#i am still very rusty and i still cannot for the life of me end things and i wasn't planning on writing today but yet here we are | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

orikiys · 10 months

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✿ ✿ 〞 voicemails before spring ends

✰ pairings: felix x fem!reader

✰ genre: angst, romance, forbidden love, modern royalty au

✰ warnings: mentions of alcohol, insecurities, some cursing (only damn and that too once), felix belittles himself very much

✰ word count: 1.5k + words (got too carried away with this)

one 𖨂

today is another day of me thinking i wish we weren’t impossible. a rather blunt way to start it is, i know. but i cannot help myself as i watch you from across the room, in the arms of a rather worthy man. and i cannot help but think what it is to have what he does. fame, money, personality and. . . looks. i cover up my freckles and drew new ones because they look rather unorganised. i have to set my hair every ten minutes, in hopes i don’t look like i’m at my worst. or maybe, to have your attention on me. how utterly pleasing must it be. the gentlemen– he is everything i’m not. he is everything i try to be. he is everything i ever wanted to be. and now, he’s also stealing the most precious thing i ever had. you. and i’m helpless. i can’t do anything but watch. as i’m only your royal advisor.

two 𖨂

you tell me you love me at midnight. you cup my cheeks and kiss me deeply at midnight. you again tell me that you love me and snuggle against me at midnight. and i love it. every bit of it. but i must ask, why midnight? why not in the daylight? or is it too embarrassing for you to be seen caught in such acts? once again i ask, what’s wrong with us? why are we impossible? that’s the only reason i won’t admit that i love you. because if i do, i’m afraid that it’ll come true. and it’s barbaric. because i can’t love you. you don’t need my love when you have thousands of suitors up in line with proposals. and it’s rather upsetting to say i don’t even stand a chance among these royals. i’m. . . the watcher. just watching you all the time. tell me, is it love if i think of you all the time? and even though i shouldn’t be, i can’t help it. not when you look utterly beautiful when you wake up. your unruly hair, bare face and your smile– the one that has kept me under your spell. and though, i should be sending you the proposal requests from all across the city, i keep them with me. in my chambers, locked up in some rusty box so you don’t get taken away from me. and it is selfish of me indeed. but if it means, i can avoid watching you fall for another man for some weeks, i suppose it’s a rather good idea. good for my heart too.

three 𖨂

why do you make it so hard for me to leave quietly? why did you have to take my leaving notice and tear it? why? i demand answers. why don’t you understand how hard it is for me? let go of me please. along with the thoughts that we would ever have a happily ever after. i have gotten rid of it as well. it’s impossible, sweetheart. and i’m sorry– for not trying harder and going away this easily. but i’ve seen your heart, and i know it longs for me just like mine does. and that’s all i ever need to know. that’s all. but if you still continue to stop me i’ll have to remind you of the harsh reality. yes, reality. what you’re thinking is just a dream. you and me, we’re on two different levels. so, please don’t make it harder for me than it already is. and i wish it didn’t have to be this soon or under such unforeseen circumstances, but i’ll say it right now. i love you. but i hate love. so much. i’m terribly miserable without you. and i want to spend every second of my life with you. and now, here i am. bitterly laughing at myself while thinking of my dreams. dreams, no wonder they sound so unrealistic. it took me a lot of courage to say all this, many bottles of fine wine and a broken heart. you’re the person i cannot love. and even though a mere thought of you has me smiling foolishly to myself, allowing myself to lower my walls and let you in and see my vulnerability, i still cannot love you. because i can never have you. never.

four 𖨂

darling stop hurting yourself over me. please. you deserve someone who can make you happy. someone who has money to spend on you and your future children, someone who has time to take you out and roam around the city and someone. . . who is truly as valuable as you are. as high as you are. an equal. that’s who you need. don’t cry for me. what we had was beautiful. yet tragic. and it’s something i won’t even forget or move on from. it hurts me knowing i can’t comfort you any longer, as i’m too far away now. so far that you can’t even reach it if you wanted to. stop searching for me. stop trying to come to me. stop, just stop. i’m sorry that i loved you. but i don’t regret it in a bad way. i regret that i couldn’t buy you expensive gifts that you received from other suitors, or even cherish you properly. but the intimacy we had was sincere. and i can still sense it. i did receive your calls and texts, but it’s inappropriate of us to be talking that way when your engagement has been announced, my love. whatever we had, should end right here before anyone else finds out. and if they do, i don’t know how i’ll control myself. you need to understand the urgency! they can hurt you, kill you and even use you if they ever find out! and i don’t want anyone looking at you, touching you in a way that can cause you harm. please, for my sake, stop. i’ll meet you one last time, just like you wanted and after that don’t call out for me anymore. i love you. and that’s why it’s my responsibility to also protect you. though not physically, but i can try to avoid any danger that’s walking towards you. text me, only if there’s an emergency. good night sweetheart, try to sleep okay? read the book from where we last left it if you can’t seem to fall asleep. okay? i miss you too, i hope you know that.

five 𖨂

our last time was a goodbye, and i hated that it felt like one so damn much. you looked so weak, are you sure you’re taking proper care of yourself? it was hard to pull away from that hug. because i knew that if i did, you would have to walk away from me. and even though you should, since it’s unsafe for you to be seen around me, it stung pretty badly. every word you said to me– i have it written down in my diary just so that i don’t forget. and when you said, “felix, i’m sorry to have been born in this life where you couldn’t publicly be mine, neither could i be yours. but i hope you know that our hearts are entangled deep with each other”, i felt that. it struck me so hard that i get tears everytime it replays in my head. you may call me a coward for not fighting, but nothing matters more than your safety and wellbeing. nothing at all. i would like to say something as well, and please remember it. i just want to say that our love it’s true, it’s pure and passionate and keeps growing no matter the time, place or the distance between us. in this life, i couldn’t have you. . . but in next life, i won’t let go of you. i’ll stop you, love you and fight for you. i would do all the things i couldn’t complete in this life. perhaps, in the next life this love story of ours will have a happily ever after and i’ll pray for it.

six 𖨂

remember when i told you that you remind me of springtime? i didn’t lie. the air smells different, the flowers begin to bud, after that dark and cold winter; it brings out smiles. and you, my love after the definition of spring, you’re the rebirth of all my laughs that i lost in my childhood. you gave me a new life, a new will to live. you’re the light to my life, like the fresh innocence of spring. forever until death brings us together, i’m yours and yours only. and i wish you a life full of joy. like the spring you are, let’s give us a rebirth and act like strangers who once were lovers as well. i hope to meet you again when spring starts. just like the beat of my heart, i longingly stare at you, so don’t worry, i’ll always have my eye on you darling. spring ends tomorrow, and we do too. i love you even through the harsh winters and scorching suns.

PERM TAGLIST: @taeriffic 🧣 @hello-2-u-from-me 🧣 @ilychee08 🧣 @sleepyleeji 🧣 @spacegirlstuff

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julesthoughts · 12 days

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Burning Love

A/N: Out of frustration, I decided to write a tiny one-shot about the ending of the side story in Moonvale. I consider it more of a Duskwood one-shot. I hope you enjoy it. My writing sucks since I didn't write for over half a year. <3

Spoiler warning for the end of the side story!

TW: Injuries

Words: 1,080

Do you like Chinese food?

His anonymous mask in the bag of his hoodie and the collar of it drawn over his face, he ran through the smoke. Eyes tearing and blurring his vision, he doubted he would make it out in time, and in between thoughts popped up in his head about giving up and just sitting on the ground and letting the fire do its job. But there was one thing that kept him going. Someone very important. Someone who grew close to him over the past few weeks. Someone who worked with him on the case regardless of what the others thought about him. She trusted him without batting an eyelid. All their chats flew through his mind while his legs carried him to safety.

……..

Yes I love it

He smiled at the thought of sitting across from MC while they shared some sushi. She would grab a piece of her sushi and he one of his and feed each other, looking each other in the eyes. Full of love. He didn't admit it but he couldn't eat with chopsticks but she seemed to be a master in it. So, he was willing to learn from her. Another reason to get out of this hell hole. He wanted to make his promise true.

You kiss me

And the world around us disappears

…..

This is a very nice thought.

I want to make it a reality.

He loved how boldly she told him that she wanted to kiss him. In no universe would he deny her. He wants to be with her so badly. She was the loveliest woman he ever met. Caring, affectionate, and sympathetic. She was a true gem and he needed to protect her at all costs. As long as he is still missing and the government still seeking revenge on him, she'll be in danger. They will threaten her.

A muffled scream escaped his mouth as he ran into a wall of fire. He cursed as the memories of his only love shattered as he knew this was the only escape he knew by heart. There was another one but he couldn't remember the exact way. But there was no other choice, and especially no time, so he turned left and ran towards the other exit.

He tried to concentrate on MC. At the moment, she was the only reason for him to get out of this mine. She gave him a spark of hope. He just wished he'd know what happened that the whole mine was on fire.

I made that decision.

I became someone who preferred loneliness.

And then you came into my life and everything changed.

There more I try fighting against it.

The more I am attracted to you.

….

I feel the same way

….

I am at your mercy, MC.

I cannot simply evade you.

And I do not want to.

“Not anymore,” he mumbled to himself out of breath.

He came to a stop again as another fire blocked his way. At this point, he just wanted to cry and scream. That was his last option to get out of here. He turned in a circle, his eyes jumping from left to right, seeking a solution to get out of the mine. Looking up, down, right, and left he only saw walls that trapped him in that burning hell. Just as he was about to give up….

I love you

….

I love you too, Jake

Closing his eyes and turning in the direction of the exit, he let out a battle cry as he ran straight through the flames. He was crazy for sure. Crazy for her. He felt his clothes becoming too hot, his skin burning and him slowly catching fire. His screams would break her heart and he promised himself to never tell her what he did to be with her. He knew she would only blame herself. Like a beast, he ran through the fire, fighting the flames like invisible ghosts.

It felt like the devil himself would skin him alive.

After endless pain, the fire ended, but it was getting closer to him, still spreading through the mine. He stood in front of an old metal door which was more than rusty. With his clothes on fire and his skin peeling, he threw his whole weight against the door.

One time.

Two times.

Three times.

Four times.

Five times.

Groaning in pain, he fell on the wet floor after the door finally flung open. Like a worm, he rolled himself in the wet meadow to stop the fire on him. As the sound of his blood rushing through his veins silenced, he heard the sound of water flowing next to him.

Like a river…

His tired eyes sparkled with joy as he found the river. He crawled towards it and didn't hesitate and just jumped into the ice cold water. A relieved sigh left his lips as the fire died but soon the next shock came. The sudden cold on his burns. Oh, he wanted to scream so badly but he heard footsteps. Radios and a very familiar voice.

Bloomgate.

Inhaling deeply, he disappeared under the water. Luckily for him, it was night. A shadow hovered over the river as he looked up through the clear water. It was Bloomgate who investigated the other side of the shoreline.

“No one is here! I'm coming back,” Bloomgate growled into the walkie-talkie.

As the shadow disappeared, he slowly arose from the water and hissed as the cold wind hit his wet, burned wounds. He sighed a breath of relief after he saw that he was close to Duskwood. He knew where to go but first, he had to lay a wrong trace.

He took a look into his backpack and laughed that his laptop survived everything. That thing was just unbreakable. For a moment, he kneeled on the wet floor, threw his head back, smiled, and closed his eyes.

He made it.

He survived.

He was out of the mine.

Hannah was safe.

And now he could protect MC at all costs.

And maybe be with her soon.

He took his burned hoodie off and laid it somewhere in the forest, underneath his anonymous mask. He decided to throw his backpack a little further away in the dirt and stuffed his laptop under his arm before running in the opposite direction.

Towards Duskwood.

Safety.

To MC.

“I'll find you, MC,” he whispered into the night.

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autumnslance · 1 year

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Year of the OTP - June 2023 - Confession

(Time to yeet out a scene I've sat on too long. Altered dialogue from late Shadowbringers 5.0, in Amaurot at the last quest. 1035 words. References a few other previous writings.)

“Well, this has put everyone in a solemn mood, hasn't it? Honestly, we're not even sure this will be the end of it. But I suppose we should speak our minds when we have the opportunity. You taught me that much in Amh Araeng.”

Thancred took a breath. The air was still and damp. The letters were a weight in his coat, but there was no time, no opportunity for her to read them; he had squandered every chance. “So forgive me this moment of sentiment, Aeryn. By dragging me into this sorry mess, you've given me the chance to think and act as I should have…”

Say it. Tell her.

“...For Ryne's sake.”

True, but not the only truth to be said, bloody fool.

He swallowed. “Words cannot express how much this has changed my life, or how grateful I am for your support…”

He glanced at Ryne, so lost in her own thoughts she didn’t even look up to frown at nor encourage him. He sighed, reaching out and taking Aeryn’s hands in his. Aeryn looked at him, head tilting in her usual quizzical manner.

