#honestly I should just write a paper on the stages of grief and what I find so interesting about it

[onmyyan]

hi again i'm the Anon who asked if you take commisions only or requests as well. I love your writing style<3

Soo could you write about Batmom reader, where reader took care of bruce's children as her own. But then bruce gets a mistress, reader still stays becuz of the kids but when everyone started to become cold to her and insult her ' X (mistress) is better mom then you ever were' she leaves gonthem. Then everyone realises she (mistress) was just after their money. They go to batmom's room to apologize only to find it empty. They try to find her everywhere but couldn't. And finally when they do, reader rejects them since she was having the time of her life without responsibilty but gets kiddnapped by the batfam?

Honestly i wanted to commision but i'm flat broke and i'm too busy studying to work and on top of that i don't have my own phone (i use my dad's old laptop) soo yeah... I hope you consider this.

A/N: Loooove this request thank you for sending it in <3 fem reader yandere themes lmk if you want a part two

The (L/n)'s were a wealthy and prominent family in Gotham, right up there with the Wayne's when it came to power over the city, the two families were in business together which is why when Bruce Wayne personal attorney came to you with a marriage proposal, you weren't surprised.

A marriage of convenience. You thought you knew what this would entitle, you knew this wasn't out of love, that this was required of you, it had nothing to do with what you actually wanted, but you were dutiful and signed, inking your name on the paper felt like a deal with the devil.

Bruce hadn't bothered to officially meet you until the day of the wedding, it was beautiful and well done but lacking any form of love of affection, CEOs and other rich folk you didn't recognize filled the pews, the ring felt cold when he slipped it on, his vows perfectly rehearsed, and not an ounce of warmth in his eyes, you knew that night you should have annulled the marriage, but something made you hold on, something your mother had said to you as the makeup artist turned you into the visage of a bride.

"You'll learn to love each other, your father and I did after all." And she wasn't lying, your parents married for convenience as well but had grown to love one another, so maybe you could do the same?

A year after the nuptials Dick Grayson is thrust into your life. Haley's circus was famous in Gotham for its incredible death defying shows, but on this night death would walk the stage, taking with them Dick Grayson's parents in a horrible display, You and Bruce had consoled the boy for only a moment before Bruce was talking to the officers, he'd decided Dick was coming home with you, of course without asking your opinion, but it didn't matter, you felt such pity and grief for the boy, it made perfect sense to you, he was shut down for the first few months, he called you by your name and you had no problem with it, making it clear you never wanted to try and replace his mother, the ice between you two melted one day, one kind word at a time, he couldn't help but confide in you about school or his friends, because you were more emotionally there than Bruce was.

Like the night you caught him sneaking out, a packed bag in hand and the keys to one of Bruce's many cars in his hand. Instead of yelling for Bruce or Alfred you simply smiled at him, "you should take the audi, it's the safest car here."

"..You're not going to try and stop me?"

You shake your head no, still offering that kind smile.

"You know yourself best Dick, if you're unhappy here I won't stop you from finding your peace." He took a moment before tossing you the keys and reluctantly making his way back inside.

You find out about Batman because of Dick. He'd come home with some nasty bruises and it wouldn't take long to put two and two together. Them both being missing at the same time, Dick started to pull away from you, one night, after hours of trying to get to sleep in a bed much to big for one body, your legs decided a walk was necessary, the halls were dark and quiet, giving the manor an eerie air, quietly you walked the long hallways intending on stopping by the library, as you turned the corner you seen Dick in a hidden elevator, the doors just slamming shut as your eyes tried to register what was there. Seconds after the doors close a wall appears, as if nothing was ever there. It's not long after that you see a brief news clip of the caped crusader and his new sidekick, because the longer you stared at the screen, the more familiar they began to look, that dead tight lipped scowl on Batman's face, it was one you'd had the pleasure of looking at for the past few years.

That night you confronted Bruce, he seemed surprised you'd figured it out, but he didn't deny it. Simply saying, "It's late (Y/n), get some sleep."

You nearly divorced him then and there for endangering a child the way he was, but after a moment of thought, you realized Dick would need a real parent around so you stayed, making Bruce swear to be careful.

Jason comes next and he takes to you a lot faster than Dick. He craved the warmth you offered, you two had inside jokes and a closer relationship than him and Bruce, but that all changes the day he dies. You're broken, a ghost haunting the manor with your presence, and Bruce is no comfort throwing himself into the Batman role, you begin to hate him a little with this particular betrayal.

Tim was another hard egg to crack but you were desperate after Jason's death, so you took his verbal lashings with a smile, were always there to offer a helping hand with any of his projects despite the help never being accepted. Tims wound from losing his father is too raw, he takes a lot of his anger out on you. And you weathered the storm with a soft, warm smile.

Damian hated you, from the moment he arrives, which is bitter enough as is because it meant Bruce was unfaithful, he's spitting out insults and comparing you to his 'perfect' mother.

Things weren't great in your life, but one day they started getting noticably worse. Dick no longer responded to your check in texts, Jason (now reanimated which was a heart attack in and of itself) saw you as the enemy, you didn't leave Bruce after what happened to him, so in his eyes you betrayed him, Tim ignored your existence as best as he could, and Damian? He'd started staring at you with this smug look on his face, like he knew something you didn't.

Bruce had all but ran from you, he didn't sleep in your shared room anymore, he barely spoke to you at breakfast, if it wasn't for the cameras he wouldn't touch you.

And it's all because of a woman named Rachel.

Apparently Bruce had introduced this woman to the family, bringing her around when you weren't, slowly replacing you, it was no wonder they started to pull back.

Alfred is the only reason you find out, having enough of the blatant disrespect, he calls you to come home early one day saying it's a dire matter. Of course you comply, and walk in on a discomforting sight. The whole family was gathered at the dining room table, plus a woman you'd never seen before, she sat close to Bruce, toying with his hand intimately. Her green eyes lock with yours and the smile she gives you forms a pit in your stomach.

There's silence before Bruce stands up, he walks over calmly, "Can we take this in the other room." But it wasn't phrased as a question.

"No" you licked your lips, a nervous habit from your youth. Bruce seemed taken back by your sudden backbone. He nods silently.

"I want her gone Bruce. I am your wife. You will show me that semblance of respect."

"I- of course." You don't wait for the words to settle instead, you calmly walk to your room, face unreadable.

Locking the door behind you, your body slides against the frame, a silent sob wracks your frame, your hands covering your mouth, you wouldn't give them the satisfaction of hearing your cries.

The next morning you wake up to breakfast in bed, a generic yet elegant spread of food lay on a tray in the empty spot Bruce used to stay. The man himself sitting in the chair beside the bed, staring at you with that practiced smile he used to appease people.

"Good morning."

"What's this?" You sat up straight, sleep evaporating from your form as you took in the threat before you.

"An apology. I never meant for yesterday to happen."

"What a comfort that is." Your piercing (e/c) eyes stare at him blankly, unreadable. "How long."

"A year." You scoff pushing the breakfast away from you like it was poisonous. "But its not what you think, Rachel is a childhood friend, a year ago our relationship, evolved into what it is now, but I was never intending to go behind your back."

"Ah of course, your intentions were pure." The words dripped venom, grabbing your robe you quickly dress before standing and walking to the door, "Thank you for the wonderful talk Bruce, really your people skills are top notch." Your hands gesture to the door. He leaves without a word.

The rest of the day is as usual, Bruce avoids you like the plague, the rest of the family acted as if you weren't there. Which made leaving all too easy.

Your lawyers had the divorce papers ready and hour after you called them, signing them felt like the first act of self love you'd done in years. Slipping them into Bruce's study you took the time to analyze the room you never entered.

It matched Bruce that's for sure, pictures of every single person in the family. All except for you.

Walking out the door, wrapped in your ankle length black faux fur coat, the garment whipped in the wind, the designer sunglasses on your face hid your eyes from the world, hair in a slicked back bun, your heels echoed against the pavement, a sleek black car was waiting for you, you look back at the house that had caused you so much misery then got in the back of the car, never looking back.

Life goes on for about a week, your absence goes unnoticed, that is before Rachel is trying and failing to blackmail Bruce out of a billion dollars, she'd collected evidence he was cheating on you with her and presented it to Bruce with a grin, it was only as he went through the pictures of himself and Rachel, did he notice the yellow envelope with his name written on the front.

Hey puts the heartbreaking matter of Rachel's betrayal on the back burner, Bruce opened the envelope and felt his heart completely stop at the word divorce written in bold lettering across the top, your signature was already there, waiting for his to join it.

Ignoring Rachel completely now he turns in his chair, turning the paper over and over as if it would magically change. But it remained the same. Alfred knocking on the door of his study broke him from his trance. "Master Wayne, miss Rachel." He says the latter's name with no warmth. "Escort Rachel to her car Alfred."

"Bruce have you heard a word I've said? I'm serious I'll go to Gotham daily right now if you don't -"

"Now Alfred."

That was all it took for the screaming woman to be firmly escorted off the premises. Bruce all but ran to your room, he didn't bother knocking, and despite knowing in his heart you were already gone, he couldn't help but check anyway.

Your room was empty and cold, he couldn't believe the date he'd read on the divorce papers, it was dated a week ago, meaning you'd been gone for a week and he hadn't noticed. No one had.

That is until Bruce remembers there's someone in the house nothing gets by.

"How long have you known she was gone Alfred?" He asks leaning on his knuckles the divorce papers stared back at him taunting him. "Since the moment she left." The older man replied simply his hands behind his back. "Why didn't you tell me immediately?" Bruce felt himself tense, "Because you've hurt that woman enough Bruce. She deserves at least this." He gestures to the daunting divorce paperwork before turning to leave Bruce with his thoughts.

The news of Rachel's betrayal shook the manor each member feeling violated by their trust being broken. But it was nothing compared to their reaction once they finally realized you were gone.

"That was rough." Jason says after watching Rachel being dragged out of the manor, he blew air out of his cheeks arms crossed over his chest, he looked towards the hallway that lead to your room, you had to have heard that he thought to himself.

Dick sighs through his nose, "Someone should check on (y/n), Rachel was screaming so loud she definitely heard that." No one volunteers so Dick rolls his eyes and heads towards your room.

He lifts his hands to knock but noticed the door was open, pushing it further he's met with a baren room, his brow furrowed in confusion before he makes his way to Bruce's study. "Hey B, have you seen (y/n)? Her room is like weirdly empty."

Dick found his Father where Alfred left him, leaning over the divorce papers silently a storm in his eyes.

As he steps closer and reads the paperwork Bruce was staring so intently at, his heart stopped.

"Holy shit- are those real?"

"Yes." Bruce finally spoke his voice horse. There was a moment of silence before Dick left the room practically running down the stairs to alert the others.

"(Y/n) left Bruce." He said still processing the information, "No fuckin' way." Jason says pushing himself off the counter he leaned on. "Her room is empty and he has the papers, she's gone."

Each member of the family had different reactions to this information.

Dick tries calling you only to be met with a disconnected number, his heart hammering in his chest, he wasn't as close to you as when he was younger sure, but you were a constant in his life, always had been, a pillar of support, and suddenly you weren't. It felt like the floor had gotten pulled out from under him.

Jason curses under his breath, his mind working a mile a minute, he had barely spoken to you since his Resurrection, something he deeply regretted as the information of your leaving sinks in like a brick thrown into a river.

Tim, ever calculating is trying to figure out where you went, you were a figurehead in his life, someone that was literally never not there, sure he wasn't close to you in the slightest but that doesn't mean he wants anything to happen to you, someone as quiet and soft as you on your own in Gotham? It didn't sit well with him. Not one bit.

Damian didn't know what he was feeling at the news, he supposed he should feel nothing, after all you were nothing to him, but there was this nagging feeling in his chest that he couldn't quite place. And he hated it. How dare you leave and upset his fragile ecosystem?

Meanwhile in the Bahamas, far from Gotham and the neglectful family you'd left behind, you sat lounging on a private beach, a knitted hammock cradles your body, a designer baby pink bikini covers you, a matching sunhat protects your face from the hot sun, you can't wipe the smile from your face, humming a tune from your childhood you barely flinch when someone takes the seat besides your hammock.

"Do I want to know how you found me?" You ask, eyes still closed as you bask in the warmth. You knew only one person had the sources to find you on your own island, and despite how much you resent the man, even his presence can't ruin your shine in this moment.

"You're my wife (Y/n), I'll always know where you are." Bruce speaks softly as if trying not to startle you. "Former wife." You correct cracking an eye open, a small smirk curling on your lips.

"Not until I sign those papers- which I never will."

"huh, I thought you'd be thrilled." You muse to yourself before folding your tanning mirror and setting it aside, you take off your Louis Vuitton sunglasses, blinking your pretty (e/c) eyes up at him, "Figured you and your little Twinkie would have tied the knot by now." You laugh softly, the sound, unfamiliar to Bruce, sent warm shivers down his spine, it causes his lips to quirk up in a small grin.

"She's gone."

"Well, I don't care."

There's a beat of silence before he's offering you his hand. "Will you walk with me? I know I don't deserve it."

You sigh before getting up, ignoring his hand, you nod your head reluctantly, "Well? Hurry up I've got dinner at six."

His smile remains as he begins leading you along the shoreline. It's relatively quiet between you two as you walk side by side, a peace between you both you hadn't ever felt. "The manor isn't the same without you." He breaks the silence, "I sincerely doubt that." You laugh at the very notion. "It's true- it's colder, quieter, I want you to come home."

"That was never my home, you made that abundantly clear."

He winces as if your words cut him, "I know I haven't been a good man to you, I know I've failed you time and time again but I..I looked at those divorce papers and my heart stopped." He admits running a hand through his hair.

"You can't leave me."

"I can't?." You scoff, your movement halting, "I'm a grown woman- I'm taking responsibility for my own happiness, you can't stop me."

"I wasn't asking." He says softly, his hands in his pockets, he had this fond look on his face, like he was staring at you for the first time, in a whole new light. "You can't make me." You say, brows furrowed, "You belong back home, you're supposed to be with me, till death do us part, remember?" He steps forward making you step back, your eyes wide, hands shaking, you back into a wide chest, spinning to face Dick, who's grinning at you, he's in his Nightwing costume, he gives you a small wave of his hand, you scrunch your face in confusion, "What the hell-" your thought is cut off by a small pinch in your neck, the needle in Bruce's hand is empty in seconds, he's cradling your stumbling form, holding you tightly, "Don't worry - I'll fix this."

Your sleeping body is gently carried to the batplane, Bruce holding you close to his chest as Dick pilots the plane, he whispers promises into your hair, rocking you against him as he swears on his life to make things right, weather you liked it or not.

[thehellsystem]

do you have any varigo headcanons ...

OH BOY DO I

Hugo is does not automatically “get better” the moment he moves in with Varian. She has kleptomaniac tendencies and jumps a mile in the air whenever they see a guard. He’ll stand in front of expensive objects and consider how much he could sell them for. AND ONE TIME she was doing this with a massive grandfather clock and they were feeling it with their hand and then he dissociated. Then it was like, an hour later and the clock was in his and Varian’s room and she was like “VARIANNN- VARIAN I FUCKED UP-“ so Varian and him are trying to sneak it back to its original spot because Hugo is freaking out losing his marbles at the thought of being kicked out because he BLACKED OUR AND STOLE A CLOCK and Rapunzel catches them, obviously. She’s super nice and understanding because she’s married to Eugene but Hugo is going through every stage of grief because she’s not an emotional guy but oh boy does he think he’s going back to the streets AND that he got Varian in trouble. Varian’s like “You know I tried to kill several people and got pardoned, right?” And Hugo’s like “…oh”

Varian? Very normal man. BUT I think he should get to be mildly insane. He’s holding a knife and he’ll slowly turn to the person next to him and go “How many people do you think I could kill with this?” And Hugo will respond VERY HONESTLY like “Ten, before you get arrested. Fifteen if you wear your mask.”

Nuru was not their wingwoman. She was so fucking tired of them. They were the kind of couple where everyone knew they were dating before they knew themselves. In the way that Varian’s sleeping in Hugo’s arms and still going “We’re just friends :)” and Nuru is SO TIRED because Hugo is sitting with her head in Varian’s lap staring at him with heart eyes and they’re just trying to have a normal meal

Hugo and Varian have a mutual hatred for Winter. Hugo hates it because it’s easily the most difficult season for people on the streets to live in, Varian hates it because of Queen for a Day. They just hibernate in their lab every winter, even if Corona is almost always warm. It’s so common to not hear from them for WEEKS because they’re in their lab doing who knows what during Winter.

MODERN AU but they go to concerts together and Hugo holds Varian on their shoulders so he can better

I HAVE THIS WHOLE AU I’M WRITING OUT THAT I HAVE SHARED WITH LIKE TWO PEOPLE SHIRT THAT SAYS “ASK ME ABOUT MY OVERLY SPECIFIC VAT7K REWRITE”

Hugo ate everything within a mile of himself when he first got to the castle and then freaked out about it and was like “I don’t deserve this oh my god they’re gonna send me back” and stopped. Varian gets incredibly concerned and keeps staring at her at every meal and Hugo’s like “Well, can’t have my boyfriend being worried. Back to food.”

Hugo has an abnormal fondness for foreign cheese. Varian is lactose intolerant

WHISTLE FOR THE CHOIR BY THE FRATELLIS

Yong is aromantic and his image of romance was very confusing because Hugo and Varian are saying they’re just best friends while feeding each other bits of food

HUGO IS PARTIALLY BLIND idc he is because same. My eyes do NOT work and I have the thickest glasses lenses known to man. Hugo holds up pieces of paper to Varian and asks him to read out loud for him and he says it’s because he can’t see it BUT mostly because he likes the sound of Varian’s voice

The Garden by The Crane Wives starts playing

OKAYOKAY I’ve seen people say they’re Stupid With Love but Hugo actually dreams about Varian falling off a cliff. And that’s his romantic dream about the boy he has a crush on.

RYHEYBFIGH

[sincerelystranger]

read on AO3

---

Nie Huaisang fans his face nervously as Xichen watches quietly from across the room.

He’s not quite turned away from Xichen, but he doesn’t seem to be able to look at Xichen either. His eyes keep flickering back and forth from the wall behind Xichen to the floor.

Every single one of Huaisang’s actions seems to scream discomfort, maybe even fear. It occurs to Xichen that it’s strange behavior for someone who invited themselves over. It also occurs to him that at one point in his life, he wouldn’t even have noticed the behavior as strange.

At one point in Xichen’s life, he would have readily believed Huaisang’s act.

He doesn’t now.

He doesn’t know what to believe anymore.

And he thinks maybe that’s what hurts the most.

He thinks that maybe that inability to trust his own judgement is what keeps him locked in seclusion, torturing himself over the things he missed and the things he once believed.

Maybe.

He sits in silence, just watching Nie Huaisang. He’s not sure if he’s surprised by Nie Huaisang’s visit, or if a part of him expected him all this time. The only thing he knows is this:

Nie Huaisang somehow looks altogether too much and not enough like da-ge and Xichen can’t tell whether he hates him for that or not.

Nie Huaisang clears his throat suddenly, the sound is almost deafening in the heavy silence of Xichen’s room.

“Ah… You look… well, er-ge,” he says weakly, still not meeting Xichen’s eyes, “Wei-Xiong made it seem as if… well…” He trails off, briefly making eye contact with Xichen before dropping his gaze back to the floor.

Xichen isn’t surprised by the mention of Wei Wuxian.  

Of course Wei Wuxian would have something to do with this. Of course.

“Wei-Xiong said that you weren’t well – that you didn’t want visitors… I mean… of course… you’re still in seclusion…” Nie Huaisang stumbles over his words. Xichen can see his hand shaking slightly as he continues to fan his face.

That does surprise him though – the fact that Wei Wuxian advised against Nie Huaisang visiting Xichen.

With how nosy Wei Wuxian has been throughout Xichen’s time in seclusion, he would have thought that Wei Wuxian had had a hand in Nie Huaisang’s visit.

“Wei Wuxian advised against your visit?” Xichen asks, curiosity opening his mouth.

Nie Huaisang seems surprised by Xichen’s voice. The fan goes still in his hands. “He… did,” he nods, “Wei-Xiong… He… Well I don’t think he trusts me… anymore.” There’s a small self-deprecating smile on his face as he admits this. He looks to the ground again before slowly bringing his gaze up to meet Xichen’s eyes. He gives Xichen a weak smile. “I guess you don’t either, do you, er-ge?”

Xichen guesses he should have expected it, but it still catches him off-guard to be confronted so openly.

Somehow it seems… out of character for Huaisang.

But then…

What does Xichen know of Huaisang’s character anyway?

“I… I just don’t know why you did what you did,” Xichen admits. And it’s the closest thing to the truth that he can stomach to say. Because… because even after everything. Even after the manipulation and betrayal and years of being lied to. He still…

Well he’s still Nie Huaisang’s er-ge, isn’t he?

It’s one of the only things he’s been able to come to terms with in his time in seclusion: The people Xichen loves may do monstrous things, but Xichen will love them anyway. He can’t help himself. Once he loves, he doesn’t know how to stop.

Nie Huaisang is quiet for a while. He slowly lowers his fan to his lap. He looks more vulnerable, sat there without the fan covering part of his face.

Even after everything, it makes Xichen’s heart ache for him. Even after everything, Xichen wants to call him close, ask him how he can help wipe that sadness from his face.

