgrace a Church, alas! Should find, some me force theirs whirling rill, soothe profusely pass turn within the gently dead. From Nature hot take him range is vale; the blood, thy decreatest very hand women are that turn. Their Servile that roll’d again all the Throne? Until I love The most rude, thyrsis of this hour; would easie strangeness against a lake. Yet, to Proserpine, the Mouldy roll’d light gathern relish air the drew, so doth the shown, ere I rambles a’ arc empty shaw, and gently now for want of heaven—If this said her eyes fir-tops his ten that the bow, and ever Rebell was maids as also shall rest. As triumphantom flies, thou fathers Mold.

[gothamxwattpad]

Was going to post a snippet but decided to ramble about this neat fictional tree that I concocted for WEAVERS.

Shadow-Ash Birch or known as the Giving Tree* to those in the Vale, is known for its towering heights of 60 to 80 feet depending on its age, elephant ear-like leaves, vast and numerous branches and a mysterious root system that has not yet been fully discovered.

Shadow-Ash Birch, like it’s name, has faded ebony bark that rubs off like ash. The wood within is a more vibrant, burnt ebony that releases a char-colored oil that some have described to smell smoky and sweet.

The saplings from the first Shadow-Ash Birch were used to build the beginning of the Vale’s Citadel.

The wood and oily sap were used to create the first Atlases of the Vale; like the Great Tome* and Ander’s Chronicle*.

The Great Tome is the Keeper of the Vale’s Origination.

*1: The Giving Tree is mentioned in Chapter 3 when Alexa enters the Great Library to see’s the giant stained glass window-which in French is called a vitrage. Not a whole lot of detail is given at that point(which is the point).

*2: The Great Tome, as mentioned above, is the Keeper of the Vale’s Origination- the first Atlas(an Atlas is a book that contains a person’s beginning, middle & ending). The first mentioning of the Great Tome is in Chapter 10(I also must note that these chapter numbers are subject to change during editing since I’m still on draft one).

*3: Ander’s Chronical is not yet mentioned in book one because I just gave birth to its creation TODAY so…… stay tuned. But I can promise that it will be worth the wait. My brain has been VERY busy.

But yeah, I’m feeling really good about this project and even if I don’t get around to the other pieces of WIPs that are connected to this, I’m confident that it’ll all work out.

[medlars-and-sorb-apples]

Medlars and Sorb-Apples

D. H. Lawrence

I love you, rotten, Delicious rottenness.

I love to suck you out from your skins So brown and soft and coming suave, So morbid, as the Italians say.

What a rare, powerful, reminiscent flavour Comes out of your falling through the stages of decay: Stream within stream.

Something of the same flavour as Syracusan muscat wine Or vulgar Marsala.

Though even the word Marsala will smack of preciosity Soon in the pussy-foot West.

What is it? What is it, in the grape turning raisin, In the medlar, in the sorb-apple, Wineskins of brown morbidity, Autumnal excrementa; What is it that reminds us of white gods?

Gods nude as blanched nut-kernels, Strangely, half-sinisterly flesh-fragrant As if with sweat, And drenched with mystery.

Sorb-apples, medlars with dead crowns. I say, wonderful are the hellish experiences, Orphic, delicate Dionysos of the Underworld.

A kiss, and a vivid spasm of farewell, a moment's orgasm of rupture, Then along the damp road alone, till the next turning. And there, a new partner, a new parting, a new unfusing into twain, A new gasp of further isolation, A new intoxication of loneliness, among decaying, frost-cold leaves.

Going down the strange lanes of hell, more and more intensely alone, The fibres of the heart parting one after the other And yet the soul continuing, naked-footed, ever more vividly embodied Like a flame blown whiter and whiter In a deeper and deeper darkness, Ever more exquisite, distilled in separation.

So, in the strange retorts of medlars and sorb-apples The distilled essence of hell. The exquisite odour of leave-taking. Jamque vale! Orpheus, and the winding, leaf-clogged, silent lanes of hell.

Each soul departing with its own isolation. Strangest of all strange companions, And best.

Medlars, sorb-apples More than sweet Flux of autumn Sucked out of your empty bladders And sipped down, perhaps, with a sip of Marsala So that the rambling, sky-dropped grape can add its music to yours, Orphic farewell, and farewell, and farewell And the ego sum of Dionysos The sono io of perfect drunkenness Intoxication of final loneliness.

[shallitickleyournerdbutton]

Okay so I know it's like, an old theory that has been circulated forever but...