Gods, she looked brittle. Her white-streaked black hair looked like straw, her skin splotched with pale discoloration and seeming nearly translucent. Her eyes were perhaps the worst; he had always been fascinated by the changeable nature of her gray eyes, how they so expressed her moods even more than her frequent blushing. Now they were nearly colorless—yet still hers, her intellect and compassion still present.

I don’t have the right to say it. To add that pressure when she’s already close to cracking…

“Thancred?” Her voice was still her own, clear and strong.

He could not let those lessons go to waste. There may not be another chance, much as he prayed there would be. “That’s not all I wished to say,” he said quietly. The thick hush of the ghost city around them almost swallowed the words.

“Mayhap your bardic skills have grown rusty,” she teased gently with a strained smile.

He chuckled. “Indeed; I haven’t had much need to be a charmer—not when I would rather be guarding your back, and standing at your side, for as long as you will allow me.” He reached up to carefully cup her cheek, thumb brushing across her skin, wishing he could wipe that dreadful light away. Her eyes widened, darkening with emotion until they almost looked normal again. He smiled.

“After everything, after all of this, I want—I need you to know, Aeryn, that I am in love with you.”

She sucked in a sharp breath and went very still.

His pulse pounded in his ears, but he’d said it, by the gods.

“I know my timing could be better,” he said acerbically. “And I haven’t forgotten my promise.” The damnable promise she had asked the day before, as they had left the Ondo to journey across the sea floor. “If anything, it makes it more important that you know—that whatever you need, whatever you ask, I can do naught else.” He paused, seeing the mists gathering in her too-bright eyes. “Our circumstances are wretched, so you needn’t worry about saying aught in return, just—”

“But I love you too,” she blurted, then blinked in the way she did when she surprised herself.

Thancred froze, afraid for a moment that he held her too tight, staring at her, the hammering of his heart loud enough to call attention from the shades around them. He was vaguely aware of Ryne now watching.

“I...am in love with you,” Aeryn repeated, with a little sobbing laugh. “I think I have been for awhile, but I didn’t know how to say it. When to,” she shook her head. “Perhaps you weren’t the only one who needed to learn something in Amh Araeng.”

His heart crinkled. Somewhere up the street Alisaie called back to them, though he couldn’t make out the words. He lifted Aeryn’s hand, brushing his lips over the backs of her fingers. “No promises,” he reminded her. “But we should talk later.”

Please let there be a later.

She made another half-sob, half-laugh sound, and nodded. “We should,” she repeated, voice shaking only a little.

“Meanwhile, even if words fail, I shall express my gratitude and love through action,” Thancred said. “No matter where you decide to go, I will be there, guarding your back.”

Or protecting Ryne and the others from you—as you asked. Gods, please don’t let it come to that.

Aeryn let out a long, shaky breath, and smiled. “That means…everything.”

He looked over at Ryne, who gave him a wan smile. “Now, I think Ryne needs a word. I’ll mollify Alisaie and Y’shtola’s tempers until you two catch up.”

Thancred hated stepping away, but he did, their fingers reluctantly slipping apart as he walked down the street while Aeryn turned to Ryne.

He’d said it. By the Twelve he had said it, and wondrously, Aeryn had said it in return. Would that he had been able to say it sooner—between everything with Minfilia and Ryne, his own base cowardice, and now, now Aeryn was—

It didn’t matter, he told himself. What mattered was that they had said it. That they knew. Their timing was shite, but the knowledge could not be lost now. Not between them.

“Everything all right?” Alisaie asked as he caught up to the others.

“Fine,” Thancred replied, a bit hoarse. He caught Urianger’s gaze, his raised eyebrow. Thancred smiled and gave a brief nod; his expression must have given away more than he thought, as Urianger visibly relaxed and grinned back. Y’shtola caught it too, brows drawing down together even as the ends of her mouth twitched upward. Had there been time, he would be receiving an earful, he was certain. “We each had our piece to say to our friend—though from Ryne’s expression, perhaps she needs to hear a few herself.”

The twins were peering at him now, stances their own but the gaze the same. They never realized when they did that. Thancred tried very hard to be nonchalant, to pretend all was normal, that his heart was not skipping and singing and screaming and sobbing all at once.

—

(I keep trying to write the parts around this but in the end...this specific little bit of Thancred's POV is it. Well, there's maybe a bit of Ardbert teasing Aeryn as a bro should, but that part's on Ao3.)

#final fantasy xiv #YOTP 2023 #Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #Wolcred #Shippy Nonsense #Aeryn Striker #Shadowbringers #Love Confession #Light Sickness #Lyn Writing #Lyn Edits

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seth-burroughs · 3 months

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The Rain Code x Warriors au no one asked for nor will receive an explanation for

What's up I'm still doing bad and feel my last year's mystery stress sickness is coming back and none of my drafts are anywhere remotely close to getting finished anytime soon because of that how are you are you interested in cat

(picked the TPB timeline because it makes the most sense and has the most fitting characters, but I might cheat or bend it a little, we'll see)

Yuma Kokohead -> Rusty/Firestar

Main boy :) because of course he is. Yuma's now an orange cat. Firestar was the name of Number One, and Rusty (canonically Fire's old house cat name, I'm not calling them kittypets I'm sorry) was the name of the trainee he very politely borrowed his identity for.

Makoto Kagutsuchi -> Scourge

In wc canon, Scourge is also Firestar's half-brother (but they don't ever knooow) and they both kill each other + he's canonically stated to be VERY short like one of the smallest cats in the series. After the cloning, Makoscourge painted his fur completely black except for a one white paw (for the aesthetics. or maybe I'll just give Fire a white paw as well, kinda like Yuma's and Makoto's lil ahoges), started wearing the "OwO" mask, the dog tooth studded shrimp color collar, the fucking blood dyed amv bangs, the dog tooth reinforced claws........ The former CEO took him to hot topic for the first time in his life and he was fucking MESMERIZED none of them knew what they have brought upon themselves by this single act. He is a very silly man, lost in the whimsy. When his mask gets pulled off in the Mystery Labirynth, his face is just not dyed at all and it's just ginger with green eyes just like Rusty's/Firestar's/Yuma's/whatever.

Shinigami -> Spottedleaf

In canon, Spottedleaf does infamously end up haunting Firestar's dreams as a ghost to send him cryptic visions and furiously make out with him in front of his pregnant wife, he did have a crush on her before she died and I'm pretty sure she was retconned into reciprocating it was real bad and then they double killed her so Fire won't have to choose between her and his wife in heaven it was REAL bad uhh. I still like her though. I can get you out of the narrative girl just take my hand.... She can be the weirdgirl incarnate she was always meant to be. I wanted to say something else but then I realized holy shit I'm just tweaking her into Bonefall rewrite Spottedleaf am I... What can I say it IS peak Spottedleaf.

Yomi Hellsmile -> Tigerstar

Also extremely obvious. He is evil and has immaculate sexual tension between the protag whoops sorry I forgot literally only me and like 2 other people here ship Yuma and Yomi uhh anyway. While it does fit I'm a little dissapointed that Yomi/Tigerstar is gonna be losing so much of his cringe charm..... Like, say goodbye to deeply unserious insecure prettyboy toothpick Yaoi with silly little insults such as "umbrella sewing machine man operating hand hook car table" and how do I even describe all of this in less than 3 paragraphs. Say hello to broad-shouldered muscular extremely intimidating 100% serious and competent fascist built like a fucking brick shithouse with very broad-shoulders that doesn't need a henchman boytoy to handle all his numerous murders, have I mentioned his massive fucking broad shoulders, Firestar sure did do that a lot. It's like, where's the fun..... Whatever.... I guess...........😔😔😔

Martina Electro -> Leopardstar

Now for an assigned role I'm way more cool with >:)))) for an outrageously long while I had trouble with whether Martina should be Sasha or Goldenflower, fool I was, until I remembered Leopardstar fucking exists. She is literally perfect like I cannot state this enough. AND canonically she was later retconned to have feelings for Tigerstar but I hate to acknowledge it how dare you massacre Lep like that. She can still be his gf alongside vice director though, she's just engaging in acts of deceit whilst putting opioids in his food and trying her darndest to convince herself she's actually 100% in control of the situation before she's dragged to the cube dimension and has a brief "are we the baddies" moment. I don't think she still resigns from being a peacekeeper though Leopardstar 100% would take that fucking promotion the moment she's offered it and a year later when she' done feeling guilty regresses back into being a violent asshole she has learned NOTHING❤️

Fake/Hitman Zilch -> Darkstripe

So many dissapointments happening here sigh..... This one was obvious and honestly the only valid option for FZilch aside from maybe Nightwhisper or Blackfoot? Anyway, the downsides: one, Darkstripe will never be as cool as fake Zilch he thrives on being a cringe mistreated lickspittle. Two, he's definitely not one of Tigerstar's "closest advisors (🏳️‍🌈)" whilst Dark is pretty obsessed Tiger does not give a shit and considers him a looooooser boooo lameee fuck you *canonically swats him away with his tail that one scene*. But, I mean, at least the toxic yaoi became an entire new category of toxic.

Swank Catsonell -> Brokenstar

Pure vibes. It just fits. He employs small children and makes them fight to the death in his office for glory

Seth Burroughs -> Longtail

In canon, another one of Tigerstar's lackeys that didn't know about his crimes and when he found out he immediately left. I thought he was not evil enough to be Seth at first, but it kinda fits and he does make up for it in his cringe value and being noted to be a coward, though that may have been just Fire's opinion. Also, with all the bunny Seth Burrows jokes, I'd like to mention Longtail got his eyes clawed by a rabbit so hard he went blind so do with that what you will

Guillaume Hall -> Russetfur

Aaaand this is where I started having trouble with the remaining peacekeepers. Eventually I settled on Russetfur & Blackfoot/Blackstar for Guillaume and Dominic, because I like this danger duo I and some of the fandom completely made up about them. It's okay, the authors don't know you like we do...... While Blackstar did have a higher rank and Russet was his deputy, I do think she still had at least an equal amount of power as him, they're buddies pair bonded for life Blackstar is nodding respectfully to whatever incomprehensible wisdom she's sharing

Dominic Fulltank -> Blackfoot/star

In canon, started out as a murderous henchman of two major equally murderous evil dictators, before they both died and he finally got that boss promotion he always wanted, then he got ruined by the, you guessed it, retcons, but I don't like to be reminded of his atrocity of a novella. I always imagined Blackstar as like, unbelievably jacked holy shit the muscles on that cat, (and honestly most of the fandom does too so. lmao) and he does indeed canonically unflinchingly do the dirty work of all his bosses such as killing and maiming and destroying an

You get the point. He serious'd. Darkstripe wishes he could be him. And I'm pretty sure that was even canonically implied in the sixth book lmaooooooooo. Loser <3

Dr. Huesca -> um. Goosefeather?

The looks definitely fit, Dr. Huesca indeed bears striking resemblance to that tortured feline. However, while sometimes an asshole, Goose is definitely not evil... But he could be. He deserves to be. As a treat. Also: old man pride

Kurumi Wendy -> Cinderpaw/pelt

Easy, get Cinder'd idiot. They even have a pretty similiar energy too, I feel. This is where I got a bit tired, uhh...It's 11pm. Anyway I love Cinder and I love Kurumi say anything bad about them and I'll start scream crying on the floor

Halara Nightmare -> Yellowfang

Halara gets the old beam. They're now in their fucking 60s or something perhaps 70s. Yellowfang, on the other hand, gets the non-binary spec beam. She already gave off massive butch vibes in canon already, whatever. I don't think I can uhh in short terms explain Yellowfang's whole deal rn but the gist of it she's a very snarky grandma figure to Fire that gradually warmed up to him while she was- my cat vomited. While he was assigned to take care of her while she was taken prisoner into ThunderClan camp. Her personality's pretty funky. And she does seem cool enough in order to deserve to be Halara Nightmare.

Desuhiko Thunderbolt -> Graystripe

I think I'm taking a break and coming back to this tomorrow actually after all. Hello this is tomorrow Jasper. In canon, Graystripe is Fire's silly goofy boybestie when they're young, then he starts secretly dating Silverstream - hold on i can't fuvking take tjis im making myself hot cocoa again bye. Ok it's done let's see if that makes me feel something. As I was saying he's dating this cat and she's from a rival Clan so that's illegal forbidden love and then she dies during childbirth and he leaves his own Clan for a while to raise their babies there but then he gets exiled and goes back to his own and then his kids almost get publically executed for being half-clan so he and his buddies rescue them. And then he gets abducted by humans and meets this new gal called Millie and they start dating and then she gives birth to his new babies and then a tree falls on one of them. I'm pretty sure Fire was also pretty gay for that guy. Uh, anyway. I think he fits the bill because of his goofy charm but also it's pretty disturbing to imagine any iteration of Desuhiko actually getting bitches

Fubuki Clockford -> um. uh. Silverstream?

