#though that did push into prodigal I think

[frogaroundandfindout]

the fact that bruce and batman are such distinct entities but also other times he's like "the batman is who I truly am, bruce wayne is a mask" but also batman is a curse but also but also but also

baby girl, WHY are you like this? see, this shit is why we had to drag out that zur en asshole arc for so long

he makes me mentally ill <3

He reminds me of those actors that act like they’ve been irrevocably changed and traumatized by their own method acting

Meanwhile some other heroes (dick for example) are like it really sucks not being able to tell normal people the full truth about my life and it makes dating rough, but it’s still doable

[luveline]

Omg please kbd uncle Eddie:’)

dad!steve x mom!reader, 1k

“Hi, Uncle Eddie.” 

Eddie rubs his hands together, holds them out in front of himself, and summons the prodigal child forward. “Bethany. Quick, give me a hug.” 

Bethie walks into his waiting arms, her giggle infectious as she says, “That’s not my name.” 

“Bethie,” Eddie says with a sigh. “You know my full name is Edward. Full names are nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“It’s Bethie.” 

She pushes the hair off of his shoulders. He smiles at her and her little hands. If someone told him ten years ago he’d be carrying Steve ‘King of Hawkins High’ Harrington’s babygirl around like a treasure he’d laugh in their face, but he loves Beth. She’s hands down his favourite Harrington, and he’s allowed to have favourites as an uncle, though the other clingers are cool too. Beth is Eddie’s favourite because she’s an underdog, and because she’s so clearly infatuated with him. They’re best friends. 

He gives her a pat between the shoulders and slips down into a seat in front of the TV. There’s no signs of the other babies nor their parents; Eddie always lets himself in when he’s coming around and he doesn’t expect wait service, but a hello would be nice. “Where’s mom and dad?” he asks, setting Beth down into the seat beside him. He zeroes in on a plate of pretzels and snags a few for snacking. “You’re downstairs by yourself?” 

“No! They’re in the kitchen.” 

“Really? What about Ave and Dove, then?” he asks through chewing. 

“Dove is napping and Ave, um, went somewhere.” 

He raises his brows. “Dad took her somewhere?” He imagines Beth would tell him Avery’s run away with similar nonchalance. 

“To Grandma’s. They’re going to watch a play.” 

“Oh,” Eddie springs up off of the couch. “Stay here, sweetheart, I’ll just go make sure they know I’m here.” 

Eddie is scared to open the door. Why is it closed? He supposed parents are deprived of one another but he doesn’t wanna see you kissing. Then again, if he does see you kissing, Steve will die of embarrassment. That’s worth it. 

“Hello!” he shouts, throwing open the door. 

He makes you both jump hard, Steve’s head thwacking a cabinet and your hand thrown to your chest. You almost fall on your ass where you’re kneeling by Steve’s leg. His pant leg is pushed up to the knee, and you have a tweezers in hand —Eddie frowns abruptly. 

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks. 

“Steve has a tick, you fiend. When did you get here?” 

Steve groans. “The door was locked,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Not well. Just stuck my credit card in there and wham. You guys should slide the chain in if you’re gonna leave poor Bethie all by her lonesome, don’t you think?” 

“Eddie, the door was locked,” Steve says. “You’re the only weirdo in Hawkins willing to break in. Plus, I still have that baseball bat in the garage.” 

“Sure. Come on, sweetheart, get off the floor. Let Eddie have a stab at it.” 

You laugh and pull Steve’s pants down over his shin. “It’s fine, I already got it. He might get Lyme’s now because you scared the fuck out of me–”

“Language.” 

“–but I heated it up and I think I got it.” You look up with a smile. Steve pauses his pained head rubbing to beam at you lovingly. 

“I’m sure he’ll be fine. Or he’ll turn into a zombie, and that would make him cooler. Win win. So, dinner?” Eddie asks. “Should I go get something?” 

“Nah, I made ravioli, you rude idiot. Where’s Beth?” 

“I told her to stay put in case you were making out.” 

Steve helps you up from your kneeling to dust you off. “Thanks for saving my life,” he sighs tiredly, kissing your cheek. 

Eddie rolls his eyes and turns away. Steve should love and appreciate you, you’re awesome, but he’s also a loser and Eddie’s entitled to thinking such disparaging thoughts about his friend from time to time. 

You and Steve made a kid as cool as Beth, so Steve can’t be too bad of a loser.

“Uncle Eddie?” 

“Yes, my lovely sweetpea angel?” Eddie asks. 

She stares at him, adorable in all her chubby-cheeked, sugary-eyed sweetness with her hands held up for another hug. Eddie leans down, says, “Daw, I can’t say no to you,” as she giggles into his hair. He strokes the top of her shoulder with his thumb. “So what’s happening? How did that painting go with mommy, did you put it in the contest?” 

Steve nudges you forward with a hand on your shoulder. “He’d make a good dad, right?” 

“For sure,” you say, “not as good as you, though.” 

“Oh, you’re flirting with me, that’s cool… Are you free Friday night?” 

“Probably gonna be pulling ticks off of some other guy's leg.” 

“Oh, that’s fine, I was busy anyways.” 

Beth giggles as Eddie tips her backward, a mixture of nerves and excitement that kids experience so much more than adults. 

“I always expected him to just end up with a kid. Like, one night stand style,” Steve says. 

“There’s nothing wrong with that. At least then he doesn’t get stuck marrying somebody he doesn’t love.” 

Steve glares at you as you laugh, dragging you into his arms to smush kisses into your cheek. “Don’t even joke about that.” 

“Sorry, honey. I hope Eddie gets as lucky as me someday.” 

Beth begs to be put down through giggles. “I don’t know,” Steve says, resting his cheek on your temple to watch her laugh, “I don’t think Eddie has luck, just sheer force of will.” 

“He’d totally get a baby in a basket on his doorstep.” 

Steve mulls it over. “God, he totally would.” 

[fantastic-nonsense]

Thanks for your reply. And, yeah, I definitely agree that Robin is first and foremost Dick’s legacy, and that he chose Damian as his Robin for important reasons that he expresses to Tim later. And, his blessings to both Jason and Tim previously were also extremely important. But, I was thinking about it more in terms of how the transition was handled. I know that Jason and Dick, despite popular belief, had a decent relationship when he was Robin, but Dick didn’t react well initially because he had been completely blindsided by the news, nor had he given his consent. I thought that Alfred was sort of repeating Bruce’s mistakes here, so Tim might have been blindsided by it as well (not that I think he would’ve given his consent either way at that point). You saying that it was a crisis decision on Alfred’s part puts it in perspective though, and it makes sense since Alfred’s generally more sensitive than Bruce. I do think, though, that seeing Damian in a Robin suit (with Alfred’s blessing) would have probably made Tim realise that there was a real possibility that Damian could be Robin.

[referencing this response on how the transition from Tim to Damian as Robin was handled]

I think two things can be true: Tim would be blindsided and hurt by Dick's decision to make Damian Robin regardless of the circumstances, but it was particularly tough for him given the situation that it occurred in (the issue you're talking about and I mostly discussed in my original response), and it was the obvious decision to make based on where all three of those characters were in their character arcs.

Tim during the BFTC/early Reborn era honestly needs to be viewed in the context of him clearly being ready to take the same steps Dick took at his age to become an independent vigilante but wanting to cling to Robin because it was the only sense of stability he had in an incredibly unstable period of his life. Tim had been operating semi-independently for years and had just spent the entirety of Battle for the Cowl telling Dick that if he wouldn't put on the cowl Tim would do it himself…and then he actually did put on the cowl to go fight Jason. It's not like Tim wasn't signaling that he had moved beyond Robin's role as Batman's non-independent protege.

And Dick could see that, especially since Tim had already been the Robin to his Batman once, back in Prodigal. He genuinely meant it when he called Tim his "equal" in Red Robin #1, and I think that's important to understand where both of them are coming from.

Ultimately Tim's problems with Robin "being taken away from him" were not Dick's problems, and Tim's hostility and hurt comes from a fundamentally different place than Dick's did. Dick voluntarily gave up being Robin to become Nightwing, and the rocky transition from Dick to Jason was less about the mantle and more about Dick's personal insecurity about his place in the family and Bruce giving Jason Robin without his permission. Tim's place in the family was very solid during BftC and his RR #1 freakout was mostly about the perception that Dick was taking away his sole source of mental/life stability and choosing Damian (a potential hostile) over Tim to watch his back and keep him alive.

Dick's issues were about insecurity in the face of a father apparently replacing him with a new son and a new partner in his absence. Tim's issues were about feeling unmoored in the face of yet another loved one dying, his civilian life going up in flames (again) and being pushed out of a tenuous stability back into instability, and the percieved lack of trust in his ability to properly fill the role he was already occupying.

So honestly I think Tim's feelings on that transition need to be viewed as an entirely separate thing from how well or poorly the transition itself was handled, because I genuinely believe that Tim's reaction only was what it canonically was due to the unique intersections of events going on in Tim's personal life. Dick could have (and should have) handled the transition with more delicacy, but Tim was always going to react badly because of how hard he had been leaning on the mask to give him a sense of normalcy and balance. That's not really something Dick or Damian (or Alfred) could control, even though the transition itself was rockier than it could have been on their ends and poorly handled out-of universe.

[trashdragon4]

Having incredibly Jason Todd flavoured thoughts in regard to Toi Dericottes poem “Speculations About “I””

I read this poem in class the other day and immediately thought ab my boy Jay. So i finally sat down today and messily vomited the below words into a document, please enjoy.

Heres the poem link: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/90292/speculations-about-i (in case u want to read it normally, as it is a banger of a poem)

Ok, so I feel like this is post death, early resurrection. This is Jason borderline catatonic, wandering the streets of Gotham having just dug himself from his grave, begging for the only safety he’s ever really known. This is Jason in the hospital, desperate for a comfort he’s unaware he ever had (Bruce, his dad, he's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry).

This is post Lazurus pit, with the league, with Talia. Jason is hardly more conscious than before, but sometimes he feels things now, the adrenaline of a fight, the hot sharp pain of a blade, he’s something closer to alive. But he’s a mere observer in his own body, and he hardly ever observes (he doesn’t want to see the carnage).

He’s gaining control now, battling the Lazurus pit, gaining consciousness as well. He doesn’t know where he ends and it begins, and he’s not sure if cares, if he should care.

Who is he now? What does he remember? He clings to those fragments, however painful they are and are becoming, because they are all he has left of himself, of Bruce, of Robin. In a way they are still shaping him, they are the tools Talia wields to carve him into what she needs him to become.

The Lazurus pit, it stifles what remains of him, pushes it deep down, he lets it, helps it even. It’s easier this way. Now all he has is the anger, and the stories he’s been told, they fuel it.

A memory, his childhood, he found himself, in his first life, in the grime of crime alley. He grew up in the filth and abuse and neglect and he loved it despite it all because it was familiar, a comfort, he loves it still. He hides this piece of himself amongst the scattered fragments of his mind.

Sometimes he wonders if he should’ve stayed dead. He thinks that maybe it would be better if he hadn’t clawed his way up from the dirt, if he had crumpled up like so many others on Gotham’s streets, if Talia hadn’t found him. He’s here now though and through the poison he lets her feed him he plots. Memory and musings will do him no good, so he will let them fall away.

The prodigal son returns. Except not really, he’s back in the physical sense and he’s trying, trying so hard to do what no one else will. He will be the saviour to all those his Father couldn’t (wouldn’t) save. He’s building a new safer home from the ground up, brick by brick. He’s in control for the first time in years and then he’s standing on that rooftop facing Bruce His Dad Batman with a gun in his hand and a countdown on his wrist and he didn’t see the batarang coming but it slices through his throat and he can’t breathe.

He is not the Jason of his memories, not the little bird who thought Robin was magic. He is the cage that little birds get trapped in.

Internal conflict, the fragments of himself are locked in opposition, he does not know who to trust, what to do, how to move forward.

He has broken the one unbreakable rule he was raised with, over and over and over, and he will do it again. It wasn’t that he wanted to kill, he wanted someone to protect him. No one did. He will protect himself now, protect everyone that needs protection. And so he clips the little birds wings.

This is all he is, no matter the justification. His survival is not one to be celebrated, and as far as he’s aware it hasn’t been. He is life at the cost of life.

He has failed everyone he has ever cared for, broken every promise to them that he made. Bruce, His Mother (both of them), Alfred, Dick, Babs, everyone. He never cared enough to promise himself anything.

[persephones-journey]

A Prodigal Son Returns - Err, is Kidnapped - Oops, Wrong One

For @bhxrdy @itbmojojoejo and @gemini-mama

Yes, I wrote this in like an hour. This is my muse on coffee with an idea.

So, for everyone else... what if Uhtred, Finan, and Sihtric kidnapped the wrong boy from the monastery?... Here is the real story on how Cynlaef joined them.

No betaed, any grammar and spelling mistakes are mine, and unlike Uhtred, I own up to my mistakes lol

It was beautiful spring day.

Cynleaf was boiling though in the stupid wool robe under the hot sun.

He kept working in the garden though. He looked up and rolled his eyes as he saw Uhtred whistling as he worked the soil.

The boy annoyed him to no end. The only victory Cynlaef had over the older boy so far was the fact that he was taller than Uhtred.

Cynlaef had heard stories of Uhtred's father, also named Uhtred, I guess there is a lack of good Saxon names suddenly. He was known as the Dane-Slayer. And was said to be a giant with bright blond hair and blue eyes the colour of ice. That to look into the eyes of the Dane-Slayer was to lose one's soul.