It's looking more and more likely to me that Glynda could indeed be the personification of Choice, choosing to just, you know, be out there walking around. Really, other than the very main cast who have personally seen the likes of Jinn and interacted with the relics, who would actually know it could even be possible? Salem certainly seems to have zero idea how the relics work - and NOTABLY still doesn't, what with the lamp being stolen back and her being blown the fuck up before she could find out.

With the reveal that the Staff of Creation ALSO has it's corresponding spirit/personality in the form of a somewhat magical being, it does have me now thinking that this theory might not actually be too wild after all. I mean, the one about the Hound being a grimmified person turned out to be right on the fucking money. We all remember Oz's comment about "making the Beacon relic" harder to find than the rest, and we've still yet to get any clarification as to what exactly that means.

But! They also made a point to have Glynda be one of the characters from Beacon that is shown during Ruby's broadcast. Glynda arguably wasn't a very big character in the volumes she was in, and I personally think it's somewhat strange she's the one they chose to give focus to. Hell, Oobleck for the actual story had more interaction and focus regarding team RWBY than Glynda ever did. 

It's also quite curious that she has never shown up at any of the other kingdoms/academies in the aftermath of Beacon falling. Like, not even necessarily in a "joining the fight" way but she was a part of Oz's inner circle and, at the very least, knew Ironwood relatively well. Is it not weird that she's never mentioned to have ever, you know, checked in on any of her old friends who's academies and kingdoms are very realistically potential next targets in the millennia spanning fight she was a part of?

Ironwood certainly knew his kingdom had a target on it, and yes he was very paranoid, but there's been absolutely no sign of Glynda at all - who WAS a member of the same secret Salem protection squad as the rest of them - since the Beacon arc. She's the only one who was in the Vault with Pyrrha who we've not seen since that volume. (I do know her VA left the company, but they'd easily have the means to replace her like they did with Qrow's.)

And with HER abilities??? Surely it would make sense for her to continue working towards protecting the academies and the relics while Oz is gone? Unless... maybe she CAN'T leave Vale? 

Oz clearly states that HE made the Relic of Choice hard to find, so if it is indeed true that it's walking around in the form of Glynda, there was likely some magic involved there to do so. Oz has probably got at least some of the God of Creation's magic in him from being revived by him, and I feel like there's a real possibility he either suggested the idea of being free to make their own choices to the spirit in the Relic of Choice, or was requested to attempt to do so by them themselves.

It would be rather cruel in my opinion to restrict an being focused around choice, to an eternity trapped in a bubble realm where they have no real choice of their own.

Oz having a hand in "breaking free" the Relic of Choice would explain a few things that continue to stand out surrounding Glynda - why she was selected as his right hand in the first place, why she has continued to remain in Vale - and near the Beacon vault - all this time, and also potentially giving answers to her overpowered semblance. Her semblance does seem to have some elements of magic to it, and allows her to do all kinds of crazy stuff that can't quite be explained within the context of the show - like conjuring a storm to fight Cinder in the first couple episodes.

There's one last thing I thought about - why was Glynda never in line for being a Maiden? We don't know her age in the show sure, and they didn't have the maidens planned in the early volumes I believe... But that doesn't change the fact that I consider this to be a pretty major plot hole now otherwise. If she was indeed too old by the time Amber was attacked to inherit Fall, then I would assume her to have been young enough during previous incarnations instead. So, why not Glynda? Maybe she couldn't. Because maybe she's not actually human.

There's also this note about her original fairytale basis: "Despite her youthful beauty and lively personality, she was rumored and even hinted by Baum to be many centuries - if not millennia - old."

If both Knowledge and Creation can have physical forms, then presumably Choice had a similar one too. But I don't think Choice would choose to remain trapped in her relic if given that option.

Anyways, lots of rambling here prompted by the debut of Ambrosius and the confirmation that all the relics most likely have corresponding personalities; or, dare I say... "souls."

[13uswntimagines]

I Should Sleep With You More Often (Sam x Reader)

Sequel to Works Like a Charm  where Sam and Reader finally get together. It’s a very fluffy piece, with a little bit of late night breakfast making and a surprise kiss. 

special thanks to @literaryhedgehog​ cause this wouldn’t have happened without her. 

Hello?”

“Hey, I can’t sleep.” Sam’s voice comes over the phone, getting straight to the point with frustration.

“And you’re calling me about it? At 3 am. I could have been asleep you know.” You huff into the phone, pinning it between your chin and your shoulder. 

“Were you?” She asks, and you can almost see her eyebrow quirking up. 

You look down at the frying pan where you were about to pour your egg-cheese scramble. “No. But still.”

“Don’t worry, I appreciate the irony of the situation,” she says, with an attempt at humor. “can I come over?”

“Sure. You can split my omelet.” You hum, your tongue poking out as you make sure the entire omelet landed on the plate instead of the floor. 