Silverstream, in canon, is the only daughter of Crookedstar, the leader of RiverClan, and is (implied to not having a problem with) getting various privileges because of this. Fits with Fubuki's rich timelord parents, plus light blue aesthetic, and a few other things which are hard to articulate. Only thing is that she's generally way more headstrong and impulsive than Fubuki showed to be, could "bend her father to her will with little effort", and disrespects the law if it's stupid to her which, queen shit. I think she'll play a lot of little pranks with her time powers, and devote her free time/time with YumaRusty when he's accused of terrorism crimes (but that's just unrestrained summer fun anyway) to absolutely decimate any peacekeepers they come across with some looney tunes shit

Vivia Twilight -> I'll be honest I have no fucking idea

Zero fucking idea. Literally NOBODY in this arc fits for the 5D chess of a character Vivia is. I'm not even sure if in any of the books. Help me. But also I don't really care because I don't even like Vivia at all anyway he freaks me out get him away from me.

Yakou Furio -> Bluestar?

Protag mentor figure except Bluestar is actually doing a good job at that until she loses her marbles after her mid-arc torment gauntlet and has a corruption arc until she drowns and gets healed of all her issues momentarily before fucking dying. She has a dead husband, dead mom, dead sister, dead baby, dead deputy, dead deputy #2, dead bestie, holy shit that's a lot of motives for suicidemurdering Huesgoose. Btw Goose was her weird voice of god hearing uncle in canon (and he was also dead) but I'm probably taking it out unless. Anyway she's kinda too good for Yakou but. They're also both blue like that is a blue cat

And for some side characters, keyword some:

Aiko -> Littlepaw/cloud

Aetheria's now not an all girls school anymore sorry I cannot do this guys. Littlecloud was Cinder's/Kurumi's good buddy and I like their friendship. Unfortunately, you know what that means.

Karen -> Swiftpaw

Originally was supposed to have Aiko's place before I remembered Little exists. In canon his most notable moment was dying brutally, which I mean also fits the Karen quota. Plus, while not an asshole per se he does have a more fiery/overall angry personality and he did try to impulsively take on a pack of dogs to prove himself and fucking died, if under enough pressure I'm pretty sure he could smash Aiko's/Littlepaw's head in with a brick too👍👍

Yoshiko, Waruna, Kurane -> Brackenpaw/fur, Thornpaw/claw, Brightpaw/heart?

Siblings in canon and two of them are guys so no murderous yuri I guess :(( But I mean I don't have to follow canon to a T anyway lmao so we'll see. In canon, basically the other three remaining apprentices along with Swiftpaw and the ashfern siblings, plus they do function as a trio via just being sibs. Plus some notes from the books: Cinder is the fourth sibling. Brightpaw follows Swiftpaw in his quest to slay the doggy and while he dies she survives but gets her eyeball and half of her entire face's fur torn off.

Real Zilch -> Redtail

He's very dead. Very, very dead. His most iconic moment was dying abruptly and tragically via murder rip in rest

Kei Colan -> Snowkit

He is a child. That's a little boy

Snowkit, signing furiously: MY MAMA GOT FRAMED AND IS GOING TO BE PUBLICALLY EXECUTED BY THE PEACEKEEPERS IF NOTHING IS DONE PLEASE HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEE. HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Yellowfang, signing back in swagful motions: and how much cash does your mama have on her currently

Jiei Colan -> Speckletail

Snowkit's very old mama. Looks like she could kill you but genuinely does not have a body count. Yet.

Ramen Stand Owner -> Ravenpaw

Ravenpaw in canon hit the bricks and ran away from the Clans due to being in danger there, and lived out the rest of his days on a farm with his cowboy boyfriend Barley mostly free of drama. I'd say that fits lmao. We can make his old name Rusty, not a problem.

Margulaw -> Pinestar

90 year old voice "yeah so uhh my fucking son grew up to be a dictator now. When he was a newborn ghosts were yelling at me to kill him because he'll grow up to be a bad man otherwise and of course like any sane kanaiwardian father I said "fuck that" and had to leave ma' family behind run away from the company so the demons would shut up. And y'know little buddy... Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I just can't help but. Y'know. Anyway. Sigh."

Do you get my vision did that sound comprehensible

#mine #rain code #warrior code au #<- oh hey thats an actual thing in wc lmao.#Not tagging any of those characters hell nooo.#the i did not proofread this tag

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risingshards · 11 months

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Things I am not over from the movie (Venture Bros spoilers)

-That little moment of Doc being able to calculate how long they have in freefall, like he's actually really really smart he just is burdened with [gestures to his entire life prior]. I love any moment where he gets to actually be competent.

-"All you need to know is that the person who gave birth to you loves you. I promise they do." That is maybe the most beautiful line in the entire series I'm SOBBING. Bonus points that its true meaning is super science weirdness overflowing with love. That's the series in a nutshell.

-That potentially the last shot of the series is the Venture Bros' first "Go Team Venture"

-How hilarious it was that Monarch and 21's new outfits had the squeaky plastic/leather sounds, IIRC Jackson and Doc wanted that for something earlier in the show but couldn't get it

-The pee in a jar reference (I cannot believe this got in and I can't believe how sentimental it made me)

-Dermott stealing and hoarding Venture relics, I love that he joined OSI and basically ended up in the same spot

-My theories getting obliterated. I should've shared it beforehand but my big theory going in: In commentary for S3 they kind of go over an early version of Bobbi's history with Rusty and Jonas. My thought was that Bobbi St. Simone was not only the boys' mother with Rusty but also that she was Brock's mom who she had with Jonas, making him both the boys' brother and also Rusty's. It made perfect sense in my head but I'm glad I was wrong in hindsight lol. Force Majeure had a very similar face to Brock though so maybe that's his dad hmm...

-I kept waiting to see what the title meant, and with the cover I was expecting a giant baboon to show up that was somehow dormant under Ventech tower, but the actual title ended up making a lot of sense (and the gushing baboon blood mentioned in press releases ended up being Monarch's...)

-James Urbaniak posted a bit of the script that had me anxious about the movie for a long while, the last audio he recorded for the movie were screams for the electromagnetic scene, and he shared a bit of the script and covered most of it up so it just read like "HATRED screams and opens fire.....HELPER is COMPLETELY DESTROYED." So I kept imagining how it would go, assuming they were going up against some ruthless enemy not trying to destroy a bunch of Alexas in an electromagnetically charged room. I had a nightmare where weirdly enough the scene was happening in space which ended up being where the scene took place which is weird, but in the dream version Hatred like violently died and I was so devastated. I must care about the Venture crew a great deal because I've definitely had nightmares about characters dying before big eps/specials before, before Operation PROM I had a dream about Orpheus getting lit on fire that I still remember and shudder thinking about. Also seeing Helper safe (well their head at least) in the ending was a great anxiety douser cuz from the script I thought Helper got like disintigrated and the movie would have tons of characters dying in some Venture-pocalypse.

-Monarch is Rusty clone 22, making him and 21's friendship more numerically satisfying

-Going by that my assumption is approximately 20 Rusty Ventures bit the dust before our Rusty lasted, just like his boys.

-THAT POST CREDITS SCENE UGHHHHHHHH MY HEARRRRTTTTT

#venture bros #radiant is the blood of the baboon heart #venture bros spoilers

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sidesteppostinghours · 5 months

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4, 12, and 28 for ocs of your choice?

Good morning, thank you for the ask! :D

4. What’s a hobby they used to have that they miss?

Cyrus- cyrus used to play piano! he stopped for a few reasons (lack of time, associations to the farm, "i am not spending my money on a whole ass piano") but he still remembers how to play, even if hes a bit rusty. he doesnt see any use for the hobby at the moment, which is another reason he hasn't kept up, but who knows. i cannot for the life of me remember if daniel owns and/or plays piano(wouldnt surprise me) but if he does then theyd totally play a duet together.

Cynthia- she was very fond of photography back in the day, but she's had to drop it for safety reasons. while she didnt like photos of herself, she did own a camera and used it liberally for candid shots for most of the rangers. ortega had the most pictures taken of her ofc, she had girlfriend privileges. she also had a good few for the general scenery of los diablos, to remind her of her home. some of the photos that she treasured most were kept on her person, but it got taken away and used as ammunition by the farm when she was discovered. she would pick it up again given the chance, but thats only guaranteeing the photos cant be traced back to her, which isnt happening atm rip.

12. What's something that makes them laugh every single time? Be specific!

Caine- hes my most stoic character, so its actually pretty difficult to make him laugh, but! spoon. definitely spoon. chen has seen caine laugh more in like, 5 months than he has in the several years hes known them. its a combination of whats essentially intoxication from spoons mind, a feeling of understanding they dont usually get with people, and the fact that walks with spoon is one of the very few times he feels safe enough to let his guard down. it helps that chen has pretty quiet thoughts, so theyre not punished for lowering their shields.

Cecilia- oh man, ceci loves to laugh, shes very giggly. if i had to choose though, you can always get her with a dad joke. it doesnt matter how bad it is(and honestly the worse it is the funnier it gets). this is at least 70% of the reason she hangs out with ortega btw. that man is so corny with his jokes and cecilia is shamelessly enabling him. theyre insufferable when theyre together.

28. What do they tell people they want? What do they actually want?

Caine- ok, well. caine avoids talking about themeselves like the plague so good luck getting an answer out of them in the first place. if he really couldnt avoid it, hed just say one of his goals(getting out of hark, for instance). its not wrong, per se, but it doesnt encompass what they actually want because they dont know what they want. in honesty hes a justice step, but hes stuck as a fate step until he has a suitable moment of "oh shit thats why im doing this". they want the heroes to function as actual heroes, instead of glorified lapdogs for the state. as for when everything is finally over, they want a massive fucking nap.

Cyrus- he tells others he wants people to leave him alone, and is Very Annoyed that nobodys listening to him. the reality is, ofc, the opposite lmfao. he cant stand to be alone, hed spiral worse than he already has without people to hold him steady. he wasnt like this before, he was a lot more open with his like for people, but the farm made him paranoid of connection and he just couldnt risk it. unfortunately for him, repression just caused it to turn around and bit him in the ass. gl cyrus, have fun with your new friends <3

Cecilia- cecis extremely open, bombastic, and utterly unashamed to say that shes doing everything for the hell of it. thats still true, she really is just doing things for kicks, but the biggest thing she wants is friends. shes not shy about saying it, but she doesnt get what having a friend entails. so instead, she ends up chasing an mirage of what friends look like, without realizing it needs connection to work. the first time she found an actual friend in daniel since heartbreak, it threw her for a loop.

Cynthia- she thinks she needs to be sidestep again. its not something shell admit for various reasons– the complete impossibility of it being one of them– so instead she settles for telling ortega that she needs to stay a civilian for her sanity. to be fair, thats not a total lie, if she went back to being a hero she would crack. i know its not part of the question but as an extra little nugget, what she needs is for somebody to look at her now and still care for her even compared to sidestep. she is my only step that needs to be told "sidestep is dead" and i swear im trying to beat it into her with a stick.

questions are from here!

#ortega should go on a walk with caine and chen actually #theyd get so jealous i just know it #��chen you get to see him like this all the time??? and you never told me???”#the temptation to make ceci friendless scar is strong but my enjoyment of hunger as a metaphor for loneliness is stronger #caine lynzal #cyrus becker #cecilia rider #cynthia garcia #thank you again for the ask!#even though its noon now lmfao #pulp answers #ask game

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rigelmejo · 2 years

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I’m going to vent for a minute. It always irks me a little when japanese lessons take so long to cover stuff like

The verb form te-iru, te-imasu, which seems to be similar to english -ing on verbs. Its how to actually say “I’m doing X verb.” However I remember when learning from Genki (and honestly a lot of japanese lesson resources), they teach verb forms like “I X verb” masu form. “I eat” taberu/tabemasu as in I eat fish (generally), not as in “I am eating fish (now/whatever time was described)” tabeteimasu (tabe+te-imasu). This creates a confusion a number of people end up having for a while... the confusion of thinking masu form (like tabemasu) means ‘verb-ing’ as in I’m doing a verb in a specific place/time, rather than I generally do verb (and may be doing it right now). Saying “I eat fish” can mean I eat fish right now, I generally eat fish, I’d prefer to eat fish (over some other option) etc. It does not specifically convey the “I’m doing X” even though that form of the verb is probably what we’ll use a lot. When watching shows, playing games, talking, I run into te-imasu form a LOT and it still surprises me it takes so long to learn. It also still surprises me that the beginner japanese class I took covered ‘te’ form in theory (since its in Genki 1) but we learned it to stack verbs (say I X then Y verb) and my teacher did not really emphasize the te-imasu form even though it’s everywhere in real life.

The form of -nde? in questions. I don’t have japanese keyboard on this computer so bear with me. I am rusty on japanese as I read it again recently but haven’t thought about the WHY of any grammar in a while. When I’m in clozemaster I see this verb situation all the time, and it seems sort of like asking a negative in english but when you mean do they want to do it positively. しませんでしたか？Shimasen-deshita. “Didn’t?” or しませんか？ Shimasenka “don’t” This is not the example I meant but in google translate this is all I can think of. Its like when you ask “Didn’t you?” and someone replies “I did.” So you expect a positive answer. (Feel free to blank all this out, this second paragraph’s topic i am SO rusty on I honestly cannot remember clearly or correctly what the n’de form means in a question, all I can remember is I see it ALL the time when I read or watch stuff in japanese and yet... again... I remember my class never even covered it, especially given how common it gets run into).

