#but i’m pinning him to my corkboard like a dead butterfly

[nicollekidman]

abby you reblogging that boss bitch daemon video finally convinced me to watch hotd and bingewatched all ten episodes in one night. he’s the worst, he, truly wretched, he’s babygirl (derogatory), i’m obsessed with him (and whatever the fuck he’s got going on with his niecewifequeen)

you are insane??????????? i love you djdjdjdjdjdj

[flowtatoes]

A Special Kind of Weird; chapter one (cross posted on AO3)

Jester Lavorre is a Traveler fan.

Okay, maybe a lot of folks are fans of The Traveler, but none are as enthusiastic about them as Jessie. She’s read his books since she was old enough to vaguely understand the concept of romance — back when her mother would read her children’s stories, and the little tiefling would steal her books off her bookshelf in the dead of night.

She’s just… a big fan. Yeah. Big fan.

So why is The Traveler making college so fucking difficult?

It’s the first week of September; college is on the horizon, with students just getting into their dorms, meeting their roommates, the likes. It’s a time that, as a child, Jester looked forward to — and now, as she sets a box on one of the three beds in her cramped dorm, butterflies dance around in her stomach. Her roommates have barely arrived too, which she’s thankful for — it gives her a last few minutes with her mom, the Ruby of Nicodranas — famous singer and performer, who Jester wishes she could be like.

She tears into the box as soon as Marion leaves for another… in it are posters of The Traveler’s main character, Garmelie, a satyr who goes on… well, to Jester they’re romantic escapades… to others, they’re sexual flings that would normally result in a bunch of STDs. The poster she first gets out is signed by The Traveler himself — one she was lucky to get in a giveaway online, even though she’s never met the man. The second one has Garmelie and a unicorn — unicorns are Jester’s favorite animal — and the third and forth share The Traveler’s cloaked portrait, with his right index finger up to his lips, as though he’s telling the photographer a deep, dark secret that’s not for anyone’s ears but theirs.

Oh, how romantic…

“Sapphire, did you pack your toothbrush?” Jester instinctively shoves the forth poster back into the box as the Ruby comes back, holding a stack of boxes labeled ‘Jessie’s clothes’ and ‘fun thingies’. She sets them down beside her daughter’s bed before going to give her a tight hug. “I can’t believe it… my baby is a college student. It’ll be so lonely without you, little one.”

“Aww, Mama! I’ll email you like, every single day,” the blue tiefling says through the squished hug. She squeezes her mother back, only to feel sad when Marion backs up after a few solid minutes of hugging. She sits down on the bed, staring up at Jester, who’s… trying hard to be brave. For her mama. For school.

For The Traveler.

“Do you know when your roommates are coming?” Marion takes a look around the small dorm; there’s a small desk to the left, and a bathroom that the three girls will have to share — the three beds are bare, just boxes atop them, no bedsheets or pillows to make it look homey. It almost makes the blue girl want to dig out her paints (that she brought, of course) and paint everything a nice pink or blue… maybe yellow? “I’m sure they’ll be… more friendly than the kids at school.”

More friendly could mean anything for any kid. For Jester, it means ‘kids who don’t pick on me for writing nasty fanfiction instead of going to beer pong parties’.

Yeah… her old friends are a relic of the past.

The girl takes one of her posters and heads to the corkboard above her bed, where she starts to pin it up with pink starry push-pins. “Ah! Oh my, doesn’t he look just so cute ?” I’ll avoid Mama’s statement if I can, she thinks. “Mama, do you think you can convince Bluud to invite The Traveler to the Chateau during the winter break?”

Her mother doesn’t suppress her giggle. “I’ll ask him, little Joy.”

Just as the pair are about to banter on, the dorm door bursts open with a ca-thud . Two girls struggle to go in, each saying “after you”; one looks like a sad poet, and the other looks like she could bench press Jester like she were a sack of flour.

The ‘poet’ is the first to enter. A white haired girl, she’s wearing an Orphanmaker shirt and ripped leggings; she has only a small bag with her, and a pillow under her arm. The other girl, who Jester feels both intimidated by and also… very interested in, has dark brown hair, brown skin, and striking blue eyes; she’s in gym clothes and has three duffel bags in her arms. A little boy no older than three is running after her, yelling, “Beau! Beau! Beau, you’re gonna miss me?”

“Yeah, you shithead, I’ll miss you.” The girl, Beau, says to the toddler as she throws her bags on the bed closest to the bathroom. The toddler simply giggles. “Don’t tell Mom that I swore and I’ll get you a… fuck, what are kids into? — a toy or something, when I get home. Yeah?”