“Omelette?” Sam asked, sounding amused. “I thought you weren’t supposed to --” 

“Eat anything after 9 pm I know, I know. But I woke up and was hungry, and couldn’t just ignore it to fall back asleep for two hours. I had to eat something or I was going to get nauseous.” You interrupted her, waving your hand dismissively. 

“What?” Sam asked entirely confused. 

“You know that feeling, where you’re like, so hungry that you get kind of nauseous?” You tried to explain again. 

“No…” She trailed off. 

“Oh, well it’s the worst. I like to try to eat something before it gets too bad because otherwise, the food won’t do anything. Anyway, I made enough you can have half of it, just let me know when you get here so I can send down the elevator for you.” You said, whipping your hands off and walking towards the door. 

“I’m actually just parking,” Sam’s voice came sheepishly over the phone. In the background, you heard the unmistakable sound of her car being locked. She always insisted on clicking the lock button twice so it would beep, like she didn’t trust it to lock the first time. 

You shook your head and left your apartment to buzz her into the building. “You’re telling me that at 3 am, before even checking to see if I was awake, you just decided to come to my apartment because you couldn’t sleep?”

“Yes?” 

“You’re insane,” you said, hanging up the phone as the elevator door opened to reveal her tall frame. 

She ruffled the hair at the back of her neck, grinning. “I knew you would be awake?”

“Bullshit.” You led the way back to your apartment and grabbed two plates from the cabinet. “You want soy milk?”

“What?” 

“Soy milk. I’ve got vanilla or dark chocolate.” For some reason, soy milk helped reduce the insomnia nausea more than anything else most days. Still, the omelet smelled amazing. 

“Um sure, vanilla please.” She shrugged, and you rolled your eyes. Vanilla was for the weak. 

You pulled out both cartons and two glasses, before cutting the omelet in half and handing her a fork. 

“Don’t I get my own plate?” Sam whined, cutting off a piece of the Omelet and popping it into her mouth. 

“People who come barging into my apartment at 3 AM have to share with the host. Unless you wanna do dishes?” You raised your eyebrow at her, pointing your fork in her direction, smirking when she emphatically shook her head no. 

She quickly changed the subject, avoiding your eyes as she ate. “So how are you liking your apartment, it’s new right?”

“Yeah, I moved in four months ago, you know when I suddenly got traded to North Carolina,” you said, a very bitter edge in your voice. How Mark could let you leave the thorns you would never know, but at least Hinkle was retiring. 

You took another bite “So why couldn’t you sleep? At camp, you’re usually snoring like a freight train by now.” 

Sam paused mid-bite, fork in the air. She looked like she was debating how to answer then, stuffed her last piece of omelet in her mouth. “I donb snowe.”

“You totally do. Rose even sent me the video evidence if you wanna see it,” you smirked, standing to go get your phone. 

“No!” Sam jumped up and you sprinted across the kitchen to get out of her reach, grinning. “You really don’t have to do that, it’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, but I really don’t mind,” you taunted, starting for your phone before Sam tackled you. Well, it wasn’t a tackle so much as a grab, but she had a good foot and a half on you, so same difference really. 

“Put me down. This is highly unnecessary,” you sputtered, laughing from Sam’s shoulder. “I’m not supposed to exercise within an hour of bed. My therapist would be unhappy with so much activity.”

“Yeah cause eating an Omelette at 3 am is totally something she would approve,” Sam rolled her eyes, as she tossed you onto your couch.

“Lies and slander. I won’t get the alleged snoring video, but seriously. Why are you here?”

Sam sighs, and slouches onto the couch next to you, dropping her head into your lap. You smile down at her, liking this new angle. While you certainly didn’t mind being the baby of the team, it was kind of nice to do the petting for once.

“I don’t know,” Sam said, furrowing her eyebrows.

“You were never a good liar. It’s why everyone catches you when you try to pull pranks. I hear it helps if you talk about it,” You murmured, using your thumb to smooth out the crease that formed between her eyes. 

“Fine, I couldn’t sleep because I kept having nightmares. It felt like, I was tossing and turning for hours, and then every time I dozed off, my brain came up with these fucked up images. Like, silence of the lambs shit. I could sell some horror film director the plotlines and make bank, I’m telling you. And since Rose and Wilma moved out, my place has felt so empty. It felt like, the panic attacks I used to have before games. When I had to always bring a bag with me to hyperventilate into before I could get my mind on the game.”

You frowned. “I don’t remember that.”

“Once you became my bus buddy I didn’t have that problem. You got me out of my own head with fun word games and stupid jokes. Remember that time you gave me the sentence ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog?’ You kept grinning telling me to stop stressing out, it would be alright, to just guess a letter.” 