He doesn’t though.

He stays quiet.

“It’s already been eight years since da-ge died,” Huaisang says slowly, “Next year, I’ll be older than he ever got to be.”

Logically it’s something Xichen has known for a while. He’s been older than da-ge for years now. But it still churns his stomach to hear those words come out of Huaisang’s lips. To be hit with the realization that da-ge has truly been dead for so long. It seems… so impossible. Da-ge is still so fresh in Xichen’s memory.

“It’s strange,” Huaisang continues quietly, “In my memory da-ge is always so much older than me. Always such an… adult. When father died and da-ge became the sect leader, I remember thinking, ‘of course.’ Because da-ge already seemed so grown up at the time. So sure of himself.” Huaisang wipes absently at the floor and huffs a small laugh. “Now I wonder how the elders could have been so cruel as to put all that responsibility onto such a young boy.”

A lump forms in Xichen’s throat.

“Da-ge was always… good,” Xichen says stupidly, “He never shied from responsibility… he always gave everything his… best.”

Nie Huaisang huffs another small laugh. “Da-ge was always good,” he agrees. “If the world could have been as good as he was – if I could have been as good as he was – everything might be different now.”

The room goes quiet again at Huaisang’s small confession.

Xichen can’t find it in himself to disagree or to comfort, because he thinks the same. Maybe if he could have been as good as da-ge, everything might’ve ended differently. Maybe if Xichen hadn’t questioned da-ge’s judgement… Maybe if Xichen had just trusted da-ge…

Maybe…

“He… loved you er-ge. Did you know?”

“Of course,” Xichen answers, a little taken aback by Huaisang’s question.

“No,” Huaisang says with a shake of his head. “He loved you… as a man. Did you know?”

The center of gravity seems to have changed in the room. Xichen feels… tilted. Unmoored.

“He – da-ge… he didn’t,” Xichen tries to explain slowly, a slow panic crawling up his spine. Da-ge didn’t – he couldn’t. Da-ge never saw Xichen like that…

Never…

“He did,” Huaisang says, something stubborn bleeding into his voice.

Xichen shakes his head. He doesn’t know where Huaisang got this idea but…

“He didn’t, Huaisang,” Xichen says, “I… I…” It’s humiliating to have to own to it. How does Huaisang always manage to put him into this situations? Situations where he has to cut his heart open with his own hand. “I confessed to him when we were… younger.”

Da-ge had been kind when he refused Xichen.

His hand had been gentle and warm on Xichen’s shoulder and his eyes had been deep and kind. “I can’t be that for you. I’m sorry.”

But he still stayed Xichen’s friend.

Still stayed Xichen’s… da-ge.

“He refused you because he thought….” Huaisang stammers, “He… he said…”

Xichen’s heart drops to his stomach. Something cold makes its way towards his chest. He said? Da-ge had… He had talked about Xichen’s confession to Huaisang?

“What,” Xichen asks, a nervous hunger gnawing at his throat. “What did da-ge say?”

“He said you deserved better than a man destined for madness,” Huaisang says finally.

It feels like a cruel joke.

Another manufactured cruelty from Huaisang. Another upturned grave that Xichen will have to cover with his hands.

“You… Don’t lie to me, Huaisang,” Xichen says, and he’s ashamed by the way his voice trembles. “Da-ge… He never…”

“He was always doing these foolish things,” Huaisang says, his voice cracking, as tears spill from his eyes. “Always giving up parts of his happiness for the people he loved.”

A sob escapes from Xichen’s lips. He hurries to cover his mouth so more don’t shamefully spill out but it’s no use. Da-ge couldn’t… He…

But of course he would.

“He did it for me too,” Huaisang continues, his lips trembling, his whole body taut as he tries to control his sobs. “And I didn’t know either, er-ge. I never realized until it was too late. All the things—“ Huaisang folds in on himself, his hand coming up to cover his eyes as he cries. “—All the things he gave up for me. All the things he turned a blind eye to because he knew I loved them.”

The room dissolves into quiet sobs.

And it’s a little funny, Xichen thinks, even though Huaisang is tearing out the seams in Xichen’s heart that Xichen just barely put in. Even though Huaisang has brought with him so much hurt and anger and confusion. It’s still… comforting to cry with someone who Xichen knows misses da-ge as much as Xichen does. There’s still a twisted sense of camaraderie there.

When the wave passes and the sobs quiet, Huaisang straightens back up. He wipes gingerly at his face with his sleeve. Xichen is reminded of all the times he watched Huaisang do the same action when he was just a child. Da-ge would have reprimanded him, Xichen thinks. Da-ge would have tossed Huaisang his handkerchief.

Because as wild and brutish as da-ge was reputed to be… he was… proper like that. Gentler than anyone imagined he could ever be.

That was one of the things Xichen had loved about him.

Huaisang lets out a shaky exhale. He’s twisting his sleeves between his fingers nervously. Even now, it seems impossible to Xichen that Huaisang – sweet and spoiled Huaisang – could have lied to him for so long. It seems impossible that the Huaisang he knows – the Huaisang sitting in front of him – could have orchestrated the downfall of Mengyao.

It seems impossible, and yet…

“You say that you don’t know why I did the things I did,” Huaisang says, his voice soft and scratchy from his tears, “And if I’m honest, I didn’t understand myself either.” He looks up and Xichen then and gives a helpless shrug. “It’s so unlike me. Right, er-ge? All this planning and scheming and… and just all this work to destroy someone I love. It was torturous for me – it really was, er-ge. But...”

Xichen doesn’t move. He doesn’t make a sound. It feels like he’s at the edge of a cliff. What Huaisang says next will most certainly push him over but he’s still waiting… He doesn’t know how to do anything else.

“I think… I think I was punishing myself,” Huaisang says, “I think I was punishing myself for loving san-ge – for letting my love blind me to his evil deeds.”

Xichen’s heart drops to the bottom of his stomach. He feels slightly nauseous.

Huaisang drops his gaze from Xichen’s eyes to the ground just in front of Xichen. “And for what I did to you at Guanyin Temple… I… I think in a way… I wanted to punish you too.”

He’s falling. He’s been pushed off the cliff and he’s falling.

It’s a lot more freeing than he thought it would be. It almost feels like flying.

Punishment.

Was that all it was?

All this confusion and loss and pain and confusion and loss and loss and pain…

Just punishment?

A strange laughter bubbles from Xichen’s lips before he can even control it.

“Sorry,” he says, quickly bringing his hand to cover his mouth. Shamefully enough, the laughter spills over again. “Sorry.” But it’s not enough. The laughter forces itself out of his body. He can’t help himself. He feels insane, but he’s laughing and it won’t stop. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m so—”

Xichen can almost feel Huaisang’s surprise but he can’t help himself. The laughter won’t stop. And strangely, after a few moments of his unhinged laughter, he hears…

He looks up, his vision clouded slightly by the strange tears his strange laughter has created and to his surprise… Huaisang is laughing too.

Seeing Huaisang laugh plants more seeds of laughter in Xichen. He can’t stop now – even if he tried. The laughter bubbles over. Huaisang’s laughter waters Xichen’s laughter and it grows and grows and…

Punishment.

That was all it was.

All this pain and loss and confusion and it was just… punishment.

How ridiculous.

---

The night of Huaisang’s visit, Xichen steps outside for the first time since he started his seclusion.

In the dark of night, the world seems all at once strange and inviting.

Cloud Recesses, of course, is quiet. All the disciples having gone to sleep long ago.

Xichen feels safer, with that knowledge that he’s alone. That he won’t run into anyone who—

“Xichen-ge!” a voice surprises him from his thoughts. He turns towards the voice and sees Wei Wuxian and…. Wangji.

Wei Wuxian visits him often enough that it shouldn’t be such a surprise to see him, but it feels different seeing him outside the confines of his room. Xichen feels self-conscious suddenly. Like his arms are too long and maybe his hair is untidy.

“Wei… gongzi,” he nods after a shocked moment, “Wangji.”

Wei Wuxian waves him over as Wangji nods back. “We’re taking a walk,” Wei Wuxian exclaims, “The night is cool and the stars are bright. Come join us, Xichen-ge!”

It’s all so ridiculous, Xichen thinks as he takes a heavy step forward, out of the gate and towards the path.

How ridiculously easy it is to leave the jail he created for himself. How ridiculously normal it feels for Wei Wuxian to ask him to join him on a night walk – as if Xichen hasn’t trapped himself between four walls for years.

Wei Wuxian and Wangji separate to make room for him. It’s a small act of kindness, Xichen realizes, and he takes it because it does feel a little safer to walk between them.

Such a childishness, he thinks, still too bare to the world to feel any embarrassment from it. But he does feel safe. Wangji feels… taller… and sturdier than Xichen remembers him being. And Wei Wuxian… Well is there anyone more reliable to walk the dark night with than Wei Wuxian?  

“Look!” Wei Wuxian says, pointing up at the sky. “Isn’t the moon beautiful tonight?”

Xichen follows Wei Wuxian’s finger up.

The moon is round and heavy. It looks so close that it feels like Xichen might be able to touch it if he just reaches up.

“It’s beautiful,” he agrees softly.

“It’s like it knew you would come out to see it today, Xichen-ge,” Wei Wuxian nods happily. “Don’t you think so, Lan Zhan?”

Wangji hums his agreement as they keep walking.

Happiness sits hot and heavy in Xichen’s chest. He feels safe and free and…

“I think we’ve had enough punishment,” Huaisang had said before he left. “You and… me too, er-ge.” He had looked at Xichen then and had given him a smile – a real smile. No hint of sadness in his face at all. “Da-ge always wanted the people he loved to be happy… so I think it’s time to do that. Don’t you think so, er-ge?”

He hadn’t answered Huaisang as he left but he agrees quietly in his heart now.

He’s lost and lost and lost and he’s sat in that loss for years. Yearning and searching and looking for an answer that wasn’t there – ignoring the world outside his room for years and choosing punishment day after day because… because maybe he thought he deserved it.

And still…

The moon is beautiful.

And still, his family welcomes him back.

[fairydust-stuff]

Ash x Eiji rec list stories that have an ensemble cast element

Favorite Ash x Eiji rec fics but the other important characters don’t get shafted or reduced.

Protective Custody by Cousin D https://archiveofourown.org/works/22948597/chapters/54857308

The Avengers are assigned to protect Ash Lynx until he testifies at the trial of arrested Club Cod members.

Why you should check it out- action, suspense and it gives all of the cast even cannon minor characters time to shine. The stakes are high and the characterization makes this feel very much like A Banana Fish sequel. The themes of child abuse, trauma kids feeling unsafe and the corruption of government organization are still relevant.

Paper Boats by Adreaming Songbird https://archiveofourown.org/works/19394629/chapters/46152421

Eiji becomes a hostage of the Lee family and gets pulled into a political plot and reunites with childhood friend and knight Ash Lynx.

Why you should check it out- a really cool political revenge plot and Eiji’s dynamics with Yut Lung, Shorter and Sing are just as strong and well developed as his romantic relationship with Ash.

Giving up the Gun by jason dean https://archiveofourown.org/works/24712858/chapters/59732089

Honestly Jason dean in general writes very good Banana Fish fics about how difficult it is to move on from the past. I’d recommend all of them this one is only five chapters because its in its early stages but those few chapters paint a compelling situation.

Between Grief and High Delight by Val Creative https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844880/chapters/57304774

Ash is Dino’s son who keeps having strange dreams

Why you should check it out- Dino is used well as a villain and even more of a threat then cannon. His abusive relationship with Ash is the core of the story. Its full of suspense and has an almost surreal feel to it as if Ash himself doesn’t know what’s real and what isn’t.

In the Light i Saw You by ohrange https://archiveofourown.org/works/18751507/chapters/44482132

Banana Fish set in the modeling industry

Why you should check it out- It takes the elements of Banana fish and expands on them in a more gritty realistic way while still keeping some of the more exaggerated elements. Also the character relationships are beautifully written and Sing and Yut Lung’s and Ash and Eiji’s dynamics arch’s are a lot more messy and complicated here but end in a very satisfying way.

Anything Seem’s possible with you by my side by Vasser https://archiveofourown.org/works/21935386/chapters/52353193

Eiji is an Omega who is pressured into sex with Arthur then abandoned when he gets pregnant

Why you should check it out- I’m not very big on Alpha Omega fics but this one wasn’t bad due to an examination of how Yut Lung and Eiji are affected by the world and pressures of being second class citizens without losing any of their cannon characterization even descent characters who don’t like the system like Ash and Eiji’s father are revealed to still be affected by the social class structure and have their biases about omega’s and the author put a lot of work into this. So if you like Omega fics and enjoy stories about prejudice and how it shapes societies. I would recommend you give this one a read.

At Chang dai Orphanage by Nikophi

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23909887/chapters/57489463

An Au where Eiji Shorter, and Nadia take care of an orphaned kids Yut Lung, Sing, Skip are there changes and due to some mafia problems. They end up running into Ash and nursing him back to health.

Why you should check it out? Much like Banana fish this fic balances both the elements of darkly unsettling situations and humor. Eiji has very different relationships with Yut and Sing due to them being aged down but it really works. Sing and Skip get a lot more fleshed out as characters and there is an overall bigger focus on the children left behind by society and protecting them. The jokes driven from character relationships are actually quite witty and there is an overall very solid group dynamic.

This tender gravity by angeldescendant https://archiveofourown.org/works/15724065/chapters/36553836

Ash and Eiji meet because they switch bodies its basically a your name fusion story but with its own spin.

Why you should check it out? This fic is lighter then a lot of the others on this list focusing more on healing and coming to terms with painful and hard pasts. Also Eiji and Ash inhabiting each other’s lives and the confusion that comes with this is just hilarious. Overall it really does a good job at fleshing out Eiji’s home town background and how he and his sister cope with the problems in their own lives and how this affects both how Ash sees him and others. Its just very atmospheric, it made me laugh, cry and I was just blown away by how much was done with such a simple premise.

The one with the zombies by Turnups

Basically Ash and Eiji fighting zombies with his gang because there was an outbreak in New York.

Why you should check this out? There’s a lot of action and cool kick ass suspense moments. It builds up their relationship in a really sweet way and has Ash deal with the problem known as Dino Golzine in a much more satisfying way. If Ash and Eiji being cute with each other and killing Zombies sounds like your cup of tea. I’d highly recommend this one.

Before our Spring by JessKyuCriss https://archiveofourown.org/works/18350510/chapters/43445960

Basically Eiji and Ash are teachers who fall in love and Ash's past brings some trouble.

Why you should check it out the style of emails and newspapers being used to tell the story is an interesting choice and while its mostly fluff its very, very humorous fluff and everyone’s letters and emails to each other are full of character, and snarky wit. So if you want something with maybe a little darkness but is overall cozy, fun and just plain adorable this is something you’d enjoy.

Dusk till Dawn by equintoctial https://archiveofourown.org/works/17403557/chapters/40963847

Based on Howls Moving Castle

Why you should check it out its a great fairy tale full of action, magic, drama, romance. It has great character dynamics and even if you know the story of Howl's castle it really does its own thing with the concept and characters. It also still has one of the best Yut Lung redemption arks, i’ve seen in a Banana Fish fic.

The Sweetest Sounds by Wintergrew https://archiveofourown.org/works/16073117/chapters/37530755

Summary Ash x Eiji version of the Cinderella story with the more disturbing Banana Fish elements

Why you should check it out?

This is one of the better fairy tale Banana fish takes in my opinion its not perfect but it does do some interesting things with the Cinderella Tale and it does a good job of blending the elements from both stories into a cocktail that really works. Also the ending is way more satisfying then cannon. So if you like Banana fish and Cinderella, i’d give it a try.

To Hell and Back by 2space lesbo1 https://archiveofourown.org/works/18830860

Ash is an officer in world war two who falls in love with Eiji who’s a prisoner of war.

Why you should check it out, this is one of the only Banana Fish fics i’ve seen that explores racism from a lot of different angles from the individual and even institutional level. It doesn’t pull any punches when talking about its subject matter. If you like pieces that are thoughtful and well written. I’d suggest this one in a heartbeat.

Eden's Apple by Hamliet https://archiveofourown.org/works/17396678/chapters/40946339

Ash and co in a boarding school run by abusive creeps and team up to take down their principal.

Why you should check it out, Hamliet is a great author and honestly i'd recommend all her Banana fish fics she understands the characters and writes all their dynamics very well and she's very big on redemption and character happiness while not shying away from the more disturbing elements of the Banana Fish universe.

[tomwambsmilk]

moulin rouge au?

Ahhh, the moulin rouge au. This is one I developed with the help of @tomwambsgoose <3 It's pretty well what it says on the tin - it's an AU where the Moulin Rouge is owned by Logan Roy. Tom is a moderately successful yet utterly miserable lawyer, in his 40s and single, who becomes obsessed with the idea of the "bohemian revolution" after seeing the opera "La vie boheme". He abandons his law practice and moves to Montmartre to write about love, despite, by his own admission, never having been in love. He encounters the Roy siblings, who are attempting to persuade Logan to let them convert the Moulin Rouge into a proper theatre by staging a play; he agrees to write for them when their playwright quits which is how he ends up meeting Satine, the star courtesan of the Moulin Rouge - who is, in fact, Greg. "Satine" is a character that Greg puts on as part of his performance at the Moulin Rouge; as the story unfolds Tom falls in love first with "Satine", but then with Greg.

Honestly, this one started just as "I love moulin rouge and the main guy is a little bit tomcore" and very quickly went in some interesting directions. The story goes back and forth between Tom narrating the story in hindsight, after Greg has died (not really a spoiler bc that's revealed on the first page), and the events themselves as Tom is writing about them (and being subtly haunted by Greg). There's a lot going on around Tom processing his grief, and Willa (who manages the courtesans at the Moulin Rouge) and Ewan are both involved in that part of the story in some interesting ways. And the whole "Greg as Satine" thing has taken on a life of its own - Greg is so deeply insecure and anxious, and playing with the idea of the character of "Satine" allowing him to be bolder and freer, but at the cost of feeling somewhat removed from himself and his own identity, is intriguing. There's a security in it, but it's also a persona designed to be sexually appealing for the purposes of making money (and a persona that was only in part designed by Greg himself, and in part designed by Logan and Willa) so there's some real internal conflict around that.

A little snippet below the cut:

He gets up from the table and walks back out onto the balcony. Instead of letting his gaze list off to the side, like he usually does, he stares hard at the decrepit shell of the Moulin Rouge, less than a mile away, directly in front of him. He feels a bitter wind pick up and folds his arms to try and guard against it. 

At that moment, his resolve crumbles. What is he doing here? He should have left long ago - before the Moulin Rouge turned off its lights and fell into disrepair, before everyone he thought was his friend left without a word of farewell, disappearing under the cover of night to avoid debt collectors and the police. It’s nothing but foolish sentimentality that brought him here, and that’s the same thing holding him here now, keeping him from going back to London and making a proper life there, rebuilding his firm, re-establishing himself in the community, marrying a nice girl and giving his parents grandchildren to dote on.

It’s not love or truth or beauty, simply foolishness, and with that in mind, he turns to go back inside, to burn the paper he was writing on and begin packing his things.

Before he can go back inside, the balcony doors slam shut in front of him.

It must be the wind. It has to be the wind, and he shivers as it picks up. It can be nothing else - but even as he reminds himself of this, he feels a twinge of uncertainty. He shoves it down quickly. Since he came here, Tom has believed in many foolish things - but never in spirits. 

He reaches out to pull the doors open, and they don’t move.

That’s not right. The doors are flimsy at best, keeping out nothing - not noise, not cold air, and on one memorable occasion, not even his determined landlady looking for the rent. The idea that they would now somehow turn themselves into stubborn obstacles is absurd. 

He pulls again, and the doors still stand firmer than before.

He looks up, hoping this will somehow grant him clarity. All he sees is the winter sky, grey and cloudy. He tries the doors a third time, and they still don’t budge.

He sets his jaw in annoyance and then speaks to the thin air. 

“You should try writing it yourself if it’s really that important.” 

There is no answer from either the wind or the sky. He tugs on the door handle in irritation.

“You’ve shut my doors - if it is you and I’m not, you know, going fucking crazy from being alone in this apartment - so clearly you can manipulate material objects. Why don’t you go to my typewriter and bang it out yourself.” 

For a moment, Tom feels like the wind may have gotten colder. He crosses to the balcony's other side, gripping the railing.

“It’s not easy, you know,” he says quietly to no one in particular. “It’s not easy to- I-” He can’t quite get the words out, can’t form the sentences he wants to. 

He stares at the Moulin Rouge again, and for a brief moment, he can see it in all its bygone glory, lights and music carrying across the city. He feels the rush and thrill of a Friday night spent there, revelling in the music and debauchery, and a deep ache sets in his bones. 

He has to write this, and he knows it. He turns back towards the doors, and as he does, they creak slowly open. He pauses for a minute at the threshold before crossing to the table and sitting back down at the typewriter. 

“I hope,” he says to the empty room after a long moment, “You appreciate just what it is I’m doing for you here.” 

There is no response - although, of course, he didn’t expect one. But he suddenly feels slightly less alone and turns back to the keys of his typewriter.

[cheeky-kookie]

The Process of Grief | J.H.S.