“Cuthbert,” Brother Oswald said. “You must turn the soil more,” he added.

Cynlaef lowered his head and nodded. He went to work turning the soil more. He was not sure what he hated more about this place; the itchy hot robes or the fact that they had changed his name on arrival. He had been a boy of four when he had arrived and he was currently eleven going on twelve. He was surprised he remembered the name his mother had given him.

He certainly couldn't remember her face.

He pushed his thoughts aside when he stood straight and looked up. He saw a man laying on the roof of the monastery. He opened his mouth to say something when a bag was pulled over his head and he was grabbed on both sides.

“What!” he exclaimed.

“This one is a true sinner, father!” he heard an Irish voice say.

He fought as he was dragged away but he was no match for who had him. Warriors, he thought.

He was thrown over a horse and held on tight as they rode away.

Night fell and he was finally pulled from the horse and the bag pulled from his head. He blinked over and over and looked around. He saw three men, two Danes and another warrior, watching him.

“My son,” one of the Danes said as he stepped forward.

“Ah,” Cynlaef said. He reached up and brushed his hand through his dirty blonde hair. “What?” he asked softly.

The man in front of him reached out and pressed his hand to his cheek. “Uhtred, I have come to get you so that you may come with me when I reclaim Bebbanburg, my birthright and yours.”

Cynlaef's dark blue eyes stared at the man in front of it.

He thinks I'm his son, Uhtred. That means he's... Oh fuck me.

“Lord,” he said carefully, so not to lose any of his body parts, “I am not your son,” he added.

He saw the other Dane frown as did the other man leaning back against the tree trunk. Uhtred, the Dane-Slayer perhaps the most feared man in all of Britannia if the stories were to be believed, looked at him, anger written all across his face.

This is it. This is where I die, Cynlaef thought.

Uhtred dropped his hand and stepped back. “Lord?” came the question from the warrior leaning against the tree. There was a slight Irish twang in the man's word.

“This is Alfred's doing. The man has turned my son against me,” Uhtred spat out. “This is his legacy, not mine.”

“I, no,” Cynlaef tried but Uhtred was already walking away. He rubbed his face. He turned when the other Dane walked over to him with a little pony almost.

“To ride,” he said.

Cynlaef eyed it. “Yes, a magnificent beast,” he muttered.

The Irishman laughed and chuckled. Cynlaef took the reins and looked at the three warriors. He had no choice but to follow them.

And hopefully he could get them to believe him when he said he was not Lord Uhtred's son.

***

... it had been three days and Cynlaef was beginning to understand why the young Uhtred wished to be away from his father and his father's band of fools.

They were idiots.

They had to be.

Cynlaef had told them multiple times in every language he knew, even the broken Latin that he was not Uhtred, son of Uhtred. He was Cuthbert, born Cynlaef Harldson.

And so far, no luck.

Uhtred, the great Dane-Slayer believed Cynlaef was lying; that his son had disowned him. “Alfred's last punishment to me. How he must be enjoying this from his Christian heaven.”

Cynlaef was beginning to wonder how it was this man, this seemingly foolish man, was the great Uhtred Ragnarson, breaker of shield walls and Alfred's chosen warrior.

It just did not make sense.

“There you are, Uhtred,” Finan, the Irishman said. He walked up with another man, Osferth. Cynlaef had learned this was the bastard son of Alfred.

And clearly the only man within Uhtred's merry band who possessed at least one ounce of brains.

“I told you my name is not Uhtred,” Cynlaef muttered.

“Cynlaef,” Osferth said softly. “Come with us,” he nodded towards the gates. “There is someone here who wishes to see you.”

Cynlaef frowned. He did as they asked through, and he followed them through Coccham. He looked up when he saw Uhtred arguing with a priest, while another young monk stood by. Cynlaef frowned.

The young monk was Young Uhtred.

“You took the wrong monk you fool!” the priest yelled.

“I would recognize my own son, Beocca!”

“Clearly, you did not!”

Cynlaef laughed. He couldn't help it. He just laughed as he walked over to them. Uhtred, Beocca, and Young Uhtred looked at him. Cynlaef rubbed his face and shook his head.

“I have told you, I am not your son, lord,” he answered softly. “He is,” he pointed at Young Uhtred.

He watched as Uhtred looked back and forth between them. Cynlaef saw the realization dawn on him. Young Uhtred shook his head.

“I cannot believe I share blood with you,” he said.

Finan snapped his fingers. “Ah, there it is. The distain and annoyance that only the blood of Uhtred could produce,” he said.

Cynlaef snorted as Uhtred gave Finan a glare. “Really, Finan?” he asked.

Finan shrugged. “What? I wasn't the one who didn't recognize his own son.”

Father Beocca shook his head. “Come, Cuthbert, let us get you back to the monastery and-.”

Cynlaef looked at Uhtred. “Actually,” he started. He bit his bottom lip. “I would like to stay, if you would allow it, lord,” he said.

Finan chuckled and Osferth smiled as well. Beocca rolled his eyes. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Only you, Uhtred, could lead a monk astray.”

Uhtred smirked. He looked at Beocca. “Well, I did also show Hild the savage life as well. And you, Beocca,” he shrugged, “perhaps your God has decided to use me to help lead his children away from his church to better things.”

Finan snorted and Osferth crossed himself as he rolled his eyes. Boecca shook his head. “That is not how it works, Uhtred,” he said.

“So, that's it,” Young Uhtred cut in. “No one cares that he clearly did not know what his own son looked like?”

Cynlaef snorted. “You must have recognized Finan and Sihtric, and yet I did not see you shouting that they had the wrong boy, either, Uhtred,” he said.

The young man eyed him. “I hate it here,” he muttered and stalked away.

Finan watched him go. He pointed at him. “I see it now; the scowl, the angry walk, the stance,” he looked at Cynlaef, “ya are not stubborn enough to be Uhtred's son.”

Osferth snorted and grabbed Cynlaef as Beocca began to tear into Uhtred again. “Come on, Finan, let's find somewhere for Cynlaef to sleep, since Uhtred will not doubt will be taking his room in the hall.”

“Ya go, baby monk. I am enjoying watching Beocca tell Uhtred off. I'll join ya in a bit.”

Cynaef laughed. He looked back and saw Uhtred look down, actually looking ashamed. He turned around and let Osferth tug him back towards Coccham.

Uhtred and his men may not be that smart, but they were a family.

And Cynlaef desperately wanted one of those; he needed one.

He had a feeling he would fit right in with them all.

[queen-dahlia]

𝐆𝐢𝐥𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐯𝐨𝐧 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧

𝗠𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗥𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗲 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟵

CW: Mentions of rape

Note: Translation is not 100% accurate. Expect grammatical errors.

// : alternate translation | ⫘⫘ : flashback | 4:4 answer

Gilbert: "Now, again... If you have something to say, I'll listen to you, Little Bunny?"

Before my eyes is His Majesty the Emperor, who rules the great nation of Obsidian—

A commander-in-chief who possesses the power to overwhelm other countries with just one voice.

(… However, it's just a title with a big name; the one inside is Lord Gilbert.)

Looking up at the throne, there is no need to be too afraid.

Emma: "Then, if I may be so bold as to presume..."

Emma: "Why does Your Majesty the Emperor push for the invasion of other countries?"

It was the first thing I wanted to ask the "Emperor," not Lord Gilbert.

Obsidian has always plotted to expand its territory as a matter of policy.

I don't understand the intention of wanting to continue the invasion to the point of trampling on other countries' cultures, ideologies, and lives.

Gilbert: "The ostensible reason is to protect our own people. Obsidian has a lot of barren land compared to how vast the land is."

Gilbert: "We always had the problem of food shortages, and exploitation was necessary to keep the people alive."

Emma: "… What's the purpose behind this?"

Gilbert: "I hate dirty things."

Gilbert: "I hate deception, corruption, bribery, all of it. But the way the continent is structured now, they occur frequently."

Gilbert: "It's not just Obsidian. Wasn't there a trace of corruption in Rhodolite too?"

Emma: "Do you mean the orphanage?"

Gilbert: "Yes, there was some of that, but what about the larger corruption—the debauchery of His Majesty the King?"

(Debauchery... meaning being drowned in women, I guess that fits.)

Gilbert: "He used his power to heal the wounds of a broken heart, and he laid his hands on many women."

Gilbert: "… Do you know the story of Luke's mother?"

Emma: "No…"

Gilbert: "His mother was a mere maid in the service of the court."

Gilbert: "But the king forced himself on her because she looked like the woman he loved."

(…!)

Gilbert: "She left the court heartbroken and secretly gave birth to Luke."

Gilbert: "Do you think the king was punished for this? Yes, of course, he was not punished."

Gilbert: "Because he is the supreme authority in Rhodolite…"

Gilbert: "And because he had the right to do as he pleased with those below him."

(If what you just said is true... I can't defend him even though he is the king of my country.)

(No matter how wise a king he was, it is unforgivable.)

Gilbert: "Do you think that's unusual?"

Emma: "… At least, it's not something that happens very often."

Gilbert: "That's what it is."

Emma: "On what basis…"

Gilbert: "It's the result of statistics on the internal affairs of the countries I've ruled."

(… It's not an emotional story; rather, it's a grounded story.)

Gilbert: "It is not uncommon for a royal family to become prodigal, and in worse cases, there are countries that enslave their people."

Gilbert: "This continent was built on authoritarianism. It is a world dominated by royalty and nobility."

Gilbert: "It is ingrained in your bones that a lowly person like you should not defy those in power."

Gilbert: "You know what I'm talking about, don't you? Remember when you were chosen as Belle?"

Gilbert: "The report is that... you did not hesitate to slap a man who had been disrespectful to Chevalier."

Gilbert: "That was because you quickly decided that if anyone disrespects those in power, they will be killed."

Gilbert: "He actually pointed a sword at you, making sure his judgment was correct…"

Gilbert: "It's a funny thing when you think about it. How can one be guilty of disrespect?"

(I never thought about it before.)

For me, the royal family has always been recognized as "a person to be respected," and even if he was disrespectful and had a sword pointed at me, I tried to understand it because "he is a member of the royal family."

Gilbert: "There is no superiority or inferiority between you and me. As long as we are humans, we should all be the same."

Gilbert: "Of course, it may be necessary to have someone to lead socially."

Gilbert: "An outstanding person brings people together and builds a better tomorrow. That's how a person should be."

Gilbert: "But, you know, on the continent today, it's all about who has the power and who can get others to behave as they please."

Gilbert: "Of course, not all of them, okay? The Princes of Rhodolite are quite excellent in that regard."

Gilbert: "Even Silvio and Keith will be good monarchs."

Emma: "Then—"

Gilbert: "His Majesty the King of Rhodolite used to be a reputable monarch."

Emma: ". . . . . ."

Gilbert: "People are creatures of change. There is no such thing as "absolutes."

Gilbert: "That's why authoritarianism shouldn't exist in the first place."

Gilbert: "There were only a handful of wise kings if you look at history."

(In other words, Lord Gilbert...)

Gilbert: "Because the king of a country that knows so much about deception and corruption…"

Gilbert: "My "ideal" is to trample down all the royal families that spread throughout the continent and free the people from the rule of power."

What I felt from Lord Gilbert was a strong will that resembled a solid castle wall.

No one can change him or stop him. I assume it is that kind of thing.

(A revolution involving not only his own country but the entire continent...)

(I know it would end up as a dream story for normal people, but not for Lord Gilbert.)

(But it's strange.)

Emma: "… It's contradictory."

Emma: "Isn't Lord Gilbert the epitome of that power?"

The figure sitting on the throne and looking down at me is exactly the "authority" that Lord Gilbert hates.

(Even though you once threatened me with that power...)

Emma: "Are you an exception?"

Gilbert: "Ahaha! No way."

Gilbert: "If the people in power disappear and a new era comes, I will be the first to become unnecessary."

Gilbert: "I might as well die then, right?"

Emma: "… Uh."

(What are you... saying...)

His usual refreshing smile shines brightly on his throne.

I couldn't believe my ears and wondered if I heard him wrong.

Gilbert: "Because it's natural. I want to wipe out those in power, but it's not right for me to survive."

Gilbert: "Especially the Obsidian royal family, the most evil bloodline on the continent."

Gilbert: "It's better for the world if it's destroyed... Ah, but if I'm going to die anyway, I want Little Bunny to kill me."

Gilbert: "If you do that, you'll remember me forever, won't you?"   //   "That way you will remember me for the rest of your life, right?"

Emma: "That's... of course I'm not going to do that!"

I screamed without a moment's delay.

Even if it is a joke, it is a bad one.

(Lord Gilbert's ideal is based on the assumption that he will die in the end.)

(And he doesn't think anything of it.)

It would have been better if he had said, "I'm an exception," like a villain.

Emma: "… Why do you go to such lengths to exile those in power?"

Emma: "Lord Gilbert should have benefited from the power...even to the point of killing himself..."

Gilbert: "That's..."

Gilbert: "… A secret."

(… That part is a secret.)

Gilbert: "But I don't think it's a bad deal for you."

Gilbert: "Rather, it would be more convenient for you if I died."

(…!)

Gilbert: "If I'm gone, maybe Rhodolite won't be trampled and the world will continue like this."

Gilbert: "Besides, when I die, you will be properly released."

Gilbert: "You can settle in Obsidian or go back to Rhodolite, whatever you want."

Gilbert: "Because the "power" that holds you back is gone."

(What is that...)

The front of my eyes were pure white, and the back of my head felt hot.

Emma: "… Are you serious?"

My voice spilled out unintentionally, and it was lower than usual.