Back to things I can adequately describe ToT (thanks for bearing with me lol). I remember last year I went through Clozemaster Japanese and just did like 600 sentence cards of the top 100 most common words. That period of study was probably the most helpful thing I did japanese grammar wise, because so many of the sentences were random grammar rather than perfectly crafted textbook sentences. The Clozemaster sentences prepared me much better for reading manga, watching shows, watching lets plays, and just generally figuring out how the fuck to parse the grammar meaning of new sentences I see. I ran into SO many ‘helper’ words (words that give some kind of grammar/meaning change to a sentence) and so much grammar I’d either never seen or never seen in informal forms, it helped tremendously. I had not seen te-imasu or gotten to practice it until then. And there’s still helper words I don’t know fully, but I recognize enough from that study period that now when I see them in sentences I get the gist of how they influence the sentence’s meaning. So I guess my point is just, I am a bit frustrated with how many japanese lessons (especially in the beginning) tend to avoid teaching some very common grammar things that appear super frequently whenever you engage with native materials. I’ve been going through glossika japanese lately for listening practice and lol... wouldn’t you know, just like Genki its covering some stuff but then other stuff like te-imasu I haven’t heard once yet, even though I run into it so frequently with japanese media.

Anyway... I’m currently looking for a new japanese grammar guide to read through. And I am seriously doubting I’m going to find any that cover some of the grammar points I’m most curious about for a while (or at all if they’re free guides and potentially stop after beginner grammar). :/ I wonder if imabi.net or Tae Kim’s Guide go over the kind of grammar I’m looking for eventually... (Because truly, I learned like 50% of the grammar I recognize now by brute force studying those 600 sentences in clozemaster and figuring out the gist of grammar meaning from the translation, but I’d love a more clear overt explanation ToT)

#rant #just an aside too. something about japanese resources... some of them LOVE to act like japanese is so hard they have to hand hold and give y #you this 'not quite genuine japanese' for a while. like its genuine but its such a specific version they think you the learner will struggle #less with. such as Genki covering SO few kanji in a huge book. Meanwhile a good chinese book should cover 500+ hanzi per level at least.#chinese is considered 'hard' too but i find at least less chinese books artificially try to make it easier by teaching you less #(but some do - ive seen chinese textbooks that only teach 200 words which is so :/ )#whereas japanese i have a 500 page book on learning to read and it only covers 300 kanji!!! out of 2000 you need to learn!!!!#i had to DIG to find a japanese textbook that would cover over 1000 kanji in one volume.#and i have to DIG now to find a japanese resource that covers a lot of grammar in one volume

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soundsoftreason · 5 months

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Mister

I was quite young and just as lost. Hiding within my own self as though I was something else. As though I was something on the fault line, just past the point of recognition. I still find myself so well accustomed to that fault line. Flitting back and forth so invariably. The probability of my existence is 1, the probability of my reconginition is questionably 0. All or nothing does not exist in this realm. I am half-baked and partially frozen yet those impartial to my very being cannot state with clarity whether my name has passed through their mouth in a manner by which they mean to recognize me. I am a falsehood in sheep's clothing. What thoughts I bring upon the world are impenetrable yet they crumble within. Fleeing the masses and the debris in bits and pieces. Who am I? Is there an I? Am I who you thought I would be, dear Mister? Do you breathe this air and taste the tangibility upon your teeth? Flashing bright lights as they chomp and chew and spit out the very existence I thought to be futile. And think I did and think I will and breathe I am but how can a girl so small and loveless be here in this world while you walk the morrows and haunt the cities and chew and chew and chew until what am I but putrid flesh and pummeled bones? I can't find myself in this mess. All of me is nothing to you and for that I find it is nothing to myself as well. I am not who I am and not my body and if I had a soul, if anyone did, it would have left such a long time ago. Such a long long long time ago. But still I am here and still I breathe and still I walk that fault line. Will I come to fruition? Is fruition something I can come to? Is there a way to be that does not leave me so despondent? Despondent as though I really am nothing. I'd rather walk the fault line. I'd rather let the mirror win. I'd rather taste ash upon my tongue and spew nonsense that comes to your brain. Your brain not mine. These are not my thoughts. These are not my hopes these are not my dreams.

I want to bake in the bright light of the sun and run through the universe as though the thought of one more breath is meaningless to me. Launch my bones through the atmosphere and call me your fucking sinner, Mister. Tell the world I was wrong tell the world I was lost tell the world I was the one who chose to fall. Let them know I was a sinner, let them know I was no saint. Let them know it was me that failed, Mister. Make sure they bury me in death as they buried me in life. Make sure they know I was nothing and would never be something and let me laugh upon the stars, Mister. Let me breathe that fucking air in futility. Let my skull explode and my insides shrivel and freeze and crack and break with a fucking smile on my face. I'm nothing but debris in your fucking solar system, Mister and that is fine by me. I need not be anything but fucking debris. Let me ruin your light let me cover your stars let me fall upon your earth and break your ground and imprint myself upon your very being until you can't chew without choking, you fucking Mister. You fucking Mister. Let me end it all and find myself pouring away your innards as you work yourself to the fucking bone. I'll be every glass of Whiskey and every nose-full of cocaine. I am the spoon you cannot unbend and the rusty needle you lost within yourself. I am the long days and the short nights and the bad years and the shit sex and the broken marriage. I am the affair that blows up your little world in which you are so god damn self-important, you fucking Mister, you. I am what you feared and what you fear and what you do not know and what you cannot unknow. How does that feel, Mister? How does that feel. Do you feel alive, Mister? Do you like being known? Do you too wish for the fault line? Do you too wish for the fucking cosmos to eat you whole? I hope you do, Mister. I hope you learn the lesson of intangibility. Languid in it's way. I hope it burns as you wash it down your throat. Another Whiskey sir, another? Another? Another? Take and take and take, Mister. I'm here. Don't you worry. Don't you worry one bit, Mister. I'm here.

#who genuinely gives a fuck anyway?#thoughts

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babyinablender · 8 months

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I creep so silently on all fours, crawling like a spider from the door into the blood red living room, over the grate in the floor, to the very back right, where all the walls are pink and the windows have been painted shut. How many years has it been? Does the tiny closet still hold a trinket from my girlhood? Do the windows still overlook the street I once laid my life down upon? Does the hill still gently slope into the backyard, where the ghost of my white lab still plays?

This house is silent as the grave and empty. But I can still see the little path my feet once made to the kitchen, to the tiny crook where we sat for meals. Down the basement steps, is the bomb shelter still there? Still somber and quiet? Does the ghost that once scared my brother still rattle his chains with relish on stormy nights when the sirens won't stop wailing?

I can almost hear the rain falling.

Am I the spirit that once lived in that tiny closet, beckoning me to hide? Scaring me into silence as the door slowly creaked open, and impossible shadows lined my walls? Mississippi is the birthplace of many shadow folk. Maybe each of us is born with one, and they separate away from us to stalk the nights of the state as soon as they learn to walk? Was it my own shadow self dancing on the wall in that funny hat, just to scare me into wakefulness?

I can almost see my bed, made of white metal, old and rusty at the joints. My obsession with pink led to cheap Barbie sheets covered in pink ballerina shoes. I can almost see me sleeping there. If I reach out and poke her tiny shoulder, will she look up and see me?

I see so much in my memories. But I cannot see that little girl's face. It is a tanned blur of dark hair and hunched shoulders and bare hands. Tiny white fingernails and a bleeding nose, red blooming all around her head.

How many nights did I lie awake, unable to shut off that internal clock, unable to close my eyes and sink into that nothingness? How many nights did I lie awake staring at the ceiling, only waiting for the sun to rise so that I may, too?

You were too little to already be so damaged.

Dream of rock pillows in meadows where unicorns graze. Dream of nothingness, just for me.

I close the door to this green house, so nestled into the back end of a long-lost cul-de-sac in a long-forgotten back end of a Mississippi town.

Nobody lives here, now.

#mine #she broke my heart #poetry #i set fire to my childhood bedroom but only burned my fingers

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ladyknightleyisundercover · 7 years

Note

Hi! Could you do another fic with Harry and Hagrid? I love their relationship and how you write it, so I'd love to see something - especially if it has the rest of the trio in it, too. Thanks :)

Happy birthday Hagrid!

“Quick, quick! He’s on the way! Behind this tree!”

“Behind which tree? Where are you?”

“Over here! Ron! Quick! Harry, your feet are sticking out!Put them away!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll just levitate shall I?”

“There’s no need to be—ow! Whose elbow was that?”

“Not me, I don’t have any elbows.”

“I think I’ve got pine needles up my nose.”

“Could be worse, you could have pine needles up your—”

“SSH!”

The three of them stay as still as possible, peering throughthe branches of a particularly large and bushy tree as the door to the GreatHall swings open with a creak and Hagrid shuffles in backwards, puffingslightly as he carries another large Christmas tree into the room. “There shegoes,” he mutters to himself, propping it up along the far wall. “Righ’ then.Tha’s another one done. Let’s get—’ang on a moment.” They watch, collectivelyholding their breath as Hagrid strides over to the teachers’ table, mutteringabout how it wasn’t like that a moment ago.

It certainly wasn’t.

Professor McGonagall had met them at the gates after lunch,smuggling them into the school in a manner that suggested they were about aswelcome as the contraband Wheezes products that turn up everywhere. She’d led them at a rapid pace to the Entrance Hall,demanding that they duck down so as not to be seen “And cause a riot,” as theypassed the Charms classrooms, and, as Ron had muttered (very quietly) inHermione’s ear, it was hard to shake the feeling that she was about to taketwenty points from Gryffindor just for coming up with their plan.

“He’ll be back with another tree in about five minutes,”she’d informed them crisply. “And I need not remind you that you will have tobe out of here by four thirty so as to be out of the way of the house elves,who will need to set up for the evening meal.”

“Of course we will be, Professor,” Harry had assured her.

“For goodness’ sake, Potter,” she’d snapped. “I haven’t beenyour teacher for four years now. You can call me Minerva.”

He’d all but jumped to attention. “Of course, Professor. Er.I mean.”

Her lips had twitched. “Don’t worry. Your father was justthe same. Now, hurry! You don’t have long!”

“Yes, of course,” Harry had said, as Hermione doubled therate at which she was conjuring fully inflated balloons from the end of herwand and Ron gave up making sure the Happy Birthday banner was perfectly leveland just hurled sticking charms at it instead. “Is there anything else?”

“I think that was it,” she’d said, taking her leave.“Except,” she added, pausing in the doorway, “the staff and I all think thatthis is just lovely. And if we didn’t all have teaching responsibilities, we’dbe joining you.”

“We’ll send the leftover cake down to the staff room,” Ronhad promised.

“I look forward to it. I’ve heard much about your bakingability, Mr Weasley.”

Ron, flustered, had nearly dropped the cake he was easingout of the box he’d carefully carried it in. Harry places a couple of nearly wrappedgifts on next to it, whilst Hermione kept watch, and now…here they all are.

Harry glances at the other two and nods. “Surprise!” theyall shout, jumping out from behind a tree.

Hagrid laughs, happy but surprised. They sing Happy Birthdayand gesture to him to blow out the candle on the cake, which was indeed made byRon, but was also iced by Harry, and so says HAPPY BIRTHDAY HAGRID in greenicing. “Make a wish,” Hermione says cheerfully, handing him a knife to cut themall slices.

“What are yeh all doing here?” he asks, taking the knife offher.

“Top secret Auror business,” Ron says promptly. “We heardthere was a very urgent matter at Hogwarts that couldn’t possibly be left toanyone else to deal with. When in doubt, call the best Aurors in the businessout.”

“Wha’s Hermione, then?” Hagrid asks, beard twitching.

“Window dressing,” says Ron, and Harry laughs.

“I never thought so,” Hagrid says gallantly, and Hermionebeams. He cuts them slices, passes them around, and there’s a brief silencewhilst they eat Ron’s divine cake.

“Yeh know,” Hagrid says, finishing first, “yeh really shouldn’thave. Yeh shouldn’t’ve done all this for me. I know how busy yeh all are, like,and I’m not—”

“Never to busy to come back to school,” Ron says quickly. “Youknow I love school.”

“We wanted to see you,” Hermione adds at the same time. “Oh—andGinny wants you to know that, if she wasn’t playing a match in Malaysia right now, she would be here too. Withbells on, she said.”

Hagrid protests—not about Ginny, it’s clear he believes thatof her, but there is still a lingering surprise that they’ve turned up for asnatched hour, on a random Monday, a couple of weeks before Christmas, for him.

“Well, birthdays get a bit forgotten at this time of year,”Harry says, gesturing around him at the trees. Hagrid’s brought them all in, sothere are, as usual, 12 standing around the perimeter of the Great Hall. Thesmell of pine is overpowering—in a good way—but it doesn’t feel like Christmaswithout them being festooned with decorations.