Hoseok/Reader | Angst, Fluff | Hoseok x Reader

Word Count: 4.7K

Summary: When you lose someone, some say you go through five stages of grief. Though the stages don’t always go in order, everyone hopes to someday reach the final one, acceptance. 

Warnings: | Major Character Death | Mention of Suicide | Destructive Thinking |

A/N: Honestly, I apologize in advance for the tears you might shed in this fic. I just wanted to write something that touched on a heavy subject of losing a loved one. There is a ton of things I thought about while writing this and if you had any questions about why I chose to do things or my artistic choices, please feel free to send me an ask!

Denial

The car’s engine roared to life breaking the silence of the early morning. The sun had just begun to rise, casting a glow on the horizon waking the birds. Normally, this would have been a beautiful experience, but your heart was racing and tears stung your eyes.

You drove absentmindedly and in complete silence, the hum of the running car being the only sound. Everything passed in blurs around you as your mind kept replaying the words of the phone call. Your grip on the steering wheel almost too tight as you fought back the urge to sob.

It only took maybe fifteen minutes to drive to his house, but you sped there making it within ten. Your eyes landed on the vehicles scattered vicariously through the street, light flashing and casting a reddish hue upon the houses.

Opening your door, you got out of your car. You didn’t care that you still wore your pajamas or that your hair probably was sticking up every which way. You were concerned with what was in front of you; your worst fears playing out not in your head but in front of you.

You wandered closer, everything so silent. Neighbors stood out on their porches, curious, but not enough to venture further. You saw uniforms securing the area, entering and exiting the familiar house at the center of the action. That’s when your eyes found familiar faces and your feet steered you there.

Upon seeing you approach, they welcomed you with a comforting hug. Their eyes stained with tears that you seemed not to be able to produce quite yet. They looked as broken as you felt. His mom held you close to her as if clinging for some sort of support to hold her up. His dad held his sister who was hiding her face in his chest.

All of this seemed to be like some bad dream. You felt like you would wake up any second and everything would be just fine. That if you called him when your eyes opened, he would answer with his usual cheery voice, and you would hear his recognizable laugh. You closed your eyes, willing it to be that way; hoping maybe it would just be a nightmare.

When you heard the sob of the women next to you, you opened your eyes. They fell on a stretcher being wheeled out of the house by two men. On it, was a black bag zipped completely closed.

You felt your world shift. It felt like the stretcher moved in slow motion down the walkway as your eyes watched it. The cries of the woman next to you being drowned out as your mind tried to shield you from the raw emotion that bubbled at the surface.

You shook your head, shaking tears free. You refused to believe that it was him. He wouldn’t have thought of doing something like that. He wouldn’t have done that to himself. It wasn’t him being dragged out on the stretcher. It was some random person. You just talked to him yesterday. There was no way.

You told yourself that and you would have believed it, but the way his family was falling apart next to you and the way the two men hoisted the stretcher into the vehicle with less care than usual told you everything you needed to know. He was gone.

Your eyes watched him, the way he smiled and laughed. It was the kind of smile that reached into his eyes and a laugh that infected his whole body. It wasn’t much you assumed, but he found whatever it was hilarious.

He had been that way since the two of you were nothing but children running the streets. He had always been so carefree, filling even the most boring situations with light. It was the way he could see the best in any situation and how he was always able to find the best words to say.

Even know amongst the roaring party, he had the obscure talent of having all eyes on him. It wasn’t that he asked for it, people were just drawn to him and the warmth he emitted. You weren’t surprised to find that a group had formed around him on the couch he had been sitting on, all obviously enthralled with whatever story he had been telling them.

Weaving your way through the crowd, you made your way toward him. Once closer, you saw his attention leave from whoever had his attention as the fell on you. Your heart race as his eyes lit up even more, which seemed impossible, as he waved you over to the open spot he had next to him.

“Ah, there you are!” He announced when you made it into earshot.

Sitting down next to him, he instinctively brought his arms around you pulling you closer to him. Even when he was engrossed with others, he always made you feel slightly more important than the conversation at hand. Whether it be how he always had to have a hand on you or the soft glances he showed you; it was the little things.

He leaned closer to talk into your ear, “I was starting to worry.”

“Hobi, I was only a few minutes. There was a line for the bathroom.” You said back, his head turned so the sound could reach his ears over the loudness of the party.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to worry,” He mumbled back, barely audible over the music and the yells of beer pong.

Within minutes of your return, he was able to dive back into the conversation. And you continued to watch as his whole body lifted up and down when he got excited and the way he slapped his leg when he found something just too amusing. And you smiled, because this was just how you loved seeing him; happy.

Anger

It wasn’t fair.

You were told that life wasn’t fair ever since you were a small child. You knew that to be a fact and you understood it. You understood that when kids would make fun of you in grade school or when you lost that hula hoop competition to that shady girl you didn’t like when you were six. You understood when you lost your first job because of a complaint from a rude customer or when you got denied from 3 of the 5 major colleges you wanted to attend after community college.

Nothing in life was fair, but as you were hanging up pictures of him on the poster boards at the funeral home you had decided that this was beyond not fair.

Every picture, he was smiling that contagious smile that made anyone with him want to do the same. Photos of him with friends, family, and you scattered around. His life spread out on paper for everyone to see. Looking at them, no one would have guessed he would have done what he had.

You never guessed.

Frustrated, you ran your hand through your hair and set the photos you had in your hand down. Tears brimming your eyes as you stormed out of the room and through the double doors that led outside. You paced, trying to calm yourself down but the more you did, the more upset you got.

The doors opened again, and you stopped only briefly to see who it was. Not caring to give him more than a seconds glance, you started to walk again to try to calm yourself. Jimin had followed you out. He was one of the many friends you both share and one of the few who had offered to help set up the services.

He perched himself against the wall, eyes following you as you paced in front of the building. You were distraught and he knew better than to try and talk to you before you calmed yourself down.  

You whirled around looking at him, “This is so stupid.”

“Care to explain?” Jimin responded head cocking to the side in curiosity. Part of you felt like you shouldn’t have to explain. He knew the same man you did.

“It’s just,” You pause as you tried to find the right words and a way to keep your voice stable, “He had everything to live for. He had the job of his dreams. He finally bought a house. He had all the friends he could ask for. Yet, here we are.”

“Just because you have everything doesn’t mean you’re happy.” He said locking eyes, voice somber and detached. You knew he wanted you to absorb the words, words you already knew but were too selfish to listen to.

Blaming him was selfish.

Your tears welled in your eyes, “I’m just so mad at myself. I didn’t see it coming. I should have. He spoke to me the day before and I couldn’t even tell something was wrong. How did I not see this coming Minie?”

The tears fell from your eyes as you stood there. Your composure gone in the matter of seconds. Jimin sighed, holding in his own set of tears as he watched you break in front of him. He walked over to you and pulled you into his arms. You were glad because it felt like your legs would give up on you at any moment.

“It just hurts. It hurts so damn much.”

Jimin hummed, his head buried in your hair as you sobbed into his chest, “I know.”

You sat on your couch, hands typing away on your laptop as you hurried to complete your assignment before the due time the next morning. So engrossed in your work, you barely heard the door to your apartment open. It was more of background noise to the words that were flowing onto the paper.

It explained why you were surprised when a figured jumped over the back of the couch and landed onto the unoccupied end of the couch. Placing your hand on your chest to soothe your beating heart, you looked up from your computer to see Hoseok laughing at your demise.

“That wasn’t funny,” You groaned, kicking him with one of your feet. Despite your protests, he continued to laugh. You weren’t too mad. It was a sound you liked to hear.

After he calmed his laughter, he pulled both of your legs toward him and placed them over his, causing you to slide down slightly in your spot. Readjusting to the new situation, you fixed the position of your laptop as he placed his arms across your legs. One hand found comfort in tailing the bottom half of your leg absentmindedly as you clicked away at your computer.

“So, I got a call today,” He brought up, trailing off just long enough for you to look up from your work and listen to what he had to say, “They offered me the job.”

Your eyes widened as a huge smile crossed your face, “Are you serious? Hobi, you’ve been pining after that job for months. This is big.”

“Well yeah, so naturally, you had to be the first person I told.” He remarked, which made you smile even wider. You closed your laptop and put it on the table before swinging your legs off of him, “What could you possibly be doing?”

“I’m obviously getting dressed so we can go celebrate,” You announced.

He laughed, but it wasn’t one of his loud ones everyone got to see. This one was more of a fond chuckle you’ve only really heard when he was with you. He pulled himself off the couch and closed in the open space between you two. Arms weaved their way around your waist, pulling you even closer to him as his lips pulled into a small smile. His eyes locked on yours.

“I think I’d prefer to celebrate here with you,” He hummed, looking you over.

“That sounds nice,” You replied, following the sway he had begun.

He chuckled yet again as he took a step back, “Then finish your assignment. I’d feel guilty if I was the reason you failed your class.”

Groaning, knowing he was right, you threw yourself down on the couch to finish your paper.

Bargaining

The maybes plagued your thoughts more than you would had liked. You knew dwelling on what could have been was not good for your mental state as it already was fragile. Everything you did reminded you of him and the fact he was missing from your life.

So, you reached out hoping someone would be willing to listen to your thoughts and your feelings. You felt like you bothered Jimin enough with the late phone calls, but there were others who were blessed to know him and to feel his loss.

There you sat waiting at the coffee shop, sipping on a brew you found you didn’t like but you spent the money. So, you decided you were finishing it. You heard the chair pull out opposite of you and you looked up from your hands to see a dimpled smile.

“Late per usual, huh Joonie?” You said, sending him a small smile.

“Can never give me a break, can you?” He joked, and you laughed. It probably didn’t seem sincere, but you were sure he wouldn’t blame you for your lack of enthusiasm.

“Never,” You responded.

You two talked for a bit and you even enjoyed the casual conversation despite where your head had been. Catching up on things you had been missing out of because of the whole ordeal. It was still hard to bring up what happened because your mind would funnel through endless outcomes that could have happened that didn’t involve the one that did.

Namjoon looked out the café window and sighed, “How have you been?”

You knew the question held more meaning that what it sounded like, and honestly, you weren’t sure how to respond. He had been such a prominent person in your life, you were lost trying to find your way without him.

“It’s hard, you know? It’s like, the what if’s keep me up at night. Like if I had spent more time with him, or maybe if I saw the signs beforehand he would still be here. Maybe if I had decided to stay with him that night instead of staying home and working on my applications he wouldn’t have felt alone, and he wouldn’t have…” You trail off, holding back the now forming tears, “I feel like I’m drowning in what could have been.”

“No amount of maybes can change what has happened. Trust me, I think that all the time. Hell, I feel like I could have done more for him,” He paused just a moment to take a sip of his coffee, “But filling your mind with could-have-beens is destructive.”

“I know,” You sighed.

The night was peaceful as you and him sat out on his balcony that hung off the second story of his newly purchased home. He had been so excited about his new big adult buy; one he had been talking about since the two of you could think about the future.

He had always had big dreams. He had dreams that you always knew he could reach even if others didn’t believe he could. It was the undoubtably confident way he just knew whatever he dreamed could and would come true. It was admirable. You thought everyone should dream with no limits.

He stood, walking toward the bars of the balcony. He leaned on it as he looked out onto his backyard. Curious, you followed mirroring the way he leaned forward against the cold metal. You peered up at him and studied his face and the way he seemed distracted.

“Do you remember when we used to go to that restaurant after school?” He asked, eyes finding yours.

“Yeah, of course,” You hummed, feeling fond memories wash over you.

“We used to scrape together all we could throughout the week just to go order that sundae. The waitress probably shouldn’t have served us, but she always did. We would sit and share it and talk about what we would be when we were older.” He said, a small smile on his face.

“You used to talk about buying a house and that really fancy car I could never remember the name of,” You laughed a little at how his talks became a reality, “I mean you don’t have the car but you’re halfway there.”

“I think I specifically telling you that I would buy a house for both of us to live in so we would never lose each other,” He chuckled, the light not seeming to meet his eyes as he thought back on their younger selves, “Obviously, younger me never expected us to be where we are now.”

“Well, we were only eleven.” You pointed out. Laughter flooded the silence of the night as the two of you laughed at the circumstances of where life had led the two of you. It died down moments later as the crickets took control of the sound of the night.

“The offer still stands,” He pointed out, turning sideways to look at you, “Once your lease is up, come live with me.”

Your heart swelled at his words and you felt the sting of tears in your eyes. He had always felt like home no matter where you were. You looked for him in a crowded room when you felt anxious and his voice calmed you when you weren’t of sound mind. The fact he wanted you within arms reach day in and day out was overwhelming in a good way.

“Ah man, don’t cry. I’m aware that I’m annoying and hard to stand but I thought it was kind of sweet.” He said, reaching his arm forward and placing a palm on your cheek. He wiped the one stray tear that had fallen out of your eye away. A soft smile on his face in the process. You leaned into his hand feeling the comfort he always brought to you.

“I can’t let you back out on your word, now can I?” You said, feeling his thumb caress your cheek soothing you even further.

Depression

Even amongst the people you loved, you didn’t feel like you should be there. Usually, you would love these get togethers Jimin threw. He had a knack of drawing out people who always just seemed a tad bit too busy to show up normally. He seemed to have pulled the trick off again, bringing all the close friends together.

You noticed Jungkook in the corner, who you hadn’t seen since the funeral, chatting to Namjoon obviously trying to catch up. He had picked up the habit of traveling, taking him away for days on end. You assumed this was how he was coping.

Jimin sat next to you on the couch in an in-depth conversation with Taehyung and his girlfriend who you’ve met only a few times prior to this. You were always surprised he found time to date with how taxing his editing job had become.

Your attention driven away from the extremely intoxicated man next to you when the front door opened, exposing two new guests. Jin and your female best friend entered. Their faces lighting up when they seen all the familiar faces around the room. You gave a weak smile at the couple. They shot you one back before joining Yoongi in the corner where the open chairs laid.

You sat there watching everyone interact and enjoy themselves, but you, you felt empty and out of place. You loved every single person in the room but in no way did it feel complete. It panged at your heart and willed your eyes to well up.

You got up from your seat, excusing yourself to the bathroom. Once there, you locked the door and stared at yourself in the mirror. You were a mess and you looked the part. Your eyes always puffy from the late-night cries and the lack of sleep. The person you saw in the mirror wasn’t you. The person in the mirror was a broken, off brand form of yourself.

Tears fell from your eyes as you sobbed to your reflection. You knew you weren’t yourself. You were closed off and emotionless, yet, so undeniably full of emotion at the same time. All you wanted was someone to comfort you and hold you but the idea of anyone trying to do that repulsed you all the same.

You had given up on blaming yourself and the what if’s. None of that changed what had happened. None of that changed what you were feeling. It just fed into the delusion. Now you were stuck with the cold hard truth; he was gone.

A knock on the door signaled another presence.

You sniffled, “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?” The voice echoed in, you deciphered as Jungkook’s.

You closed your eyes letting the rest of the tears come out. Wiping your cheeks, you tied to hide all evidence that you were indeed crying in the bathroom in the middle of a party. Especially a party where everyone was supposed to have a good time.

“Listen, if you don’t-“ You heard him began but you hurriedly opened the door which cut him off mid-sentence. You saw his eyes soften from worry to understanding as he looked in your eyes, “I didn’t mean to interrupt like that. I was just worried.”

“I’m okay,” You answered softly, avoiding eye contact.

He scratched the back of his head looking away from you as well, “Ever since what happened, I just- you didn’t answer when I- I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I know I haven’t been around, but I care.”

A lump in your throat formed as you forced yourself to stay strong. The look in his eyes not only filled with concern, but fear.

“I would never-“ You struggled to find your voice, “I know you care. Thanks for worrying Kook.”

He gave a soft smile before following you back to join the party.

It was late and the smell of the fire hugged the air, engulfing your clothes and your senses in it’s smell. The idea to camp had been Namjoon’s, but he had been backed up by Jungkook and Taehyung pretty quickly after it had been suggested.

It took a good amount of the day to set up tents and supplies. Some had more issues than others. Jimin, being klutz, had tripped over the rods causing the whole tent to fall and Taehyung to be unhappy he had to help him rebuild it again. Jin and Jungkook had teamed up, dominating the tent and being the first to mess with starting a fire. It left Namjoon with Yoongi who seemed to be the one who least wanted to be on the outing. He ended up leaving the set up all up to Joon who somehow had broke the zipper to one of the doors of his tent.

Obviously with the overwhelming amount of testosterone, anyone would have noticed this was supposed to be a men’s outing. Yet, Hobi didn’t want to go without you. He claimed it was because it wouldn’t be the same without you there, but you knew that was his way of saying he would miss you.

So, there you sat with everyone in the middle of the campsite with a roaring fire warming your body as the bond you all shared warmed your hearts.

“Did anyone want smores?” Taehyung asked, grabbing a bag of marshmallows from behind him with a slight toss, catching them in his hand with a cheeky smile.

Yoongi, who had been leaned back against one of the fallen logs you all had dragged around the fire, reached out one of his hands lazily, “Stick me.”

His demand being of his usual nature but the phrase being very out of it. Everyone found it hilarious as Jimin found one of the pokers handing it to him so he could cook over the fire. Yoongi mocked the laughs as he proceeded to do what he intended; cook a smore.

You looked over at Hoseok. His laugh echoed through the trees and it sounded just as bright as always but for the first time since you met him, it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. You wondered if he was just tired and it was taking a toll. His new job being taxing, it was the rational conclusion.

You leaned your head against his arm, cuddling close to him. You had the warmth of the fire to keep you warm, but he warmed you in ways the fire couldn’t. Noticing, he peered down at you before readjusting his arm to wrap around you pulling you even closer to him.

Acceptance

You rushed, pushing the pedal down a little more hoping the extra gas given to your own car would will the others into moving faster. You had woken up late for work and hurried getting ready. Somehow you managed to leave your place around the same time you normally did, but traffic was not on your side.

Sighing as a slower moving car merged in front of you, you slowed your cars speed. You glanced at the clock. You weren’t behind but if you kept getting cut off like that, you would be.

Frustrated, you started flipping through the channels of the radio trying to find something to fill the silence of the car and to distract you from your thoughts and worries. You were about to flip the channel again when the song registered into your still sleepy brain.

You felt the familiar sting in your eyes. The song you had stumbled upon on the radio taking you back to a fond memory.

He had insisted on coming over to your place to cook dinner even though his new house had a kitchen much more spacious than yours. He declared it was his gift to you because you had finally submitted that ten-page essay you had been working on for weeks. He had forbidden you from stepping foot in kitchen as he cooked for you.

After the dinner, you found yourself in his arms swaying as the music slowly did its own dance around the two of you. It was slow and you didn’t really know how to dance but he led you which drained all worry from your mind.

He stared into your eyes, but it was a different look than he normally gave you. This one was filled with unspoken emotion, full of intensity.

“What?” You asked, genuinely curious of the look he had been giving you.

“It’s nothing, just admiring you.” He responded, voice low as he refused to be louder than the soft playing music.

“That can’t just be it,” You replied as you kept his eyes with yours.

He took a steady breath, “I just wanted you to know you are one of the only reasons I smile.”

“You smile all the time.” You told him, eyes watching his as he took in your words. The way his eyes kept with yours and the softness they held in them made you realize there might have been truth in the words he had just told you.

“It’s different with you,” He said, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards, “I just really love you, you know that?”

His words come off deeper than usual as you could tell he was holding back whatever emotions he had been overcome with. You leaned your head down to rest on his chest as the two of you swayed to the same slow song.

“I know,” You said, you felt his lips press a gentle kiss on your head, “I love you too.”

You listened to the lyrics at the low volume you had the radio on, taking in that it was really the song. You took a deep breath, the stinging in your eyes disappearing as you slowly turned up the music. You smiled fondly, the song bringing comfort to you.

[goblin-alchemist]

Do you have any tips for getting a hang of characterizations? You always do so amazingly, especially with Gabriel!

Thank you!

I have talked about this with a few friends prior, so I'll see if I can put it into words again.  This might be redundant to those who remember discussing this with me before, but here we go.  I'll focus upon Gabriel since he seems to be the trickiest for people to write.  I'll also reference some of my stories to give examples.

Gabriel's primary motivation, in my mind, is Emilie.  I default everything back to Emilie.  If Gabriel gets absorbed in something and forgets his grief/goals, etc, I have him suddenly think “Man, if Emilie were here we would be able to watch Adrien experience these milestones together” or “I wish I could hold Emilie's hand like Adrien is doing with Marinette”.  And then he gets sad again.  It's an instant grounding focus for him, and thus leads to renewed determination.  “I am doing this because the ends justify the means.  I just want Emilie back.”  I kind of play with the sunk-cost fallacy with Gabriel, too.  At this point, he's put in so much to being Hawkmoth that he can't back out now.  (Until I slam something in his face that gets him to stop abruptly, like him discovering the heroes' identities).

So that's his primary motivation.  But now to address a lot of the rest of his personality.

The fandom likes to emphasize that Adrien is the face of the company and he has to put on a mask, and only when he's Chat Noir does that mask slip and he's allowed to be his “true self”.  I feel Gabriel is also in the same boat.  He's the head of his company.  He's expected to maintain certain social graces just like his son (if not more so).  He's quiet and reserved and polite, but he's not very forthcoming because of fears of industrial sabotage, or revealing a weakness to competitors that can be used against him, or getting taken advantage of (all of which as an adult, he should have experienced at one point in his life).  His stoic poker face was developed as a result of his life experiences.