Gilbert: "Of course—"

Gilbert: "… What's wrong?"

(What's wrong... with me?)

I look down, and my fists are shaking.

(Even if you're a big villain, I've never wanted you dead. I didn't even think about it.)

(Lord Gilbert... was not the kind of person who could think such a thing.)

It may be possible to think that it is a great villain who cannot be saved, I am already poisoned by malicious kindness.

And that kindness itself shouldn't have been a lie.

I suffered at Rhodolite because I was repeatedly exposed to Lord Gilbert's good intentions.

What he just said was an outright denial of that suffering and struggle.

(After acting like he was such a good friend of mine...)

(When the time comes, should I kill him? Is it better if he is dead? **

(… Don't be silly.)

I have no right to say anything about Lord Gilbert's ideals.

But for those few words, I should have the right to be angry.

Gilbert: "I don't get it. I don't see anything to be angry about right now..."

Emma: "Because you don't know that, it means that Lord Gilbert is not really my friend!"

Emma: "If you thought that I was the kind of person who would be happy to see you dead, that is beyond disappointing!"

The voice echoes to destroy the intimidation of the throne room.

Lord Gilbert, who could be seen in the distance, seemed taken aback.

(… I wish I were so evil that I wanted to kill him anyway.)

(Oh, this is bad...)

I feel like my vision is blurry.

As I wrinkled my brow and held on, I suddenly felt a breeze behind me.

???: "Lord Gilbert!!!"

(Whoa, what the!?)

A man in military uniform pushes open the door to the throne room and walks in,

Without paying attention to me, he pushes his way to the bottom of the stairs as if he were about to attack Lord Gilbert.

???: "You... you left the castle without saying anything again!"

???: "How much more do you want to shorten my lifespan?! Come on, now, let's test—"

???: ". . . . . ."

(... Oh, our eyes met.)

The man with curly hair stiffens, and so do I.

A strange silence fell.

Gilbert: "Good for you, huh? If you had slipped up just a little bit more, you... today would be the anniversary of your death."

???: "Who is she?"

Gilbert: "The Lady of Rhodolite."

???: "Rhodolite's… Ah! What? She really exists? Lord Gilbert's first—"

Gilbert: "Huh? You must really want to die."

(…?)

The man deliberately clears his throat and turns to me.

The salute-like gesture may be Obsidian's way of saying "hello."

Walter: "You are Emma, right? I've heard rumors about you... I'm Walter. My occupation is—"

Gilbert: "My aide. Servant. A maid. I'm having an audience, will you leave?"

(… I feel like he's deliberately covering his words again just now.)

(How did you know my name in the first place… What's the rumor?)

(I wonder if Obsidian has heard about the story of Rhodolite...)

As soon as the man finished his greeting, he pointed his finger at Lord Gilbert.

It felt like an obvious act of disrespect, but there was no one there to reproach it.

Walter: "I will definitely visit you later. Listen, please don't run away. Even if you do, I will let Roderich catch you."

Gilbert: "Alright, alright. I'll act like an adult when I feel like it."

Walter: "Not when you feel like it... but absolutely!"

Gilbert: "Okay, okay."

After a strong tone of voice and a reminder, the man leaves.

It was like a storm.

Gilbert: "… I've lost interest."

With a resounding sigh, Lord Gilbert stands up from his throne.

The audience is apparently over.

(Me too... I'm not sure I can speak well right now.)

Lord Gilbert descends the stairs with the sound of his cane.

He came right next to me, and I didn't make eye contact with him.

Gilbert: "Yes. The fact that I am His Majesty the Emperor has only been revealed to a limited number of people."

Gilbert: "You know what I mean… right?"

(He'd like to say he'd kill me if I ever told anyone about it.)

I nodded while looking away, and Lord Gilbert took another breath.

Gilbert: "What can I do to put you in a better mood..."

(... I really don't know.)

(A genius like Prince Chevalier, who can easily manipulate people's minds...)

Gilbert: "A whole day's sleep will do it, right? By the way, I've got your room all ready for you."

Gilbert: "I asked them to make the interior as similar to Rhodolite as possible, but I hope you like it."

(I can't believe he even had a room ready for me.)

This is Obsidian. There is no need to isolate me by daring to be friendly, like in Rhodolite.

Still, Lord Gilbert's poison-like kindness hasn't changed.

I am tormented again by being treated not as a hostage but as a guest of honor.

Emma: "… That's the point…"

Gilbert: "Hm?"

Emma: "Nothing..."

(I hate… this feeling.)

══════════════════

—After taking Emma to her room, he returned to his own room for the first time in a long time and found himself in an unusual silence.

Walter: ". . . . . ."

Gilbert: "How much longer?"

Gilbert laughs as he buttons his shirt.

But Walter, sitting in the chair across from him, said nothing.

Walter: ". . . . . ."

Gilbert: "I'm asking you, so tell me."

Walter: "… You really..."

The chair falls over in the moment of a vigorous standing up.

Walter: "I beg you, please stop. This country goes on without you. That's how you were raised. So..."

Gilbert: "You didn't answer my question."

Walter covers his face with his hands under the pressure of his compelling smile.

His fingertips trembled, and his breath spilled from the gaps.

Walter: "… I don't want to say it."

Gilbert: "I see... it was the right decision to return home a little earlier."

Walter: "Hey… That story you've been telling me for a long time—seriously think about it. Now, I really believe you." **

Gilbert: "It's not a matter of believing or not believing, it's not necessary in the first place."

Walter: "Then why did you bring that woman here!"

Gilbert: "… That's terrible."

Gilbert: "Because I’m a big villain who couldn't be saved."

Walter: "You..."

A blood-colored, cold gaze pierces Walter, as if to interrupt his fury.

A pressure resembling murderous intent dominated the place in an instant.

Gilbert: "Never speak of it. She is no exception."

Walter: "That woman... she doesn't know yet?"

Gilbert: "She doesn't know, and she never will. And I have no intention of telling her."

Gilbert: "I'm going to rest now. Good night."

Walter: ". . . . . ."

Walter: "I'm not giving up."

Grabbing a sturdy-looking bag from the desk, Walter leaves the room.

Gilbert: ". . . . . ."

Gilbert: "… Why…"

Gilbert: "Why wasn't Little Bunny... happy about it?"   //   "I wonder why the little rabbit... wasn't pleased."

══════════════════

Obsidian is synonymous with evil, so much so that it was called the land of deceit and corruption.

When it comes to life in the castle, which is its home base, I imagined it to be brutal.

I was prepared for the fact that I would not be treated well, including being in a vulnerable position…

Gilbert: "Look, Little Bunny. So, how do you like it?"

Emma: "This... is a kitchen."

Gilbert: "Yes, a kitchen. Your very own kitchen."

Emma: "!?"

(Next to the guest room, there is a kitchen! W-What do you mean...)

Far from being treated badly, it is rather too good to pull off.

I had been dragging out yesterday's events until a few minutes ago, but it was such a shock that it blew away, even if only temporarily.

Gilbert: "This is the same as the room, I had them prepared in advance."

Gilbert: "Do you know why I... prepared the kitchen?"

(I see... that means...)

Emma: "You want me to make sweets."

Gilbert: "As expected of Little Bunny. I'm glad you know me so well."

Gilbert: "—… Actually, I just wanted to please you."   //   "—… I really just wanted to make you happy."

Emma: "… What is it now?"

Gilbert: "No, it was nothing."

(I can't believe you liked it enough to prepare a kitchen…)

(I've only served amateur sweets... and they were as simple as cookies.)

Lord Gilbert's smile was so bright that he seemed like a different person from the emperor who sat on the throne yesterday.

Gilbert: "You are free to use any of the ingredients here."

(Let's see... eggs, milk, flour, sugar, fruits, vegetables... that's quite a lot of variety.)

Emma: "I have heard that Obsidian is suffering from food shortages..."

Gilbert: "It's not like that these days, you know?"

Gilbert: "Because we have built supply lines and established stable food production technology in the last 10 years."

(That's right... just like Prince Chevalier said.)

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Chevalier: "—Second, I want to know the degree of development of Obsidian's technology."

Chevalier: "Obsidian's military engineering technology seems to be quite advanced..."

Chevalier: "Those technologies must have been applied to many things related to daily life."

Chevalier: "Aside from the rural areas, the central areas may be even different."

Chevalier: "Go and see for yourself."

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Gilbert: "—Obsidian has a lot of barren areas despite its vast land. But just because it's barren doesn't mean it has land."

Lord Gilbert spun his words without any hesitation. His eyes were somewhat lively.

Gilbert: "If we can build facilities that can grow crops regardless of the soil, it will take a lot of work, but there is no reason why we can't provide food in our own country."

Gilbert: "If we can produce food, we can also produce the fodder necessary for livestock. That's why we don't have food shortages right now."

Gilbert: "By the way, most of the food here comes from the research facility in the castle."

Gilbert: "We can't put those on the market... but we collect things that are a waste to throw away."

Gilbert: "Then it's also sweets that help eliminate the loss of ingredients."

Gilbert: "That's what I mean."

(Though the way you spoke just now was like your own achievement…)

Emma: "… Did Lord Gilbert solve the problem of food shortages?"

Gilbert: "Of course, it's my job. The food supply is an important issue, necessary to guarantee a minimum standard of living."

Gilbert: "Did you think we were always at war?"

Emma: "… I'm sorry."

(As expected, the idea was shallow.)

I had the impression that Obsidian was focusing on military affairs and neglecting domestic affairs, but it seems I was just being shallow.

Gilbert: "Hehe... your image is not wrong either. The Emperor has always had that policy."

Perhaps the "emperor" here was the late former emperor.

Gilbert: "He won a lot of countries, but he didn't look inward at all."

Gilbert: "They were almost lawless, so Albert and I spent a lot of time trying to improve it."

Gilbert: "Well, the regions are still so corrupt that I think I'm only halfway there."

Emma: ". . . . . ."

Gilbert: "More than—"

(Whoa…!)

Suddenly I am hugged on the shoulder, and my body leans back.

I fell into his cold chest with all my might, but he held me.

Gilbert: "What? Can't you just read the atmosphere and leave us alone?"

(… What the…)

(!?)

When Lord Gilbert calls out to the doorway, a crowd of soldiers appears.

1, 2, 3 — Surrounded by about 10 male and female military personnel, my body stiffened.

(I didn't notice it at all. I guess they were waiting for Lord Gilbert outside.)

Soldier 1: "I am sorry. Lord Gilbert, the military has asked me to consult with you concerning the budget..."

Soldier 2: "I, too, would like to ask Lord Gilbert's advice on lifeline capital investment—"

Gilbert: "You know, I've been telling you for a long time. You don't have to rely on my judgment every time."

(... Eh, even though he's the Emperor?)

Gilbert: "You are professionals in each field whose abilities have been bought."

Gilbert: "I'm giving you full authority because I think you can do it. Or what? Do you doubt my eyes?"

Soldier 1: "No, sir! But I would like to have your opinion, Lord Gilbert, because it would be very helpful..."

Soldier 2: "Please. After all, there is no one better than Lord Gilbert's keen eye!"

Gilbert: "Nope. Everyone, you can see that I'm busy, right?"

Instead of letting me go, he holds me tighter.

The gazes of the soldiers were clearly perplexed and bewildered.

Emma: "Uh… No! No, he isn't! Please give priority to your official duties." **

Gilbert: "Ehh..."

Emma: "In the meantime, I'll make you some sweets, how about that?"

Gilbert: "… I think I'm the one who's sulking."

Emma: "Lord Gilbert…"

Gilbert: "All right, all right. Just for today."

With a deliberate shrug, Lord Gilbert finally moves away from me.

Gilbert: "All of you, make it quick. Each of you has two minutes."

Lord Gilbert walks into the circle of soldiers, and the atmosphere changes.

I could see that the people gathered were tense and straightened their backs.

But that is not a bad thing.

Rather than dominating through fear, they seem to be voluntarily respecting Lord Gilbert out of reverence.

(… It became clear to me when I came to Obsidian).

(Lord Gilbert is an emperor who can act for the people.)

Looking back on our discussion of ideals the other day, it was also about being close to the weak.

While he acts like a big villain in other countries, he appears to be a perfectly good emperor in his own country.

(But there are some things that bother me.)

What the soldiers are talking about is the kind of thing that the nobles and bureaucrats bring to Rhodolite.

However, there are no signs of nobility at all in this castle.

(Even though Obsidian is a country of military and ore, it's unnatural that there are only soldiers—)

══════════════════

Gilbert: "Ah, is that so?"

In the end, soldiers gathered one after another under Lord Gilbert, and even though each person had two minutes, it was nighttime by the time they had all been processed.

Lord Gilbert, who was in a very bad mood because of this, took me back to his room with the baked cookies,

He started a tea party on the bed in a bad manner.

(Actually, I was surprised that Lord Gilbert's room was like a library…)

(I have a lot of questions, like what kind of books are on the bookshelves…)

What I asked before them was about the wonder of the absence of the nobles.

Gilbert: "It's the same as His Majesty the former emperor."

Emma: "The same...?"

Gilbert: "Yeah. I killed them."

I felt dizzy.

Emma: "… Not only the emperor, but also the nobles?"

Gilbert: "Of course, I didn't kill them all, okay? I just wanted to clean up the deceit and corruption, and there are still a lot of nobles out there."

Gilbert: "The people who work in the castle are all highly qualified, chosen from a wide range of people, from commoners to nobles."

Gilbert: "The reason they are all dressed almost entirely in military uniform is to break down the barriers between the nobles and the commoners."