Hagrid tries to protest this too, but now Harry shouts himdown properly. “Trust me,” he says. “I know what it’s like to have a forgottenbirthday.”

“S’not the same,” Hagrid says at once. “My birthday was neverignored. Me old man used to take medown the Hog’s Head every year…I could always get served, somehow. Pint a’butterbeer each, tha’s all. Nothin’ bad. And then, when he was gone, Dumbledoredid the same. Great man, Dumbledore…”

“Well, next year we’ll do the same,” Harry promises.

“You’re buying,” Ron adds, and everyone laughs. Somehow,this breaks the tension enough for them to insist he opens the presents they’vebought him. They’re just a gesture, really: Harry and Ginny have sourced a newwhittling knife—he’d complained, over the summer, Ginny had recalled, that hisown was getting a little blunt—and Ron and Hermione (via Charlie) have got hima new ethically sourced pair of dragon hide gloves that actually fit.

He thanks them all profusely, exclaiming over them, andinvites them down to his house for tea. “I’ve got some rock buns left over,” hesays, “or mebbe we could just have more of that cake…” He eyes Ron’screation, then seems to remember himself. “I mean, I’m sure you’ve all gotstuff to do. Places to go. Yeh don’t have to come to mine. It’s nice enoughthat you’ve done all this.”

“Actually,” Harry says, glancing at Ron and Hermione. Theygive almost imperceptible nods, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out amagically shrunken sack. As it appears, it grows back to its full height—at leastthree feet, and fully stuffed. He hands it to Hagrid, who looks for all theworld like a Father Christmas who’s forgotten his costume.

“Am I auditionin’?” he asks at once, beard twitching again.

“We said earlier it’s an awkward time to have a birthday,”Harry begins. “People are busy at work, trying to get things finished beforethe break.”

“Or they’re saving all their holiday for Christmas,” Ron adds.

“Not us, of course,” continues Hermione. “We’re happy to seeyou here today. But not everyone could make it.”

“You know what it’s like,” Ron says. “I mean, you’re a Professornow, and all!” Hagrid’s face—what’s visible, at least—turns pink. “You knowwhat it’s like to be busy at this time of year.”

“But a couple of people we asked to come, who couldn’t,asked if they could send you a card,” Hermione says. “And we said we’d be more thanhappy to pass them on.”

“But then, a few more people heard. And then a few more. Imean, we only let them know late last week, it wasn’t like we had this plannedfor months,” adds Ron.

“But word spreads,” Hermione nods. “The old Order crowdwanted to send you a card, the DA. Ex-students, people from Hogsmeade… We’restill trying to work out how word got around, really.”

“So we ended up,” Harry says, piping up again, “planning totake up a cake, maybe a present or two, and instead we got…well…this.” Henods towards the sack, and Hagrid gently pulls it open, taking out the top twoor three cards. There’s all sizes, big and small, thick and thin—but they’veall got his name on the front. He turns the few he’s picked up over a fewtimes, as if this will somehow change if they’re rotated enough times.

“I don’t know this many people,” he says.

“Clearly, you do,” Ron says. “Or maybe this many people knowyou, is that the same thing?”

“Either way, we should probably open them at your place,because Professor McGonagall wants us out of here in ten minutes, and I thinkthis might take longer,” Hermione puts in. “Shall I grab the cake?”

“I’ve got it,” Ron says, so instead she steps forward totake down the balloons, and Ron organises the plates.

“Are you sure…” Hagrid begins, looking at Harry, as theother two subtly busy themselves, but he trails off.

“Do you remember,” Harry says quietly, “in my first year? Myfirst week, you wrote to me and asked me to tea. That was my first piece ofpost. Aside from my school letter, it was my first piece of mail ever.” Hagrid shrugs, but it’s clear hedoes remember. “I was clearing out some of my stuff the other day—Ginny and Iare moving in together next year, once she’s back, so I thought I’d get a headstart—anyway, it’s not important. I just came across it—I’d saved it, yearsago. And I remembered I’d never got you a birthday present—”

“Yeh didn’t have to,” Hagrid says at once, and Harry waveshim off.

“But I wanted to,” Harry insists. “So I mentioned it to Ronand Hermione, and they were on board. And I asked Nev and Ginny and Luna, andall of them wanted to, but they’re all away. So they said they’d send a card,and then the Order heard about it, and most of them said they would—I’d becareful with the one from Mundungus, that’s a bit of a hazard, maybe—and then,well, I guess it’s like Hermione says. Things snowballed a bit.” He nodstowards the enormous sack.

“An’ all these people…they wanted to write to me?” Hagrid asks, and Harry pauses forall of half a second.

“Obviously.”

#i am still very rusty and i still cannot for the life of me end things and i wasn't planning on writing today but yet here we are #i saw a thing saying it was hagrid's birthday and i remembered this ask in my inbox from maybe the neolithic era so this happened #i hope it is Not Too Terrible #and apologies to the original prompter; your words are too kind and it is truly embarrassing how long this took #hpfic #my writing #hp

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onecanonlife · 3 years

Text

Tommy and Wilbur fell apart a long time ago, and there was never any time to mourn the pieces of what they were.

But here's the most important thing: Tommy doesn't give up on the people he cares about.

(Or: on grieving, graves, a past that refuses to let go, and learning to look forward at long last.)

(word count: 5,619)

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

“You know,” Tommy says, “I never really got to—to mourn you. Not properly, anyway.”

He’s not sure what response he’s expecting from Wilbur. He’s not sure why he’s saying anything at all. He’s not sure why he’s here.

That last one is a lie. He scuffs the ground with his shoe, and then pretends that he didn’t.

“I wasn’t expecting you to mourn me,” Wilbur says, in that stupid, even, condescending tone of his, the one that he uses whenever he thinks Tommy has said something incredibly obvious, when he’s got an idea in his head of how things are and what people mean, regardless of the way it all actually is. “In fact, I rather thought you wouldn’t. Shouldn’t, even.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He has no patience left. No patience left for the look in Wilbur’s eyes, no patience left for the way he focuses straight ahead, barely sparing him a glance, no patience left for the way he speaks, measured and calculating, every word he says carefully weighed against the end result, curated for intent and impact. No patience, and he had precious little to begin with. “I’m not even—this isn’t about you.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. It makes him look like a prick. “Oh?” he says.

“Because I would’ve,” he continues, doggedly. Now that he’s started saying it, he’s damn fucking well going to finish it. “But, y’know, you blew it all up, so we had to rebuild, and then I got exiled” —His voice doesn’t waver at all— “and then shit just kept on happening, so I never got to decide. How I felt. I never got to think about it.”

Wilbur laughs, then, and it’s the laugh that he hates, because it’s the laugh that’s not genuine. He knows what Wilbur sounds like when he’s happy, and this isn’t it. Hasn’t been it for a long time.

“Not sure there’s much to think about, there,” Wilbur says, and he scowls.

“Shut up, you prick,” he says. “And yes there was. That’s not something you get to choose. What I feel.”

“I’m not trying to—” Wilbur starts, but he shakes his head, going back to talk over him, because no, he’s not doing this. Not today, and not here.

“You are though, aren’t you?” he says. “You always do this. You go, you go mimimimi, I’m Wilbur, and I understand everything about how people think and I’m always right and you are all wrong, and you, I dunno, man. You just. You just don’t. You don’t know. You think you know things, but you don’t. You’re not always right. And I’m—I don’t fucking know why I’m bothering with this right now, but it’s not so you can tell me that I shouldn’t be. Because that’s not something that’s up to you.”

“Then why are you bothering with this?” Wilbur says, and his voice isn’t unkind, but it’s not kind, either.

“I just said I didn’t know—”

“Because if you’re asking me if you should mourn me, you already know what I’m going to say to that,” Wilbur says. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s the fucking problem,” he says, and tacks on a quick, “Not like that,” but Wilbur’s face has already hardened, and yeah, there’s a million better ways he could have put that, but that’s the thing about talking to Wilbur. His brain is never firing on all cylinders, as it were, because it’s too busy trying to figure out if he should associate him with warm summer days and the haze of potions and a strummed guitar or explosions and drifting smoke and blank eyes and the awful realization that what he thought would make everything right didn’t do anything at all, and that nothing would ever be right again.

And before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater stretches out, vines trawling over the edge, leaves sprouting from between the rocks, sunlight catching on the pool at the bottom, the flag fluttering lightly in the wind. Before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater has grown over, time pressing itself into the cracks. Before the both of them, L’Manberg is a crater. It wasn’t always.

“You make everything so fucking difficult,” he says.

“It’s what I live for,” Wilbur says.

“It’s what you died for, too,” he says.

Wilbur pauses.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t.” But for once, he doesn’t elaborate, and Tommy glares at him. Only for a moment, because there’s no point in glaring when someone won’t see. Won’t look. Wilbur has his eyes turned to the crater, and Tommy has his eyes turned to Wilbur, and something about that is how it’s always been. The vines have grown over the earth’s old wounds, but Tommy can’t help but feel like they’ve curled around his ankles, holding him to the spot, the moment, and every moment that came before.

I never got to mourn you, he doesn’t say again. I never got to mourn you, and I feel like I should. But you’re here, and what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Wilbur won’t hear him. And if he does, he won’t understand.

-----

He collects bits of the past like buttons, or stamps, or memories.

He has his discs. He’s hesitant to play them, even now. Hesitant to take them out of his enderchest. He has his home, still in the same spot, all this time later. His hill, his hole, his garden, their bench. He sat on that bench and heard Wilbur, once, reaching out from beyond the grave, and Wilbur told him he was proud, and something in him ached in the same way that his scars now do when it rains.

He has some of Friend’s wool. Just that, just wool, because he doesn’t know how to knit, and he doesn’t know who would teach him. He can sew a little, but it was something born of necessity, of the need to patch up uniforms and close the tears over freshly dealt wounds, and he can still feel the needle pricking into his fingers, again and again and again. He never could figure out how to hold it so that it wouldn’t. He bled for L’Manberg in more ways than one.

Deep inside a chest, he has two uniforms. Blue and red and white. One is a size too small. The other is several sizes too large, and always will be.

He still goes to pray, sometimes, though not as often as he did. He got the chance to meet god and found no one there, so it’s a little tricky, these days, being faithful. But he’ll go to Church Prime, because no one else really does, so he’ll have the whole building for himself as he strides up to ring the bell, to ask for guidance and favors, to pay his homage at the feet of a higher power that he cannot believe cares. On the best days, he’s tempted to try to conduct a service. But there’s no point when there’s no one to hear it but himself. Even he can’t bring himself to put on a show for empty pews.

He prays, and nobody answers, and sometimes he can’t help but remember the void, the tearing, ripping nothingness, raking him to shreds again and again, where he was not alone and yet nobody came.

He considers visiting Tubbo. But Tubbo has his own life, and a mansion he hasn’t moved into, and a town that Tommy does not belong to, and an allegiance that Tommy does not share. He considers visiting Ranboo, but that’s either the same as visiting Tubbo, or it’s the same as visiting Techno and Phil, or it’s the same as visiting Wilbur.

So he looks at his discs and doesn’t play them, bunches his hands in wool that he has no use for, and calls out to a god he can only now offer false homage. He holds to the past, and wishes he could believe he has a future. Wishes that he didn’t see obsidian and curtaining lava whenever he closes his eyes.

-----

The first time he hears Wilbur play again, he hides in the forest like a fucking coward.

The guitar is strummed hesitantly, haltingly, interspersed with silence every few seconds, as if Wilbur is struggling to find the old positions, struggling to move his fingers just right. He wonders, then, if limbo took away his calluses. He didn’t think to look. Thirteen odd years without playing a guitar is bound to make anyone rusty. Tommy wonders if Wilbur’s fingers will bleed if he presses down on the strings hard enough, and then he banishes the thought from his mind, because something in him revolts at the idea of Wilbur bleeding. Of Wilbur trying and trying to play until he—

There is something to be said, here, about using yourself up in the pursuit of something greater. There is something to be said, here, about holding matches ‘til they burn down to the skin, about stairs without handrails, about things that are never meant to be and yet claw their way into existence anyhow. There is something to be said about pushing too far, too quick, and flying too high.

Wilbur’s not singing. Is just going from chord to chord. And Tommy hides behind a tree, pressing his back against the bark, because it has been so very long. Wilbur didn’t play in Pogtopia. Wilbur barely played in L’Manberg. The last time he heard the twang of this instrument was sitting by a campfire, plans for a van in the works, the night sky starry and welcoming above them, his chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the flames. And Wilbur smiled at them, smiled at all of them, and his voice was light and sure, his notes soaring.

Wilbur’s not singing. After a moment, he starts humming, softly and meandering, and each turn in the melody hits like a wrench, like he’s dragging the notes out behind them, yanking at the tune whenever it goes somewhere he doesn’t like. It’s a lot of leaps and skips and jumps, a lot of highs to lows and then highs again, and something about it sounds like wailing. There are no words, and there is no happiness.