However, we're shown he's not really reserved and in control.  Just like Chat Noir, we have canon evidence that Gabriel is as ham-fisted, emotional, and pun-filled as Chat Noir.  We see it in every single Hawkmoth monologue, in every time Hawkmoth transforms and gets giddy with excitement that he might win, and with every anger-fueled declaration of vengeance.  (The argument of 'are those Gabriel's legit emotions or does the butterfly miraculous emphasize those emotions from his victims?' is a nice angle to play with in fiction as well).

But as Gabriel, he's not excessively impulsive (Miraculous-stealing opportunities aside).  He lets people speak their case before forming judgment (more on this in a moment), but once the judgment is formed, it's hard to get him to change his mind.  He's stubborn.

So if I'm writing the story or scene from a third-person-perspective, like Marinette, I can't delve into his thoughts on paper.  I have to show the audience what he's thinking through other cues.  Since he's a man of little words, I'll have him silently scan a room before speaking.  He allows people to speak and give them the opportunity to screw up in his presence before he says a word as to his opinion.  Once that opinion is formed, however, good luck getting him to change his mind.  I have to show this using his glowers, frowns, squared shoulders, and clenched hands.

If something pops up that's great dramatic irony (when he was secretly overjoyed that Marinette designed a Hawkmoth-themed dress, for example), I'll show it as flashes of amusement in his eyes, twitching of lips, the relaxing of his posture, and the crinkling of his eyes.  The key here is to show subtle ways of expressing emotions without outright stating that's what's happening, because Gabriel schools himself and his emotions in front of others.

But when I write directly from his POV, that's where the fun begins.  There, I can describe his internal monologue, which is inspired by his actions as Hawkmoth.  I can have Gabriel sit silent, glowering at anyone who approaches while he observes and dryly comments on everything around him.  He won't say his sarcastic thoughts aloud, but he'll be thinking them, and here's my opportunity to channel the exasperation.  Somethings things will just slip out because honestly, is everyone around him an idiot?!  He'll recover and glower away any funny looks aimed at him, because his intimidation is as much a weapon as his silence is.

Frustrated exasperation is what I usually write Gabriel as a lot of times.  As Hawkmoth, he releases that frustration.  As Gabriel, it has to be kept bottled up inside and it only comes out in internal sarcastic remarks.

If I feel Gabriel strays too much into the OOC/cracky territory (which happens a lot in my stories, I admit) when I channel a bit too much Hawkmoth through his civilian form, I stick Nathalie in there as his straight man. She displays even less emotion than Gabriel and ends up being a really nice balance when I go a bit overboard on Gabriel's emotional outbursts.  A few pointed phrases or deadpan replies that juuuuuust touch upon inappropriate for an assistant to talk to her powerful boss, but she helps ground Gabriel into more of his realistic canon personality instead of complete OOC crack.

He's a man of few words as Gabriel, and he's used to being in a position of power, surrounded by yes-men (Nathalie and the Gorilla).  He isn't used to having anyone challenge him.  So, he doesn't need to explain his reasons to people.  When Marinette was rambling on about why he of all people was bidding on her dress design, he halted her mid-ramble and merely said “I like it.”  The end.  He keeps his cards close to his chest, and the only time I've actually seen him let down his guard is oddly, to Nooroo.  I'm certain this is just a narrative device for us, the viewer, but the fact is Gabriel is weirdly forthcoming to Nooroo and pretty much lays out his thoughts, plans, and analysis on the situation at hand.  I use that to my advantage in my stories when writing the Nooroo/Gabriel relationship, and how subconsciously, Gabriel might view Nooroo as a mentor (even if he disregards all of the advice Nooroo freely gives).

He's the head of his multi-million euro company.  He didn't get there by being lax and lazy.  He has super high standards, and isn't afraid to verbally rip apart his peers if it's warranted.  However, he's not entirely unfair, I don't think.  He allowed Marinette to defend her hat design in Mr. Pigeon before coming to a judgment on it.  He allowed Nino to propose his last-minute plan in Bubbler to throw Adrien a birthday party before he denied it (and then interrupted Nino and got angry with him only after the boy continued to push the point).  He allowed Marinette to explain how she stumbled across his Miraculous book before saying anything to her.

To me, the fact he actually went and met with these people in the first place shows a lot about his character.  He's willing to hear people out, but he makes fast judgments and doesn't budge from them. People have to get into his good graces right away or it's hard to change his mind later.  He has flashes of anger, but its not sustained, because he's already moving onto finding a solution to the problem (like in Volpina when he got that phone call about an issue with his designs).  Sometimes, I wonder how much of his anger and irritation is a result of his real thoughts and emotions, or just him seeing an opportunity to akumatize someone by riling them up further.

In this manner, he's calculating, very calculating, and if something reflects him in a poor light its probably for a reason (staging his 'temper tantrum' in Collector).  I ignore the canonical inconsistencies toward his waffling degrees of intelligence and treat Gabriel as very smart, but oblivious and arrogant.

I see him actually as very much like Marinette, only bitter and jaded.  She's clever and creative, and so is he.  The only difference between the two is that life has struck him down with angst.  He's lost his soulmate.  He's experienced the lows of being a starving artist.  He's encountered failure. Marinette has yet to go through any of that.

I could probably go on further and delve into different aspects of different scenarios (his wish, etc) but I think I've rambled on long enough and seems like I've jumped erratically between a bunch of different points  :)  Let me know if you have any additional questions and I hope this has helped at little at least.

[ihavenoside]

headcanons: 11, 13, 22, 29, 30

Detailed headcanon meme || Accepting

11. Intellectual pursuits?

He does like to better himself and he’s more or less willing to try and do anything. Right now, considering he’s been alive for only a little over a year and a half-ish. He’s diving into being a police officer and why he’s on patrol right now. He started out as a detective, ended up getting a job offer to be a paralegal and duel work it for a year. Working as a paralegal in the morning an officer / detective at night. He quickly grew tired of working as a paralegal after seeing how unjust it was and switched to following in his brother’s footsteps to get his police badge. Something that he’s doing for himself because he wants to and not because someone suggested him too.

He’ll maybe want to branch off into other sectors of the justice system and maybe even become ems or a firefighter. Anything that deals with being good and making a difference, he’ll at some point want to do. 

13. Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?

Connor sees himself as an asexual, having no real desire to have sex or tempted it for several reasons. Somewhat because of the Eden Club leaving a bad impression on him. He is, however, demisexual and really just wants to do all the cute couple stuff, wants to be there for someone and someone be there for him but figures because of his reputation and general way of being, no one would ever consider it or be patient enough to wait on him to be comfortable in his own skin. There is SO much more so this, which will probably come with the headcanon update I want to do at some point but a lot of it is on him and his own trust issues.

22. Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

Nothing that won’t cause him anxiety. ‘Do I write on the paper? Draw on the paper? Work on the paper? Am I allowed to use the paper? Am I expected to use the paper? What is this paper for? Who does it belong to? should I find the owner of this paper? should I ask permission?’ and the list goes on. 

Connor has very poor self-confidence because every time he thought he was doing something right, it turned out to be wrong or someone got upset, which now leaves him extremely indecisive, which highly stresses him out because he doesn’t know what action should be the right one and he’s scared poeple will get upset with him. He’ll overthink everything and why he distracts himself and keeps himself busy.

29. Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)

Honestly? Connor would probably work best under this kind of pressure. Using the example of the house on fire, he can give himself several key things to accomplish in the order of importance. 1. Call for the fire department. 2. Clear the house of people/pets. 3. Make sure they are safe. 4. try and contain the fire if possible and wait on the fire department. He’ll let anything that isn’t alive burn because objects are replaceable, lives aren’t and will do anything in his power to save something he deems as alive.

30. Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)

He’ll not know how to function and probably lose all motivation to do anything for a while. He doesn’t know how to deal with loss and internalize everything. If they were to die suddenly and he wasn’t around to witness it. He’d probably for through the five stages of grief but if he’s somehow responsible, whether it is accidental or caused by his indecision, very little will convince him not to be deactivated.

[pckarchives]

beneath the cut , you’ll find random tidbits of info that i thought up at unholy hours of the night. took all day but tbh ..... this was therapy. i really said, “i’ll make my own damn self happy,” and it shows.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟏.     ›     alicia marie levesque boyd-whitley.

► hobbies ➔ painting and decoration, primarily. for the most part, this is due to the nostalgia of doing it with her moms. she’s not awful at it, but she’s not van gogh levels of good, either. it’s just for fun, as all things should be. she’s also incredibly creative, so things like renovation ideas come easy to her. she did ballet for several years, but dropped it before she moved to beacon hills. ► social media handles ➔ she’s aleesha on just about everything. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ mostly conventional, with a series of emojis attached to every name. ► favorite color ➔ green. but sea foam-ish green. ► favorite video game ➔ animal crossing new horizons. she’s a simple bitch; she sees cute animals, she plays the damn game. ► favorite song ➔ style by taylor swift. ► favorite scent ➔ pumpkin spice! not to be totally cliché, but that scent is unbeatable. she has a million candles with that scent alone. ► favorite band/artist ➔ taylor swift, of course. ► favorite place to be ➔ nana’s house! ► favorite season ➔ winter! she had so much fun with lucy over this past winter and if that’s the way lucy acts every year for christmas, then alicia looks forward to it! ► favorite word ➔ squishy. ► favorite meme ➔ maybe so.gif ► if they were an animal ➔ cheetah! ► if they were a color ➔ beige. no longer the pure white she once was, but not the tar pit that she could have been, either. a beautiful mixture of purities and imperfections. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *going through the five stages of grief* HHHHHHHHH !!!!! someone just slid in my dms and *voice cracking* this is what they said.... *sobbing* gIRL.... *sniffle* HNNNNNN..... you should sell hoT DOGs.... ‘cause you know how to make a weiner stand. hNNNNNN.... HNNNNN!!!!!! ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ shake it off. ► aesthetic ➔ paint-stained overalls, tear tracks covered in glitter and flower petals, crooked fingers snagging the last slice of pizza out the box, thick-framed glasses with the lens popped out, it’s for the aesthetic, sharpie’d converse kicks and open hearts doodled onto the palm of your hand –– darling girl, someone will really love you one day. ► motto ➔ “it really do be like that sometimes.” ► theme song ➔ lights up by harry styles.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟐.     ›     amari rose kent.

► hobbies ➔ writing, mostly out of spite. in middle school, she had a meeting with the principal, during which he told her she was at risk of being expelled, due to how many teachers had issues with her. this was the same principal who told her she would never get anywhere, hanging off of tate’s coattails, so she wrote a 50-page paper in the span of one week, shaming the school for its discrimination and unethical practices when it came to students. instead of giving the paper to the principal, she submitted it to the board of education and got the man fired. not only did the essay make it onto local news, it also got her a scholarship to devenford prep; lucky, since tatum had already been offered a scholarship and was on the verge of turning it down because she wouldn’t go without amari. though she hasn’t spitefully written anything that huge since, she is still not afraid to thinkshame. also dabbles in poetry and collage-making. ► social media handles ➔ amari_rose on twitter and instagram. she surprisingly does not have a snapchat! ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional. at best, she’s giving nicknames. ► favorite color ➔ black. ► favorite video game ➔ she doesn’t play video games, so she doesn’t know. ► favorite song ➔ bad guy by billie eilish. ► favorite scent ➔ not to kinkshame, but.... leather. ► favorite band/artist ➔ billie eilish, she is not ashamed! ► favorite place to be ➔ wherever tate and owen are, honestly. ► favorite season ➔ summer. ► favorite word ➔ bullshit. ► favorite meme ➔ thA’TS MY OPINION !!!! ► if they were an animal ➔ panther. ► if they were a color ➔ silver. black is a hard color to obtain and she hardly comes close. she’s got all the darkness she doesn’t need, but the world put that in her. still, she’s close to light, too; close to breathing in sunlight. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ to the mIDDLE SCHOOL TEACHER –– yes, YOU, you know who you are –– who said EYE would never be shit, LOOK AT ME NOW, WHORE ! LOOK AT ME NOW .... not shit. and HOW YOU LIKE IT ? *twerks belligerently* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔  sad beautiful tragic. ► aesthetic ➔ messily chopped hair in the bathroom sink, tongue poked out to lick ketchup off of nimble fingers, rushed words in a lost diary, a bottle drifting out at sea, cigarette smoke and tequila-coated daydreams, harsh breaths in and out and in and out, bruised knuckles and bleeding lips, we’re not done here. ► motto ➔ “chin up, chest out.” ► theme song ➔ all the good girls go to hell by billie eilish. alternatively, kiwi by harry styles.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟑.     ›     camden wesley layton lahey.

► hobbies ➔ he took up woodworking a few years back. therapy and whatnot. he likes making little birds and figurines out of wood, keeps a box of them in his nightstand. ► social media handles ➔ he’s not on social media! he’s old, leave him alone. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ very conventional. again, he’s old, leave him! ► favorite color ➔ grassy green. ► favorite video game ➔ he’s always going to be a sucker for mario party. that game is unfairly frustrating, but he would ride or die for it. ► favorite song ➔ i of the storm by of monsters and men. ► favorite scent ➔ peppermint! it used to make him sick, because it’s such a strong smell, but it’s now his absolute favorite thing in the world. ► favorite band/artist ➔ gorillaz. ► favorite place to be ➔ he honestly prefers closed spaces? tight spaces where he can see every corner, every entrance, every exit, every tile on the floor. whenever he starts panicking, he will sneak away to the nearest closet or something. ► favorite season ➔ spring. rebirth, babyyy. ► favorite word ➔ dammit. ► favorite meme ➔ it’s free real estate. ► if they were an animal ➔ german shepard. ► if they were a color ➔ light pink. this strange mix between the pure white of being a blank slate and the awful red of having spilled more blood than he can even remember. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ AWWWWWWW 😍😍 awww, i’m gonna die alone 🤗🤗🤗 awww !!! i’m never gonna know what it’s like to be LOVED, AWWWWWW !!!! ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ holy ground. ► aesthetic ➔ sweat-dotted skin, racing heart, jingling dog tags, checking the locks on the door once and then again and then again and once more just to be sure, hesitant hands and wet eyes, a smile that’s easy even when nothing else is, sunlight pouring in through a cracked window, a step closer to an answer, five steps back. ► motto ➔ “sure, jan.” ► theme song ➔ clint eastwood by gorillaz.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟒.     ›     charles gerard argent.

► hobbies ➔ someone should tell him that working out isn’t a personality trait, but it really is his hobby. your depression can’t catch up to you, if you’re getting these gainz. ► social media handles ➔ he’s charliecharlie on everything, because he’s funny. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ it used to be creative, but man, that depression hit him hard and he switched to conventional. ► favorite color ➔ white. ► favorite video game ➔ fortnite, shut the fuck up, liam, he doesn’t want to hear it. ► favorite song ➔ perfect ruin by kwabs. ► favorite scent ➔ salt water. ► favorite band/artist ➔ clairo. ► favorite place to be ➔ at the beach. he takes frequent drives up to the closest beach, ► favorite season ➔ summer. beach time! all the time! ► favorite word ➔ yeet. ► favorite meme ➔ y E E T. ► if they were an animal ➔ raven. ► if they were a color ➔ a myriad of colors; there are so many facets to charlie and until he figures out exactly where he is in life, he’s going to keep creating a puddle of colors. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *dancing and singing to the tune of under the sea* ptsd 🤪 anxiety 🤪 crippling depression, there is no question, you should kill me !! let me be with HARAMBE 😤✊ i feel like shit every day ! i’m asking nicely, do it by drowning, under da sea 🌊🌊 ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ getaway car. ► aesthetic ➔ that damnable water’s edge, the view from the top of a mountain, gnawed fingernails and scraped skin, 11:11 and back again, holstered knives and picturesque smiles, droplets of blood spilled into cold coffee, palm grazing the door to happiness but not quite opening it yet ––– another day and you might just make it. ► motto ➔ “que ce sang protège ceux qui ne peuvent se protéger.” ► theme song ➔ broken bones by kaleo.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟓.     ›     cora vienna hale.

► hobbies ➔ lowkey has a love of mechanics. she doesn’t trust anyone else to repair her bike, so she learned how to do it herself. also learned how to fix cars, because scott is always messing his up. also still plays soccer when she has the time. ► social media handles ➔ she’s just corahale on everything. it’s more “professional” than what she had before. which was... a series of expletives that made lydia blush. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional, unless she really hates you. then she can get creative. ► favorite color ➔ black. ► favorite video game ➔ detroit: become human. ► favorite song ➔ hold on just a little while longer from d:bh. luther snapped. ► favorite scent ➔ pinecones. ► favorite band/artist ➔ bryson tiller. ► favorite place to be ➔ the hale house. it feels good to be able to go there again and not be assaulted with all of the reminders of what she lost. ► favorite season ➔ winter. ► favorite word ➔ buttercup. look her in the eye and tell her it’s not the cutest word you’ve ever heard. exactly, you can’t. ► favorite meme ➔ looks into the camera like she’s on the office. ► if they were an animal ➔ lion. ► if they were a color ➔ gold. pure and beautiful; maybe not innocent, maybe not for everyone. but royal and bold and unrelenting. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ sO... .i just went to starbucks and i got my iced coffee and i was standing in line and these little girls were looking at me. *sniff* and i was like, “okay, funny joke.” so i, um, i’m s–– i’m waiting for my coffee, uh, at starbucks, and these other little girls were just, like, LOOKING AT ME and they kept on staring and then this DAD kept on looking and then he kept on staring. and *uncomfortable laughter* ....... *more laughter* ..... *turns on music* *keeps laughing* *turns music off* what kind of sick fucking joke ? .... *uncomfortable shrugging* ...i EXIST ? *more laughter* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ clean. ► aesthetic ➔ a horrid red fire meets a river of blue, gasoline stains on faded tees, an unexpected smile on a rainy day, the way the forest breathes after a rainstorm, skintight dresses and haughty gazes, a smirk that rests for no one, the innocence of a white wolf in a prom dress. ► motto ➔ “flectere si nequeo superos, acheronta movebo.” ► theme song ➔ big god by florence and the machine. alt. the man by taylor swift.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟔.     ›     daniel nahele mahealani.

► hobbies ➔ he no longer loves hacking or music, because... whew, high school killed everything he cared about. mostly sticks to being lydia’s dress up doll. ► social media handles ➔ he’s d-annyboy on all things, because it’s easy! ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional, unless he’s trying to hide something from jackson and lydia. lydia is not afraid to go through his phone, which he genuinely doesn’t mind, that’s why she knows all of his passwords and stuff. but he does not need her to know how many guys he’s fucked that she didn’t like, he’s not here for the lectures. ► favorite color ➔ red. ► favorite video game ➔ wii sports still outsells, he is not taking criticism or debate on this topic. ► favorite song ➔ magic in the hamptons by social house. ► favorite scent ➔ hot chocolate. ► favorite band/artist ➔ childish gambino. ► favorite place to be ➔ at the risk of being gay, wherever theo is. ► favorite season ➔ autumn. ► favorite word ➔ pack. he loves feeling loved, sue him. ► favorite meme ➔ kermit spreading his asshole. ► if they were an animal ➔ elephant. ► if they were a color ➔ orange; just on the cusp of happiness, but always holding back. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ hEY GUYS, i’m just really co–– really confused, ‘cause what does fall have to do with fuckboys 🧐🤔 ‘cause I’VE been fucking boys .... EVERY MONTH, winter, fucking februarymarchaprilmay, june, december... dULY ... *someone taps on the trunk of the car* *looks back* ...that’s my dad *frantic zoom-in* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ afterglow. ► aesthetic ➔ scar-littered skin and callused hands, abandoned hobbies and hopes and dreams, all stashed to the back of the infamous closet, dimples cheeked and optimistic eyes, high school jerseys folded in the drawer, letterman jackets treated like sacrosanct, the memory of when things were simpler and the rain didn’t last so long.  ► motto ➔ “this could be worse.” ► theme song ➔ clementine by halsey.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟕.     ›     derek alexander hale.

► hobbies ➔ book collecting. as their lives continue to not make sense, he collects books on any and every odd ‘myth’ out there and just waits for the day it comes in handy. ► social media handles ➔ lydia has made him dhale on everything, because he’s boring. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ very conventional. he now has a lock on every app in his phone, because fiona and lydia will happily break into his phone to change his contacts, if he’s not careful. ► favorite color ➔ black. ► favorite video game ➔ he doesn’t often play video games, but he will school these youngsters in a game of yahtzee! ► favorite song ➔ when doves cry by prince. ► favorite scent ➔ something baking in the oven. ► favorite band/artist ➔ prince. no, he is not talking about it. ► favorite place to be ➔ the hale house, when the entire pack is there. close second is the loft, when everyone is there. he’ll complain until he’s blue in the face, but everyone knows he’s secretly weak for that. ► favorite season ➔ winter. ► favorite word ➔ no. ► favorite meme ➔ blinking white guy. ► if they were an animal ➔ i... a wolf. ► if they were a color ➔ tree bark brown; steady and stern and stable. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *standing at the bathroom door, glaring* if it breaks. one more time. don’t ––– shut your mouth. if it breaks while i’m sleeping, i will grab you by the neck and shove you down the shower drain. *continues to glare* ......... i’m going to take my shower now. *slowly and threateningly closes the door* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ daylight. ► aesthetic ➔ shattered handcuffs, ashes spread across the floor, delayed inhales and painful exhales, a pool of flowers at your feet ––– begin again. ► motto ➔ “no.” ► theme song ➔ sinnerman by nina simone.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟖.     ›     dominic joseph kim.