“Okay!” The boy screeches and runs back out of the room, most likely to whichever adult was helping Beau take things in. She swings herself onto the foot of the bed, narrowly missing the bed frame’s wrath.

Beau looks at Jester with peak curiosity. “You one of the new roomies?”

“Yeah…” Jester’s voice goes quiet; she looks over at her mother, who’s helping unpack her clothing and putting it in the trunk at the end of the bed. She takes in a forced breath before turning back to Beau with a plastered-on smile. “I’m Jester! You’re—”

“Beau. Just… just Beau,” the other girl says with a smirk on her face. She looks like she could pick Jester apart just by words alone, and yet— “Oh, you a… a raunchy book fan?” She points to the poster. “Not gonna lie, I’ve only seen the movies, but they’re better than Fifty Shades, really.”

Thank gods… Jester’s forced smile turns more genuine at the thought of someone knowing her passion — and oh, how this series is a passion! She takes a seat at the desk nearby, looking at the ‘poet’. “And you are…”

“Oh…” the girl with the white hair is hanging stringed lights from her cork board and bed frame as she pauses to speak. She’s a good six feet tall, if possible. Jester has to really look up to meet her eyes — colorful ones, too. “Yasha… you’re pretty uh, colorful?”

“Thank you, Yasha!” The tiefling looks down at her own clothes (a pink skirt, pastel, of course, and rainbow Converse — a custom made one she bought recently with money from the café she part-timed at) with a wide, toothy grin. “You look kinda… are you into poetry?”

Yasha stops hanging the lights, holding the strings in her hands for a solid minute… before nodding. “I like… poems. My sibling and I write together, though he prefers, ah, songwriting… he’s also a tiefling, if that means much to you..?”

Tiefling? Another one? “Is he here, too?” Jester inquires, with an ounce of hope in her voice.

Yasha nods, not looking away from the stringed lights. “Yeah… his name’s Molly… er, Molly mauk , but everyone calls him Molly, really. He’s weird, but he’s… you know, a good kind of weird. Like—”

“Like me!” Jester says enthusiastically. The white haired girl chuckles as the blue girl gets up and spins in the tight quarters. Marion beams.

“Sapphire, I better get going.” The mother stands from her daughter’s bed; she’s tall, too, but nowhere near as tall as Yasha. She takes Jester into a tight hug, kissing her forehead, before leaving the room, trying (and failing) not to look sad.

Jester isn’t used to being away from her.

“Man, did she look like she was gonna cry or what?” Beau blows a bubble of pink gum and pops it. “Jess, you’ll be fine. There’s like, no need to cry.”

Am I crying? The tiefling touches her cheeks; her fingers come back damp, and she’s quick to wipe her tears off on her sweater. With a sniffle, then an eye rub, she heads back to her side of the room, grabs another poster, and starts to hang it up…

xxx

“Ja, I-I know, I know, Essek —” click .

Caleb Widogast sucks at relationships. Period. He was in a relationship of three, maybe four years that blew to smithereens by the time he graduated high school… then there was his summer boyfriend Essek, who didn’t seem too awfully thrilled about a long distance relationship with the human boy.

The human throws his phone down on his barely-made bed as his roommates snicker. “Shut up,” Caleb mutters; Mollymauk chucks a pillow at his head, just narrowly missing him. “Molly!”

“Look, I’m sorry Mister ‘I bring three fucking toothbrushes with me to a sleepover’ is mad, but you’re too damn adorable for him.” Molly is a short genderfluid tiefling with spiky black hair that falls to his shoulders, and has a habit of wearing funky outfits to ‘find myself a partner’ (his words, not Caleb’s). His other roommates are a half orc boat lover named Fjord, and a giant firbolg known simply as Caduceus, who’s not really studying anything, but he runs the library at school for tuition. “You shouldn’t waste your time with him! Find yourself a new man — or woman, whatever your little Zemnian heart desires.”

“Please… stop.” Caleb feels his face grow red just in time for Molly to ‘ooooh’ about it; thankfully Fjord elbows the purple circus man in the neck, making him shut up. “I didn’t… think he’d break up over the phone.”

“As opposed to in person?” Caduceus isn’t very versed in romance; he’s more of a ‘watch and learn’ type, whether that be from his years as a ‘homeschooled’ kid or just… general ‘Deuces vibes. “At least it wasn’t in front of your family.”

Ah… family.