But he’s playing. He’s playing, and does that count for something? There was no music for such a long time, no music in the darkness and no music even in the light, and now there is music in the grey twilight, and it is not happy music but it is music. Wilbur is playing again, and Tommy’s not going to cry, because what kind of pussy cries about hearing a guitar? So he doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t venture out from this spot, either. He stays there, and listens as Wilbur sends his voice shooting up into falsetto and then back down again.

It’s good that there are no words, maybe. They’d be sad. He can tell.

“That sounds nice,” Ranboo says, all of a sudden, and Tommy jolts at the same time that Wilbur’s hand must jerk, a discordant clash of notes, something that can’t even be called a chord. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“You didn’t,” Wilbur says, after a pause. Tommy almost creeps out to see his expression, because he can’t picture it. Can’t tell from his voice what his face is doing. “I was just about done anyway.” There is another pause, and a rustle of clothing. Standing. The crunching of leaves underfoot. It’s nearly autumn again, and already the leaves are changing, falling.

It would be wrong of him to resent Ranboo. He’ll never admit it aloud, but he likes him. Rather a lot. Hiding it is probably pointless now, though that doesn’t stop him from trying. But Ranboo is occupying the space that should be his, that once was his. There is a van in a forest, and a guitar song winding its way through the branches and the roots, and everything is different and everything is the same, and the new story is written without him in it. He doesn’t know what he wants, but he thinks it is not this. He thinks it is not to be left behind.

And Ranboo does not know Wilbur well enough to hear the lie in his voice.

They go off together through the trees. Tommy stays. Runs his hand across the tree bark, and tries not to put his emotions into words. Better to let them drift along as is. Better not to give them voice, because whispers turn into shouts all too easily, and there is not enough space here for shouting.

-----

There’s a thing about graves. There’s a thing about graves and who gets one, and who doesn’t.

He didn’t think about it at the time, the fact that Schlatt—Schlatt the tyrant, Schlatt the enemy, Schlatt the man who had Tubbo executed—got a funeral, and a tomb, has one even to this day, and Wilbur got rubble and a room sealed off and untouched. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no burial. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no gravestone to deface or to ornament with flowers or to kick or to scream at or to kneel beside and speak to or to cry or to do any or all of those things. He didn’t think about it at the time, because there was rebuilding, and then there was a house on fire, and then he doesn’t like to think about it.

And there was Ghostbur.

Wilbur hates Ghostbur. It makes him angry, the way that Wilbur hates Ghostbur. Ghostbur was good, and Ghostbur was kind, and Ghostbur tried his best, and Ghostbur did not deserve to die in the way that he did, terrified, with no one there by his side, with only shouted numbers to soothe his terror, and Ghostbur does not deserve to be stuck in a train station for all of eternity. So he makes Ghostbur a memorial, because it’s all he can do, and the first time he’s next to it at the same time as Wilbur, he meets his eyes squarely. A challenge. A dare. And Wilbur looks right back at him, and then to the gravestone, and his lips curl into a sneer.

And he says nothing at all.

He says nothing at all for a long time. Until he does, and it’s all made so much worse.

“Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” Wilbur asks, and it’s all very even and nonchalant, so much so that it might have him fooled if he didn’t know better, hadn’t heard time and time again exactly what Wilbur thinks of the ghost he left behind him.

“The fuck kind of question is that?” he demands.

“An honest one,” Wilbur answers.

“Right,” he says. “Because you don’t lie anymore, or whatever the fuck.”

“I don’t,” Wilbur agrees, and that is a lie. Tommy would be insulted if he weren’t so tired of it. “Really, I’d like an answer.”

“What does it matter?” he snaps. “He’s not here anymore. He’s not here anymore, and you are. No changing that. I’m fucking stuck with you. You’re like, you’re like a leech, you know that? A leech in my brain.”

Wilbur smiles tightly.

“I’d rather be a leech in your brain than dust in the ground,” he says. “Like he is.”

“Shut up,” he grits out. “Don’t—just don’t fucking talk about him.”

“Alright, then,” Wilbur says. “I won’t. If it upsets you that much.”

And he doesn’t. And the grave stays.

And it is not until later that he thinks about the thing about graves again, about who gets one and who does not. There is no grave with Wilbur’s name on it. There was no soil to lay him to rest, only cold, hard stone, a room undisturbed, a monument to destruction. And had there been time, he would have thought about it more. Would have taken it upon himself, perhaps, because the thing is, in the end, that maybe Wilbur deserved better than to be remembered as the man who destroyed his nation. Deserved better than to be remembered solely by the ravine’s dark corridors and the smoke that clung to him like foreshadowing and the way his eyes looked dead, dead, dead for a long time before Tommy watched Phil plunge the sword into his chest.

Because he was not only that. It hurts to think about, how he was not only that. But sometimes, things that hurt to think about ought to be thought about. Because Wilbur was shattered edges that Tommy knows only now that he could not fix, because Wilbur did not want fixing, but Wilbur was also laughter and a gentle hand on his shoulder and the words “I’m proud of you” that lit him up like sunlight, and he was kind and he was kind of a dick and he was brilliant and Prime, maybe Tommy should have known. Should have known that there was going to be a fall. But he looked up to Wilbur like a child to a shooting star, and it’s a long time before children understand that shooting stars aren’t stars at all, and that the wonder of them comes from self-destruction.

But before Wilbur fell, he shone. A beacon in the dark. Hope, freedom. And before he was those things, too, he was Tommy’s brother. Just that, and nothing more, because more was not needed.

And he received no grave.

It’s a question of time again, and a question of mourning, and a question of how he was ever supposed to grieve when there was no time for it at all, and when a ghost shadowed his every footstep and dripped blue from cold fingers and insisted that nothing was ever wrong. But for the first time, he wonders how Wilbur thinks about it. Graves, and ghosts. And who gets a grave, and who does not.

Who is mourned, and who is not.

Who is given up on, and who is not.

The question echoes once again: “Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” And this time, Tommy hears no taunt in it, no mocking, no cruel joke about the ghost who deserved so much better. Only bitterness, and exhaustion, and resignation. Like Wilbur already knew what answer he would be granted.

That’s a realization of some sort, that Wilbur believes he prefers him dead. It’s a realization of some sort, but he doesn’t know what kind.

There’s ghosts and there’s graves, and there’s the living and there’s the dead, and both are left waiting for relief that never comes. It’s thirteen years in a train station and it’s months without knowing what to think, without having space to breathe, without being able to process that his brother was unwell and then that his brother was gone. It’s too much time and too little, too much distance and too little, and Ghostbur did not deserve what he got, but neither, he thinks, did Wilbur.

That thought feels right. And wrong all at once. Bitter, heart-wrenching. That Wilbur deserved better. They all did, that he knows—but Wilbur did too. And that thought is muddled up in all the rest, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, but it’s there. If there’s anything to be done with it at all.

-----

Here is a fact: he kept Dream alive for Wilbur’s sake.

Here is another fact: he doesn’t know if he regrets it.

Because here is the thing: he remembers that day, remembers the pain and the fear and the devastation, and he remembers the moment it all turned around, cowering behind Sapnap and behind Eret until the time came to step forward, to take the axe in hand and deliver the blow, to deliver himself to safety, finally, finally. And he remembers the words bitten out from Dream’s mouth, panicked, desperate, and he remembers what he said. He will never forget.

And the decision, in that moment, was far easier than it had any right to be.

It became harder, later. Because he made the decision thinking, in large part, of the person that Wilbur used to be. Of a quick, charming tongue and flashes of smiles and music and song and leadership and knowing what to do, always, and Prime above but Tommy missed that person. And so maybe he deluded himself. Maybe he thought, in that dark room, with the portal swirling behind him and the entire server at his back, that he could get that person again. That Wilbur would return, and that it could all go back to the way it used to be. Discs spinning in the sunrise, the server at peace, his brother with him.

But death put those thoughts to rest.

Because death proved to him that Wilbur had only gotten worse. Because in death, Wilbur was happy he was there, did nothing but talk to him and make him play competitive solitaire as he was torn apart atom by atom. Because Wilbur—he became so very certain that Wilbur, if released, would bring nothing but harm to the server again, would tear everything down, because there was something in his voice, in his eyes—

But that was then. And now, Dream still lives in prison, rots but lives, and Wilbur has a burger van in a forest with a friend and spends most of his days lounging about or making eyes at Quackity or talking up a storm but doing jack shit, and Tommy doesn’t know what to make of it, and doesn’t know how to admit that maybe his idea of what Wilbur would be like and what Wilbur would do wasn’t entirely accurate.

And he still doesn’t know if it was worth it. Worth the constant fear, worth knowing that one day, Dream will be out, will come to him, will try to finish what he started. He tried to prevent it and only made it worse, only led Ghostbur to his doom by his innocent, trusting hand, and Dream resurrected—

A monster, he would have said, once. He no longer knows if that is fair.

Because here is another fact, one that he is only now beginning to understand: Wilbur is very, painfully human. He’s always known, and yet he hasn’t, because once, he thought Wilbur hung the stars and the moon and all things bright and glowing and good, and he thought that Wilbur could never be so human as to be fallible, and then it turned out that he was wrong. And it was easy, in the aftermath of that, to figure that Wilbur was perhaps some kind of monster instead, and everyone around him said as much.

But that, he thinks, goes too far in the other direction.

His hopes will never be realized. He will never have the old Wilbur back. He clings to a past that clings to him right back, that has him in a chokehold and will not let go, but Wilbur is something else entirely. The rest of the past does not live and breathe, is contained in his overflowing chests, in uniforms that don’t fit him, in the church’s empty hall. The rest of the past is made of things he can hold, but he has never been able to hold Wilbur. Not then, and not now. And there is no hope of making of them what they once were.

There is no going back.

So was it worth it, then? To keep Dream alive, and to receive this, this man who varies between manic energy and calculated calm, who speaks with a whip in his tone at some times and unbearable softness at others, who proclaims Dream his hero and then claims he would have killed him, if he could, for what he did? Was it worth it, and is it worth it, and how is something like that measured at all?

Wilbur is a tightness in his chest when he speaks and a ghost that won’t leave and a ghost that died and a thousand words like a thousand stinging hornets and no picture that could encompass all of them, all of what they are and were. Wilbur is Wilbur, and Wilbur is not safe, not anymore, and perhaps Wilbur is not even good—but there, that, that is wrong, and he won’t make this mistake twice. Wilbur is good, it’s just that he’s forgotten that, and Tommy is so, so very tired of having to be the one to try and remind him. And Wilbur is empty space and Wilbur is a space too full and overflowing around the fractured edges, and Wilbur is too bright and too loud and too quiet and too little and too much, and even now, even still, Tommy does not know where they stand.

Was it worth it, to have this?

He doesn’t know. But sometimes, he imagines what it would be like if Wilbur were still dead, if Wilbur were never, ever coming back in any shape, in any form, and his throat closes up and his eyes sting, no matter how much he has laid out his hatred for the man, his regret at going into the prison that day. He tries to imagine a world without Wilbur in it, in which he has given up on Wilbur, and even now he doesn’t like it, even though maybe he should, and that is, perhaps, answer enough.

-----

“Why do you keep coming here?” Wilbur asks him.

“I dunno,” he says, instead of a hundred other things. “Why don’t you ever fucking leave?”

Wilbur just looks tired. There are bags under his eyes. Tommy thinks he can guess why; he so rarely slept during their exile, but Tommy is thinking about limbo, and train stations, and how whenever he closes his eyes, part of him is convinced that his heart has stopped beating. He wonders if Wilbur, for all his sunrise-obsession and constant movement and moments of utter wonderment at the world around him and the way he doesn’t move whenever a creeper approaches him, feels the same way.

“There was a reason I asked Ranboo to do this with me instead of you,” Wilbur says, suddenly, apropos of nothing. Tommy feels himself still. “I mean—actually, I asked Phil, and Phil was all, oh, Wil, go and make friends, and I was like fuck you I’m not twelve years old anymore but Ranboo’s pretty great so it worked out. But I—I guess what I’m getting at is that I don’t get it. Why you choose to keep coming ‘round here anyway.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “What’s not to get?”

Wilbur shoots him a look, eyebrows going up and mouth slanting all sympathetic-like.

“Tommy,” he says, slowly, as if talking to the child that Tommy has not been in a long, long time, “I’m not what you want.”

Several answers form in his head, and then dissipate just as quickly before he’s able to reply. “‘S that right?” he says, and something boils within him, hot and snapping and popping.

“I can see it when you look at me, man,” Wilbur says, and he doesn’t even sound upset. “You’re—and I mean, I don’t blame you for it. I was awful to you, Tommy. I don’t deserve anything less than your scorn. But you and everyone else, you’re all waiting for what I’m going to do next. You’re all waiting with bated breath. Scared of the next disaster I’m going to cause. So you don’t—you don’t have to be here, Tommy. Not if you don’t want to be.”