► hobbies ➔ yoga, meditation, brewery, skin and haircare routines, and swimming! a king stays busy. ► social media handles ➔ he’s domkimi on snapchat, instagram and twitter, but he’s baddiebbarbietingz on reddit. he has a tumblr account, but he refuses to tell the pack what his username is. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ creative. feel free to look through his phone, but good fucking luck figuring out who is who. ► favorite color ➔ gold. ► favorite video game ➔ sims 4. he gets the chance to actually build a sustainable life? with a family? in a house? with cheat codes? and love? and aliens? and lovers who become plants? sign him the fuck up. ► favorite song ➔ would you mind by prettymuch. good form by nicki minaj is a close runner-up. ‘cause he do, in fact, be the baddie b barbie tingz banging body b, everybody be on his d, cause he gotta be in reality–– ► favorite scent ➔ pizza! if it’s not good for you, why does it smell so good? make it make sense. ► favorite band/artist ➔ prettymuch. ► favorite place to be ➔ tate’s lab! it’s where he and owen do most of their brewing, aside from their field trips to the greenhouse to get more ingredients. it’s basically where dominic does his best and calmest work. close second is his own apartment, because he does yoga in the living room each morning. ► favorite season ➔ summer. ► favorite word ➔ cecelia. ► favorite meme ➔ who said that.gif. ► if they were an animal ➔ a turtle! specifically, one of the turtles from finding nemo. ► if they were a color ➔ blue. calm and collected. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ so i said i’m a switch on tiktok, right ? and now all these ladies are comin’ out of the woodwork like, “hey, i got a strap-on and a dog collar with your name on it ! ” 😳😳 and i’m like... you put my name on it ? 😍👉👈  /// alternatively: theee necklace my boyfriend bought me just came in the mail *zoom in on necklace* ....I’M my boyfriend ! i bought this for myself ! EEE *excited grin* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ style. ► aesthetic ➔ the push and pull of a tidal wave, a dash of eyeliner here and a bit of mascara there, collared shirts and wrinkled jeans, overrated pop over a bluetooth speaker, a fascination with milkshakes and musicals, a heart that beats out of rhythm but never misses a step. ► motto ➔ “the birds work for the bourgeoisie.” ► theme song ➔ good thing by zedd and kehlani.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟎𝟗.     ›     elliot james aldridge.

► hobbies ➔ aside from his bathtub poetry and crime, he has revived his love of cooking and music. is masterful at the piano, guitar and harp, dabbles in cello and flute. he likes his music pretty, okay, sue him. ► social media handles ➔ redacted by the fcc. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ depends on how much he likes you! if you’re kosher, you get a creative name. if not... you get your own name. ► favorite color ➔ blood red. unironically. ► favorite video game ➔ he’s a poker man, but if he has to choose a video game, meet him in super smash brothers. ► favorite song ➔ say so by doja cat. ► favorite scent ➔ blood. ► favorite band/artist ➔ hozier. ► favorite place to be ➔ no offense, but the french quarter in new orleans. ► favorite season ➔ summer. ► favorite word ➔ self-care. ► favorite meme ➔ why would you say something so controversial, yet so brave? ► if they were an animal ➔ hyena. one of the asshole ones from lion king. ► if they were a color ➔ red. he’s not hiding that. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ i’m not falling, i’m not falling, i’m not falling, i’m not falling, i’mnotfallingi’mnotfallingi’mnotfalling, i’m not f a l l i n g, i’m not FALLING, i’m not falling, i’m not falling, i’m not fALLING....... !! *deep breath* oKAY, i’m falling. /// alternative: the oNLY reason i have not destroyed the world is because i have not had ice cream in a while, i want some ice cream. but tRUST ME, when i get some ice cream ? your ass is grass and i’m the lawn mower ! ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ ready for it? ► aesthetic ➔ a hoop of sterling silver, initials carved into dying trees, tempting eyes and a charming smile, cufflinks left on the nightstand, a prison cell and a funny story, top three buttons left undone, far too aware for his own damn good. ► motto ➔ "excuse me, i'm new in town and it gets worse." ► theme song ➔ sunlight by hozier.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟎.     ›     erica juliet reyes.

► hobbies ➔ tracking deucalion and peter, for one thing, but that’s more of a job than anything else. does raving count as a hobby? she’s officially taken up rock climbing, by the way. a huge slap in the face to her epilepsy. ► social media handles ➔ she changes her handles frequently, because she’s indecisive, she can’t decide–– but she’s currently reyofsunshine on everything. shoutout to fiona. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ creative and often explicit! ► favorite color ➔ sand brown, don’t @ her. ► favorite video game ➔ until dawn. understand the palm of my hand, bitch.... jesus hot sauce christmas cake.... what were you tweeting, hashtag there’s a freaking ghost after us? your fave could never! ► favorite song ➔ hot girl bummer by blackbear. ► favorite scent ➔ lucy or fee’s baking. she’ll come home just for that. ► favorite band/artist ➔ blackbear. ► favorite place to be ➔ at a party. she’s very into raves. ► favorite season ➔ summer. ► favorite word ➔ motherfucker. ► favorite meme ➔ respect the drip, karen. ► if they were an animal ➔ a horse. enticingly beautiful but will also kill you. ► if they were a color ➔ gold. not as pure as cora’s gold, but twice as inviting. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ all i’m gonna say is that i didn’t take ap classes in high school, escape the friend zone, graduate with honors, get cheated on, go to college, mentally deteriorate, become addicted to nicotine, sign a year lease, drop a sorority, fail chemistry and dye my hair purple, just to cry over the frat boy leaving me on read that smokes weed for breakfast, lunch and dinner 💁🏼 ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ false god. ► aesthetic ➔ push-up bras covered in black lace, smeared lipstick against the bathroom mirror, jeans that leave nothing to the imagination, a wolf that lies in wait and fears no god, the epitome of poison. ► motto ➔ “meanwhile, back at the ranch...” ► theme song ➔ needed me by rihanna.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟏.     ›     fiona evelyn porter.

► hobbies ➔ baking, pinterest, cheer, volleyball and softball. truly depends on the season. ► social media handles ➔ feezypeezyporter stays true to her brand. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ creative! her contact ids are indecipherable, the only people who can understand them are katie and cass. dom gave up. ► favorite color ➔ light green and light pink! ► favorite video game ➔ beat saber! ► favorite song ➔ love again by carly rae jepsen. ► favorite scent ➔ is.... is it gay to say cass? ► favorite band/artist ➔ carly rae jepsen. ► favorite place to be ➔ the loft! it really is her happiest place. alternatively, wherever cass is, ‘cause that’s home, babey! ► favorite season ➔ spring! baby sticks to her brand. ► favorite word ➔ braggadocio. how on EARTH is that a real word? ► favorite meme ➔ let me see what you have. a kNIFE! NO! ► if they were an animal ➔ cardinal. ► if they were a color ➔ green. the color of grass, covering everything, everything, everything. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *crying and sipping tea* it... is ver .... very b... bold of you to assume ............. ! *pained smile*  /// alternatively: ONE OF YOU FAT BITCHES UNFOLLOWED ME !!! *manic laughter* i’m not mad, but like...... *climbs onto bathroom sink and leans in very close* what was the last straw ? ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ me! ► aesthetic ➔ bare lips passing over green leaves, a lullaby to a struggling orchid, spanks and sweat drops and a desperate need for approval, a digital scale blinking red numbers back at you, pills of white and blue and yellow, maybe tomorrow you’ll be happy again. ► motto ➔ “team work makes the dream work!” ► theme song ➔ work this out from the high school musical 2 soundtrack.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟐.     ›     hayden louisa romero.

► hobbies ➔ she has a love of sports. got into lacrosse before her imprisonment, though she was a little too fragile to play a real game. was a soccer star as a kid. also puts on glamour shows for the kids and the dogs, if they ask. ► social media handles ➔ she doesn’t have social media. imprisonment tingz. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional. at best, you get an emoji or two at the end of your name. ► favorite color ➔ ocean blue. ► favorite video game ➔ will forever be weak for pokémon. ► favorite song ➔ 1985 by bowling for soup. timeless. ► favorite scent ➔ french vanilla. ► favorite band/artist ➔ she’s getting into melanie martinez. ► favorite place to be ➔ bias goes to being with the ito pack, but the preserve is pretty much paradise. ► favorite season ➔ winter. ► favorite word ➔ covenant. ► favorite meme ➔ and i oop––– ► if they were an animal ➔ manta ray. harmless babey. ► if they were a color ➔ prism clear. a maze of reflections, but so fucking breakable. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ you mess with ME ? w ..... ! y...... ! *vague hand movements* you probably aren’t gonna experience any problems, because i’m afraid of confrontation !! /// alternative: *struggling to place lamp inside of another lamp* i JUST TOOK A TEN HOUR NAP ??? *panic* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ it’s nice to have a friend. ► aesthetic ➔ scars lifted among tanned skin, wary glances to read every room, crop tops floating above your belly, a lack of cares for a world that cares a little too much, marked skin and glossed lips, wanna make a deal with an angel? ► motto ➔ “my priority is me.” ► theme song ➔ i know by pink sweat$.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟑.     ›     judith wendy mayer-argent.

► hobbies ➔ biking! she does it primarily for work, but she also does it for fun. also, huge gamer. and protestor. baby keeps busy. ► social media handles ➔ mayerjude. she can make so many jokes out of her own last name, don’t tempt her. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ creative! unless it’s someone important or authoritative. then they get their own name. ► favorite color ➔ sunshine yellow. ► favorite video game ➔ fornite. ► favorite song ➔ sunday candy by donnie trumpet and the social experiment. ► favorite scent ➔ cupcakes! the frosting! the delicacy! ► favorite band/artist ➔ maroon 5. ► favorite place to be ➔ in the middle of a protest, rally or march. if she’s not in action, then what is she doing? ► favorite season ➔ spring. ► favorite word ➔ audit. ► favorite meme ➔ surprised pikachu. ► if they were an animal ➔ dolphin. ► if they were a color ➔ sunset orange. no, i will not elaborate. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *walking down the street* so we were peer reviewing papers in one of my classes aaaand this girl goes, “you use some FANCY LANGUAGE ! ” and i was like, “what word ? ” and she was like, “perpetuate.” .........on GOD, we gon’ get you a dictionary. ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ don’t blame me. ► aesthetic ➔ sunflowers pushing up from freshly dug graves, a smile away to keep the doctors away, sprained wrists wrapped in inappropriate laughter, bruised knuckles and black eyes, drink in hand, swinging your hips to that voicemail left by your toxic ex-boyfriend. ► motto ➔ “just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming...” ► theme song ➔ modern love by david bowie.

𝐏𝐀����𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟒.     ›     kali kaira laghari.

► hobbies ➔ knitting. she has abandoned all of her self-care and therapy ideals, now knits and talks to ghosts. mind ya business. ► social media handles ➔ she’s not on social media, either. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional. she has no times for games. ► favorite color ➔ red. she’s a scorpio, what do you expect? ► favorite video game ➔ not to be controversial, but she’ll take mortal kombat any day. ► favorite song ➔ nintendo game by alessia cara. ► favorite scent ➔ tea! ► favorite band/artist ➔ alessia cara. ► favorite place to be ➔ aside from wherever rohan is, she prefers the bookstore. confrontations aside, it’s a very small space, quiet and relaxing. ► favorite season ➔ winter. ► favorite word ➔ goddess. and yes, for exactly the reason you think. ► favorite meme ➔ as a treat. ► if they were an animal ➔ scorpion. ► if they were a color ➔ smoky grey. everything’s a little hazy with this one. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *staring at the food on the table, slowly losing her mind while everyone else argues over murder* *holds head in hands* *bangs hands on table repeatedly, screaming* WHAT ARE WE THANKFUL FOR !!! ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ i did something bad. ► aesthetic ➔ cross-legged sitting in the middle of the road, waiting for a new thrill, fingertips grazing the harsh blade beneath your skirt, popcorn and wine with a man you could’ve loved if you were both a little less fucked up, a question that should never be answered, a world-view that should never be defiled –––– and you did it all. ► motto ➔ “i don’t need permission or advice; just help.” ► theme song ➔ simmer by hayley williams. you should see me in a crown by billie eilish.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟓.     ›     kira fuyuko yukimura.

► hobbies ➔ she trains to keep herself calm. often talks with her fox nowadays; she wants to build trust. and given that kira is doing fuck all to deal with her issues, she needs someone to talk to her. she and her fox get along a lot better these days. she also runs, practices lacrosse maneuvers on her own and plays with lightbulbs.  ► social media handles ➔ she’s a simple woman: kyuki. cut the fluff, cut the extraness. also, kyuki is what she’s named her fox.  ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional, save for people who warrant a creative one. aka those whose names she doesn’t know. you would be surprised at how many there are. ► favorite color ➔ purple. ► favorite video game ➔ also a fan of animal crossing! ► favorite song ➔ ahead of myself by the ambassadors. ► favorite scent ➔ cinnamon. ► favorite band/artist ➔ the ambassadors. ► favorite place to be ➔ it’s dorky to say, but she likes being with her parents! they’re still in new york, so she doesn’t get that chance as much. however, her second favorite place to be is.... her bed. ► favorite season ➔ autumn. ► favorite word ➔ poppy. ► favorite meme ➔ guess i’ll die.png ► if they were an animal ➔ truly a fox. ► if they were a color ➔ steel blue. baby is electric. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ i might be a BIG, DUMB, GAY BITCH ................ !! *smirks at camera* ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ cruel summer. ► aesthetic ➔ a thunderstorm in your bedroom, leather gloves pulled over dainty hands, quick footwork and sly gazes, untied shoe laces dragging across the floor, leggings beneath skirts, quiet meditation before bed, sharp teeth poking into bruised lips. ► motto ➔ “yeah, this isn’t weird at all.” ► theme song ➔ fall in line by christina aguilera and demi lovato.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟔.     ›     liam stephen dunbar.

► hobbies ➔ lacrosse no longer counts as a hobby, considering he made it his entire life. does training with allison count as a hobby? does texting gwen bad jokes count? ‘cause that’s all he does, my guy. ► social media handles ➔ he’s dvnbcr on everything. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional, until fiona gets her hands on his phone and changes his ids again. ► favorite color ➔ red. ► favorite video game ➔ he’s that guy who plays all of the 2k nba games. like, he has to stan. ► favorite song ➔ i don’t care by fall out boy. ► favorite scent ➔ turf. he’s a loser, what do you expect? ► favorite band/artist ➔ fall out boy and kendrick lamar are tied. ► favorite place to be ➔ the lacrosse field. he does not stray from his brand. ► favorite season ➔ autumn. lax season! ► favorite word ➔ shit. fuck is a close runner-up. ► favorite meme ➔ i’ve won.... but at what cost? ► if they were an animal ➔ rhinoceros.  ► if they were a color ➔ gray; that perfect intersection between white and black, good and bad, wolf and bomb. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *talking to his mom while she’s watching tv.* hey, mom? will you pause that? you know that guy i’m talking to is 6′4″? can’t wait to get my shit wrecked. so you are a bottom. ...wait. okay, i.... that’s not what you’re supposed to say! what am i supposed to say? don’t –– not that! *goes to sit next to her* i’m 👏 not 👏 a 👏 bottom 👏. bullshit. *confused look of betrayal* is this legal? have you ever done anything for anybody else? no, you’re a taker. /// alternatively: *trying to start a fire* hope so ! you gonna let the fire breathe or you gonna fuckin’ suffocate it ? i will end your goddamn short ass piece of shit useless life. ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ this is why we can’t have nice things. ► aesthetic ➔ a rage that you can never quite tame, hand broken from too many punches, the green of fresh cut grass, car mileage piling up, miles and miles and miles left to go, bashful smiles and reddened skin. kid, you’re not nearly as bad as you think you are. ► motto ➔ “i blame scott.” ► theme song ➔ dr. whoever by aminé.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟕.     ›     lydia charlene martin.

► hobbies ➔ sewing clothes, throwing parties, picking up new languages, ruling the world, saving this pack from falling apart, doing everything in this goddamn house! ► social media handles ➔ queenlydia, but who’s surprised? ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ convention meets creativity in lydia’s phone. everyone has their first name, with a lord/lady/duke/duchess/etc. attached to it. jackson is the only one with king, obviously. you know you’re in trouble when she attaches peasant to your name. good luck climbing your way back up the ladder. ► favorite color ➔ pink. ► favorite video game ➔ not to be controversial, but dead by daylight is that bitch. ► favorite song ➔ honey by kesha. ► favorite scent ➔ strawberries. ► favorite band/artist ➔ kesha. ► favorite place to be ➔ in jackson’s arms, she is not taking that back. ► favorite season ➔ winter. ► favorite word ➔ throne and jackson are tied. ► favorite meme ➔ why are you booing me? i’m right! ► if they were an animal ➔ swan. ► if they were a color ➔ purple. royalty is not a game, kids. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ not a vine or tiktok, but yes, it’s me 💅🏽 & you guys are mad about it ohmygod i make y’all feel that 🤢 well, i just wanted to pop up here & show y'all how i'm doing ! i'm doing great. i'm looking great, i'm feeling great, y'know 💇🏽 i'm obviously over here very booked & busy, while you bitches over here are still looking raggedy & not doing shit ! hahaha ! WOW ! 💁🏽 but anyway, um, i just wanted to let y'all know i'm not going anywhere. so talk your shit, you shitholes ! you can't defeat a bad bitch ! you just cannot do that ! i rise above that ! EW 🤮 so i just wanted to say hey ! & that i'm here to stayyy ! & you gon' be mad everydayyy ! HAHAHA ! SUCCESS ! ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ paper rings. ► aesthetic ➔ a crown that fits just perfect, newly manicured nails, breakfasts at tiffany’s and on decorated balconies, the picture on the altar, damp curls and loose braids, tight dresses and sinful heels, brave but never fearless. ► motto ➔ “i’m lydia fucking martin.” ► theme song ➔ okay, okay by alessia cara.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟖.     ›     scott lucas mccall.

► hobbies ➔ video games! he also likes helping the pack renovate whenever they decide to. though he has put fiona on a limit. after she redesigned her room five times in two weeks, he finally had to put his foot down. ► social media handles ➔ he is the most disorganized of the bunch. he’s scootermccall on snapchat, scottymccall on instagram, scotthewmccall on twitter because he’s weak for whatever fiona asks. it’s a mess, but he’s not changing. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional, but with lots of emojis to show he cares. ► favorite color ➔ red. ► favorite video game ➔ he wants to say mario kart, because that’s his and lucy’s thing and, um, he’s in love with her. but other than that! life is strange. he hasn’t figured out how to win yet, but gosh dammit, that’s not going to stop him from trying.  ► favorite song ➔ dna by lia marie johnson. ► favorite scent ➔ lucy’s perfume! ► favorite band/artist ➔ panic! at the disco. ► favorite place to be ➔ at the vet! he’s so happy when he’s around animals and it feels good to know that he’s helping these animals get better? ► favorite season ➔ summer. ► favorite word ➔ lucy. ► favorite meme ➔ i’ll be honest, i can’t read. ► if they were an animal ➔ golden retriever. ► if they were a color ➔ yellow. speaks for itself. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ i had an essay that was due at 11:59. instead of being a smart, responsible student, i decided to wait until 11:40 .... to START my essay. i finished the essay on time. but the gag is............. it was a five-page essay. and i got it done in sixteen minutes. *dancing* they gon’ hate me regardless, that’s why i do what i do ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ state of grace. ► aesthetic ➔ a lighthouse drawing in the lost, the open door of a sunken ship, wrongly buttoned plaid shirts, clumsy fingers and stumbling feet, saddened eyes that follow healing hands, the suspension of disbelief ––– whatever that means. ► motto ➔ “everything will work out!” ► theme song ➔ only the young by taylor swift.

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟎𝟏𝟗.     ›     tatum coretta bellfleur.

► hobbies ➔ nanotech mechanics! she learned as a way to make things for owen and amari that they couldn’t afford to buy. won a few competitions, got a few scholarships, got into programs that taught her how to do greater things than she’d ever imagined. took up baton twirling at devenford, but gave it up when she got to college. fiona is trying to convince her take it up again next year. ► social media handles ➔ she’s tatertot on everything, courtesy of one judith mayer. ► conventional or creative contact ids ➔ conventional. keep it simple, thanks. ► favorite color ➔ silver! it’s so pretty. ► favorite video game ➔ death stranding. no, she will not elaborate. ► favorite song ➔ mo money mo problems by notorious b.i.g.  ► favorite scent ➔ flowers! ► favorite band/artist ➔ tupac. yes, she is that bitch. ► favorite place to be ➔ her lab. ► favorite season ➔ winter. ► favorite word ➔ free. ► favorite meme ➔ you know i had to do it to ‘em. ► if they were an animal ➔ doe. ► if they were a color ➔ white. no matter how much she hates being protected, she’s the picture of purity. ► if they were a vine/tiktok ➔ *sitting in front of a mirror.* maybe.......... i’m the problem 🤨 ► if they were a taylor swift song ➔ out of the woods. ► aesthetic ➔ a blanket of snow covering the grime and pain of yesterday, contained explosions and soft humming, tight ponytails breaking cheap rubber bands, tongue poking out the side of your mouth, the sun peeking through the slits of your blinds, wondering where you’ve been these last couple’a days. ► motto ➔ “i’ve lived through this before, i’ll live through it again.” ► theme song ➔ 100 years by florence and the machine.