Gilbert: "The castle you are in is still not perfect, but it's better than it was a decade ago."

Emma: ". . . . . ."

(I knew it, but life may be the same as dust for Lord Gilbert.)

(So he lost the value of his own life as well... the more he killed people, the more he lost the importance of his life.) **

No matter what the reason may be, the act of killing is inherently unforgivable.

Perhaps Lord Gilbert knows this, which is why he doesn't cling to his own life.

(… Even though I'm calm.)

My chest feels murky again.

I can't taste the cookie in my mouth.

When I cast my eyes down, cold fingers grabbed my chin as if to say no—

Gilbert: "Hey, I want you to tell me one thing too..."

[frog-0n-a-l0g]

SUMMIT PT 222222222222 THOUGHTS

So ea spoilers

As I go

———

Porters cryptic as shit

WILLIAM ORDERD HIM WE FUCKING KNEW IT

I FUCKING KNEW IT HE WAS GIVING VIN AN ALABI TOOOOOO

Porters going up in the ranks

Omg alexys stop being a bitch

This is a game of fucking clue

Omg vin said it’s clue too

Relax??? RELAX???

SWEETHEARTTT FUCK YEAA THEYRE ALIVE

OH SHIT THEY SAW WHO DID IT

Did they?? Pls tell me they did

Of fuck davidddd

Babes gon get snatched

it wasn’t sh???

FUCK THEY DIDNT SEE

Porter at that. That one lil thing? He ate that

Omfg David and Porter duke it outtttt

Hah duke ehh ehh? ^

Milo’s mate was in the room where it happened~

NAHHHH ASH DONT KILL HIM YET

That was hot ngl…

Ok so Porter is an ally???

What the fuck is w these wars

Ok but his government take is so real tho

Ok ash he is obvi being truthful

Even when he did tell the truth they didn’t believe him bc of what Sam and Vince had been saying abt Porter. Him giving them an in was a good thing and they were phase clocked so no one should no and they can make their aura almost undetectable so they would’ve been fine babes. Ash needs to look for answers elsewhere

HE CAUSED THE COMOTION??? So then he knew he would die???

Don’t call the department right fucking now. Omg they gon call the opps

Oh yea I forgot they had vampiric discretion

The motherfucking omg the house of vas

Omfg the racism and the wolf is right there???

Also she says she “wouldn’t even get to enjoy the second half” like if she wasn’t the arbiter she would’ve been just fine w him dying. Kinda sis ngl

Also why are they not freaking out

Omg the shit is pointing to solair. Porter looking real sus. He def had a part in the murder but I don’t think he did it. Ok so alexys found him after he had already been dead for a minute so what the fuck was the prince doing??? Living his best life while his king was just killed in front of him??? Nah he’s on the suspect list

These theories bouta go crazy I swear

Only 14 mins in🙄

Not the beheading

Omg the prince is saying show respect but he was just saying he hoped he died??? Nahhh💀 me fr tho

Ok I believe alexys tho

Ok so Porter was out. So only Chris and the king was in there. He had been dead for a minute. That’s super fucking sus. But was was the force? Then he wanted alexys in there?

Yea where the fuck is will

He said he stepped out but sh said there was a force that knocked them BOTH back. Meaning they were both in the room. So that’s a fucking lie

Either that house is that fucking big that the porch is that far away from the room which I don’t think so cause he could’ve just zipped though. But I mean I could get if he was being courteous by walking and it’s a mansion. But the push still isn’t coming into play. I can’t remember if that was the distraction or just what happend. I’m leaning towards the latter

She told “her fellow progeny” which is also the host of the event, a part of her clan, and he would def need to know abt that. And why would she talk to anyone else? Just in small talk, “oh yea I just saw the kings dead body time for a stroll” bitch?

Literally everyone also thinks it’s weird that will isn’t there

Also he’s halfway across the country? Tf is he

He prob did order the death

Also yes fam is w fam in this type of thing

THAT WAS IN DEFENSE BITCH HE KIDNAPPED AND ASSULTED AND ALMOST KILLED HIS PARTNER YOU BITCH

Also everyone hated Adam so fuck off

See Porter is eating

See they’ve all killed someone so quiet

Prodigal son??? Fuck that mean?

“My kings death is not a joke” “no but you’re acting like one” PREACHHHH POP OFF PORTER🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

See?? No one can verify where the king was. The fight was witnessed and took place slightly after the fight bc of Alexys’s timeline and we don’t know where he was before that. Fucking w the distraction?? Nope that was before it. Where was he during?

Ok she said as soon as they’re killed that changes ALOT.

So I thought the prince used the distraction to kill the king and sh popped out right after that but the distraction was a noise. So in that case they would think they could get caught talking abt closeknit and if they were caught talking why wouldn’t he get caught killing? And wtf was the force????

If he had stepped out maybe the person who used the force killed him bc they said it was powerful magic. It was sh who said they used force right?? Cause if I’m remembering this wrong then shits abt to get wicked

Bitch this ain’t abt you idc abt ur enjoyment

Porter is eating rn

Omg he’s the king now

WHO WAS THAT? SHO FOUND WHAT? IS HE TALKING TO THE HOUSE OF VAS?

Ok he was

Are we just not gon acknowledge her leaving

Yea he makes sense but then again will AND Adam killed their makers sooooooo

Ok more to the story

Demon blood?

Ok so he COULDVE overpowered him bc it’s poisonous. The beheading could’ve been done like that

He didn’t debilitated??

PUP??

Ok so it would be an equalizer so he could kill him if he just stabbed him rq

Bitch ur not even the one who’s explaining it it’s Sam that’s helping shut up

OMG OMG CONECTION TIME

So the king wanted to stop funding closeknit and the prince was like dude wtf. It they are so close w close knit we know that they have a demon there, scorpius. What if Chris told them the situation and said that if he was dead they would still get more funding and since scorpius don’t have a choice, gave him his blood, making him able to kill the king with it!! I’m so fucking smart

Ok so he would need to access the demon easily which would make sense w my theory

THE PRINCEEEEE

SEE THIS IS WHAT IM SAYING SHES AGREEING W MEEE

Yes they have omfg

Yes but you wanted to continue paying for them

There is merit they literally have shades and a demon and a kidnapped human Blake is running this shit show. WAIT I JUST REALIZED THAT THEY HAD THE SHADE BC THEY STARTED THE INVERSION. I feel dumb now but HOLY FUCK

Propaganda??? Milo preach🙏🏻🙏🏻

DOG? DOG???

A FUCKING LEASHHH???

MILO BEAT HIS FUCKING ASSSSSSS

THE RASICM

Your former kings taste can reflect on your veiws and motives so yea it do

NO NOT FAIR ENOUGH

SEEE they didn’t even trace sh

Uh huhhhhhhh

See that’s fucking dumb

Everything points to Chris tho.

OK BUT THE PANIC BIT he DID plan but the comotion scared him right? He knew he only had a certain time frame to do it so he killed him and left quickly before people could come check out the comotion and lose his chance. Making him kill him quickly, hurry out and having no time to clear his aura and forgetting the knife in his panic

SEE THIS SHIT POINTS TO HIM

Both. You are both

SEE PORTER AGREES AHA

EVERYTHING POINTS TO HIMMMM

it is not you’re deflecting

Now. It’s now.

CHRIS IS CONVICTED

WHAT

INFRONT OF EVERYONE??? ON THE FUCKING FLOOR??? THEY FUCKING BEHEADED HIM???

Welp. Lovely trauma time😊 time for Adam flashbacks

Omg they’re so chill?

Well he’s dead either way so omg.

They lost the game? WAIT IF WILL SAYS HE THINKS OF IT AS A GAME OMG.

Omg they made me lose the game too

David is right fr

Ain’t that the truth

Oh my fuck

Wait where we going??

Well im fucking planning on it

WAIT IS THE MURDERS A REGULAR OCCURRENCE??

That makes his “lost the game” quote hit harder

WITH LICK IT WONT BE THE LAST??

TF YOU MEAN YOUL KILL HIM YOURSELF BSFFR

Oh my fucking god

Porter idk if this is a good timeeeeee

Ok but he sounds sweet tho

WHAT

PART THREE????

MOTHER FUCKING FUCK WHATTTT?

Well atleast we got some answers and sh ain’t dead. But then again lovely prob got some ptsd rn what’s David gon do. What’s Porter gon explain?????? UGHHHHHH

Fuck

[auspex]

For the micro story: 19. sea change 🌊

ok i had to google what this meant so for anyone who doesn't know:

Sea change or sea-change is an English idiomatic expression that denotes a substantial change in perspective, especially one that affects a group or society at large, on a particular issue. It is similar in usage and meaning to a paradigm shift, and may be viewed as a change to a society or community's zeitgeist, with regard to a specific issue. The phrase evolved from an older and more literal usage when the term referred to an actual "change wrought by the sea",[1] a definition now remaining in very limited usage.

also, this prompt came from this ask game which i am more than happy to do more if anyone else wants to send! Only have one more to do now :): https://www.tumblr.com/blood-bound/754537518514438144/send-me-a-number-and-ill-write-a-micro-story?source=share

BLOOD AND SILICON PLAYERS: DO NOT READ

Without further ado...

Harrison still found suits a bit uncomfortable, even after all these years in San Jose. He ran his thumb over the seam on the sleeve as he slid it on. The gray he usually chose gave off the right impression; a strong, put together baron, meeting with whoever-the-hell Cynthia put on his calendar tonight.

Not just a vampire who wheeled-and-dealed with other kindred. He was now one who could be seen in public by the kine.

A far cry from his days in the woods where he often went shirtless, when he'd only see humans as prey or cattle, proudly displaying his fangs. It was only on rare occasions that he missed it, felt nostalgic; he had almost lost himself in those times, after all, and he was never going back. The rites, the comradeship, and even the rare times where he found use for his skills as a diplomat wasn't enough to keep the beast away.

Harrison walked towards his desk and sat down, opened the drawer, and started idly reading over some notes.

Tonight he had issues focusing. Again his thoughts returned to larger things.

He did sometimes miss his work as a diplomatic, in a younger, different USA. Those dreams only died when he did - Harrison was convinced he would have made it.

But thinking upon that was a waste of time. He shook his head.

There was only the future now, one that his previous ideology and comrades believed would lead to ruin. Cursed by ancient vampires.

Harrison still believed in Gehenna. But he did not believe the Sabbat could prevent it. Ravnos's awakening proved that: It was not the Sabbat that put it down, despite the destruction of the Antediluvians being one of their largest goals.

Harrison would find a better way forward, one all his own.

His reminiscing was interrupted by a horrific headache, one that preceded his visions. He gritted his teeth, put the notebook down and waited for it.

~

The tug of blood.

He was at his desk, looking at his hands, where his veins were stretching, pushing through his skin. Reaching out the office, out to the city.

The laughter of someone in the background. It took him to moment to place it, but yes, this was the sound of his prodigal grand-childe in the background, Jeremiah. What he was laughing about, Harrison did not know. God, how long has it been since he heard him?

Now Harrison was not in his office, but by the highway, seeing the sign "Exit 4, San Jose: 1 mile."

A bus went past.

Harrison saw his veins once again follow. And then the sound of crying- again of Jeremiah.

Someone had entered the city. But somehow, Harrison knew it was not Jeremiah.

Someone connected to him though, no doubt.

~

Then Harrison returned to himself in his office with a start.

He paged Cynthia. As he waited for her to arrive, Harrison made notes of certain locations.

Cynthia knocked on the door as she entered. "Yes, Mr. Harrison?"

Time to put on the face. Giving her a practiced smile, he spoke. "I believe we have an unexpected guest. How many individuals in my employ could we send out tonight?"

[quinnthebard]

(Yet another) WIP Wednesday

Zooming into the future of my longfic WIP | Takes place in Act 3

Cazador's minions descend upon the camp in the dead of night and there are consequences.

Author Note / Disclaimer at the end

TW: Cazador typical violence, torture, abuse

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

They came under the shroud of night. He knew better. He should have known better. As soon as they had made it into the Lower City proper, Astarion should have pushed harder for the crew to seek them out. It was all but certain that if he didn’t find them first, his ‘siblings’ would find him and now they’ve got the upper hand.

It started with a commotion and a shriek, thrusting him from his meditation. Astarion’s ears rang as he gained consciousness, his skin burst into goose bumps, and he scrambled for his daggers before fleeing his tent. The scene outside was out of his nightmares.

His brothers and sisters surround Sarynna, one holding a dagger to her throat as they gripped her with a fistful of her hair. That one peered up at him, his eyes glinting in the remaining embers of the fire. No kindness could be seen in that gaze.

“How nice of you to join us, brother. Master has been looking for you.”

A chill descended upon him, harsh and consuming. It was all he could do to avoid shivering in response. Swallowing, he tried to appear casual, looking down at his fingernails as he spoke. “So I’ve heard. I’ve been avoiding him coincidentally.”

“That’s been evident. He’s traced your path through the Sword Coast. Left quite a trail behind you. Our little hero.”

“You know me, ever so valiant.”

“Quite.”

The others filtered in around them, wary, hands on their respective weapons. Astarion hoped the look he gave them was enough warning to not act unless he signaled.

“Oh brother, we heard you have a new favorite blood bag. An unauthorized one, at that.” He leered down at Sarynna, yanking her closer by her hair. She merely grit her teeth in response, scowling up at him.

“What Cazador doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Hubris is unbecoming, Astarion.” A shape formed from the shadows, darkness coalescing into a man. With his hands clasped behind his back, he stalked towards them with a confidence of a predator before prey. “I know all.”