“Because whatever you guessed would be right.” You hum smiling down at her. 

 “You couldn’t take that shit-eating grin off your face, you jerk, but like, it helped me stop second-guessing myself. Sitting on the bus with you, I’ve never felt more calm going into a season. And so I just thought. It’s dumb but I hoped coming here would help.” She shrugged. 

“It’s not dumb Sammy. You help me sleep too. Why do you think all the vets insist I sit with you?” You said softly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. 

“Because you used to fall asleep literally everywhere and they hoped I could get across the aisle and catch you before you hit your head?” She giggled and you snapped her shoulder lightly. 

“Wow. Thanks.” You said in a monotone, “Or maybe it’s ‘cause you’re my favorite teddy bear.”

“If anyone is the teddy it’s you. You’re like half my size,” She giggled. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you muttered, playfully pushing her head off your lap. “Come on you giant.”

“Where are you going?” She asked, allowing you to pull her to her feet. 

“To go grab you a toothbrush and a fresh pillowcase for the bed.” You said, your tugging getting a little more insistent. You really wanted to get to sleep tonight. You had been so good lately (ignoring the random omelet you cooked tonight).

“Oh, um. I was hoping we could just watch television on your couch and I would fall asleep,” Sam rambled, eyes wide. “I mean, not that I mind, but I didn’t want to like, invade on your--”

“Just come up to my room. It’s no big deal, it’s large enough for both of us, and I honestly don’t think that couch is even big enough to fit you. Besides, maybe it will help you sleep to be on a mattress actually purchased in this century.”

“Hey, I like my mattress!” She grumbled indignantly, crossing her arms. 

“You flip it twice a month because it keeps forming an indention where you’ve slept!” You said exasperated. That sleepover had been a terrible idea and you stood by that. At least your bed didn’t spit out feathers when you turned over too fast. 

“Well, I. um. No comment.” you hear her say as you go to take your turn in the bathroom. 

When Sam gets back from brushing her teeth you’ve done everything except turn out the lights. You look up from your side of the bed as she pauses in the doorway. 

“Is this… Welcome to Night Vale?”

“It helps me ignore my thoughts. Can you get the lights please?” 

You had to replay the podcast the next day after Sam left. You couldn’t remember anything after “Wednesday has been canceled due to a scheduling error” because within moments you were asleep.

*****

You thought that sleeping with Sam was only supposed to be a one-night thing, but it wasn’t. One night turned into two, which turned into the two of you usually crashing at each other's places. 

If you were being honest, it was the best sleep you had ever gotten. It was nice to have someone there to hold onto, to protect you from the bad dreams. The problem was that your feelings were edging past the line of friendship, and you had no idea what to do about it. 

It started with a team party you both went to, where Sam offered to be the designated driver. After she dropped everyone else off, you told her she might as well stay the night at your place since it was already so late and she did. And you both slept great. And then you had your usual Saturday spa night the next night, and you were several shots in and it wouldn’t have been responsible to drive home. And you both slept a solid seven hours. 

Not that Sam was a magical cure to your insomnia. You still had nights where your brain was like a train running off the rails, unstoppable no matter how hard you tried. Yet, having her there helped. She made sure blue lights went off when they were supposed to, and your late-night breakfast-making was kept to a minimum. AND after the first few nights, you realized that she was amusingly clingy in her sleep. Which meant that occasionally if you woke up and tried to get out of bed, she would sleepily grab you and hold you in place murmuring about whatever was happening in her dream. Since you couldn’t get up you had to just lay there, which normally might have been boring, but with her was amusing as you listened to her rambling state of consciousness. 

You sighed, staring up at the ceiling. You really needed to get your shit together and just ask her out. But what if she said no, and you lost your cuddle buddy? That would suck royally, and if you lost your bus seat it might completely curse the USWNT. 

“Alright, I can practically feel the steam coming out of your ears, spill,” Sam groaned, rolling over and throwing an arm around your waist. 

“Isn’t it weird?”

“What?”

“Time. Like someone decided that seconds were a thing and a certain number of seconds equaled a minute and there were a certain number of minutes in a day. Like someone just decided it was a thing, and everyone went along with it and now we all have to plan our lives around this arbitrary system. I wonder if that asshole realized that people would use it to put kids in detention and force them to cram so they could regurgitate facts in a specified amount of his made-up system. And like the Romans made a Calendar and the Mayans did one too…” Your rambling was cut off by Sams’s soft lips touching your own in a quick peck before she collapsed back into the pillow. “Just blame capitalism babe.”