How did he tell them about his fucked up family? Maybe he would ignore it; maybe he’d pray that his ‘dad’ wouldn’t show up for band practice or fun days. Maybe…

“Well, it’s over, which is good, ain’t it?” Fjord asks. The half orc is quite short for, well, one of his kind, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to sound big. In all fairness, no man is as tall as Caduceus, so Fjord has little to fear.

The human groans into the palm of his hand. “It’s… I actually liked Essek, though,” he mumbles; prays nobody picks up on what he said. “He was… fascinating. Breathtaking, even. It’s… I don’t know—”

“Can’t you just, like, bone someone and call it a night?” Molly flops onto Caleb’s bed, sprawling his body out like a cat.

Caleb’s cheeks burn red. “I— listen, circus man , it’s frankly none of your business, ja ? Yeah.” He tosses a small box on his bed before deciding, albeit last minute, to open it.

Inside, amongst pictures of Essek, is his favorite book by his favourite author — a known Traveler, who a girl in another hall idolizes…

Here’s hoping Caleb isn’t the only Traveler fan in freshman year…

[etherealnik-archive]

July 11, 2012

Pairing: None Rating: T Tags: Post-The Dream Thieves, Dreams vs. Reality, Ronan Lynch is Bad at Feelings, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Minor Rovinsky, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Smoking

Flashing a cocky grin, Kavinsky took the lighter from the other and quickly lit up his smoke, but he seemed to be holding back. Ronan regarded him with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. “Is there a reason tonight that you’re being an ass, or is it just the same moody bullshit as always?”

Kavinsky’s expression shifted, and he took a long drag off of the cigarette he had perched in his fingers, then dramatically flicked it, still burning and barely smoked, out of the window of his Mitsubishi. “Am I real?”

[Read Now on AO3]

It began as many things do: swift and quiet, barely a whisper of a thought before Ronan Lynch was swept through his unconscious mind and again towards the imposing white car. Ronan waited under the streetlamp the same way he had before for the car to slow down and finally stop next to him. Its driver lowered a pair of white-rimmed sunglasses to stare at Ronan, but something was off about it tonight. “What do you want now, Princess?”

Ronan rolled his eyes and looked down to the unlit Marlboro Silver between Kavinsky’s fingers. “You looked like you could use a smoke,” he said, reaching into his pocket and feeling the cold metal of dollar store lighter appear beneath his fingers. He offered it to the other man, then leaned back under the light of the lamp above him.

Flashing a cocky grin, Kavinsky took the lighter from the other and quickly lit up his smoke, but he seemed to be holding back. Ronan regarded him with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. “Is there a reason tonight that you’re being an ass, or is it just the same moody bullshit as always?”

Kavinsky’s expression shifted, and he took a long drag off of the cigarette he had perched in his fingers, then dramatically flicked it, still-burning and barely smoked, out of the window of his Mitsubishi. “Am I real?”

Taken aback, Ronan blinked. Excluding Orphan Girl, he had never met a dream-thing that seemed to be self-aware. He let the silence hang in the air, pregnant, for a long while, before Kavinsky just scoffed and lit a new cigarette. There was something solemn in his movements that the real Joseph lacked, a little blip in the dream cycle that showed he wasn’t quite natural, or maybe a tic his subconscious mind had supplied that he hadn’t thought of directly. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I’m still a dreamer, Lynch. I can tell when something is a forgery. It’s got this… Haziness to it.”

Ronan stole the lit cigarette from Kavinsky’s grasp and took a long pull, savoring the burn in his chest that came with it before handing it back to its owner. He let the smoke blow out of his nose on a long sigh and looked up. “You’re real,” he said, slowly, trying to parse out the best way to respond. “You’re here whenever I come. You react to me, you talk to me—”

Kavinsky barked out a sharp sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “You’re funny— Did you, did you know,” he said, a psychotic grin splitting his features as he tried to speak through the laughing cries, “As soon as I take the Mitsu past Nino’s, it clips out like a bad Bethesda game. Every time I pass the traffic light there, I’m back at the Strip. Same with the garage, and Aglionby. All of it. Like God didn’t bother to create anything outside of my little sphere of influence. I’m no more real than anything.”

Ronan didn’t remember moving past the streetlamp, but in a second he was in the passenger seat of the car, staring at Kavinsky for the first time since he’d started this. “You’re real enough. This place is just a memory, a moment suspended in time,” he explained, but it sounded stupid even to him. “You’re as real as the drugs you dream or Chainsaw. You’re just not… Alive yet.” Real but not quite living, as Ronan had felt for the past week. He had known his abilities had not made him invincible, but it was still hard to believe that Kavinsky, flaming and deadly and everything a thief should be, would be killed by his own creation.