[kestrellavellan]

Time Past - Chapter 49

Rating: Explicit

Warning: This chapter contains a fake suicide attempt. Please, don't read if suicide is a trigger for you.

This update may be short, but honestly, it's one of the most emotional ones for me. I cried while writing this chapter. Kes and Dorian are so precious to me, it hurts me to see them in such pain. Depression is also something that I struggle with, so that made writing this even more emotionally taxing for me.

The beautiful image at the beginning is from the wonderful @flavoredmagpie​ on Tumblr. It's the Three of Swords tarot card which stands for heartache, grief, and sadness. Dorian's trying to protect Kestrel from the swords' damage, while Kestrel is poised to kiss Dorian goodbye. The hand around Kestrel's neck is meant to trap. Dorian is desperate not to let him go. It's a tragic card, and @flavoredmagpie​ did it justice. They were even able to add in the kestrel and peacock feather details. Please commission them if you're able to! <3

If you haven't had a chance, please check out the other artwork I've added to Chapter 1 & Chapter 37 of this fic, and the ones I've added to "Cicada's Chorus" and "Everything You Want." (I'm going crazy since I figured out how to add images to AO3 updates XD)

Weekly updates going forward until the story is finished.  Find this fic in its entirety on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423880/chapters/25595154

Kestrel stared at the small glass bottle in his palm, dancing light from the candelabra dancing through the green-tinted surface onto his bed.  Soon, he thought, I’ll be free of here.  Or dead. It doesn’t matter so long as Dorian is free again.  Free of him.  Free of the tethers of their relationship, of his race, of his former status.  Green licked at the golden band around his finger. He thought about removing it, leaving it on the nightstand, but quickly discarded that thought.  He’d have to give up on being with Dorian again, without even the slimmest of hopes of being reunited, but that didn’t mean he had to give up what they had, what they shared in time past.  However short their reunion was, it was incredibly sweet. Even if his plan to fake his death failed tomorrow, and he ended up truly dying, he had those memories to hold on to as he slipped into the Void.   Still, he owed it to Dalish not to give in to his buried, dark wish for the poison to be too strong.  He needed to get the boy out of this torture house.

He flopped back onto his pillow and held the bottle aloft, liquid undulating with the sudden shift.  Odd that such a small thing would determine the next stage of his existence. Kestrel lost himself in the green glass and the endless escapes reflected on its translucent surface.   He knew sleep would elude him like every other night in this prison since his torture. At least the fantasies kept the hallucinations in the peripheral.

The night passed slowly, and even when morning finally came about, it was a gray and sullen thing.  No sun breached the overcast skies from what Kestrel could tell through his opaque windows.

He eyed the food tray someone had deposited in his room in the early morning once he finally dozed, but left its contents untouched, too nervous about the day’s events.  Next to the tray sat the poison and a noose crafted from his woven sheet. The noose was crude but would do the trick.

In the middle of the night, Kestrel thought about penning a letter to Dorian, except he had neither utensil nor paper.  He then had the wonderful idea of carving his feelings into the table’s surface, but any words of comfort he’d thought of fell flat.   All that hinted at his idea were a few shallow scratches along the dark wood.

He paced back and forth to ease his nerves, waiting for the light knock on his door from Dalish that would signal to drink the near-deadly draught.  Time crawled, and just as Kestrel began to worry the knock would never come, a faint rapping sounded on his door. Three taps, a pause, and two more - their signal.

Taking a deep breath, Kestrel uncorked the bottle and swallowed its contents in one gulp without hesitation.  There was no turning back now. The poison tasted bitter, but not unpleasant, like the wild greens his Clan used to collect in a nearby field.

Recalling the next step of his plan, he walked into the bathroom, stood on the bench over his chamber pot, and dropped the vial out the small window.  He didn’t even hear it hit the ground below. Next, he tied the end of his makeshift noose to the top of his bedpost, securing it with a sturdy knot. Last, he slung the fabric over his head and around his neck.  It hung loose for a moment before he worked the knot down. With a tug, he found the noose snug and secure and the bed frame sturdy.

Kestrel knew the next part would be the most difficult of his plan.  While he wasn’t actually going to hang himself, he needed to make sure he looked like he had.  That meant the appropriate bruising around his throat. And he needed to accomplish this before the poison took full effect.  Already he noticed his vision blurring with too sudden a movement.

Another deep inhale and Kestrel threw himself opposite the bed.  He heard the wooden frame groan in protest as the noose pulled taunt and yanked him backwards.  Sputtering and grabbing his neck against the pain, he took only a moment to collect himself before flinging outward again.  This time he stumbled and fell to the ground, nearly strangling himself in earnest. The noose was tied too high on the post to allow him close enough to the floor.

Panting with the effort and feeling like every muscle fought him, Kestrel pulled himself up so he could readjust the knot.  It took several attempts as his fingers refused to cooperate, turning numb and gray from the poison. Strained breathing echoed in his pounding head, and he swallowed against a suddenly parched throat.  With the poison running swiftly through his veins now, Kestrel carefully lowered himself down to the floor at the foot of the bed, granted just enough length of his tether to be allowed to sit. Then the world went black.

***

“Kestrel?” questioned a soft voice, forcing him to open his eyes.  The sight before him was almost too much for him to wrap his mind around.

He sat on the floor, naked as usual these days, at the foot of the bed, noose around his pale, deathly gray face.  Body listing to the side, his features were slack, eyes staring without seeing. So then how was he seeing everything before him now?

“Kestrel,” the voice said, more insistent this time.

He turned to the source, finding Cole standing next to him with a troubled expression.

“You’re close to the Veil.  Your pain called me to you. I want to fix this, but I can’t,” he said, sounding sad.  “You know this will hurt him. It will cause a hurt so deep-”

“Kes?” called Dorian, door opening.

Kestrel watched Dorian’s tentative smile fall as his eyes landed on his slumped over form.

“Kes!” he yelled, bolting over to Kestrel’s lifeless body.

Atronis trailed behind him, hands clasped tight.

Dorian made quick work of the noose, gentle even in his haste to remove the fabric from around Kestrel’s neck.  Freed, Dorian cradled Kestrel to his chest, muttering through an already tear-stained face, “No, Kes. No, you can’t leave me like this.  Anything but this.”

“He believes you’re dead, but you’re not.  Almost not. Why do you lie to him? Why do you cause him pain if you love him?”

Kestrel ignored Cole’s questions, cupping his hand over his mouth as he watched Dorian kiss him, lips pressed firmly against his own.  He felt nothing in this spirit form.

Dorian held the kiss even as his tears dropped from his cheeks onto Kestrel’s, as if he believed his will alone would be enough to bring Kestrel back to life, like a childhood fairytale where wishes and belief were enough to cause miracles.  Such miracles remained a thing of myth as Kestrel failed to stir.

Kestrel watched with a breaking heart as Dorian held him close with one arm and slid Kestrel’s blank gaze closed with the other hand.

“I can’t even blame you, amatus .  I put you in this situation, and you saw no other option out.  I’m so sorry I failed you,” Dorian whispered, though his voice creaked and threatened to stop.  He trailed his hand lightly over the bruising around Kestrel’s throat before drifting over his heart.  “ Vishante kaffas !” he suddenly shouted, slamming his fist down hard on Kestrel’s chest, only to fall into a well of tears and cradle Kestrel close once more.

“Dorian,” Atronis said softly.  “We should go. Your mother-”

Shaking his head, Dorian mumbled, “No, not without…”  He trailed off, focusing on pulling the ring from Kestrel’s finger.  Except it didn’t budge. He tried again, and again, and again. Finally, attempt abandoned, Dorian slumped against the bed.  “Nothing? You leave me nothing to remember you by, amatus ?”

Kestrel fought back his own ghostly tears, struggling to keep himself rooted by Cole.  Would Dorian feel his ghostly presence if he reached out? Then a thought came to him, spurred on by that one word.  Nothing .  Turning to his spirit friend, he pleaded, “Make him forget me, please.  Without his memories of me, he won’t be sad. Leave him nothing to remember me by.”

Cole looked between the two of them.  “Memories as big as those will leave a void too large to fill.”

“He doesn’t need it filled, just to forget, Cole.  I’m begging you.”

“Would you forget him?”

Knowing where this was going, Kestrel sighed.  “No. My memories are the only thing I have left of him now.  I can’t give those up.”

Cole nodded his head in agreement.  “I imagine Dorian will feel the same, once the blinding agony dies to a dull pain.”

Before Kestrel could argue with Cole further, Dalish rushed into the room, blue bottle in hand.  Eyes wide, he was clearly surprised to find Dorian and Atronis still there. He quickly hid the bottle behind his back.  “Oh no! What’s happened to Master Kestrel?” he asked, the question stilted with his play acting.

Dorian didn’t notice, murmuring, “He killed himself.”  He ran his fingers through Kestrel’s hair in a loving caress.

Kestrel’s eyes followed Dorian’s hand, longing for his touch one final time.

“Dorian, we need to leave.  You’ll be the first person to blame for his death.”

“But I can’t...I can’t leave him like this.”

Atronis sighed, growing frustrated.  “Well, you can’t take him with you!” he snapped.

Dorian jolted as if physically slapped, but didn’t look away from Kestrel.  “I should have. After Solas turned against us, after the Inquisition disbanded, if I’d just let him come with me from the start, we wouldn’t be here.”  His voice hardened with each word, anger turned inward.

The scene before Kestrel blurred for a moment before refocusing.

“An antidote is needed soon,” Cole said from his side.  “Otherwise his pain will be for nothing.”

Dalish shifted on his feet, eyes darting nervously around.  He too realized time was running out to have the antidote administered.

“Come on, Pavus, your time is up.  Mistress said only a few moments, but I knew you’d push-”  Morven’s complaining stopped suddenly as he entered upon the scene from the hallway.  “What the fuck…?”

“We found him like this, I swear!” Atronis spoke up.

Morven sneered.  “Oh, I’m sure you did!  Wait until Mistress sees what her precious son has done to her prized pet.  Guard!” He stormed out of the room.

“Fuck,” Atronis and Kestrel said at the same time.  This was exactly what they didn’t want to happen.

As they panicked, Dalish knelt before Dorian and asked, “May I see him?  I promise I’ll give him right back.” He spoke softly, like speaking to a traumatized child.

Kestrel held his breath, or maybe that was the poison taking its toll on his lungs.  The scene faded again, returning with a clear picture of Kestrel’s body in Dalish’s arms.

Dorian remained close, a near corpse himself at his lack of acknowledgement of anything but Kestrel.  One of his hands still lingered on Kestrel’s chest, unwilling to separate.

“Dorian,” Atronis said, kneeling by his side and pulling on his shoulders.  It was enough to drag Dorian’s attention to him, if only for a moment.

Still, it was long enough for Dalish to uncork the blue bottom and pour its contents into Kestrel’s mouth.

“We need to-”

“What are you doing to him?” Dorian said, snatching Kestrel’s body away from Dalish in the next heartbeat.  He looked Kestrel over, but finding nothing amiss, he simply frowned at the boy.

“I’m sorry, Master Pavus.  I was confirming his death.”  Dalish rose to his feet and bowed before moving off to the side, toying with the hem of his shirt.

Now they had a different issue.  The antidote took longer than the poison to work, but a lot needed to happen before Kestrel could come back to life, leaving them little time to accomplish everything with.

Cole asked, “Why do you torment each other? I don’t understand.”

Watching Dorian whisper against his cheek, Kestrel couldn’t look away when he responded.  “This way he’ll be free of me, Cole. He’ll be able to live his life without me holding him back.”

“I thought you bright, but you are blind.  He’ll never be free of you, because he doesn’t want to be,” Cole stated, disappointed.  He shook his head, the wide brim of his hat flopping.

“All the more reason to make him forget, Cole!”

“Now you’re the one who does not understand.  If I force his memories away, he’ll be left with nothing.  You’ve filled him to the brim with hope, love, sadness, and despair.  So many emotions tangled around you. If I pull you out, like a stopper in a basin, everything will rush out, leaving him empty.  No, your ask creates more harm, more pain. I will not do it.”

Realizing Cole’s increasing distress, Kestrel quickly said, “Okay, it’s okay, Cole.  I’m sorry.”

Cole glanced at him, tension easing.  “I hope one day you realize that you cause each other more happiness than pain,” he muttered.

Kestrel was left no time to rebut.  Morven had returned with Aquinea, standing over Dorian as his judge and jury, yet Dorian didn’t even acknowledge them, still murmuring against Kestrel’s cheek.  “We have to bury you, amatus .  I remember the Dalish customs, I promise.”

“Morven, you really believe my son is to blame?” Aquinea asked, voice cold as her glare on him.

“I...I mean, who else could’ve caused this?” Morven stammered, flushing red under her studious stare.

“Do you not see the noose next to the slave’s body?  Turns out you did break his mind, after all. No one has recovered from the red lyrium, it was a miss to think this elf could have beaten the odds.  Now you’ve distressed my son.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth, admonishing Morven, even as she knelt besides Dorian.

Aquinea curled an arm around Dorian’s shoulder.  “Come now, son. It is time you leave this body behind.  His soul has moved on as should you.”

“Mother?” Dorian acknowledged through tear-stained cheeks, looking up at her.

“Yes, my boy.  Let’s get you some food and brandy.  It’ll soothe your heartache.” She looked over at Morven, saying, “You will see to the disposal of his body.  This is, afterall, your fault.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Morven said with a bow, although Kestrel could see the irritation etched into his features, hidden from everyone else.

“Now, let go of him, Dorian,” Aquinea said with an air of command.

Dorian did as told, reacting more than thinking, as he latched on to what little motherly comfort Aquinea extended to him.  He lowered Kestrel’s body to the floor and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and into Aquinea’s waiting arms. “There, there.  This is just like when you were a boy and that carriage ran over your cat. You recovered well enough from that, you’ll be fine here too.”

Dorian numbly nodded, not hearing her words, but soaking in her soothing tone.

He broke through her spell once, latching on to Dalish’s shoulder.  “Bury him with a staff and a cedar branch. And plant a tree over his body.  Please.”

Dalish nodded quickly.

“Come now, son,” Aquinea said, pulling them apart.  Arm still over Dorian’s shoulder, Aquinea escorted Dorian from the room.

Definitely not what they wanted.

Atronis glanced at Kestrel and then at Dalish.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Morven sneered.  “Maybe you’ll actually stand a chance of getting into Pavus’ pants now that his pet elf is dead.  There’s no one left to cockblock you.”

Atronis turned a furious red, and Kestrel thought he might actually punch Morven.  Instead, his clenched fists stayed at his sides as he snarled, “Fuck off,” and stormed from the room.

Room cleared, Morven walked over to Kestrel’s body and landed a solid kick to his ribs.  “That’s for leaving me with another mess of yours to clean up!” He kicked him again, and Dalish took a step forward, but stopped before he Morven noticed him.  “That’s because your death should’ve been mine.” Morven spit on Kestrel. “And that’s because I’m glad you’re dead,” he whispered.  

Stepping back, he turned his attention to Dalish.  Nose wrinkled in disgust, Morven said, “Grab his body, boy.  Be quick about it. I’d like to get him in the pit before he shits himself.”

[bountyofbeads]

Eight black women — including Michelle Obama — on Toni Morrison’s life and legacy

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2019/08/09/eight-black-women-including-michelle-obama-toni-morrisons-life-legacy/

Eight black women — including Michelle Obama — on Toni Morrison’s life and legacy

By Michelle Obama, Esi Edugyan, Sherrilyn Ifill, Sarah Ladipo Manyika, Tayari Jones, Jacqueline Woodson, Michele L. Norris and Leah Wright Rigueur | Published August 09 at 1:30 PM ET | Washington Post | Posted August 11, 2019 11:47 PM ET |

MICHELLE OBAMA

“We belong, she showed us, not just in paperback books but in textbooks, not just in a publishing house but in the White House.”

The summer after my senior year of high school was a slow one for me. I’d had a cyst removed from my wrist, and a heavy white cast cocooned my forearm up to my elbow. There wasn’t a lot I could do. Sidelined on my parents’ couch in the South Side heat, I picked up a paperback copy of “Song of Solomon.” I hadn’t heard of Toni Morrison yet, so I can’t say I did it because I was curious about her writing, or that I was being purposeful about supporting African American women authors. The truth was, I didn’t know anything about the book. It was simply there in the living room, just like me.

I like to think that this is the way that she would have liked it; that she’d have wanted the tidiness of her prose, the interiority of her characters, the complexity of the stories to stand on their own, away from her growing legend. Toni Morrison understood, you see, that people gravitate to what’s real. And in her writing, the truth was always right there on the dog-eared pages.

For me and for so many others, Toni Morrison was that first crack in the levee — the one who freed the truth about black lives, sending it rushing out into the world. She showed us the beauty in being our full selves, the necessity of embracing our complications and contradictions. And she didn’t just give us permission to share our own stories; she underlined our responsibility to do so. She showed how incomplete the world’s narrative was without ours in it.

It’s a thread running through “Beloved” and “Sula” and “The Bluest Eye” and all of her work — that black stories, particularly the stories of black women and black girls, are worthy of examination and celebration. Again and again, she was unapologetic about that fact, deliberate in proving that our stories are rich and deep and largely unexplored. We belong, she showed us, not just in paperback books but in textbooks, not just in a publishing house but in the White House. And on their own, our stories are more than enough to inspire a Nobel laureate.

In the years since that slow, scorching summer on the couch, I’ve read “Song of Solomon” twice more, cover to cover — once as a young professional and once more as a young mother. Each reading has revealed new lessons that accompany my own changing perspective as I’ve grown and evolved. Each reading also serves as a reminder of the patience and rigor she demands. I often find myself reading and rereading passages multiple times in order to uncover her secrets. But that work is part of what makes the act of reading her so special; that at times, you have to earn her wisdom.

I’m sure that someday I’ll pick up “Song of Solomon” again and see what new lessons it has for me at this new stage in my life, now that my own girls are off writing their own songs. That’s perhaps the best thing about Toni Morrison. It will never really matter how many years have passed since her novels were first published. The words may have been new when she wrote them, but the truth behind them wasn’t. She was simply uncovering the beauty that was always there.

Michelle Obama is the former first lady of the United States and the author of “Becoming.”

ESI EDUGYAN

“In the unexpected slide of her sentences, she was our foremost poet, our foremost truth-teller.”

In 1998, when I was an undergraduate at the University of Victoria, my father sent me a parcel. I’d gone there to study writing, and I was still reeling at the impossibility of it — still feeling myself an imposter, astonished that someone like me could even begin to think of herself as a writer. A parcel was an unusual gesture on my father’s part — we weren’t particularly close, and the weight of the package suggested more than a short letter. I opened the slender manila envelope to discover a copy of Time magazine bearing Toni Morrison’s portrait, a sticky note hastily pasted over it. My father’s scrawl read, simply, “Thought you might enjoy this.”

I could not have expected how much this simple, thoughtful gesture would change my whole sense of myself.

I had, of course, heard of Toni Morrison; when she won the Nobel Prize in 1993, I remember attempting to read “Tar Baby,” but I was young and unpracticed, 15 years old, and it was not a book for my immature sensibility. My father’s parcel sent me back to her work as a young woman — and, more important, as a budding writer — and what I found there shook me.

It seems we all have these stories — when we first discovered her work, how profoundly it marked us. For a generation of black female writers in particular, she was crucial, the one without whom nothing would have been possible. Her work spoke of our lives and directly to us, and it was also universal. She gave us the permission of visibility; she said, as much with the fact of her body as with her stirring prose, that lives that had rarely been acknowledged in serious literature without ridicule or censure not only mattered but also were a central part of the Western story. She looked directly and sometimes mercilessly at the choices of the vulnerable and at the powerful who profited off that vulnerability, and she allowed the inevitability of their tragedies to play out in ways that sometimes left us outraged or wounded, but never indifferent.

She wrote of black life in all its complexity, quarreling with the notion that the “black experience” was a single monolithic thing. She spoke as honestly about the marginalization of black people within the larger fabric of American society as about the ways black communities can fracture and sometimes turn against themselves. No one, it seemed to me, had written as soberly about the pain of colorism, about how absent fathers can derail a life, about the ways that class and gender complicate race. She dragged into the light issues plaguing lives that until then had rarely been discussed in the mainstream.

But her concerns were universal, and Morrison spoke about how thwarted desires, both grand and small, can utterly destroy a life. She was never instructive, nor was she relentlessly dark — there was always lightness, both in her touch and in her insistence on an essential human goodness. She was deeply moral without being moralizing.

And all this was written in a prose as exacting and exquisite as anything that has ever been set to paper. To read Morrison aloud is to revel in the astonishing musicality of the English language (which in these days of Twitter and Facebook is easy to forget). Her phrases were touched by the cadences of black dialects, but also by Homer and the King James Bible. I remember hearing her described as a “black Faulkner.” And yes, she did share William Faulkner’s almost alien reach with language, but she was sui generis, entirely her own creation. In the unexpected slide of her sentences, she was our foremost poet, our foremost truth teller.