A metallic taste overwhelmed his senses indicative of his fearful anticipation as he identified the interloper. His former master, Cazador Szarr in the flesh, stood before him, head cocked ever so slightly to the side—a sure sign of annoyance disguised as amusement.

“I merely meant that so long as it meant I could return to you safe and sound, the ends justify the means, Master.” He hated how his tone reverted to such submissive subservience. But now was not the time for defiance.

“I think it’s time for a refresher on the rules, my prodigal son.”

“I know the rules.” And he did. Carved and burnt into his memory, they were mental scars to match those that mar his back.

“Hmm.” The vampire lord turned his attention to his other spawn, then to Sarynna whose fierce gaze refused to betray her fear. Astarion could smell it on her though. No matter what bravado she could muster, he and all the others knew exactly what she was feeling. Cazador crossed the camp until he stood before her, then crouched taking her chin in hand. “My pet’s pet. A pretty enough catch if it weren’t for this.”

His other hand traced the scar on her cheek.

“Leave her out of this.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew it was a mistake.

Cazador’s lips curled. “Oh, you care for this creature? What makes this one so different from the thousand others?” Holding out his hand, he waited for one of the others to gently place a dagger in his palm before they darted back to the edges, to the shadows.

“Different or not, she will prove effective. Let this be a lesson to you all about how important my edicts are.”

The dagger flipped until he holds it, ready to carve while pressing Sarynna to the ground, face down.

“Stop this!”

“This is madness!”

His companions cried out all while he stayed silent, knowing that resistance made everything worse. Cazador hissed at them, “Silence! Astarion, control these whelps or this ends with this one as my next meal.”

“Don’t interfere.” He commanded, begged. He could feel them prodding his mind through their connection and he tried to send any reassurance but how could any of this be good? How could this end well? “Master, please, I’ll return…”

“Don’t you dare.” Her voice was muffled against the ground, gravelly from being so abruptly brought out of her meditation. Sarynna, defiant as always, refused to go down without a fight. “Don’t you dare go back with him.”

“And why shouldn’t he return to his loving family?” Cazador leaned down, the blade of his dagger pressing against her back. “Hush now, I’m making an example of you.” He cut through her night clothes, the tip digging into her flesh carving a line on her shoulder blade. “First, thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures.”

The scent of her blood was intoxicating as it permeated the air, but this time it brought horror rather than hunger. “I’m sorry, I won’t—”

“This lesson is not done.” Scoring a second line, he grinned down at his handiwork as he continues to recite his own commandments. “Second, thou shalt obey me in all things.”

“I’ll never cross you again, I swear it. Just stop, please.”

Another mark made. “Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.”

“I was abducted! There are extenuating circumstances.”

“Fourth,” He took it slowly this time, reveling in Sarynna’s muffled cries as he reached the final statement. “Thou shalt know that thou art mine.”

“He will never be yours. Not again.”

The world went silent save for Sarynna’s words echoing into the night. Brave, darling Sarynna who refused to stand down even when her life was at stake brought the full ire of a vampire lord onto her with a few words of resistance.

“Oh? Is that because you think he belongs to you? Easily rectified.” It happened so quick, he couldn’t react. One second the blade was at her back, then it was at her throat. Cazador flipped her so she would face him, look him in the eyes and in all her fury, she had forgotten that she should be afraid. Uselessly, she thrashed until the true vampire ended her fit with a single, quick stroke.

“No!” He wasn’t sure what possessed him but in that moment he could only think of how he could save her, save his love as she laid bleeding out on the ground. Shadowheart reached out, her hand aglow with an incantation only to be knocked down by one of the spawn. The others raised their weapons, but were quickly subdued. They had the underhand from the beginning. He had failed to watch her back as he had promised and now she was dying.

And so he bargained with all he had left. His body.

He grabbed one of the wood skewers from the evening meal that laid beside the dying fire and held it to his chest. “You need me.” His breathing was ragged. “But I’ll only go with you if you turn her right now.”

“And what makes you think that—”

“I know about the rite. I know you need me to ascend. And if I die here.” He pressed the stake against his flesh, breaking his skin just enough for effect. “All of that hard work will be for naught. But,” Astarion looked down at Sarynna. “Save her and I’ll go willingly.”

“You’d trade yourself for this plaything?”

“I’d do anything.”

“Astarion—” Her voice cracked, wheezed from where she laid. Her eyes drifting as they tried to focus on him. “Don’t—”

“Deal.” Cazador descended quickly and without ceremony. Astarion was numb as he watched. Numb as he felt his siblings take the stake from his hands. He lost the will to fight the moment he saw her life slip from her eyes. Lurching forward, he reached out for her, just a touch, a final goodbye before—

“None of that. We leave. Now.”

He recoiled automatically at the command. It was as if the tadpole lost its ability to protect him from enthrallment. His eyes darted to his companions in one final plea, hoping his thoughts reached them, giving them what they needed to follow—if they chose to.

Protect her when I cannot. Please.

And with that he’s dragged back into the dark.

Disclaimer: I fully realize that Shadowheart could have just used revivify or perhaps they just used a scroll also Withers exists in the game but in my mind Withers is mostly a game mechanic well utilized and backed by lore and while I conceded a cleric or a scroll could have circumvented it, I think the emotional panic and trauma of witnessing it would have cancelled out rational thought. Further, Cazador wouldn't be able to say no to having another tool to toy with after ascending imo but YMMV <3

[rhubarb-newt]

i was gonna write a long in-depth explanatory version of this post before the new episode came out but ran out of spoons editing it. so here’s the mildly unhinged version, brought to you by my catholic trauma.

the yellowjackets cult is really, really catholic, you guys.

both Laura Lee and Jackie are being treated like Christ figures of the group(I will elaborate on Jackie later). frankly I could also see a version where Laura Lee is the Virgin Mary, but she sacrified/martyred herself in an attempt to save her team and is mentor and guide to Lottie, and is the one to really introduce religion to the group.

Not to mention this scene-

lots of people comparing this to the Alice in Wonderland tea party, which I don’t fully think is inaccurate, but to me this actually resembles The Last Supper? which brings us to this

it should be pointed out that Lottie was the first to leave early because Laura Lee asked/forced her to. similarly, Jesus at the last supper called out telling the one who betrayed him to leave - which means Lottie is fulfilling the Judas role. Or rather, Lottie thinks of herself as Judas.

it’s worth pointing out that she blames herself for Laura Lee’s death, foresaw it but didn’t recognize what was happening and therefore didn’t stop it. Lottie actually holds a similar level of responsibility for Jackie dying because she was the one in charge of the group that turned on Jackie and told Coach not to interfere when Jackie went out into the cold.

When Judas betrayed Jesus he did not know they were going to kill him. Judas was wrought with grief over his mistake and tried to return the silver he’d sold Jesus out for, and committed suicide. With adult Lottie spiralling back into visions, this does make me worry a lot about her. 

Obviously Lottie’s visions play a role in this and she’s being hailed as a prophet, though an unwilling one. It’s clear she does not want the attention and is fostering hidden guilt. 

Taissa, especially in the most recent episode, is being positioned as a saint, though I could not tell you which one. Van has fully ascribed divine influence onto Taissa’s “shadow self” and aligned her with Lottie’s religious leadership even though Tai openly dismisses it. I’m reminded of saints speaking in tongues. I have less to say on Tai than anyone else, in part because I don’t understand her role just yet, but the impression that her shadow self is not fully evil seems to only enforce this role for her. 

finally bringing us to Jackie and Shauna - Jackie is not nearly as obvious as a Christ figure as Laura Lee is. In truth, both of them are functioning as Christ figures for the sake of other characters, being Lottie and Shauna. 

Jackie is functioning as the maligned aspects of Christ. The coach selected her as team captain because “she has influence,” she is the prodigal son, the popular girl, the moral compass, which all falls apart the moment the team is in the wilderness. She refuses to go along with the demands of living in the forest (resisting the temptations of the devil, as the forest is working as a malevolent entity) and is immediately, somewhat rightfully, resented for it. Jackie is certainly not perfect, can be nasty at times, and is pushed out of the group to freeze. After she’s dead though... well...

Jackie serves as communion. Note how Lottie and Shauna are the first to approach. Shauna says “she wants us to,” projecting on Jackie that this was a sacrifice of some kind for their survival. That Jesus has broken the bread and poured the wine, saying “this is my body and blood, do this in memory of me.” 

But Jackie, as far as we’ve known her, would not have wanted this. She would have been disgusted at the thought. And I think that’s key - we see Jackie through Shauna’s eyes, and Shauna is projecting.

Shauna is the first to eat Jackie. She is the one to spill blood in the adult timeline. Lottie and the cult members have latched onto Shauna’s baby and the birth as something to celebrate, despite their isolation. Shauna is the protagonist of the series.

But perhaps most on the nose - Shauna had three chances to save Jackie

and denied her

three times.

Shauna is Saint Peter, the first pope. She is the one who breaks cultural barriers and is a leader in her own right, though she would never own up to it. Peter denied knowing Jesus three times on the night of crucifixion, to protect himself, and wept upon the third denial when he realized his betrayal and what it meant.

 Peter is known for being a fisherman, directly paralleled in Shauna Shipman, and was called upon to be a fisher of men when Jesus was collecting his disciples. Seems pretty dark when you consider Shauna inadvertently lured in and killed a man named Adam of all people. Not to mention her role as the butcher, not far off. 

Regarding Shauna’s pregnancy I’ve seen a lot of people supposing her baby may be an antichrist. I haven’t made up my mind about this but it does seem the cult that is forming is growing very attached to the idea of Shauna’s baby. I think if the baby survives it is going to further symbolize something, “on this rock I will build my church” etc, to begin the growth of their cult.

One last parallel - Jackie’s necklace, gifted to Shauna twice, is seen around Mari Pit Girl’s neck, before she’s hung upside down to bleed out. Saint Peter, when he was killed, was crucified upside down because he believed he did not deserve to die the same way Jesus did. 

This could all be wild speculation but... with the way Mari’s been acting? could very easily be Shauna passing her final judgment.

tldr the way the girls see themselves, is super christian and it’s only going to escalate from here

[noforkingclue]

By Any Means Chapter 12 (Malcolm Bright x reader)

Prodigal Son tag list: @queenoffandom08, @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

“I hate this,” you adjusted your dress, suddenly feeling self-conscious, “I always hated these events. Always have.”

Malcolm gave you a soft smile and handed you a drink. You downed it in one, causing Malcolm to raise an eyebrow.

“What?” you whispered, “I don’t expect any judgement from you.”

“And you’re not receiving any.”

“Hmm.”

You and Malcolm stood on the outskirts of the crowd. Malcolm took a sip of his own drink as he studied the crowd. You ran your thumb against the rim of your glass as you too scanned the crowd. You could just about catch a glimpse of Dani and JT and you didn’t have to see them to know the Gil and Jessica were together.

“Let’s dance.”

“Huh?”

You glass was taken out of your grip and you hardly had time to protest before Malcolm had grabbed your hand and dragged you onto the dance floor.

“Do you know how to dance?” you asked quietly

“Does ballet count?”

“Not in this context.”

“Then no then.”

“Great,” you muttered and looked away, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because we need to blend in.”

“By making a spectacle of us?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Just two people having a dance.”

At that moment you stepped on his foot. Malcolm winced and you just raised your eyebrows at him. Ok, maybe you didn’t need to have done that but you wanted to make a point.”

“Why are you doing this?” you asked

“I said-“

“Not that dancing,” you said, “This.”

“This?”

You knew damn well that Malcolm knew what you were talking about. You rolled your eyes and leant in closer.

“Helping me,” you whispered, “I doubt anyone else in the NYPD would be so gracious. Pretty sure your mates would gladly see me locked up.”

“Not for this,” Malcolm whispered back, “No one deserves to be locked up for a crime they didn’t commit.”

“Even though I’m a criminal.”

“But not a murderer.”

“Do you want to see me locked up?”

“For a murder you didn’t commit? No.”

“Not for that. For the other stuff.”

“Ah,” Malcolm spun you around, “That.”

“You haven’t answer my question.”

“I did.”

“It wasn’t a proper answer.”

“No,” Malcolm smiled, “It was. It just wasn’t one you were happy with.”

You glared at Malcolm but your gaze was drawn over his shoulder. Jessica was grinning at the two of you and when she noticed you looking at her, she raised her glass at you. You quickly looked away which only caused you to notice just how close yours and Malcolm’s faces were. You felt your cheeks get hot as you felt Malcolm’s breath fan over your cheek. Even Malcolm seemed slightly unsure and you took that moment to break free. Malcolm’s hands hung awkwardly in the air as you pushed passed him and made your way to the balcony. You needed some fresh air to clear your head.

You gripped the railings tightly as you took a deep breath of the cool night air. You were vaguely aware of the sounds of the auction from inside and you shut your eyes. You didn’t want to think about Malcolm’s arms around you, his face so close to yours, his lips-

The sound of the door opening and closing dragged you out of your thoughts. Your eyes flew open and you glanced over your shoulder. Malcolm stood there and looked at you awkwardly.

“Hey.” He said

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

He shrugged and took a step towards you. When you didn’t move away he continued to approach you. He rested his arms against the balcony and said,

“Felt like I should.”

“Right.”

You shivered as a cold gust of breeze brushed over you and you wrapped your arms around yourself. Part of you wanted to go back into the room but the other part wanted to stay out here. Where it was less claustrophobic.

Where Malcolm was.

Suddenly, a warm jacket was draped over your shoulders. You glanced over at Malcolm who quickly looked away.