Kavinsky shook his head. “That shit’s not real, man. It just feels real. Did you know the sun never rises, here? I thought I was just too high to notice at first, but no. Even the weather doesn’t change. Perfect, cloudless sky,” he murmured, waving the cigarette in his hands. “But none of that gave it away for me. I was too damn dense to see through it. You know what gave it away?” His voice broke like he was afraid of the answer, but he didn’t care enough to hide it. “The addiction. It’s gone. I didn’t smoke for four days and I didn’t even notice until I reached for the pack and it wasn’t there. The depression of it doesn’t burn in my chest. It’s all gone.”

The Mitsubishi shook when Kavinsky kicked at the door once, possibly in frustration. Ronan knew, knew in his heart and mind, that Kavinsky was dead, but this one was all too real for him in his reactions and his words. Dreamer had become dream thing, but he was still himself. Sentient.

“This is how I stay sane after it all,” Ronan admitted, voice quiet in a way it never was outside of his dreams. It seemed to echo even off the small shell of the Evo. “Coming here once in a while. Coming back, or at least as close as I can. You’re a piece of trash, K. But that doesn’t mean you deserved to die.” He murmured. “I wanted you to live—I wanted you to be happy. Living memory, not a decaying one. This place is eternal because for it to move on you’d have to die.”

Kavinsky did not move, still as a cat waiting to pounce, the fire behind his eyes either dead or dying. No human could dream Kavinsky’s spirit, Greywaren or thief. He was merely a fraction of the man he once was. “Living doesn’t mean alive, Lynch,” he said, and at Ronan’s confused expression, he just let out a low breath. “Say I were to jumpstart this place, like a stolen car. Make it move forward even though you’ve dreamed it to stay stuck on this night. I’ll still die. Proko will still die. You said it yourself. Living memory. None of these choices are mine,” he looked down. “I never should have brought him back. He’s… He’s just a shell of the Ilya I knew. Not the same. If you keep me here, suspended, I’ll end up like him.”

Quietly, Ronan flicked the ash from the second cigarette he didn’t remember lighting onto the floor of the Mitsubishi. Kavinsky gave him a dirty look, but as Ronan suspected, no violent outburst or cry of rage. He was right—he was just a shell now. There were only traces of the man he knew. This moment, however realistic it was, was controlled by him, and it would stay frozen at 10:30 on July 4. There was no way to further it. “Have you noticed that the crickets only have one pattern? Like an audio file, looped over and over. I never thought I’d give a shit, but I miss it.”

“Miss what?”

“The sun, the seasons, the burn of withdrawal. No change. It’s nothing now. Hell, I even miss my classes at Aglionby. At least before I had a choice as to whether or not to go.” Kavinsky laughed softly. It sounded broken. “I am still a dreamer. A thief. If I told the sun to rise, would it? Would this all fix itself? Would… Would I die? Would the addiction come back? The hurt? The burn?” He demanded, and Ronan was surprised to see his eyes wet with tears. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Kavinsky cry. “The love? Anything but this goddamn… Emptiness.”

Ronan looked into his eyes, blue meeting pale green. He didn’t know what to say. “If that sun rises, this world will burn.”

“One singular moment for eternity, or death. It’s a shitty fucking choice and you know it. How could you do this?” He demanded, tears springing free and running down his cheeks. “I thought I might get a chance to be happy again when the party just kept going, and then the sun didn’t rise. My phone wouldn’t work. And I knew, I fucking—” he let out a shaky breath. “I knew it was fake. I feel like a damn butterfly pinned to a corkboard.”

Ronan grabbed Kavinsky’s wrist before he brought the cigarette to his lips again. “This is your kingdom, Joseph,” he said, putting all of his regret and anger and emotion in his eyes and not his words. He knew he couldn’t lose it or it would implode again. “This is your memory now. You know it’s fake, so what? If and when that sun rises, it doesn’t have to mean shit. You’ve already ruled the night for a goddamn week. What’s stopping you from ruling the day?”

To his own chagrin, Kavinsky felt his lip begin to quiver. “I don’t want to live, Lynch. I wish you had just let me fucking die instead of making me into this zombie,” he spat, and Ronan could see how close he was to losing it completely. The edges of his dream blurred like they’d been painted in watercolor.

“I don’t want you to die!” Ronan burst out, and the dream rippled around him under the weight of the truth he’d let out. He swore, reaching for the steering wheel of the car, but he knew it was too late. This dream was not meant to exist at all, which made it even more fragile.

Kavinsky and the Mitsu disappeared again, for the seventh night in a row, and he was left to grieve alone on the concrete floor of his bedroom.