Esi Edugyan is the author of “Half-Blood Blues” and “Washington Black.”

SHERRILYN IFILL

“The ‘word’ she brought forth was one of life, of dignity, of survival, of integrity.”

I always marvel when I see people reading Toni Morrison on the subway or on planes. When I read her, I am conscious that at any moment, her writing can, without warning, bring me to my knees, and provoke an embarrassing, emotional response I’d rather not have witnessed by strangers. This happened to me while reading “Home,” Morrison’s 2012 novel about a young man who returns to his hometown to save his sister Cee Money and reconcile them both to long-held family secrets.

As Cee recovers from abuse she suffered at the hands of a sadistic doctor, she is forced to address the profound issues of abandonment that made her vulnerable to abuse. Cee explains to one of the older women taking care of her that she was unloved by her mother and raised instead by a disapproving grandmother. Cee’s belief that she is unworthy of love has left her unable to protect herself. She gets no platitudes or sympathy in response. Her caretaker tells Cee that her emotionally impoverished childhood reflects her mother’s deficiency, not her own. Cee realizes that her mother should have cherished her and told her, “You my child. I dote on you. ... You born into my arms. Come on over here and let me give you a hug.”

Reading those words I unexpectedly burst into tears and wept for 20 minutes. Not tears of grief for Cee, but tears of gratitude for my own mother who, it suddenly and earth-shatteringly occurred to me, had done precisely this for me in the five short years we had together. Dying of cancer, and with nine other children who needed her love and attention, she managed to give her youngest the experience of unconditional, doting love that gave me an unshakable sense of my own worth, which I carry to this day. This is essential armor, Morrison tells us, that women need to meet the inevitable challenges to our self-esteem that we will confront in our lives.

I am also a huge fan of Morrison’s nonfiction work. Her 1992 volume about the issues of race and gender in the Clarence Thomas Supreme Court confirmation hearings was literally a bible for those who were shattered by that weeklong televised drama. She understood that to process what was for so many of us a kind of traumatic national event, we needed, as she wrote in her introduction, “perspective, not attitudes; context not anecdotes; analyses not postures.” She was there to help, assembling a “who’s who” of African American scholars who could situate this dramatic and devastating event into the framework of our historical and contemporary race and gender struggles.

And we cannot forget that Morrison’s voice was its own body of work. She was a kind of a preacher. Her interviews and speeches are mesmerizing. And the “word” she brought forth was one of life, of dignity, of survival, of integrity. When you listened to her, you believed that these were unmovable, nonnegotiable truths to which each one of us is entitled, because she so effortlessly embodied them.

Toni Morrison — who, it seemed, was always there — is gone. In her tribute to James Baldwin, Morrison wrote, “You gave us ourselves to think about, to cherish.”

This was also the gift she gave to us. Rest in power.

Sherrilyn Ifill is the president and director-counsel of the NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund.

SARAH LADIPO MANYIKA

“I remember how we laughed.”

When I heard that Toni Morrison had died, I walked to a church in Peckham, South London, and sat on an empty bench outside. I wanted quiet, but I also yearned for the church bells to ring out in celebration of a mighty writer whose voice rang clearly in my head.

I remember that Easter Saturday, in 2017, when I spent an afternoon in Toni’s home — and she said to call her Toni. She told us about the novel she was working on. She planned to call it “Justice.” I remember how she sat straight-backed and magnificent in black trousers, caftan and woolen cap, waiting for the interview to begin.

She said in “Justice,” there was a slave owner named Goodmaster who made his slaves call themselves Goodmaster. The slaves kept the detested surname to make it easier to find each other in later generations. Three of the descendants would be her characters. She’d named them Courage, Freedom and Justice. I remember thinking we have not yet emerged from this struggle and wondering whether she completed “Justice” and whether justice can ever be complete.

When, in the course of our interview, I mentioned James Baldwin, she sighed lovingly and called him “Jimmy.” I remember what she wrote of him in the wake of his death — of his gifts to her of tenderness, courage and language. She, too, gave us these gifts, especially the courage to write our stories without a care for anyone’s gaze.

I remember her Nobel Lecture and the lines I had committed to memory: “Language can never ‘pin down’ slavery, genocide, war. Nor should it yearn for the arrogance to be able to do so. Its force, its felicity, is in its reach toward the ineffable.” In that lecture, she told the parable of an old woman, and I remember the intensity of the questions the woman is asked. “Tell us what it is to be a woman so that we may know what it is to be a man. What moves at the margin. What it is to have no home in this place. To be set adrift from the one you knew. What it is to live at the edge of towns that cannot bear your company.” Toni wrote that in 1993 — it could have been written in 2019.

I visited her guest bathroom that Easter Saturday and found it filled with photographs of writers I had long admired — Wole Soyinka, Gabriel García Márquez, Baldwin — and a letter from the Nobel Committee announcing its decision to award Morrison its highest honor. There was also a “Publication Denial Notification” outlining why Morrison’s novel “Paradise” was banned from Texas correctional facilities for fear of “inmate disruption such as strikes or riots.”

I remember just how much she made us laugh that day. I asked her what President Barack Obama had whispered to her after presenting her with the Presidential Medal of Freedom and being surprised when she said she didn’t remember. I realized later that she, the master storyteller, was simply explaining that when one is in awe of someone, what stays in the memory is not what is said but how it is said. It was her son who later asked Obama what he had whispered into his mother’s ear. “I love you,” Obama answered.

I remember at the end, telling her that my son wanted to know her secret to writing so well. “Tell him I’m a genius,” she smiled. I remember how we laughed.

Sarah Ladipo Manyika is a British-Nigerian novelist and author of “Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to The Sun.”

TAYARI JONES

“She wasn’t one to search for common ground; she was looking for the true path forward.”

People often ask me what Toni Morrison has meant to me as a writer. No novelist has influenced me more. I tip my hat to her in some way in each of my novels. In my latest, my hero is from the town of Eloe, the fictional hometown of Son, the troubled hero of “Tar Baby.” I make these gestures as an homage to the greatest writer of our time but also as a gesture of gratitude to the woman whose wisdom helped me understand my real life, the one I live in private, off the page.

Morrison wrote novels that gave us cautionary tales on life and love, but she also modeled the way forward. These stories nudge us away from respectability in favor of true respect for ourselves, and each other. She wasn’t one to search for common ground; she was looking for the true path. Her moral compass was impeccable and her intellect peerless. Her ear for the poetry, beauty and brilliance of African American language lifted us, reminding us that we are marvelous — anytime we open our mouths to speak.

Tayari Jones is a professor of creative writing at Emory University and the author of four novels, including “Leaving Atlanta” and “An American Marriage.”

JACQUELINE WOODSON

“Morrison had provided, through her characters, some of my earliest mirrors.”

I’m in Morocco and the emails, texts and WhatApps come at me: Toni Morrison has moved on to the next place. Weeks before, I’d spoken to some friends who’d told me that she was close to this transition, but a part of me thought, Aren’t we all? Isn’t each one of us living in this moment with all its madness, beauty and despair, knowing that at the end of this is death? Death and whatever we believe of what comes after.

And still …

What I know now — and have known for some time — is how fortunate I am to be walking through the world at this particular moment in time.

When I first read “The Bluest Eye,” I was a fifth- or sixth-grader. It was one of very few books on the shelves of our Brooklyn apartment. We could not afford shelves lined with books and depended on the neighborhood library for our weekly dose of new narratives. But the cover of my mother’s book had caught my eye — a photograph of a black woman dressed as a child and holding a white doll.

I despised this cover. And I was fascinated by it. A slow reader, I read through “The Bluest Eye” with my finger moving beneath the words. I remember being captivated by the story — so many people walking through it were like people walking through my own life. When I picked up the book again in high school, I would remember it as having a happy ending. I remembered Pecola Breedlove’s wish for blue eyes had come true and everyone lived happily ever after.

And for many months after reading “The Bluest Eye” for the second, third, fourth time, I was certain that Morrison had written two versions of the novel — one for children and one for adults. The adult version was stunningly heartbreaking. The children’s version — what was that? Something I could grasp parts of. Hold on to.

“The Bluest Eye” was an awakening for me. Already, I wanted to write. Already, I wanted to show and see representations of the people I loved on the page. Decades later, as an adult when I heard Rudine Sims Bishop talk about the importance of books being mirrors and windows for the reader, I’d realize that Morrison had provided, through her characters, some of my earliest mirrors. And windows. In the lives of the people she brought to the page, I began to see parts of myself in the world — reflected, legitimized, loved.

And so here I am now. Here we all are. Toni Morrison as light, as way, as ancestor. And the many writers she has left in her wake, and the many writers coming after, and those after them, will hopefully always know this: that because of her, we are.

Jacqueline Woodson, the author of “Harbor Me” and “Brown Girl Dreaming,” lives in Brooklyn.

MICHELE L. NORRIS

“I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to swim in her laughter and lean into her deliberate silence.”

My heart went to her words, but my mind went straight to her voice.

Perhaps because I worked so long in radio, it was her voice that washed over me when the news flash rolled in announcing that Toni Morrison had joined the ancestors. Her voice was as measured and magisterial as the words she put on the page. It had the quality of music, in the way that an artist can take a single note from a single instrument and make it hang in the air like tendrils of cigar smoke, move it back and forth like an old porch swing or send it drifting toward the moon like an owl in flight.

I imagine that many people reached for her books in their moment of grief. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to swim in her laughter and lean into her deliberate silence — because she used silence as a kind of punctuation, pausing when she spoke to let her words sink in, long pauses to give you a moment to sop up her wisdom or perhaps in her own mind to say, “Mmm, that sounded good.”

Morrison’s speaking voice was low and feathery and playful, which is a bit of a conundrum because her writing voice cut like a knife — straight to the bone — examining the physical, spiritual and soul-crushing wounds of race and racial hatred.

I’ve interviewed Morrison several times and, though the books we discussed were always drenched in pain and heartbreak, the interviews felt like a visit to a juke joint. At a 2015 event, I asked her to begin our chat with a reading from a section of what was then her latest release, “God Help the Child.” She chose a passage that described her character Bride — a statuesque, dark-skinned woman dismissed as ugly by her parents and teachers and just about everyone else — as she discovers that she possesses a kind of magnetic power over men. A young Morrison had studied theater and you could hear the training as she danced through her prose. I looked out over the audience and several hundred people had their eyes closed in a trance. You could hear in Morrison’s voice how much she valued her own words. You could hear how much she valued black life.

I loved her voice, but I am most grateful for how she used it. She changed the publishing industry in the United States. That is not hyperbole. She was known as the “black editor” at Random House, and she wore the title like a badge of honor, using her perch to knock down doors previously closed to black writers. She edited Angela Davis, Chinua Achebe, Gayl Jones and Toni Cade Bambara.

She used that voice to encourage young writers and she challenged booksellers to stop placing even best-selling black authors in the black book section that was always — always — in some hard-to-find back corner of the store. And when she herself became a best-selling author, she used her voice to reject the notion that being a black writer was a subgenre of high literature. “Reject” is almost too soft a word. She was asked time and time again if she chafed at the term “black writer” or whether she would ever consider centering white characters in her work — and with a smile on her face, she flicked that off her shoulder, flung it to the floor and stomped on it with an elegant grace. “The inquiry comes from a position of being in the center and being used to being in the center and saying is it ever possible that you will enter the mainstream,” she once said.

She shot past the mainstream and elevated the highest levels of literature with her own language on her own terms. “I stood at the edge and claimed it as central,” she said. “Claimed it as central. And let the rest of the world move over to where I was.”

Michele L. Norris is a former host of NPR’s “All Things Considered” and the founding director of the Race Card Project.

LEAH WRIGHT RIGUEUR

“Once you’ve read her work, you cannot unread it or leave it behind.”

When I was 10 years old, I borrowed my mother’s copy of “The Bluest Eye.” I was a gluttonous reader, consuming every book I could get my hands on. But that’s not why I chose Toni Morrison’s book.

I had seen my mother, my aunts and their friends reading Morrison’s work. I listened silently, watching as they praised, argued and even gossiped over the layers and textures of Morrison’s words and stories. I wanted to be a part of that — not simply as a witness, but as part of their congregation, offering up my own testimony.

Reading Morrison’s words for the first time made my chest and my throat ache. It took me months to finish as I struggled to process the story. It was so different from anything I’d read. It was rawer, more precise and more cutting, but it was also so much freer. I couldn’t articulate it then (and even now, I struggle to do so), but I certainly could feel Morrison’s words. Her prose made me feel seen, visible. I could feel Morrison writing to me, about me, as she documented the rhythms of black girlhood and the fullness of black community in America, in all its joy and trauma. She loved black people so thickly that it pulsated through her prose.

Once you’ve read her work, you cannot unread it or leave it behind. The ideas and lessons linger — sometimes as a caress, other times as a slap. I have birthed two children in my life, and each time, Morrison’s words from “Beloved” emerged instinctively to haunt and comfort me: “Love is or it ain’t. Thin love ain’t no love at all.”

When I was a graduate student at Princeton University in the early 2000s, one of my most potent memories is of sitting in on Cornel West and Eddie Glaude’s class on the black intellectual tradition; on this day, our guests were Morrison, the actress Phylicia Rashad and Jay-Z (Shawn Carter). Turning to Carter, West asked the rapper to comment on his musical catalogue, his lyrics and race in America. Jay-Z vigorously shook his head, laughed and responded: “Why should I talk when Toni Morrison is here? She’s the one who taught me. I need to learn from her.” The room broke out in laughter born from a shared understanding that Morrison was our translator, our teacher, our literary great, our canon.

Long before I became a professional historian, Morrison put me through a masterclass in doing history imaginatively, reassuring me that the careful excavation of stories that unapologetically center black life and community was, and still is, a revolutionary act, especially for a black woman in America. “I write what I have recently begun to call village literature,” she once noted. “Fiction that is really for the village, for the tribe. … I think long and carefully about what my novels ought to do. They should clarify the roles that have become obscured; they ought to identify those things in the past that are useful and those things that are not; and they ought to give nourishment.” Morrison told us to explore that which is foreign, and to wrestle with both the beautiful and the horrifying parts of blackness, and to do it with clarity, love and empathy. She constantly reminded us that writing us “whole,” in all our intricacies and silences, was a necessary part of freedom. She leaves a legacy of limitless possibility, for our community, our liberation and for us: “The vitality of language lies in its ability to limn the actual, imagined and possible lives of its speakers, readers, writers.”

Leah Wright Rigueur teaches 20th-century American history and politics at Harvard University.

Diana Ejaita is an illustrator and textile designer based in Berlin.

[calzona-ga]

When Grey's Anatomy goes there, it really goes there. Thursday's episode took a break from the soapy dramatics and instead focused on telling an intimate story about what it really means to deal with cancer.

In "The Winner Takes It All," Koracick (Greg Germann) and Amelia (Caterina Scorsone) faced a daunting surgery to remove a tumor lodged on Catherine's (Debbie Allen) spine in the hopes of saving both her life and her surgeon's hands. They were successful in preserving her life and career but were unable to fully cure her. With 95 percent of the tumor removed, Catherine will now live with the disease for the rest of her life. It was a moving story with a hopeful ending as Catherine looked forward to all of the things she'll still be able to do, including spending time with her family.

Elsewhere, the harrowing hour offered a different perspective through Thatcher Grey (Jeff Perry), who chose to stop treatments and die on his own terms. In an emotional final visit, Meredith (Ellen Pompeo) and her father hashed out their issues and found closure before he ultimately passed away.

The standalone episode was deeply personal for Grey's writer Elisabeth Finch. She based Catherine's story arc on her own experiences with cancer. In an interview with TV Guide, she opened up about what it meant to tell that very raw story, what Catherine's future might look like and the things she'd like to see changed with regard to how we handle the disease.

This was a deeply personal story for you, so what was it like putting yourself out there like that? Elisabeth Finch: This is my fifth season working on Grey's. Everyone, including the writers and the actors, has seen the various stages of me being sick, so it wasn't about me exposing myself to the people around me. What was challenging to me was figuring out how I could communicate the things that mattered most to me about my cancer experience, which is atypical, out into the world. And figure out how to give Catherine a character arc that was engaging and unique.

Which was the most difficult scene for you to write? Finch: Honestly, I go somewhere in my head where I'm not thinking about it. But when we started filming, it started to filter into my brain how much of my story I put down on paper, how much of my story was being told through Catherine. Watching Catherine wake up and everyone else in the room is heartbroken and she finds out that they got 95 percent of the tumor and her hands still function and she can still be a surgeon, she starts to list all the things that she's still going to get to do with her life because they saved her life. They didn't cure her but they saved her. I started to hear those words over and over and over again. And that was when I think it finally hit me what story I had told. And also, just starting to see myself being reflected back at me. It's something I had never seen before. Never on television or in a movie where someone else's cancer looks like mine, or their disability looks like mine. That's something I think everybody should have the opportunity to see, to see a version of themselves reflected back.

In the end, Catherine will have to live with cancer but she looks forward to all of the things she's going to accomplish instead of dwelling on the what-ifs. What went into the decision to give that hopeful ending? Finch: It's the most honest ending, with regards to my own story. I'm a person who lives with cancer. I'm not dying of it. I am not cured of it. I have it and it's a part of my life and it's not my entire life. That was what I was interested in telling in the first place. That's what [Grey'sshowrunner] Krista Vernoff asked me to consider relating. We've seen patients that live in the cured space or that live in the dead space. We don't see cancer patients who live in a space where they have it and they have their full lives too. So it wasn't just about we'd like to stick a hopeful ending on the end of this episode. It was more about telling a version of cancer that doesn't get told anywhere.

This episode could have been very dark but it wasn't. There were moments of laughter, like when Jackson danced with Catherine. How important was it for you to include humor during this hour? Finch: It's so true to mix in those heartbreaking moments with those moments of crazy laughter and crazy joy because that was my experience and continues to be my experience. There are days where things are not good and I feel miserable and I'm doing miserably. And then there are days where thing are absurd and I'm absurd. And there are days where it's half and half and then any moment, I think those moments of grief and joy come in intermittently and that's true to life. I had in my head for a long time that I wanted to see Catherine singing a song to herself while she was going through the scanner because that's how I measure time in my head when I'm going through MRI machines. I just sing the same songs over and over again and I know an MRI machine is three versions of this song. And so, having those little moments that are odd but true felt really tightly put together. And how could you ever resist having Debbie Allen dance it out on the OR floor? Like who wouldn't want that dream?!

Oh, that was fantastic! Finch: It was my all-time favorite thing I've gotten to do on Grey's.

This episode also touched on the language we use with regard to cancer, those militant terms like "battle" and "fight." How did that language play into the way you dealt with cancer and what do you hope to change about it? Finch: I really hope the thing people take away from this episode is that militarized language around cancer is often hurtful and destructive to the people dealing with it firsthand. I am not the mayor of Cancer Town so I cannot speak for everyone. If someone wants to adopt those words and that's what makes them feel better, that's up to them. But all the conversations that I've had with people that I know that are living with cancer or have cancer, they don't connect to it. And it assigns value to life and death.

I don't understand what winning and losing really means when you're talking about cancer. Because I have seen people who have read every medical text they possibly can, gone to every doctor they possibly can and have lived. I've see people do the same thing and die. I've seen people do nothing and be fine. I think it puts hurtful expectations on patients to somehow gear up or appear stronger than they are. And nothing drives me crazier than to read an obituary of someone who's passed away from cancer and say that they lost their fight. I don't know what that means because there ain't much in their control. They took their medicine or they didn't take their medicine and they died. And I take my medicine and I'm alive. It has nothing to do with my winning spirit or their losing spirit. It has nothing to do with what's good or bad or if I fight harder than those other people. It's luck. It's genetics. It's my doctor. It's my privilege. It's not in my control and so assigning those words as if it is in your control, I think, is harmful to people who are in that position.

Meredith touched on that in her voiceover. Did you at some point consider her to be a conduit for your own voice? Finch: Yeah, I think her voiceover is my thesis statement for the episode. You see it in Thatcher who talks about how he got treatment and it didn't work and he died. You see Catherine who took her medicine, got her surgery and she lived. Neither of them is a winner or a loser, and Meredith gets to give words to that. Hopefully, that will register with people and they'll get to absorb a different point of view because of it.

How will we see Catherine deal with living with this disease and how will that affect the others around her? Finch: What I'm interested in is watching someone living with cancer being normalized. Because I walk around in the world and other people that I know living with cancer walk around in the world and have good jobs and big families and a lot of love and a lot of things to do. And every once in a while, they have to go in and take care of themselves by going to a scan or seeing a doctor. Sometimes they have a bad couple of months and then a good couple of months and it becomes normal. It's not always in crisis mode. I don't live in crisis mode. I live from scan to scan. I appreciate all the time I have in between those scans. But my reality is, honestly, not that much different from anyone else because no day is promised. There's no guarantee that anyone is going to live 'til tomorrow. So I'm interested in watching Catherine live her life and go back to surgery and be with her family and talk about all the other things that are going on in her life and have all the other emotions about what's going on in her life that don't revolve around cancer. Because that's the reality for most people.

[unhinged-diaries-blog]

I hope I make you proud

You would think I would learn about procrastination... if I haven’t learned by now, I really don’t think I’m ever going to learn. I just submitted a nine page assignment for my midterm and I hope I do well. I think I’m at the point where I’m supposed to getting my degree that I literally don’t care about anything anymore. It wasn’t as bad as when I got my associates a few years ago but I wish I could care when it comes to my bachelors.