“You looked cold.” He said

“I was,” you muttered, “Thanks.”

You felt your cheeks got hot and you curled your hands against the lapels of his jacket. Finally you took a deep breath and said,

“Malcolm-“

At the same time Malcolm said,

“Y/n-“

Awkward silence once again fell over you and you both said,

“You first-“

“No you-“

“Sorry to interrupt,” Gil’s voice snapped you and Malcolm to attention, “but there’s been another murder."

[silverhandj]

| ▐     (    .   .   .    )     *  fallout‚   johnny guitar‚

>... The year is 2077 when the bombs fell, the prodigal son, bleeding red and blue with the prospect of enlisting into the good fight weighed heavy on your mind. It changed you, this weight that your father trained you for as though that's the only thing which mattered on this homestead; never mind the daily crop, the foals which needed tending, the disarray of machinery rumbling its final song as it slogged in and out with only one person caring to fix its parts. In this house, there was only one song.

He was glad when the bombs fell, the sky lighting up every ending and doom impending.

His family was decorated enough to grant them all access to another life down under, Vault-Tec needed strong hands, and ever righteous soldiers to bear arms for when life gets good again.

Robert ran. He should've died that night, likes to think he did and he's just an old haunt now.

>... And the Bunker whispered, told him all about his family and their ranks and the lies and the atrocities his bloodline did before the great war, just to chip in their biggest bet, their survival.

Time loses its value when the fallout settled deep into pith and bone, gnawing into organs their need for something rancid and wet and filling; a feral urge clawing at you from the inside, out.

The Bunker whispered its directions and opened its vault's doors to you, half a man and half death teetering on the edge with only a grain of sanity keeping its hold in you.

The year is 2103, and MODUS had in its grasp a prime test subject.

>... You only have memories of the past to keep you company when the world marches onward, and it's been so long, he isn't sure what's real and what's not real any more.

The tests only grow more and more complex the longer you stay down here, but the air was made for you, the conditions optimal for remembering your name and who you were and the reasons you keep telling yourself on why you're still here keeps changing.

The Enclave had an arsenal of weapons in its congressional bunker, and MODUS had enough time on his hands to construct something just for Robert, a hand for a hand, an arm for an arm, a new weapon for the Enclave. The radiated nerve endings of him is soldered onto chrome and metal that listened to him but also didn't. The silver arm whispered to him, just like how the bunker had, years ago.

Better to burn it all down, Johnny.

>... The year is ... lost to him, just as how he'd gotten out here in the Wasteland but it doesn't matter much when the arm whispers its feral urges to push onwards, to feel death in its grasp, to eat the fallen.

The irony of escaping one death march just to enlist in another isn't lost on Johnny.

War never changes.

[ Mr. Vegas: A strange sighting of a ghoul walks the wastelands armed with nothing but a silverhand and a guitar, calls himself Johnny, and boy do I got a song for him, it's about a guy who's cold on the exterior but deep down, you know, he's a good man, and his name is Johnny Guitar, sounds just right for you Johnny Silverhand. ]

[autisticlancemcclain]

full fic masterlist 2

most of these are over 1000 words, stand on their own, and are posted to ao3. any major warnings will be stated. apparently tumblr only allows 100 links per post, so here’s the second list. i imagine there will be more.

cleanse me with fire ‘cause I am the prodigal daughter ch 1 ch 2 [ao3]

an apple somewhere (in somebody’s eyes) [ao3]

your touch was a dream (your absence a nightmare) [ao3]

why does my heart cry (feelings i can’t fight) ch1 ch 2 [ao3]

how long will I need you? (as long as the seasons need to follow their plan) [ao3]

but you're tracin' every line of my tattoos (wastin' all our time in your bedroom) [ao3]

i found myself a cheerleader (always right there when i need ya) [ao3]

call up all our friends (go hard this weekend) [ao3]

does anyone know where the love of god goes (when the waves turn the minutes to hours) [ao3]

so wake me up when it’s all over (when i’m wiser and i’m older) [ao3]

i’d sell my own bones for sapphire stones (’cause blue is your favourite colour) [ao3]

the more that i push him away (the more that he’s stuck in my brain) [ao3]

sit with me (in the silence) [ao3]

you give me cause for love that i can’t hide (for you i know i’d even try to turn the tide) [ao3]

candy crush [ao3]

starboy [ao3]

though i may speak (some tongue of old) [ao3]

little shoes, little socks (please, kill me, i’m serious) [ao3]

i sit by myself (talking to the moon) [ao3]

that’s my best friend (if you need a freak) [ao3]

don’t you worry about the distance (i’m right there if you get lonely) [ao3]

cat and mouse for a month (or two or three) [ao3]

that’s what you get (for waking up in vegas) [ao3]

did i mention (that i’m in love with you) [ao3]

he’s told us not to blow it (’cause he knows it’s all worthwhile) [ao3]

romeo, romeo (wherefore art thou romeo) [ao3]

i know it’s pretty stupid (but i’m much too shy to tell him) [ao3]

i’m gonna buy you flowers (and hold your hands) [ao3]

when the working day is done (girls just wanna have fun) [ao3]

you break down my walls (with the strength of your love) [ao3]

you with the dark curls (you with the watercolour eyes) [ao3]

you’re from a whole ‘nother world (a different dimension) ch 1 ch 2 [ao3]

now will it matter (after i’m gone) ch 1 ch 2 [ao3]

pullin’ pigtails [ao3]

if the sky comes falling down (for you) there’s nothing in this world i wouldn’t do [ao3]

good luck charms [ao3]

taste test [ao3]

and if i may just take your breath away (i don’t mind if there’s not much to say) [ao3]

as the world (as my world) caves in [ao3]

you got my heart (you got my mind) ch 1 ch 2 [ao3]

it started with a whisper (and that was when i kissed ya) [ao3]

he was a skater boy (he said see you later boy) [ao3]

what’s the worst that i can say? (things are better if i stay) [ao3]

they’ve got the bad boy (on the run) [ao3]

ain’t no river wide enough (to keep me from getting to you, babe) ch 1 ch 2 [ao3]

we’ll play nintendo (thought i always lose) [ao3]

when does a ripple become a tidal wave (when does the reason become the blame) [ao3]

so, darling (save the last dance for me) [ao3]

shots of patron (and it’s on) [ao3]

you’re the most presumin’ dog (that a human could know)  ch 2 [ao3]

brought you to tears again (we are the very hurt you sold) [ao3]

summer dreams, ripped at the seams (but oh, those summer nights) [ao3]

let the stars keep you here (many decapheobes more) [ao3]

i’ve said too much (you promise i can’t ever say enough) [ao3]

how shall i win back your heart (which was mine) [ao3]

no one knows (how hard i tried) [ao3]

however big, however small (let me be part of it all) [ao3]

i know it’s only human nature (to survive) [ao3]

if we can count on you (scoubidou) [ao3]

but someday i’ll be perfect (and i’ll make up for it all) [ao3]

how can i help it (if i think you’re funny when you’re mad) [ao3]

at the same time i wanna hug you (i wanna wrap my hands around your neck) [ao3]

don’t leave me like this (i thought i had you figured out) [ao3]

made my decision (to test your limits) [ao3]

to ten million fireflies (i’m weird cause i hate goodbyes) [ao3]

and i’ll be lmho with the rest (’cause idk what’s coming next) [ao3]

maybe when i’m older it’ll all calm down (but it’s killin’ me now) [ao3]

i want your drama (the touch of your hand) [ao3]

by your side (i’ll be with you) [ao3]

so go on let the rain pour (i’ll be all you need and more) [ao3]

and the words are stuck in my throat (but you hear them anyway) [ao3]

i wanna dig in your heart (take away your hurting) [ao3]

and you know that i know (that i can’t live without you) [ao3]

hands gripping my collar (fingers twisted in my hair) [ao3]

tonight all the monsters gonna dance (we’re comin’ to get you) [ao3]

hey soul sister (i don’t want to miss ya) [ao3]

if you promise not to cry (i’ll tell you just what i would say) [ao3]

seeking faith and speaking words (i’d never thought i’d say) [ao3]

i should be playing in the winter snow (but i’ma be under the mistetoe) [ao3]

my ballerina (sway me side to side) [ao3]

if i say jump, you just say "how high?" i think you might love me to death pt 2 pt 3 [ao3]

you and me (and the kid makes three) [ao3]

[thedepthsoffandomminds]

What happens in the Dark part 7

Part 6

Light bathed you, though it did not ease the pain you felt inside, outside, in every last part of you. A hand brushed back the wet hair sticking to your face.

"Be still little one, you are safe here. I will fetch your other half." his voice was thick, yet gentle. the iron cuffs at your wrists fell away. His presence dissapered and though alone you could feel the comfort of him still with you. trying to focus on anything but your pain you waited.

"Alright, brother I'm here, what do you want?" The voice sent a chill through you and you sat up looking into Desire's golden eyes. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the child of...Me." He grinned. "You seem frightened?" Desire cocked his head to one side, looking at you curiously as you backed away from him.

"Desire, What are you doing?" The voice made him spin away from you, his black tail brushing against your curled up knees.

"Death, sister, Any idea what the dear prodigal has called us all here for?"

Death shifted her eyes between her brother and you, her face filled with sarcasim.

"Are you serious?" she shook her head, crossing his path to reach youm holding your shoulders in comfort.

You stayed still in your place beside Death as each of the siblings appeared. Until at last Destruction arrived back, holding Dream tucked under one arm. the red haired man sat his brother down beside you, his weak body matching your own. Together Destruction and Death pushed you against each other.

the gathered Endless waited, watching as swirls of gold dust bellowed around you. The sands of the Dreaming realm engulfed your bodies, lifting you into the air and giving you both a new strength. When at last you both came back to rest on the long green couch all the pain was gone. Dream looked at you, his dark eyes filled with starlight and he smiled.

"Whow." Delirium breathed out, her eyes wide at the sight of you.

"I guess that's what happens with human soulmates." Despair sighed.

You looked around at them all as they stare at you. Uneasy you look back at Dream.

"You have my eyes." He smiled. Desire held a mirrior in front of you, showing you the now black eyes filled with starlight that matched Dreams.

"This is all new to all of us, but we do not have the time to think on it. We know y/n is different, the product of a love spell from Desire makes us one of us, her connection to Dream is well probably a design of someone else." Destruction laughed, "There is something worse. The thing that took y/n is possibly the end of the Endless."

"That's why you've come back?" Death voiced her realisation.

Destruction dropped his shoulders.

"It is him, the worst of all and we have more guests to welcome before I can explain." he gestured toward a stone archway where a tall woman in a long red dress stepped through, another woman with only half a face followed her. The Endless greeted Lucifer Morningstar one by one; though the meeting was stiff with Dream.

The next to arrive was Micheal, a winged man who had a clear problem with Lucifer and to you looked like a male version of her. He was followed to two very large bearded men, a woman with four arms and blue skin and then a woman, her skin was smooth and her dark hair fell down over the white dress. You felt Dream stiffen beside you.

"Oneiros." She held her hands out to him.

"Colliope." Dream did not resipcate the offer but simply nodded his head. The Muse looked at you, her breath hitching.

"I am happy for you." she spoke quietly before moving to sit on the opposite side of the white room. Well you assumed it was a room, everything was white except the sofas and the archway. More and more people joined the congregation, Morpheus lent toward you, explained who each person was. This was a gathering of representatives from each religion and mythos throughout history.

"Now we are all here, I have graive news for you all. The maker's nightmare has gotten free. Gremory is in the waking realm." Destruction spoke.

"Are dreams not your expertise?" Lucifer sarcastically grinned at Dream.

"This nightmare predates us all. He is the exact opposite of our maker. Pure chaos, it will take more than one of us to defeat him." The Thunder God of the Norse reminded her.

"What does he want?" Death asked.

"I don't know for sure, but he is starting with taking down the Endless and it started a long time ago. This original nightmare, tore this young girl from a human life and forced her into darkness. He has tried to twist her heart into his own evil. Luckily I belive her connection to Morpheus and Desire are what kept her from falling to his spell. It was he who sent Jeffery into your path, my girl." Destruction patted your knee.

"How did he get out?" Shangti of the Chinese asked.

"It was me." You look up at Shangti then to Destruction who gave you a sas smile. "When I was small, and my parents left I made a wish, I suppose having the blood of Desire running though me I mannifested my fears." tears began to well in your eyes. All around you the crowd began to talk amongst themselves. Dream folded your hand into his and gave it the gentlest of squeezes.

"I need you all to return to your realms and serach for any way of fighting agaisnt Gremory. He needs to be stopped."

Everyone agreed and slowly drifted back throught the archway. Desire stood crossing the room to his brother.

"Dream, I need you to know I had no idea any of this would happen. I granted a desire that was all." his eyes glanced to you momentairily and you knew from that look the golden eyes you had seen in the darkness were not this person. "If you would both let me, I would like to know you, y/n? You are afterall my child in a way." Desire swallowed the saliver that was building in his mouth. You nod.

"I would like that." You reply. Dream stayed silent, holding your hand tight in his. Once alone, Destruction turned to the two of you.

"Go back to your reealm and fortifie it, Dream. He is the Chaos nightmare and as so can travel to realm of dreaming as he can any of the Endless."

"Does this mean you are back, my brother?" Dream asked. his brother raised his shoulders and sighed.

"For now."

Part 8

[goldendiie]

Reverse au where sarge gets sick of the military and becomes a hippie and falls in love with uptight senators son Fillmore

(in which getting drunk with a senator’s son is completely an accident. totally).