There are so many things he could say. Your disasters always cause the most damage to yourself, is one of them, and then there’s a simple, you think I don’t know that? Because how many times has he told himself that same thing? That he doesn’t need to be here? That it would be better for him if he wasn’t? And some part of him must listen, because he’s not actually here all that much. He has other things to do. A life outside of this, outside of this forest on the edge of a fake desert and a van that makes pretty shitty burgers and one Wilbur Soot, like a portrait from the past and yet nothing like that at all, because portraits are shadows, still images, permanent and unchanging, with mo mutable future, and Wilbur Soot is none of those things.

He has a life. He has Tubbo, still, even if it’s all changed. He has others. He’s not alone.

Wilbur’s right that he doesn’t have to be here.

“Stop fucking doing that,” he says. “Stop trying to make my decisions for me.”

Wilbur’s eyebrows furrow. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says. “You always are. It’s my fucking choice whether I want to be here or not. And I’m making that choice. Not you. Me. And sure, maybe one day you’ll manage to get rid of me for good, but you’re gonna have to fucking work at it, and I don’t see you trying.”

“I thought you didn’t want me here, Tommy,” Wilbur returns, and the words seem to fall so effortlessly, like easy acceptance, and why, why is it this of all things that Wilbur seems to take in stride? Why is it this and not a thousand other things? Why is it this and not the fact that despite it all, despite every warning sign and every indication that maybe it might be better for him to give up after all, Tommy is still here?

“I didn’t want you gone, either,” he snaps, and Wilbur falls completely silent. So he continues, because who knows when he’ll have a chance to say this again? That’s the thing about chances; they’re difficult to count, impossible to anticipate, and he bollocksed up the first one he got, to try to break through. “I never wanted you gone in the first place. So maybe I don’t—maybe I don’t fucking know what I want. Because I never got to just live with that. There was never a chance to—there wasn’t even a fucking grave for me to visit. I never got to figure anything out, and now you’re back and nothing’s the fucking same, so maybe I don’t know what I fucking want. Maybe I don’t fucking know if I want you here, but I didn’t want you gone. I didn’t want you to be dead. And then you were. You just were, and I couldn’t—did you expect me to be alright with that?”

It’s a question of mourning, and a question of graves, and a question of chances and who deserves them. And Wilbur just looks confused.

Fuck him.

There’s so much more to say, and he can’t say any of it at all, and the past chokes him like a knot of vines or a clump of flowers in his throat, but he’s still breathing. He’s still breathing, breathes again, whatever, and Wilbur is the same. They’re the same in a lot of ways, maybe. On the other side of the final death, trying to hold onto and release the years gone by all at once. Moving forward, but stuck in quicksand, and they’re never going to get out if they don’t let each other.

“You’re my brother,” he says, and that’s all. As if that explains everything.

And maybe it does.

Wilbur blinks.

“Ah,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Fucking ah.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says.

“You’d better be,” he says.

And impossibly, the vines uncurl, and the flowers come floating up, and when he takes a step forward, it comes easily.

There is a van in this forest, and it is not the same van. Some distance away, there is a crater in the ground, and nature has draped itself over the ruins of the lives they once had, and the flag still flaps at the bottom, and they are never, ever going to be able to rebuild what they lost. The crater will always be a crater, a scar in the earth. Healing, healed, grown over and stitched shut, but still a scar.

And there is a man standing in front of him who is not the same man that he knew. Not the same man that he claimed for his family, and who claimed him in return.

But he is not the same, either. Perhaps nobody and nothing is. The past clings, and he clings tighter, but perhaps he needs to loosen his grip, because despite everything, there is a future out there, somewhere past the next sunrise. They are going to get older. They are going to live. So he has his discs and his uniforms and his wool and his prayer, and he has this, too, because it is his choice. To take a step forward, and wait to be met in the middle. To dare to turn ahead, to believe that there is something awaiting him. The both of them.

And he thinks he might finally be able to let himself grieve. Grieve, and let go. Grieve the dead, and what they had, and what they might have, and grieve for the fact that there was no grieving, no grave.

And then, let himself hope that they will have better after all.

-----

The next time he hears Wilbur play, he steps out from behind the tree.

And maybe the song is a little less sad.

And maybe nothing will ever be the same as it used to be.

And maybe it will be alright.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #crimebois #/rp #dsmp fic #cat writes fic #long post #sometimes you just. you just gotta write some c!crimebois y'know?

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sylverstorms · 3 years

Text

Miranda x Mia---- Eternal

A Ko-Fi commission I wrote for the wonderful @saltwatereulogies. Thank you so very much for the support and I hope you enjoy the fic!

Drip. Splatter.

The first sound you’re aware of is that of the occasional waterdrop crashing onto the same humid, uneven floor you’re lying on.

The second is the sound of her voice.

“Rise and shine.” she says, somewhere off to the side. You are still too disoriented to pinpoint exactly where.

You’re not dizzy enough, though, to not immediately realize you’re trapped. The way the light behind your captor shines makes it all the more obvious, casting large shadows in the shape of your prison bars across your small, moldy cell.

“Y-you…” you struggle to talk. Your throat is too dry and your temples pound like a war drum. It feels like you’ve collided with a truck. And yet her voice commanding you to sleep is the last thing you remember.

“I haven’t formally introduced myself. Though I’m sure your friend has told you about me.”

You blink to make your vision focus yet it’s hopeless. She is but a dark blur to you –am I hallucinating or are those wings?

“My name is Miranda.”

Suddenly, that name snaps everything into focus so sharply you could get whiplash. You’re on your knees the next second, just about ready to leap at her. She’s the one. The one Chris warned you about. She may look like an angel but she is a devil.

“I don’t care who the hell you are! What do you want from me?!” you demand.

“Your cooperation in my experiments, for starters.” she says it calmly, but she is no fool to believe you’ll just agree to that, you can see it in her crystal-blue eyes.

“Ha! As if!” you retort.

“Well. That answer will change when I have Rose.” The name of your daughter makes every nerve ending in your body kick at once.

“What. Like Ethan will just hand her over to the likes of you?”

“Actually.”

A slow smirk crosses her full lips. Then their shape changes to match yours. All of her does, until you are left looking at a perfect mirror of yourself. Only, there’s no way you look quite that good inside of this shitty cell.

“He’ll hand her over to you.”

When she laughs, it is your own voice haunting your ears.

She has your daughter. She has your everything in her hands. So, she has your cooperation, as well.

Miranda doesn’t really talk when she comes to collect blood samples for whatever experiments she needs them. Your initial cries and questions were muted the second she told you the more helpful and less annoying you are, the more inclined she’ll feel to bring Rose to you for a while.

In the end, you do let yourself be her docile little lab rat.

Until you literally can’t take the silence anymore.

“Was it really… that easy?” ‘To enter my home and take my daughter’ you want to add but you can’t even get the words past your throat.

She seems to understand, though. “Effortless.” she isn’t being cocky as she says it. In fact, she seems almost surprised herself. At least, from the angle you get of her face, while she’s studying a strange rock-like substance under a microscope.

“How the hell did Ethan not figure out you aren’t me?!” That moron. He just gave your daughter to her. That clueless moron!

For a split second, you see her lip twitch in what could, perhaps, be a withheld smile. “I was there for a day, so. Seems like your husband doesn’t know you quite that well.”

Is it really fair to blame him for not knowing you, though? With the secrets you’ve kept from him? The distance? The trauma from the shared nightmare you experienced coming back to you every time you even looked at him?

God, Rose really is the only thing that kept you together, isn’t she…

It’s easy to hate the accursedly beautiful bitch outside your cell. It’s easy to blame Ethan for not even suspecting something was amiss with you for a whole damn day.

It is not so easy to blame yourself as much as you do them.

Miranda replies when you ask her things, so you ask her about herself. To your surprise, she does not shroud her motives from you.

She has lost her daughter, she tells you, and the only way to get her back is through yours. For the first time since you met her, you see emotion clearly expressed in her eyes and voice. You recognize how she longs to be with her child again.

You can understand the never-ending grief of a mother losing her offspring. You know if anything happened to Rose you would rather fling yourself off a cliff than live a life without her.

And apparently, that is what she tried to do, too. She tried to die –and discovered life instead. That is what she calls it, anyway. All you can hear as she explains is that she found –and founded— the Mold. The same one that ruined your husband and you.

One more reason to hate the psycho witch.

And yet.

When you try to reach for the rage you previously held for her, you find that it’s gone. You’re bitter, you’re exhausted, you want to cry and above everything you want to see Rose again. But you don’t loathe her as you should.

“What do you mean… the only way to get Eva back is through Rose?” you dare ask after several minutes of silence.

She turns to look at you, eyes as piercing as they are blue. “Technically, the trade is simple.” Maybe you’re losing it from the stress and lack of sleep, but you think she almost hesitates for a second. “…a life for a life.”

As soon as she speaks and the meaning of her words registers in your mind, you’re gripping at the rusty iron bars with all your might, rattling them, shouting profanities at her. You are back to hating her all over again. It’s much simpler this way.

Until… she walks over and grabs your hand over the metal. Her touch is oddly warm for such a glacial heart. You cannot tell what she does to you, but it feels like an aura flowing through your system that silences you. Calms you. You do not want to be calm.

“I wasn’t finished.” she speaks. “That is where the experiments with you come in. By running tests on your blood and Rose’s and using my DNA as a medium, during the ritual I can trick the Megamycete into giving me what I want through a form of mitosis. Essentially, cell duplication that will not override the existing vessel.”

To be honest… you lost her midway through the very first sentence. You were quite good with biology back in the day but right now, in the state you’re in, science is going right over your head.

“...Is there an English version of that.” you ask.

Her mouth curves into that almost-smile again. It would be quite gorgeous, actually, if she hadn’t kidnapped you, infiltrated your home as you and abducted your daughter.

“If the tests succeed, you get your daughter back, I get mine from cloned DNA and Mold cells.” There’s a hint of pride in her voice as she says it.

And now, assuming she’s telling the truth, you want those tests to succeed more than you want to get out of here. Her hand leaves yours and the weird calm she blasted into you dissipates with it.

“Wait. So…” Realization strikes you like a thunderclap. “So these tests are for me?”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you, you crazy b—blonde.” You rattle the iron bars again, a tad weaker than before. She does smirk over the microscope, this time. “How likely are the tests to succeed?” you ask impatiently.

“Quite.” she replies, flat once again.

“…And if they don’t?” you hate how your voice shakes there, at the end.

She looks at you, dead in the eyes, as she answers: “I am getting my daughter back either way, Mia.”

You can’t believe it. You cannot believe you’re thinking this, but you hope the crazy bitch knows what she’s doing.

Miranda is… despicable, but she is a woman of her word.

She brings you Rose for hours at a time and in exchange you help her outside of your cell. You thought your daughter would be in a worse condition, considering who keeps her, yet she’s healthy as ever, well-fed and clean. The worst part is, she laughs every time Miranda comes close and she even reaches out for her.

“No, my darling, don’t do that.” you tell her, tucking her tighter in your arms, before the woman behind you notices what’s happening.

Except it’s too late. “Ah, I see.” Miranda speaks, coming up to you from behind. She’s tall enough to lean over your shoulder and wave at Rose, who moves both hands towards her. “A lady of taste.” the woman praises and the lightness to her voice almost makes her sound like someone else. Someone normal.

“Stop it.” You turn your child away from her. “She’s just confused because you’re lit up like a Christmas tree.” You motion with your chin at her getup.

Miranda chuckles. “What. She senses our bond. Rose feels safe with me.”

Safe with the monster who wants to sacrifice her to get her own child back. You cannot swallow that thought down. “But she’s not, is she?!” you snap.

“She is.” Miranda reverts to her cool facade, glancing down at your daughter. “I will never let anything hurt her. And when she gives me Eva back, I will make sure she grows up bathed in luxury.”

It’s the Mold, you’re sure of it.

It’s the Mold’s fault that you believe her.

You were supposed to see Rose today. Instead, Miranda comes into the cave alone, looking irritated. You start to worry. Nothing phases her without a good reason. What if—

“Where’s my daughter?!” you demand, eyes wide.

“We have a problem.” she tells you. Your blood goes cold in your veins. “A problem named Ethan Winters.”

“Ethan?” you gasp.

“He is trying to get Rose back and according to reports from the Lords under me, he cannot be killed. His hand got cut off and he just reattached it. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” she’s certain that you know. You can see it in her steely eyes.

“I— why would I—”

“Before you think to lie to me, hear something else. I bear good news, as well.” Miranda says. “I have succeeded in my experiments. During the ritual, I can guarantee Rose will remain unharmed and unchanged.” the edge of her lip curls up as she delivers the news. You almost cry from the sheer relief.

You almost leap forward and hug her, yet you remember who she is and that she caused this mess in the first place.

“But my conditions have changed.” her voice is a sword that cuts off your happiness just like that. You knew it was too good to be true. “For me to save Rose, you will tell me how to permanently get rid of Ethan Winters.”

…What?

She wants you to… trade your daughter for your husband? How the hell can I do that?!

“He has ruined too much for me to let him walk away happily now.” Her jaw is tight enough to sprout new lines on her flawless face. She wants him dead and she always gets what she wants. “He has killed colleagues of mine. Spat in the face of a damn-near god. I will have his head.”