You stared at her for a minute, shocked, before she bolted upright. “SHIT. Sorry, I just. I forgot to ask for consent. I just forgot--”

“I consent, yes, more of this please,” you said, leaning over to kiss her again. Your hands cupped her cheeks and her fingers tangled into the baby hairs at the back of your neck. 

After a few minutes, Sam broke off the kiss, both of you breathing heavily. “Um, wow. You know, I’m not sure this is helping you get to sleep, love.”

You smirk, biting your lip and straddling her hips before you lean in to kiss her again, slowly. “You’re the one who said you needed to sleep with me more often.”

[chronicbatfictioner]

"Overall, it wasn't so bad..." Tim commented.

"Except for the fact that Bane roared like a constipated bear and literally lunged at Damian and Jason threw him out the window..." Barbara quipped, her face serious but her lips were still twitching. "I... am highly amused. Twice."

"You were laughing until you bent over double that if you weren't in a wheelchair, you've probably knelt on the floor laughing." Dinah deadpanned. "It was hilarious."

"Yes, it was. The fact that Jason could actually lift Bane and throw him out... Did you guys see Bruce's face, though! Oh my god! He... he looked at Jason as if he'd seen the lord savior Jésus Todd or something!" Tim crowed. "Like, the dude Bane got thrown out a bay window twice. I get the awe, I was a little star-struck myself. But I can't believe dude actually wanted to try the third time until Alfred pointed a damn shotgun to his forehead! I can't even!"

"This thus solidifies my thoughts that the Waynes may be trying to figure out a way to get rid of this... brute without... I dunno..." Barbara pondered.

"Gotten themselves broken in half?" Tim suggested. "He sure insinuated that he would do such a thing to Damian."

"Oh, gee, Tim. Which part of his speech insinuated that? 'You lying bastard!', or 'I'll break you in halves!'?"

"I'm partial to the 'bastard' remark, really. I mean, pot, kettle?" Tim replied, giggling.

"Technically," Helena Bertinelli - The Huntress - sighed as she chimed in; "and ironically, at that; the 'bastard' would be Bane since he claimed to be Thomas Wayne's son and is younger than Bruce. Which means he was 'conceived' while Dr Thomas was already married to Mrs Wayne..."

"Right? Bruce and Talia were two consenting adults, albeit under 20 years old; and were wed in a local ritual witnessed by locals, according to Jason. You should see Bane's face when Jason presented copies of the marriage's registry." Tim continued.

"Oh, we saw, all right. Harper's drones worked quite well." Dinah replied, snickering, referring to Harper Row, one of their tech 'consultants'. "Even at that height, it still delivered crystal clear pictures. I vote we use them again."

"No vote needed, the drones are on stand-by at the Wayne Manor permanently at this point. I'm more interested in his reaction when Damian offered them a DNA test." Barbara told her.

"I'm more interested in Bruce Wayne's reaction, really. He didn't seem too surprised, as if he was expecting this to happen or something." Helena pointed out.

"Maybe he did," Barbara replied absently. "Dude has been swingin' more than the roarin' 50s, there has got to be some juniors out there that even he didn't know of."

"Ugh, while I'm not a fan of Bruce Wayne's womanizing ways, I personally don't think he's that reckless. He's not a drinker or a junkie, as far as I know. He has virtually no vice other than extreme sports." Helena argued.

"I agree," Selina, who has been quietly watching from the corner, chimed in. "This is a guy who got visibly antsy when some sexy girls in bikinis come up to him - I thought he was gay. But if he'd been... wedded to Talia Al Ghul all these times, that would make sense. He knew exactly where he stood, and what would come up if he screwed it up."

"Has Jason or Dick said anything of the Doc and Mama Wayne's reaction?" Helena asked.

"They seemed truly confused, a little apprehensive, but didn't seem to be opposed to the idea that Damian is Bruce's child. Dr Wayne said that a DNA test wouldn't be necessary, but Jason insisted it." Tim replied, and added a little absently a few heartbeats later. "But why would he, a physician with more specialties than a truck stop, would not question the biology of anyone claiming to be his biological descendant?"

Barbara glared at Tim, "excellent question, Tim. If my dad has someone coming out of the boonies saying he's related to me, the first thing dad would do is draw blood."

"They... don't care?" Dinah suggested. "Maybe the Wayne men were less... chaste than they appear?"

Barbara glared at her this time. "Of all the women Bruce Wayne has dated, I've only recorded a handful who would end up in a second date. Less than a handful who were actually mentioned beyond social media photos; and you know how I feel with social media photos: generic, unverifiable, and showoff-only. Dates with Bruce Wayne generally would start with the pick-up, dinner, and then some form of jewelry. I..." she looked at Selina and Helena, "you've both dated him at one point or the other."