Late-April, 1968.

Senator Callahan’s oldest son was tall, lanky, with brown hair pushed neatly behind his ears. He leaned indifferently against the wall, watching his father talk with a look of insurmountable boredom, as though he were listening to a college lecture rather than a bid for the Democratic nomination in the presidential election. 

Sarge watched him from the crowd. Frankly, he hadn’t wanted to come to this press conference in the first place: he’d never been partial to New York City, and he’d much rather be back on his college campus working with his chapter of the SDS. Instead, he’d been sent here to interrogate Senator Callahan about his stance on the war. God forbid.

The floor was opened for questions. Sarge raised his hand, and—by some stroke of luck—he was picked first. He said, loud and clear: “What are you going to do about the war in Vietnam, Senator?”

Callahan bared his teeth in something of a smile, but it appeared more malicious than anything else. “De-escalate,” he said simply. “What else is there to do, at this point?”

Murmurs rippled across the room. Sarge scribbled the word into his notepad, before looking back to the stage. Callahan had moved along to another (apparently, more pressing) question, and answered it kindly. Sarge turned his attention back to the senator’s son, hoping to again be entertained by his eye-rolling. His heart leapt into his throat when their eyes actually met. 

Sarge looked away quickly, embarrassed; yet, he still felt eyes on him.  He stole another glance—the Callahan boy’s stare was unwavering. His arched eyebrows were knit together, eyes narrowed in questioning. Sarge held his gaze for a moment, before again looking away. Something about it was strangely dangerous, and he was not intent on finding out why. 

. . .

The press conference ended as unremarkably as it had started. In Sarge’s opinion, Roger Callahan did not have a chance at winning the nomination. Ever since Humphrey had entered the running, the outcome was completely clear. It was frustratingly hard to beat the incumbent vice president.

Whatever. It wasn’t like Callahan would’ve gotten Sarge’s vote, anyways.

He packed his notebook and pen neatly into the pocket of his jacket, happy to finally be leaving. Now that all of this press conference stuff was over with, Sarge could get back to the work that actually mattered. The Democratic Convention in Chicago was only four months away, and he had a great deal of planning to get done. There were phone calls to make, and permits to obtain…

“Hey!” 

Sarge kept walking. Whoever it was—they certainly were not talking to him. He didn’t even know anyone in the state of New York—

“Wait—” 

A hand landed on Sarge’s shoulder, effectively stopping him in his tracks. He turned, irritated, before his heart dropped into his chest. Senator Callahan’s son stood before him, looking as though he had been running to catch up. His clothing was slightly rumpled, jacket thrown haphazardly over his impeccable suit as though he had been hurrying. 

The senator’s son laughed sheepishly, stepping back. “Uh… Sorry,” he said, “I just… I wanted to talk to you.”

Sarge stared back at him, completely floored. He said the only thing that came to mind, “… Why?”

He blinked back at Sarge, laughing again. “I think you should have the truth,” he said. He waved one hand over his shoulder, “My father doesn’t care about the war. You should tell your newspaper that.”

Sarge struggled to think of something intelligent to say. Meeting the son of the prodigal Roger Callahan was the equivalent of meeting a Kennedy; how, exactly, was he supposed to react? He said, dumbly, “Lets, uh… Let’s talk about this over a drink.”

. . . 

Senator Callahan’s son was named Fillmore, and he was twenty years old. He incessantly looked over his shoulder, spoke extremely quickly, and he drank straight tequila with lime. 

“You know, the crazy thing—” Fillmore poorly disguised another glance over his shoulder, “—My father actually supports the war. He thinks we’re in good business, over there.”

“Business?” Sarge asked, scribbling it down on his notepad. “Does he profit from the war?”

“Everyone does,” Fillmore replied. “It’s, uh…” He lowered his voice to a whisper, as if someone other than Sarge would hear him, “It’s sort of fucked up.”

He stole another glance over his shoulder, anxious. Sarge finished writing his note and watched him for a moment, strangely enthralled. He was a good-looking guy: broad shoulders, nice hair. It was a shame that he was so jittery.

“Why do you keep doing that?” he asked. 

“Doing what?” Fillmore replied, quick.

“You keep looking over your shoulder.” Sarge joked, “Are we being wiretapped, or something?”

“No, but…” Fillmore sighed. He looked back to Sarge, brown eyes briefly flashing orange in the low lighting of the bar. “I’m trying to see if we’ve been followed.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t trust me,” Fillmore said quickly. “My father, I mean. He actually almost kicked me out, a couple of years ago—ever since then, I’ve been under a fucking microscope.”

“Why did he almost kick you out?” Sarge asked, intrigued.

“Well, uh…” Fillmore cast a nervous glance down at Sarge’s notebook. “Off the books, okay?”

Sarge shut the notebook, and tucked it back into the pocket of his jacket. He repeated, “Off the books.”

Fillmore hesitated; he threw back the remainder of his tequila, shuddering. “He, uh…” he averted his gaze as he responded, “He found me, uh… in close quarters with another man.”

Sarge blinked. Fillmore Callahan, it seemed, was full of surprises. “Meaning…?”

“Exactly what you think,” Fillmore said quickly, looking away. “I won’t be offended if you want to leave, now. I’m used to it.”

“No, uh… It doesn’t bother me,” Sarge said. 

Fillmore (finally) looked back at him. His brown eyes caught the light in such a way that they turned reflective, although they were shadowed by his thick eyebrows. He studied Sarge for a moment, eyes flicking briefly over his appearance. “Really?” he asked, disbelieving. 

“Really,” Sarge echoed.

Fillmore sat back in his seat, crossing his arms. “That’s not what I would’ve expected from you,” he said, “You seemed very… Traditional, to me.”

Sarge shrugged. “I guess it’s just something that I got used to, working with all of those hippie-freaks in the Movement.”

Fillmore nodded, turning back to his drink; he seemed dismayed to find that it was gone. “How about another round?” he asked, “On me.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Sarge declined, “I have a flight back to Ohio in the morning, I don’t want to miss it.”

“Oh, please,” Fillmore said, “One more drink isn’t going to kill you.”

He stood from their booth and disappeared across the bar, apparently ending their conversation. Sarge whistled quietly, looking down into his drink. Apparently, Fillmore did not like taking no for an answer. 

He returned a few minutes later, two more drinks in hand. He smiled at Sarge as he sat gingerly down in the booth, careful not to spill.

“I got you another Old-Fashioned,” Fillmore said, sliding it across the table, “But, I had them use nicer whiskey, this time. I don’t know how you can stand that Ballantine’s crap.”

He began to stammer, “You didn’t have to—”

“Sarge,” Fillmore interrupted, exceedingly calm, “My family is rich. It’s alright.”

Sarge stared at him for a moment, and then turned his gaze down to his new drink. “Um… Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.” Fillmore smiled at him again, moving to take another drink from his tequila. “Hey— Why do people call you that, anyways? Sarge.” He said the name as though he were trying to savor it, the smile lingering on his face. “Last I checked, you peaceniks don’t exactly like the military.”

Sarge chuckled, replying, “I went to Vietnam last year. Got drafted, went through hell, came home… When I started going to SDS meetings, people thought that it would be funny to start calling me that.”

“Wow.” Fillmore whistled. He rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward slightly. “That’s sort of disrespectful.”

Sarge shrugged. “I don’t mind it. I kind of like it, actually.”

Fillmore hummed, smiling down into his drink. “It’s fitting, in a weird way.”

Sarge looked back at him. Fillmore was almost untouchable: the lighting had given him a strange, ethereal glow, and his face was flushed pink from their drinking. His lips had remained pulled into a softly absent smile as he took another sip of his tequila. 

Now that Sarge was thinking about it, Fillmore was incredibly attractive. Arched eyebrows, thick eyelashes. Long fingers free of adornment, curled around his glass. 

Their eyes met. Sarge looked away.

. . .

When they left the bar, two drinks later, it had begun to rain. Fillmore smiled drunkenly into it, taking off down the street. Sarge was quick to follow him, unwilling to get lost in New York City in the middle of the night. 

It was electric when Fillmore took his hand, pulling him down the street. 

“Come on!” he said, “I know a place—it’s just this way.”

They walked maybe six blocks, laughing and drunkenly clashing into one another at every stoplight. Fillmore’s cologne was intoxicating, as was his touch, as was his smile. 

There was a line along the sidewalk outside of a rather unassuming bar. A bouncer stood at its head, collecting cash from groups of young people. Fillmore pulled him into the line, fingers lingering on his arms. 

“This place is cool,” he said, grinning. “I haven’t been since, uh…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Nevermind.” 

It took maybe fifteen minutes to get to the front of the line. Music boomed from inside, feeling as though it was shaking the street beneath them 

“Ten each,” the bouncer said, smirking. 

Sarge reached for his wallet, and Fillmore’s hand once again found his forearm. 

“Let me,” he murmured, “My father’s a millionaire, you know. I don’t think twenty bucks is going to go amiss.”

Sarge watched rather helplessly as Fillmore produced a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. The bouncer pocketed it, and then stepped aside. 

Fillmore took his arm and pulled him inside. Sarge’s skin buzzed where he had been touched. It was thrilling when his fingers dropped, taking Sarge’s hand instead. 

It was extremely crowded inside the club. Couples danced under technicolor lights, thrashing against the beat of the latest psychedelic hits. Fillmore pulled him through the crowd, finally landing at a long bar along one wall. He shouted something incoherent over the music, slid the bartender a five-dollar bill, and shot Sarge another one of those dangerous looks. 

Sarge’s heart pounded in his chest as Fillmore leaned in close. 

“I got us shots!” he shouted over the booming music. 

Sarge nodded, wide eyed.

Internally, he tried feverishly to convince himself that he did not want to get into any trouble. It did not matter that Fillmore was a knockout, nor did it matter that they were currently standing in a queer nightclub, ordering their fourth (fifth?) drink of the evening. None of that changed the fact that Fillmore was the son of an insanely-rich senator, of whom was terribly fond of threatening to kick his son to the curb whenever he did anything wrong.

Fillmore was passing him a shot, now, something clear and smelling of liquor. Their eyes met again-- hot, electric, wonderful-- before Fillmore tossed back his shot. Sarge struggled to keep himself from watching; he forced himself to look away as he downed his own, leaving the glass on the bar in front of him.

“Let’s dance!”

Sarge did not get a chance to respond. Fillmore pulled him onto the dance floor, through the crowd and into an empty spot directly under a menagerie of flashing lights. 

“Do you know the Doors?” Fillmore shouted.

“Uh… Not really,” Sarge replied.

“That’s okay!” 

Fillmore was grinning back at him and, for a moment, Sarge was almost lost in him. He forced himself to focus; he was not about to lose his head, regardless of their circumstances.

Unfortunately, Fillmore could (somehow) see right through him.

“Loosen up!” He said, laughing tipsily as he lightly punched Sarge’s shoulder. “It’s only fun if you let it happen.”

Fillmore took his hands, pulling him along in rhythm with the beat. Sarge’s heart pounded against his ribcage as they brushed against one another in their clumsy dance. The music boomed in the back of his brain, and he quickly lost any resolve to keep his head on straight. 

Fillmore was terribly attractive: his tie hung loosely around his neck, and his shirt was half-unbuttoned. His hair had wrestled itself free from its gel, now falling haphazardly around his face. He shot Sarge a grin—a real, unashamed grin—and spun around, laughing along with the music. Three hours ago, Fillmore had been the trust-fund son of a senator; now, he was an animal, thrashing drunkenly with the beat.

They clashed into one another, and suddenly Fillmore was closer. His fingers caught the sleeve of Sarge’s jacket, hot and electric where they grazed over the exposed skin. For a moment, Sarge was fully captivated by him: Fillmore smelled expensive, some lovely cologne wrapped into the folds of his crisp sport-coat and hanging from the rainwater that lingered in his hair. He was more handsome up close, all curved angles and soft eyes.

Ten seconds felt like ten minutes. Fillmore was intoxicatingly close, so gorgeous, so glowing—

It felt mindlessly natural when they met. Fillmore’s lips were warm and buzzing with intoxication, hands wandering, breathing deliberate. 

Sarge felt nearly lost as Fillmore pushed himself away, taking a few stumbling steps backwards. His mouth moved, but Sarge did not hear what he was saying: it was drowned in the thrumming of the music against the walls of the club, the shouting and movement of the crowd.

And then, Fillmore was gone. 

. . .

The rain had stopped, leaving shining puddles on the streets. The humidity had chilled the air into something that felt more like late-winter than springtime in New York. Sarge pushed through the streets, desperate: surely, that wasn’t the end? Drinking, dancing, kissing drunkenly… and then, nothing?

He caught sight of brown hair, of a crisp sport-coat.

“Hey!” Sarge called, “Wait up!”

The figure turned, and appeared to walk faster. Sarge sped up, jogging to catch up. He spoke without meaning to, “Fillmore—”

The figure spun around in a flurry of brown hair and expensive fabric. “Shut. Up,” Fillmore said harshly. He grabbed Sarge’s elbow, pulling him into a nearby alleyway. 

The next thing Sarge knew, he was pinned against the cold, wet brick of a building. Fillmore’s fingers were tight on the collar of his jacket, keeping him in place.

“You have no fucking clue, do you?” Fillmore hissed.

Sarge, more shocked than anything else, struggled to respond. “... What?”

“Listen very, very carefully,” Fillmore said, “My life depends on keeping myself out of this kind of trouble. I will not be risking my neck for some farm-boy who I’ll never see again.”