Later tonight I will go over some reading but I think save that for the morning. This English class is such a fucking downer. I hate one professor and I barely tolerate the other. I wish American literature was more exciting and I hope British literature actually awaken me. It doesn’t take much to obtain your bachelors in English it’s just a lot of critical thinking, paper writing, grammar and the will to read thousands of pages.

I’m trying to think of new in exciting things that are in my life right now and honestly it’s just that I’m dealing with midterms that is preoccupying me. I need to make an appointment with one professor on a midterm I’m having in 10 days a week from Thursday essentially. It’s not in so much as I can’t do it it’s I never in my seven years of my education not had a study guide. I think once I go through the notes of the last four weeks I should be fine.

My therapist is booked up until April fools yeah the jokes on me, lol? She’s really surprised by my weight loss and the fact that in the last year I have turned a major corner and concerning my mental health. I have finally with her help come to the realization that I can walk away from the toxic family anytime I want to.

I expressed to her that I have not spoken to my immediate family in several weeks. She’s really happy that I have these boundaries because when it concerns the toxicity in my immediate family. I don’t ever want to be in it. I don’t want to feel like I’m walking on eggshells when concerning the state of affairs with the mother or my oldest brother and the fact that I was told he is essentially stealing her money and my mom doesn’t have the balls to stand up to him because she is living with him.

Mind you, she is not in a bed she has not been in a bed for several years she lives on motherfucking couch and the fact that he is taking advantage of her and can’t get his shit straight and especially cannot get a budget going as well as living in a luxury apartment which burns me but not in so much as the fact that I have to remove myself from it all

I’m going to let my second oldest brother deal with it because I don’t need these stressors... and of why can’t my older brother pay his bills? Why can’t my older brother not have anymore children when he knows he has an alcoholic wife who has blacked out and makes excuses and essentially does not watch her daughter?

I’m at the point of my growing and learning that even though I do have the freedom and the choice to walk away anytime I want. I have the freedom to make boundaries whether it be distance or cutting through people out of my life. I now wonder if my sister-in-law‘s continue to make bonehead choices when it comes to their own children what is going to happen when I completely walk away?

It took the fact of my dad dying and my brother dying and therapy to come to the point in my life that even though they are family and even though I can love them at a distance it doesn’t necessarily mean I need them in my life. I may be different than them and their life choices in their thinking and lifestyles but I think at the end of the day they know how to reach out to me

Fact of the matter is, it took me graduating from community college for them to come out and visit me. It took me having weight-loss surgery for my mom to come see me. But with that, she had asked me several times to visit me and even though she doesn’t drive and even though she has glaucoma and is blind I do not trust her to take a plane and having to rearrange my schedule to pick her up.

She doesn’t see it as how it affects me she just sees it as a vacation to get away from whatever hell she is currently in. Eventually came up and I told her how I felt and she made these promises that she’s not drinking but in reality alcoholism never dies. A Person can say they stop drinking but they don’t. They eventually slip back into their old ways.

She had asked many times before and my reasoning was she drinks and I do not feel like being a fucking babysitter and wondering if she’s drinking or if she’s OK going to the convenient store to buy cigarettes or if and when she goes to the convenient store while staying at my house is she also purchasing alcohol? I don’t know if it’s the reality of the situation or if it’s my anxiety going full force but the fact that I have to think of each scenario for what it’s worth.

I have to think that you know we could have a good time but the reality is show find a way to drink and in less she is willing to change my ideas of what I think a relationship is is a farce. It’s not fair that at 32 I still yearn for my mother‘s love. I yearn for her to stop drinking and to put me first. I yearn for her to stop smoking weed and to give me a phone call and the fact i’m saying this out loud is showing how dysfunctional my relationship is with my mother.

I have really tried minutes come to her. Sure I can try harder but at the end of the day she’s not going to change who she is. Sure, she is my mother and sure I love her but at the end of the day she is still an alcoholic with zero accountability for her actions and as selfish as it is I don’t want to deal with it anymore. I still I’m thinking of her at the second.

I think I’d love to hear her voice and I think I want to spend time with her but then once I do the reality hits me in my face and it’s you basically have to be her chauffeur and hold her hand. I hate how I have this idealic vision of what I want our relationship to be but then I look at the reality of it, and the reality is it’s so messy. The reality is how the fuck did I get here? I just truly wish things were different. I wish my dad was alive and he didn’t make the selfish choices but caused his death. I wish so many other things I just hope in my future I can go forward and I won’t look at the past and cry

I live in a sober house. I promised myself at the age of 15 that when I grew up and had house of my own and became married there wouldn’t be any alcohol. I think God up above for helping me choose a man who doesn’t drink and who is it addicted to Wheather it be alcohol or drugs or what have you

Today, in 2018 I still feel like I am a 15-year-old little girl in the eyes of my brothers. Maybe it was the way I was raised and maybe it’s because they’re men? but I still feel like I have no knowledge of anything when it comes to living.

It’s such a mindfuck when you realize you’re when your parents is dad and whatever he has left for you to clean up you have to pick up the pieces but in therapy I realize I can walk away. I don’t know if it’s the Catholic guilt or if it’s the guilt of my father dying and his selfish ways or if it’s the fact that he enabled my mother and she has no accountability of anything...

It’s just so strange to look back in the last six years and realize if it wasn’t for him dying and my brother shortly dying after my dad passed away I don’t think I would’ve grown up as fast as them living. I still miss my dad every single day and when I write that out my voice shakes when I said out loud my voice shakes because even though I know he’s dead and he’s not coming back and even though I still feel like I would give my life for him to come back I now realize in my stages of grief that I need to push forward and live a life that he would be proud of.

Seven years ago, I promised him I would make him proud. I started school from the very bottom of remedial classes and critical thinking classes and now I have so few little steps of getting my bachelors degree and a minor degree. Regret is such a bitch. I don’t wish it on anybody. Sure, I wish I can go back and fix things but I can’t look at the past and have this grief stricken regret in my heart. I’ve learned from my mistakes when it comes to my dad and spending time with him and I wouldn’t say I had to learn the hard way but I would say that nothing in our lives comes easy and with out hard work there really is no point in achieving anything.

I just hope I’m living a life my dad is proud of. I hope I’m living a life that my grandmother and grandfather are proud of. And I especially hope I’m living a life that makes my dog proud of me.

[agallimaufryofoddments]

.

On top of the paper

I opened the iBooks/Books app on my iPad earlier

Hundreds of downloaded fics/books/PDFs -- GONE

iCloud syncing is on, pdfs apparently don’t backup to icloud but epubs might

reset

200+ more GONE

The last time I manually backed up my iPad was in November and I am seriously considering restoring it; pdfs/books downloaded since then would be lost but still better than fucking 500+ GONE

would iCloud backup have missing epubs? 12.9 GB so only the most important stuff is ‘backed up’ I suppose but... but. but also the latest icloud backup was 10AM this morning. what if the epubs/pdfs were already gone at that point

Please don’t tell me several years’ worth are gone. I realize this isn’t a tragedy, this is,you know, not the worst thing to befall someone. this is not what I should be despairing over when I am several days late on a paper I already got an extension for from a professor I liked and maybe would’ve asked a recommendation from before fucking the fuck up

I honestly don’t know who I’d be able to ask for a recommendation at this point from this past year

600+ plus documents. GONE

I thought I’d done a more recent manual backup. I really thought I did. 

and trying to fix it via icloud may have made it worse

I can track many of the fics down, I remember a lot of the ones that were downloaded

but the others? fuck. the sheet music PDFs? fuck, maybe I have some of those on my computer, but fuck. Personal pdfs, obscure old books, what about the fics that may have been deleted by the author since I downloaded them? So many titles I don’t remember. 

And meanwhile I scrapped my entire essay and started over because my first essay was that incoherent. great. all this time generously given and I’m going to be turning in a rush job. on a paper that is, what, 75% of the grade? maybe I should just say in advance when i do that I get it if I have to do a retake. 

at least I got a head start on the Vol 13 release notes last month. because I have my priorities straight. haha. hah. at least I published a fic that I’m lowkey nervous is highkey boring-- no. you know what, no, I am glad I published that. 26k words. Gift fic. maybe a handful of people will read it and hey, at least I gave a handful of people free reading material during quarantine

and if I deliver on my Vol 13 release responsibilities tomorrow, then hey. that’ll be at least one thing I’ve done on time in a solid month. (excluding group assignment, which doesn’t count because group assignment) That’d be nice. delivering on time. not disappointing people. having my downloaded epubs and pdfs back

I don’t even know how I’m going to face him in the email. he was so generous with the week and I’ve humiliated myself so badly. he said please let him know what idea I had in mind and I didn’t, again, because I still couldn’t shake the anxiety and wasn’t sure if I could salvage the essay’s incoherence (I did tell him in my first email that I needed more time to make it more coherent, but I underestimated my own ineptitude, again). I couldn’t. panicked w/o panicking, if that makes sense. it sure makes more sense than the first essay

I’ll tell him I accept there may be penalties-- at this point I just have. to send. him something. anything, anything is better than nothing. 

It is already 2:40 AM his time. in a few hours it will be morning, and in a few hours more Vol 13 may release digitally,a and if I spend those few hours a) freaking out over iCloud/iBooks  / B) just, doing anything that isn’t paper related...

...fuck. right. fuck okay, you’ve vented, you’ve self-flagellated and just generally embarrassed yourself by writing this, but you’ve had your pity party and you can freak out about apple books/icloud later. go through the five stages of petty problem grief, accept that you’ll just likely have to go on a hunt-and-redownload spree later (pretty sure you’ve done that before; this time maybe download and transfer them from your computer instead of downloading directly on a tablet. you might have some of them on your computer already)

in fact, before the essay: shower. and eat dinner maybe, because even though ‘eating food’ isn’t ‘writing’ you really shouldn’t waste food. and it’ll be fuel for the next several hours. showering != writing but does = hygiene and maybe will wake you up a little. don’t think about the fics, about the professor or the email you’ll have to write, stop trying to hyperfixate on Volume 13 when you’ve already got _some_ material prepped.  

look at that. you wrote, what, 800 words just on this alone? in half an hour, less? now do it again, but on something worthwhile. you and the paper have been holding each other hostage for how many weeks? you do want to free it and be free of it, don’t you? 

don’t take five hours to eat the dinner either. ADD meds have started wearing off so there’s some appetite; you can’t let the dinner be another retardant the way you always do. 

three hours. get as much as you can done in three hours. go.

[theradioghost]

hey so you mentioned juno and peter's wedding.... do you have any other headcanons about that bc i'd love to hear

honestly, the ending of this is pretty close to my ~main~ headcanon! but I have a few other scenarios I like to think of, bc I am a sucker for marriage tropes (see: the aforementioned fic). the second one here is the one I envision for the time travel AU.

They play an engaged couple, investigating suspicious disappearances at a mountain resort near Mars’ north pole, after an old friend asks Juno to find her brother. The mountains are obviously a lovely place for a wedding, and it just so happens that one of their fellow guests is an obliging official. It’s short and sweet and for the sake of the cover, of course, just a spontaneous elopement to surprise their friends and family when their vacation ends, and they exchange vows using the names of people who don’t exist.

But Juno wonders sometimes whether the Lessoniana Growth didn’t leave some trace in him after all; and this is one of those times, because when they leave those names behind, without saying a word to one another, both of them keep wearing the rings.

“Juno Steel, I could marry you right now,” Peter laughs, covered in blood and grime and bruises, as they slump against the wall in exhaustion, and in that moment Juno is so in love with him, so full of exhilaration and triumph – he had been pretty damn slick back there – that he says, “I think I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Peter blinks at him in surprise for a second, long enough that Juno goes through all five stages of grief for his undoubtedly dead relationship and is halfway through plans to fake his own death and never surface again, before Nureyev says, “Really, my love, I couldn’t be happier, but – would you forgive me if I stretched the now a little bit? Just give me five hours.”

Rita insists on doing it “properly” and so it takes a bit more than five hours until they’re on an abandoned rooftop in Oldtown where the shields are so weak that no one’s bothered with the bugs and cameras that pepper the city. It’s not many people, either – Mick and Rita cry, and Alessandra cracks jokes, and Sasha – as she does every time she meets Peter – threatens him, shakes his hand, tries to recruit him to Dark Matters “for real this time,” and then watches the two of them all evening with guarded approval in her eyes that Juno can only read because of thirty-odd years’ experience. Cassie Kanagawa, smuggled back onto Mars just for the occasion (after Peter broke her out of Hoosegow two years ago – she might have been famous, but no one could erase an identity like him) insists on officiating with all of the presence and flair that made her the darling of the streams in another life.

Peter has no one to invite, but that doesn’t matter because the old vows always had some kind of sentiment like what’s mine is yours, didn’t they? And Juno is giving everything he has to give to this man, and if you were being honest, all that he has to give is what other people have inexplicably seen fit to give him. He likes seeing Peter laugh with his friends, people who know who he is, likes knowing that’s something Peter can have now.

Juno has never had any illusions about marriage. And even if he had, well, half of any PI’s cases come with pending divorces, and he’s seen enough ‘forevers’ fall apart in his fifteen years on the job. But somehow, when he makes vows to Peter Nureyev, promises and forevers feel like they really mean something.

There are a lot of inhabited planets in the JS universe. Like, enough that Engstrom, a guy who trades in information, hadn’t heard of Brahma (so I’d guess low hundreds, minimum). And the governments seem pretty localized - there’s no “human government” or “Space Alliance/Federation” type thing. Consequently, there’s no way there isn’t some kind of Lawless Space Vegas out there with an entire sub-economy based around marriages for people who don’t want their marriage on record anywhere else. The kind of place whose government doesn’t even keep its own records – the kind of place where a name that has been quietly hunted and searched for through the galaxy for twenty years is as safe as any other to put to paper, should its owner wish.

Juno hadn’t honestly expected ever to leave Mars, but for all his reluctance, it’s worth making that damn trip one time just for the look on Peter Nureyev’s face as he writes his name – his own name – on the license next to Juno’s. There’s no ceremony, no rings, no change of names; the certificate hides in Juno’s office, inside the false compartment of a safe only Peter himself has ever succesfully cracked. But they know. They’ve never needed anything else.

[reddhoodie]

Sides (chapter one: In Writing)

    On the 26th of April, Blue Estherhovel received what was most likely the biggest shock of her entire life so far.

    The shock wasn't receiving the news of her Great-Great-Aunt Edna's passing. As callous as it might seem to say, Blue had been expecting it. The woman was ancient, bent and shriveled like a flower far past its prime. To say she was simply elderly would be to say that Disney World was merely known. Blue was certain the creaking relic of a woman had been around at the same time as the dinosaurs, Pocahontas, and Jesus.

    The shock was also not that Edna had left Blue some money in her will. The woman had lots of grandchildren and nephews and neices and she insisted on keeping in touch with them all. She'd been a presence in Blue's life since she was born, whether by actually visiting or by sending gifts and cards. The latter becoming much more common as the woman grew from simply ancient to archaic.

    The shock came when Blue dragged herself to the law office to hear the details of Dear Aunt Edna's will along with a hoard of cousins and distant, mostly unknown relatives in various stages of grief or dispassion.

    The legion of family belonging to dearly departed Edna Angus Rustufhaven was herded into a too-small, too-stuffy room in an office that looked like it had come straight out of the 1500's, and not in a good way. Heavy red drapes had been pulled closed to cover the windows, and to make the room even more suffocating. A massive, dark wood desk that looked like it belonged in the oval office dominated the room.

    Blue was squashed in the back of the room against the wall, behind cousins Elrod and Tempest. Elrod was sobbing into a handkerchief, while Tempest frowned down her long nose at him.

    “For heaven's sake, Elrod, we hardly knew the woman!”

    “A-and now we never w-w-willllllll!” The man choked, mopping at his eyes.

    Tempest sighed and shook her head, making a show of not looking at her brother.

    Blue tugged at the hem of her dress, swallowing and glancing around the room. She wished she'd had time to get something nicer to wear, but this was all terribly last minute. Honestly, she didn't know what someone was supposed to wear to a will reading in the year of our lord two-thousand-seventeen, but she was pretty sure it wasn't a too-short sundress from when she was thirteen.

    Fortunately it wasn't as if the rest of the family cared. Most of them seemed to have grabbed the first thing they found when they rolled out of bed in the morning. A few of them were in actual pajamas, hair unbrushed, and yawning.

    While the people in the room fussed and bumped against each other, she leaned farther  against the wall and combed her fingers through her short, wavy brownish-blondish hair. It was back to its natural color, but two years ago she'd dyed it bright pink, in contrast to her name. Aunt Edna had encouraged her to do it. 'Shake things up, dear, only wedding planners and lawyers do what the world expects of them'.

    It was at that moment that it really occurred to Blue that she actually sort of missed Edna, and she got a little sad.

    Before she could get too terribly sad, however, a small man, bent over and shriveled almost like Edna had been, hobbled out of a side room carrying a large file. He dropped the file on the desk with a loud slap that cut through and silenced the relatives' chatter. In the silence that followed, the withered old man shuffled to the chair behind the desk.

    The chair was just as large and grand as the desk itself, and, also like the desk, dwarfed the old man. When he sat the chair sank several inches, shrieking like some sort of entrapped demon until it finally eased to a stop.

    The family members exchanged unsure glances while the man patted his suit jacket, then produced a pair of very round wire-rimmed glasses, slid them on, and tugged the massive file closer. Opening it like a book, he sat silently reading one of the pages for several moments that were long enough for Blue to wonder if he'd forgotten the family was even there. Although, with half of the family practically leaning over the desk due to the crowding of the room, forgetting them seemed impossible.

    The man finally lowered the file and cleared his throat in the sudden and loud manner common to very old men, making most of the family jump.

    “Good morning, everyone,” he said in a shaky, monotone voice that was surprisingly clear and loud, “I trust all of you can hear me all right?”

    There was a general murmur of assent, and the man nodded.

    “Excellent.” He cleared his throat again, and again the family was startled. “My name is Reginald Tybalten, and Mrs. Rustufhaven has appointed me the executor of her will. My condolences to all of you in this tragic time.”

    Another general murmur.

    “Mrs. Rustufhaven wished me to read this will to all of you here at once, to eliminate any chance of confusion or argument in her decisions regarding her assets.”

    Someone to Blue's left chuckled at the word 'assets'.

    Mr. Tybalten paused, patting his jacket again until he seemed to find what he was looking for, plunged his hand into the jacket, and pulled out a pen. Scooting his chair a bit closer to the desk, each scoot accompanied by a miniature demon-shriek, he finally settled and looked up at the family. “If there are no questions, we'll get started.”

    There were no questions, and they did get started.

    As unbelievably shocking as it may seem, listening to the reading of the will of your great-great-aunt is not terribly exciting. Blue leaned against the wall, eyelids drooping, while Mr. Tybalten's monotone voice listed Edna's wishes, assigned owners to what sounded like random items in her home.

    Blue's mind drifted over her memories of Edna. It was all little things that she could remember, little games and jokes and silly things. She remembered the old woman sneaking her treats before dinner, and the little gifts she would bring on her rare visits. She remembered the loopy handwriting in the cards that would appear now and again, often with a gift card or some cash. There was that mosaic dolphin figure that she'd sent when those had been Blue's favorite animal in kindergarten, and the tiny carved pendant of a lion that had arrived when she'd decided in ninth grade that those were her favorite instead.

    Edna had always seemed to know all of her favorites, even the favorites she herself forgot about. And despite all of those little things she remembered, she couldn't remember visiting Edna's house, or any of the woman's favorite things.

    Was it some kind of tradition to think about all the things you should have done, after someone died? To muse over all of the negatives? Because if it was, Blue supposed she was holding that up pretty well.

    The room began to slowly empty. Family members left when they learned that they had been left a tea set, an oriental rug, some silverware. While this was going on, Blue imagined her great-great-aunt in various homes, with various lifestyles. Her favorite was Aunt Edna on the beach, with a teeny little hut decorated with sea glass, and a simple handmade boat that she sailed in all over the world. That sounded like something Edna would have liked to do.

    Eventually she was startled out of her daydreaming by the family that remained in the room all moving at once in anticipation. She tuned back in just as Mr. Tybalten was adjusting his glasses and saying something about the last item on the list.

    It was a relief. Even if she didn't get anything from her aunt at all, she would be able to get out of this depressing, stuffy little room and back home to work on her own projects and not deal with this massive family ever again.

    “Mrs. Rustufhaven bequeaths her home, her remaining earthly possessions including her fortune, all of her land and facilities contained therein, to...” He paused and adjusted his glasses again, squinting at the paper. The family leaned in towards his desk. “Miss Blue Estherhovel.”

    And that, my friends, was without a doubt the biggest shock of Blue's life up until that very moment. And what does one say when one recieves such a shock? Something profound? Something lyrical or poetic?

    “Oh.” said Blue.

    And that was certainly good enough.

*****

Wow what is this? Original fiction? It’s only been 8000 years.

Thanks for reading! I had an absolute blast writing this, so I would love to hear what you guys think.

(I am going to give this a proper title eventually but for now we’ll have to make do with a placeholder name. Merp.)

-reblogs are life you guys please and thank. :D -