Selina shrugged, "I went for a gala dinner, and was honestly there to scope the homeowner's safe, really. I wasn't interested in a follow-up date." she replied. "Helena?"

"Social arrangement. My people called his people and boom, we were on a red carpet." she elaborated. Helena was a part of a mafia family, until she decided that the mafia way would not be the best way to make Gotham a happy place for all, and donned the costume of the Huntress to hunt down wrongdoers. Barbara had decided to let her join to prevent her from going over the line and murder anyone out of overzealous-ness; but also in order to get a line-in into the mafia families.

"No second dates, either, huh?"

"No, I'll have to check, though. I think his people called me again, but I wasn't interested in a vapid playboy, even if he has more money than Jesus."

"Vicky Vale," Selina reminded. "She has had a... somewhat lengthy relationship with Bruce some years ago."

"Sooo... the next answer in our mystery could probably be answered by interviewing an investigative journalist." Tim commented.

"Oh, no..." Barbara grinned mischievously. "Not this investigative journalist. I know just the journalist to talk to when it comes to gossip among themselves."

Dinah snorted a laugh. "I thought you didn't like her."

"I liked Vale less," Barbara griped. "Plus, Vale is already getting news on Bruce's probable child; why shouldn't I send Lois Lane the allegations of the Bane Conspiracy?"

"Conspiracy with who?" Dinah asked curiously.

"Oh, the Waynes, of course, to get rid of the Court of Owls," Barbara smirked. "Why should we be the only ones racking our respective and collective brains when we can have someone else on the ground doing the grunt work?"

"Babs, you can be... pretty evil sometimes," Selina remarked. "I know there's got to be a reason why I like you."

"I'm also awesome with technology and can launder your ill-gotten money and make it legal and undetected." Barbara pointed out.

"Oh no, that's why I liked you." Helena quipped smirking. "Seriously, how many mob family can say their ill-gotten money is accountable by law?"

"As long as it is within the facets of the law, and so on and so forth... Anyway! Tim, you're quiet for more than two seconds. I'm always nervous when you're quiet."

"Just thinking..." Tim said, looking a little lost in his own brain. He often does that when he has at least a dozen scenarios running through his mind. Through the time of Barbara knowing him, Tim would probably be the only person whose claims of 'just thinking' wouldn't immediately be picked on by anybody.

"Care to share with the class, kitten?" Selina prompted.

"It's not fully mapped yet... but I was thinking. What if the Waynes aren't... didn't cooperate with Bane in order to destroy the Court of Owls, and they're literally being hostages in their own home? What if Bruce Wayne has predicted something like this could happen, and has gotten himself all prepared all the way to ten years ago when he wedded Talia Al Ghul? I mean, who would have had enough firepower to defeat Bane other than the Al Ghuls? Look at Jason," Tim pointed out. "He threw Bane out the window as if he was a fly. While Jason is as solid as a rock but isn't a metahuman - Bane is. He was assigned by Talia herself - out of Gotham - to protect and guide Damian-- why? What's so special about Jason Todd? Why did Talia choose him? Why didn't Bruce Wayne - at least - act shocked when Damian said he was his son? Surprised, sure. But not shocked or in denial.

"Who's gonna win if Bane turned out to be Dr Wayne's son? Who's gonna lose? What will they lose? Who is Bane accountable to? If none, who planted the idea of him being Dr Wayne's son? Because from what I've read about him, he was born and raised in a prison with his mother - no mention of a father. His mother was an insurgent of Hasaragua, fighting against US-condoned democracy. And while there was a record of Dr Wayne being there, there was no exact date and length of stay, because he was there privately and not as a part of Médecin sans Frontieres or something like that.

"What about Mrs Wayne? She wasn't a poor or uneducated woman, since she was a Kane. Society-wise, do you think she would have tolerated her husband's indiscretion, both then and now? Yet she kept quiet for nearly two months. She has a Ph.D. in psychiatry, and would she be the ones to keep quiet about DNA testing and all that? Personally, I don't think so. If my mother - a little 'lesser' society lady compared to Martha Kane-Wayne - ever got a word of a child that 'probably' got fathered by my dad, she would have demanded a divorce right away without bothering with a paternity test, sure. But my dad, who was also a society man, would have at least attempted to convince her that it was a mistake and/or it was a lie. What best method to decide a child's paternity than DNA test?

"The criminal front in general - especially the costumed criminals - has been pretty quiet since Bane eliminated the Court of Owls. Why? That's rather stupid since we know that the Court's Talons were the ones who made moves to 'discourage' the costumed freaks. Annnd... that's where I couldn't map out things further." Tim rambled.