Sarge was incredibly unintimidated by Fillmore, and fully intended to keep it that way. He replied flatly, “I was just trying to make sure that you were okay.”

Fillmore deflated, letting go of him and taking a step back. “I’m just fine, thank you,” He said. He had again turned anxious, eyes flicking nervously around the alleyway, hands absently smoothing some nonexistent wrinkle from his sport-coat. 

Sarge said, “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I would think that you’re scared.”

“I am fucking terrified!” Fillmore exclaimed. “You drop into my life, take me out for a drink, and actually listen to what I have to say…” He huffed, pushing his hands through his messed-up hair. He looked back at Sarge, eyes pleading, “I thought I could be done with it. You know, never thinking about being queer again, but… but then you…” He sighed, leaning back against the brick wall.

Sarge listened, heart aching. Unfortunately, the magic of the bar had faded: the clock had struck midnight, and Fillmore was once again an heir rather than a human being. 

“My father is running for president,” Fillmore continued quietly, absently. “It’s a bad look to have a queer son, you know? I could ruin his career.” He laughed again, scrubbing his hands through his hair. It fell limply around his face, framing it delicately. He added, “Sorry. You must think I’m some kind of pompous asshole.”

“I don’t think that,” Sarge replied, quickly.

Fillmore glared at him, eyelashes heavy in the darkness. “I find that hard to believe.”

“You’re just… Shaped by your upbringing, I guess,” Sarge offered. He added, halfway jokingly, “Which. in turn, makes you some kind of pompous asshole. But a tolerable one.”

Fillmore chuckled, looking away. “Thanks.”

They stood there quietly for a moment. Their knuckles brushed together, and— by some miracle— Sarge found the courage to commit to it. Through the darkness, he took Fillmore’s hand and squeezed it, and was quietly ecstatic when the gesture was returned.

Sarge began, “Fillmore—”

“Yes?”

“I’m, uh… Not coming on to you, when I say this,” he continued, “Do you want to stay with me tonight? Just so then you can get away from everything, for a little while.”

Fillmore sighed. His fingers loosened in Sarge’s hand, but did not slip free. “I wish I could,” he said, “There would be hell to pay, though.”

Sarge hummed. “Right. Sorry.”

“That’s alright. I appreciate it, anyways,” Fillmore replied. “I’m sorry it had to be like this.”

“Neither of us can help it.”

Fillmore squeezed his hand again, fingers tightening briefly. “Hey, um… Where do you go to school? I don’t think you ever said.”

Sarge replied, “Ohio State.”

Fillmore laughed. “Wow,” he looked back at Sarge, expression soft. “I’ll make sure that we make it out there on my father’s campaign tour.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind taking you out for another drink, whenever that happens,” Sarge replied, captivated. 

The air was still in the shadowed alleyway, light reflecting off of the puddles of rainwater littering the ground. Somehow, Fillmore was even more radiant now: his dark eyes were wild and perfervid, his lips slightly parted. 

“Alright, then,” he murmured. 

It was late when they finally went their separate ways. Fillmore bid him goodnight as they lingered in the alleyway, one silent (beautiful, electric) kiss against the damp brick wall. Sarge’s heart was warm as he walked back to his hotel room; perhaps New York wasn’t as terrible as he thought it was.

[vinbee631]

16 - Fear or Love, Baby? Don’t Say The Answer (Actions Speak Louder) 

Prodigal Sons and Daughters Alike

The rest of the weekend passed much faster than Virgil expected it to. He didn’t have any work to do, but he found that his time was sufficiently taken up by being stuck in his own head.

He was… what Patton had said to him, their conversion yesterday, it- he couldn’t figure out why he was still stuck on it, why something he said was tugging at him, had been tugging at him all day.

Chapter title from Louder than Words from tick, tick… BOOM! This is where it really gets heavy aka: the Big Argument. i don't know why i did this to myself, my two favorite characters and I make them have an existential argument lmao

The rest of the weekend passed much faster than Virgil expected it to. He didn’t have any work to do, but he found that his time was sufficiently taken up by being stuck in his own head.

He was… what Patton had said to him, their conversion yesterday, it- he couldn’t figure out why he was still stuck on it, why something he said was tugging at him, had been tugging at him all day.

Maybe… he just needed to remember everything Patton said, and figure out exactly what he said that made him think so hard. That could work.

He’d said… “Perfectionism is a waste of energy. And, okay, that was somewhat true, for Patton. But, perfectionism was just how Virgil lived. It was… likely an unchangeable part of his personality, at this rate. 

That wasn’t necessarily a problem, nor did he dislike that fact. Sure, needed everything to be perfect could be a pain in the ass some days, but it did help him be his best self at the end.

Besides, while culinary stuff was variable, recipes somewhat changeable without fucking up the entire dish, music and instrumentation, especially in an orchestra setting, was not. That advice couldn’t apply to an entirely different playing field. 

So, not that, then. But… but there was something. There had to be something, or he wouldn’t be sitting here, stuck in his thoughts for hours.

What else had Patton said?

“I try to challenge myself to try new things.” 

Had Virgil- challenged himself, lately? Or ever? Well, that was a stupid question, of course, he had. Learning not one but two instruments at a young age, and mastering them as he got older, was extremely challenging. He pushed himself daily to learn and grow his sills. 

And, all his new music, this school… yeah, yeah, he was challenging himself, he was learning and growing still. That was… that wasn’t the problem, he was pretty sure he was still missing something.

“It’s fun, to see what food is capable of.”

That was it.

Fun. Virgil had fun. He thought scheduling was fun, he thought practicing was fun, and besides, he had still just recently pushed himself out of the comfort zone of being homeschooled his whole life. He didn’t think it was particularly fun to talk to people, so he didn’t.

But, then… his productivity increase with Logan. He… teased Janus, and he teased back. Roman had- perhaps not argued, with him, but their discussion, ending in… well, Virgil had been shocked how consistently happy those movies seemed to make him. 

And Patton… yeah. 

Those things were fun, for all of them. Studying and productivity, casual conversation (and sarcasm, of course), music and movies, and baking, especially with friends.

Virgil.

Did Virgil… have anything that made him so happy?

What- of course he did, what the hell was he thinking? He had his instruments, he played them all the time. Practicing was fun, he enjoyed it, hence why he did it so often. 

Right?

He huffed at himself. Of course, he had fun. He wasn’t sure why his brain was trying to convince him otherwise. He was happy with where he was in life, he was comfortable. 

…Having fun and being comfortable were not the same thing, though, were they?

Virgil groaned, this was all getting far too complicated on a day he had been attempting to use for relaxing. Not the time for existential crises, thanks. 

He ended up taking his own advice for the second time in just two days and hefted himself out of bed. Maybe not the same spot he’d been yesterday, but he needed a neutral, quiet space to relax. Probably. Maybe that would help.

It was by sheer dumb luck, and possibly a bit of divine intervention, that he opened the door just as Remus was moving to knock on it. 

Virgil glared at him, backing up slightly from where he was still holding the door open. “Do you need something?”

“I do, actually! If you’re free, that is. Don’t wanna interrupt ya if you’re busy, but I kind of wanted a second- or I guess it would be, like, fifth now- opinion on something I’m working on? No pressure though.”

“Go for it.” Virgil had already been coaxed into interacting with all of the other roommates, and this seemed innocent enough. He still didn’t quite trust Remus, but he did have a lot of free time at the moment. 

Overthinking wasn’t getting him anywhere at this point, so he shouldered past the doubt and followed Remus back to his room to look at his artwork.

“This is another project me and Mica did together. Er, I don’t know if you know him, but he’s in my track, and a lot of my classes, so this isn’t the first piece we’ve worked on together. But anyway, the whole- prompt thingy was to combine art mediums that are hard to combine, or like- unconventional? Soo…”

Remus turned around the, frankly comically small, canvas to reveal it was covered in pottery.

“Did you- has that been fired?” Virgil stared, transfixed at the- was there even canvas under there?

Remus grinned. “You know pottery terms! Yeah, we fired it two days ago. Our teacher was a little worried it would fuck up the canvas-” Well, that answered one of Virgil’s many questions- “but it seems otherwise unharmed!

“Anyway, we’ve talked about it for a while, but neither of us knows how we should glaze it. I know we’re not in the same track, but none of the other roomies are either, and I’ve already talked to them. Nothing’s been… we’re not super- inspired, I guess. But we have to finish it, soooo- any ideas? Just out of curiosity, if nothing comes to mind, that’s fine!” 

Virgil stared at the canvas for a bit, mostly out of bafflement. True, he didn’t know much about pottery, or really anything about art, but he had literally never seen anything like this before. That had to mean something good, right?

He shook himself out of that sidetrack and focused back on the question at hand. “I mean, not gonna lie, it’s- pretty cool as it is. But, with the- lumps, I guess, that you have on there, you could make it… kinda like one of those optical illusions? Something- I guess either the typical black and what patter, or a bunch of psychedelic neon colors? Possibly?” 

“Hey, not bad, Virgil!” Remus grinned. “I’ll let you know if we use that, and honestly, that’s one of the best ideas I’ve heard so far!”

“Glad I could help, I guess.” Virgil gave a small wave, and now, finally, he could go find somewhere more private to destress. Maybe the third floor? He was never up there, it was usually upperclassmen, though maybe they liked to hang out up there on weekends? He’d have to find out.

Before he could make it out the door, however, Remus stopped him once more.

“Oh, by the way, me and the others were planning on signing up for that van trip to the city next week. I dunno if Pat already brought it up with you or not, but we all wanted you to know that you are very much invited to hang out with us! No pressure, though.”

Virgil shrugged. “I’ll pass. I wouldn’t wanna… get in the way, or anything. You guys… aren’t really friends with me, or anything. I don’t need a- pity invite, or whatever this is.”

Remus furrowed his eyebrows. “What? No, no, it’s not pity, we want you there! And, well, yeah, we’re not super close, but not for lack of trying! Did you think that all the times we’ve run into you these past three weeks were just- accidental?”

Virgil blinked. “I… yes? What was I supposed to think, that you were all subtly stalking me until you had the chance to corner me and force me to socially interact?”

Remus must have thought that was a joke, as he chuckled awkwardly in response. “Uh, definitely not. And, we were never forcing you. We just wanted you to- have the option to get to know us more casually.”

“We?” 

“I mean… yes? We all had our own ideas for getting to know you without making you wildly uncomfortable like I did. Well, some of the group weren’t- super enthusiastic about the possibility of upsetting you again, and Janus really didn’t have any clue how to do something other than talking with you, but that one worked itself out.”

“What… what are you talking about? Did you… did you plan all this out? It was… it wasn’t just a coincidence, me running into you guys so many times?”

Remus shrugged. “I mean, I did talk to the others and asked for their about the whole, post-it note plan. And when that didn’t work, I got a great bit of advice from… someone else on how to try to get to know you better without pushing you out of your comfort zone. The others just… agreed to try that, with me.”

“...Plan. You…” Virgil trailed off, his confused frown turning sharper, angrier. “It’s not… you don’t plan out, being someone’s friend. You… it was all random. The- running into me and happening to need help with something, with everyone. There’s… it’s not a fucking agreement to start winning over a friend like you would a partner. It just… it just happens.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Well, yes, it was random, like I said. We weren’t stalking you or anything. But like… we talked about it some, before we reached out to you. We talk about basically everything, y’know, and that includes you, to some extent.”

“What do you mean, you talk about me?” Remus’ eyes blew comically wide, and Virgil would have laughed if he could. “Not in that way! Or, if you’re not thinking that in a creepy way, that’s good, ‘cause it’s not! But uh… yeah, sometimes. All good things and that junk, but- yes? I mean, how else were we supposed to know if the ideas we came up with worked or not?”

Unbeknownst to Remus, Virgil had gone from cautiously angry to outright furious. “So, it was all a fucking idea then? You… you planned it all out so you could gang up on me at the end?” 

“N-no! Virgil, of course not! We all just want to be friends with you it just took… a little bit of communal brainstorming to figure out a way to reach out to you without fucking up like I did!” Remus tried to reassure him, but Virgil was barely hearing it.

“With all the others.” He said, the rage smoothing out to something cold as he stared Remus down. “The… Logan needed a study partner, Janus had a group project problem, your… your brother got stuck choosing a song, Patton wanted a… a friend to bake with. And… that- it was all just a plan?”

“I… I guess, kind of. It wasn’t as premeditated as you seem to think, though. Everyone got to choose their one ways to spend time with you, we just… talked about the initial idea together first.”

“But… none of them… they wouldn’t have reached out if you hadn’t suggested to them that they should! You just… this is last time all over again, but instead of… little fucking pieces of paper everywhere you manipulated other fucking people!” 

“What? No! Of course I… Virgil, I promise that’s not what I was- what we were doing, I-”

“No, you shut the fuck up,” he snarled. “I thought maybe I was being unreasonable by not trusting you, but now, I guess overthinking did get me somewhere. Go find someone else to waste your time on because I’m done falling for your fucking harassment.” “I- Virgil, please, just… the others would tell you the same thing! If you would… if you would just talk to us, we could-”

“Enough! Just take a fucking hint already and leave me alone!” Before Remus could finish explaining, Virgil was gone, his scream echoing along with the slam of his own bedroom door across the hall. 

He hadn’t meant for it to go this way. That was why he was being so careful in the first place. But, as he stared, shell-shocked, at the spot where Virgil had been just moments ago, not breaking out of his stupor even as his brother rushed in to see what had happened, no amount of good intention could save him from the overwhelming guilt he felt for hurting Virgil so badly.

Remus needed to fix things, but this time, he needed some much bigger help.