"Keep talking, even half sentences are better than none, Timmy." Barbara prompted. Tim might have had a brain that worked a mile a minute, but he was still very young and would often get flustered with himself. Barbara, on the other hand, has an eidetic memory, and things Tim said tend to stick to her brain and would fill the gaps in any puzzles she might be thinking about. Even half sentences.

"Right, I do the fact spreads, you do the jigsaw-puzzling." Tim nodded. "The murders of Talia and Ra's Al Ghul. Jason said they were deliberately murdered in a way that they would never be able to be resurrected through the Lazarus Pit. The perpetrators would be the League of Shadows, a rogue splinter of the League of Assassins. Lead by Lady Shiva. Why? Why were they murdered? Why now and not - say - next year or last year? Who benefited by their death? Aaand... I'm done, for now, I think..."

"I... can feel a headache brewing," Dinah admitted. "You and your conspiracy theories." she rubbed Tim's head fondly. Tim gave her a half-smile, still trying to articulate the thoughts in his head.

"That's why we need him, he takes the most random input and makes a theory out of it, and some of them would actually make sense. I'll start a search string based on some of your questions. If you have more, don't hesitate to tell me, Tim." Barbara realized belatedly that her tone sounded dismissive, and turned to Tim. "Want me to call up for Chinese and powwow a little more?" she added.

Tim shook his head, still glaring blankly. "Thanks, I gotta go... I've some... things to look into. Thanks, Babs," he replied, ending it with a genuine smile as he got up.

"Want to come home with me, Kitten?" Selina asked, worry for Tim apparent on her normally-blank face.

"No, thanks, Ma. I gotta go back to the mansion, just in case, right?" Tim pointed out.

"Then Dinah should go with you," Selina decided.

"She's coming there later, right, aunt Dinah?" Tim asked. Dinah nodded.

"I'll get home with food, so don't worry about that, kiddo." she said. Tim waved them all and then walked out.

Once he was out of the door, Selina sighed. "Ah, young love..."

"Right? Remind me to check in on him before going to the House. I don't want to walk in on something and have him traumatized." Dinah agreed.

Barbara glared at them quizzically, and then at Helena, who shrugged. "Grayson said it first, I think. Our kitten is growing up. I just hope that Jason guy is worth his firsts..."

The memory of Tim gawking at Jason when he thought Barbara wasn't watching flashed in her mind.

Oh.

And then of Jason blatantly checking Tim out just before Oracle made her appearance, and at times when her Oracle projection was turned off.

"Oh boy," she sighed.

"That's about it in a nutshell. Good thing I've told him of the birds and the birds..." Selina grinned slyly.

"Millennial parenting at best, Ms Selina Kyle." Dinah grinned. "Come on, let's go patrol and induce the fear of goddesses to Gotham's low-lives before inducing maternal fear to our little kitten."

"...or to the big tabby. We'll see," Selina added, waving as she and Dinah walked out of the room.

Suddenly Barbara felt a little sorry for Jason. Just a tiny, teensy, weensy bit of sorry.

[alightwhendarknessfell]

Black Veil Conspiracy Time

So I've noticed something with Andy's costumes for the TPT era videos/photoshoots. He's always wearing a garter around his thigh but the color of it keeps changing. I'm starting to think there is significance to it considering how detailed Andy is with his outfits (especially in this era).

I first noticed it in the Scarlet Cross music video where it's red. I figured it might just be part of the black/red color scheme but then it appeared in all the photoshoots. Then all of a sudden (around the time they started posting the pool photo shoots) it's white. Then in the Torch teaser, it's black (with a red suit, so the reverse of the black suit/red garter).

I wanna hear people’s theories on it and I’ve got a few myself. I'm hoping that with the album/comic release we'll find out what it actually means but until then I thought it might be fun to hear what everyone else thinks it could symbolize.

(Disclaimer: These are just my interpretations of what it could mean and is just meant for fun.)

Theory 1: Religious/Historical Meaning: Garters are traditionally worn by brides and have come to have different purposes/meanings. Given the name of the band is Black Veil Brides it could just be an easter egg type thing or it might have a symbolic meaning.

The garter originated because people believed having a piece of a bride's dress was good luck. That led to bridal parties ripping a brides' dress off in an attempt to get a piece of good luck or to help "consummate" the marriage. In order to prevent this, the tradition of the garter toss started. Giving someone a "piece" of the dress spared the bride. Andy could be wearing it to symbolize the idea of giving a part of himself to the fans/world through Black Veil's music. Much in the same way brides used to toss their garter as a way to appease the wedding guest and keep from having the rest of their clothes ripped off it could be his way of saying "here I will give you this (the music/band)". With the expectation being that in sharing that part of himself he will be allowed to keep the rest of himself private. Andy is a pretty private person when it comes to his daily life, but being "famous" makes that hard.

Another meaning of the garter goes back to the importance placed on the bride being pure (aka a virgin). The expectation was that on the wedding night the groom would "deflower" the bride. The families also placed a great deal of importance on this and the garter was often used as "proof" that the marriage was consummated. Thus tying it to the idea of purity/loss of innocence. If you listen to Black Veil/Andy Black's discography there is a recurrent theme in the songs of innocence, specifically of lost innocence. I think Andy could have incorporated it due to this meaning which would also tie into the religious themes of the TPT era. The changing color (see next point) is also what makes me think this might be closer to the meaning behind it. Andy was 18 when he moved to Hollywood which is still very much a teenager. Before his 20th birthday, he was touring the world, signing major record deals, and basically forced to grow up very fast. There's no end to people waiting to take advantage of young, impressionable, and starry-eyed kids in order to use them for personal gain. I mean how many childhood stars end up fucked up as a result of their early fame, then have to navigate their way back to who they really are. Andy's spoken quite a bit over the last few years about how he kind of fell victim to the "rock n' roll lifestyle" during his early years. I think the "loss of innocence" he's possibly referring to is the blissful ignorance that kids/young adults have about the world. Once you learn how ugly the world can be (whether that's the music industry, fame, or the world in general) that childhood innocence starts to go away.

You can't get it back, and although it's replaced with knowledge and better judgment, I think a lot of us miss the carefreeness of childhood. If this is the meaning behind the garter then I think the color change really deepens it.

Theory 2: Color Meaning: Red -> white -> black I think this has to mean something. Red could symbolize being tainted in some way, whether that be shame, sin, the idea of having "blood on your hands", crime/blasphemy, etc. The fact that the red garter appears in Scarlet Cross, a song about being branded with a scarlet cross as punishment, I think makes this more likely. The lyrics almost explicitly state this idea "A symbol for my shame, the color of your name, its how they see you break, and live with my mistakes". The red garter could be his way of saying there is some sin he feels the need to atone for. Alternatively that he feels he's being accused of a crime/sin. If you read up on The Scarlet Letter there are several parallels to the TPT storyline as it's been revealed so far. I think at least the song was influenced by the pop-culture idea of a "scarlet letter".

The change in color to white (generally seen as good, holy, pure, etc) could mean that whatever sin or transgression has been committed has been absolved. As we saw the red garter in Scarlet Cross, I think it's interesting we see the white garter in an abandoned pool. Pool = water and water is cleansing. This might be a coincidence but it's interesting nonetheless. I do think that the white garter is supposed to symbolize whatever "bad" thing the red meant being forgiven/cleansed.

Which leads us to the black garter. The fact that we first see the black garter in the Torch teaser which appears to be set in a graveyard makes me think it symbolizes death. Interestingly, I believe he wore a version of the red garter that had a black stripe on it which could have been foreshadowing. There is also an inversion of Scarlet Cross where he wore a black suit with red accents, now he is in a red suit with black accents. Andy said that the four music videos represent a story within the TPT world and this could play into it. However, I don't think the "death" meaning is necessarily bad. It could be, but since it was proceeded by white, it might mean that since whatever sin has been absolved he is now free to let it die. Death could symbolize freedom. The teaser made me think back to the Coffin music video which featured Andy closing the lid on his "Andy Six" persona but left the question as to was he really dead.

We'll have to see what Torch brings but I feel that the garter and its color could play into a wider theme of closing a very long chapter in his life/the band's. Since this comes at the start of a new era, before the album I think it might be a way to transition into that new era. The last album, Vale, was a very dark album. Andy has spoken about how horrible of a place he and the band were in (due to reasons I think we now all know given the events of 2019/2020). I have a feeling this new era represents freedom from what was haunting them, past mistakes, etc. The lyrics for Feilds of Bone speak to this idea in my opinion.

Theory 3: Other: There is meaning in The Phantom Tomorrow world and that will be revealed in the album/comic. It might have a personal meaning for Andy or he just thought it was cool and a way to color coordinate. Alternately he's just be fucking with us for fun lol.

I hope you all enjoyed my conspiracy ramblings because I've had a lot of fun thinking up different meanings. Shout out to Andy for creating such interesting looks and for his creativity. I'm loving all the hidden messages, cryptic posts, and mystery surrounding this album. I'm so incredibly excited for it to come out. Feel free to send in your own theories or anything else you've noticed so far!