The corners of your eyes sting with welling tears. Your body is far more honest than you in making a decision. Nobody is too important to sacrifice when it comes to your daughter. Not yourself. Not Ethan. And Miranda knows this better than anybody else. You loathe how she knows.

“Give him to me, Mia. And in a few days this whole thing will be over.” she continues in a significantly softer tone, getting closer to you. Her wings shift, the very edge of black feathers brushing your arms.

“You want me to aid in killing the father of my child?!” you sob, grabbing at her clothes. You’d expect her to shove you away, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t even blink.

“You have been so cooperative and so brave.” she soothes, gold-taloned fingers coming underneath your chin. “Make one last sacrifice for me. Help me murder Ethan so Rose can live. Help me and I vow to be her eternal guardian angel. Hers and yours.”

She could just force the answer out of you. She’s touching you and you know she has that power. But she doesn’t do it and it’s far worse this way. She wants it to be your choice.

You look away from Miranda’s icy eyes and her promises of everything.

And you tell her.

You do not ask about Ethan. All that’s in your mind is the ceremony.

For the entire morning, you cannot breathe. You trace notes in her lab and pace around until you literally feel like you’ll explode—

And then Miranda comes in. She is radiant, smiling from ear to ear, glowing with pure joy. She looks every part the goddess she pretends to be. The golden circle usually adorning her back is gone, her long blonde hair is left free to flow like fine strands of silk past her square shoulders.

“It is done!” she tells you, a hand extended for you to take. “Come. I’ll take you to Rose and you will be the first to meet Eva.”

Her hand is warm when it closes around yours. Black wings shroud you both. There is a gravitational pull around you that’s so intense you shut your eyes and grab onto her biceps for dear life.

“You can look, now.” she speaks once the world is stable again. Your gut is churning, yet every bit of exhaustion and discomfort vanish the second you see Rose. She is safe within the first of the two golden cribs in front of you, bathed by the soft sunlight that disperses across the luxurious, dark-tiled chamber you’re in.

You run towards her, lifting your daughter in your arms and kissing her forehead over and over. She laughs at you, blue eyes crinkled. My love. My everything, you think. Everything was worth it for this moment. And you would do it all again, to ensure her safety.

Miranda’s steps, regal and authoritative, come to a stop near the other crib. You lean closer, take a look… to see another little angel there, sleeping peacefully. She resembles Rose, yet she resembles Miranda, too.

“Oh my God.” you breathe. “You really did it.”

“I did it and you and Rose made it possible, Mia.” she says. Your child extends a tiny hand towards her. She removes one of her claws and lets her finger be taken in your baby’s grip. “You don’t have to leave. She loves me already.” A proud smile curves her lips.

You hate how it looks like a sunrise.

You hate it even more that you understand why Rose is so charmed.

“Her mom can grow to love me, too.” Crystal eyes look into your own. “There is no place safer than by my side. Stay and we will raise them together. You won’t have to fear disease or death with me. You and Rose will have every little thing you could ever want. Forever.”

You don’t want your child to be co-patented by this selfish megalomaniac, who is the killer of her father. But. Then you stop to consider what you have been through until now. Nightmare after nightmare; this vicious cycle does not look like it will be broken. One thing or another will haunt you and hunt you wherever you go. You don’t want that life for Rose.

You won’t accept that life for Rose.

“…we will stay. But you can forget that part about me growing any fonder of you than I am now.”

Miranda nods, but something in her expression is so damn cocky you want to smack her. “Oh, what’s that, Rose? You can tell your mother is lying, too? My genius girl.”

Your jaw drops. She is my genius girl!

Miranda then touches your chin and tilts it up. You don’t want to be any closer to the gorgeous fucking witch, but when she stops there, hovering just over your mouth for a skipped heartbeat, looking down at you with those crystalline eyes of hers, you’re paralyzed.

Her lips slide over your own for just one slick, hot second. When she pulls back, she caresses Rose’s cheek and winks at you.

“I hate you.” you say, yet it holds no real bite. God, you’re exhausted.

“That’s alright. We have all the time in the world to change that.”

#resident evil village #resident evil 8 #mother miranda #mia winters #mother miranda x mia #fanfiction #rosemary winters #rose winters #ethan winters #comission #writing #Where Miranda wins and takes everything and more #hail winged hottie goddess

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barnesandco · 3 years

Text

Little Hands (V)

Series Masterlist

Bucky treats you to a day out.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2021. Word count: 1625. Square filled: “Lucky (Clint’s dog)”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Police. Sad child.

A/N: This is so late and I am so sorry. Let me know what you think! And massive thank you’s to anyone who is still reading this disaster.

Morning brings a new perspective, a new ease in the way Bucky moves around Ana. He pretends he doesn’t know that you witnessed the way they bonded last night, and for that benefit you don’t bring it up. It’s discussed and laid to rest with the intelligent smile you give him, one that he lets dissolve through his sternum and curl around his heart. Tendrils of soft hope, wisps of quiet connection, strengthening the friendship you’ve established and glinting with promise of something more.

Something more might have to wait, but Bucky thinks you’ve made it clear that it is there, on the horizon, awaiting you both. A future, one that, on his part, also involves the little soul that sits on top of the kitchen island, swinging her legs into the cabinets. Children are early risers, and so are superheroes, but today, on this cool morning, Anastasia has them beat.

So, it’s just the three of you. Bucky, and Anastasia, and you. You’re cutting up fruit and washing berries for the pancakes he’s making while you also remotely monitor the tea. A minty brew, warm, topped with honey and lemon, sharp enough to wake lingering drowsiness while still soothing, syrup-soft. You know your stuff, and Bucky’s glad to have a change of pace after a fast week of too much too strong too sweet coffee, even if he chooses to have it that way.

This particular change of pace would give him whiplash if not for the fact that he got a good night’s sleep, Anastasia’s nightmares notwithstanding. It has strengthened his resolve to find her a child psychologist, somebody who can help her better than he can, once this ordeal with Tobias Zola is over and they are all safe.

He needs to keep her safe. It was her mother’s – no, her final caretaker’s – last wish and request, and now that they are tied by blood, it has become his. She really looks so much like him. Her hair hasn’t developed the same brown yet, it’s still a shade lighter, with hints of golden for the lesser age, the summer sun bleaching that has yet to pass. It’s curly like his never was, likely an affectation of whatever female contribution is in her genetics.

Her genetics. Bucky shakes his head at the frying pan. He doesn’t want to sound like one of the scientists that put her into this situation, into this cruel, cruel world.

A clearing of your throat breaks him out of the thought bubble, and he flips the last pancake out of the pan and onto a plate, much to Anastasia’s delight. The ensuing giggle is the closest thing he’s heard to laughter from the kid. That’s not good. Children need laughter. He makes himself, and Ana, a silent promise to be more uplifting.

“Do you think we could leave the Compound, today?” You ask, out of nowhere, as you place the assorted fruit on the table. Ana, whose hands is halfway to the strawberries, stops as she waits on Bucky’s answer. Clearly, this is something she wants, too. Who is he to deny them?

“Sure. Fury might want us to take some security measures, but we should be fine.”

-----

That’s how they wind up at an ice cream parlor by 10 am, after the security has been cleared with Fury and Sam, and the only addition to their little team is Lucky, a dog apparently shared by Clint and his protégé in the city, one Kate Bishop. They’ve been told that while not a trained security dog, Lucky has sensors that will let Kate know if they’re in danger, and she can provide and send further backup. The rest of the Avengers are busy with tracking down leads to Zola.

Bucky knows he can protect you and Ana just fine, should need be, and isn’t worried about the fact that the only bodyguard they’ve been provided with is canine. Ana has bonded with the dog and walks with one hand in the fur by its shoulder and the other in his own hand, her eyes flitting between the sights of the city and her companions. Her caretakers. Her guardians.

The ice cream place is a little business that another one of Steve’s children is working at on weekends. is a head shorter than Bucky, and terrifies the living wits out of him. She’s one hell of a people watcher, she has a sweet tooth and a thing for Jane Austen, and the world is lucky her foremost interest is in dessert making and not something far more nefarious, like say, espionage.

She greets Bucky at the door with a hug and shakes both your and Ana’s hands, and lets you all sit outside so you can be with Lucky. The rusty fall sun makes Lucky’s fur shine like spun gold and light Ana up in hues of ruby and topaz, and you turn your face to the light and sigh.

For a moment, the world is quiet. For a moment, the scent of sugar crystallizes on his face like the sensation of rightness does. And when it ends, it’s not with a crash landing. It’s a gentle reorientation. You open your eyes, look at him with immeasurable affection. Ana pets Lucky. Vivien says, “Let me know when you’re ready to order, Uncle Bucky,” and puts a menu on the table.

You decide on a mango ice cream shake, Bucky wants an Oreo sundae, and Ana, of course, demands the largest dish on the menu, the one whose picture is emblazoned across a good quarter of the laminated card. A massive ice cream and berry split.

When your order arrives, Anastasia laughs for the second time. Bucky thinks he should say something, make a joke, conversation, but in this moment, nothing else could feel so forced. He’s a man of few words and many services. That’s how he chooses to love, and Ana can see that. You can see that.

It's why you nod affirmingly when he meets your eyes over Ana’s mountain of ice cream. You carry entire sentences in your glances, words of silent confidence, the fuel he is feeding on right now.

-----

Ana is happy. The world, if for a few hours, is right. He knows it cannot last, even now, walking back to the car after a morning and afternoon of joy, arms laden down with bags of new things, treats he never had but can now provide. Despite the resignation that has started to weigh on him, he reminds himself: his daughter has a home. She will be safe, and he will take care of her, no matter what it takes.

-----

The car ride back is louder than he anticipated. You give the music a go, playing something by Raveena, a sweet voice he likes but that Ana talks over, making quite the chaotic symphony that he likes even more. Lucky contributes the occasional bright bark that makes Ana laugh, pausing her incessant chatter, if momentarily.

Mostly, she talks about what she saw, the things she has now started to process, asks questions about the stores she did not previously have the luxury to, presumably because her previous guardian didn’t have the means, and besides, they were on the run.

He’s grateful to her. Irene. Before he was confused but now it is obvious: Ana is his daughter, and he wants her as much as any other parent does their child, even if the way she was thrown into her life was unconventional, to say the least.

Looking at her in the rearview mirror as she twists in her seat to reach Lucky in the back, he knows he will move heaven and earth to remove the threats in her path. It makes him dangerous. It makes him a father.

“You okay?” You ask, following his gaze, and Bucky smiles, eyes returning to the road.

“Never better.”

Your hand finds his where it takes a break from the steering wheel to rest on his knee. He twists your joined hands until he can hold yours. Squeezes it, as if to say, thank you. As if to say, we’ll all be okay.

-----

Turns out, he’s wrong, and this is why you should never rely on routines. Promises are made to be broken. When they get back, the NYPD is waiting, and not to update them on the case. He sees the waiting handcuffs, and he knows you do, too.

You make the right move, trying to usher Ana out of the room with some excuse or other, but it’s too late. Her instincts have latched onto the fact that something is very, very wrong.

The DA says, “James Buchanan Barnes, you’re under arrest as a suspect in the murder of Irene Orlov,” and Ana screams, and screams, and screams.

Bucky tries not to close his eyes, knows it’s too late to put his hands over his ears as cuffs close around his wrists. Besides, he needs to show that he understands the charges, and yes, they’re reading him his Miranda rights, and yes, he understands.

He’s innocent. And his team will prove it. But it’s no use arguing with these people, so he goes silently, even as he hears Sam, Steve and Nat going at it with the police chief in the dull background of Ana’s roar. It’s no use. The police wouldn’t be here without reason, and they’ll let him go when his team finds them reason to.

Everything is going to be okay, he tells himself. It has to. Because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if it isn’t.

Bucky sees you, tear-sodden and holding onto a distraught Ana, in the reflection of the glass doors before they slide open.

#SSB2021 #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #marvel #mcu #marvel fanfic #mcu fanfic #avengers #avengers fanfiction

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blookmallow · 3 years

Text

hi i binged through all of salad fingers for the first time in like 8 years and im fixating again here are. My Theories. pls talk to me if anyone else has Thoughts or wants to discuss things. this is really long i am sorry :’ )

also shout out to the salad fingers wiki for helping me keep track of details and also for this

-----

thought: salad fingers is not violent on purpose he did not mean to kill that kid

this is less a theory and more “if you slander my boy with accusations i will Get you” but listen. i see people going “but he mURDERED A CHILD!!” because of the oven incident but listen. listen to me. he didnt mean to and cannot be held to the same standard of morality and understanding consequences as a. person who isn’t..... in whatever situation and mental state he has going on

- yes, the kid getting trapped in the oven was his fault. but it was not intentional or malicious and i sincerely doubt he understands what happened or why.

he was asking for help reaching the fish (there’s no reason to believe he wasn’t just genuinely asking for help. he tears up in gratitude. theres no evidence of him Tricking People Maliciously in any other context i do not believe he would do that) and was distracted by the rusty nail, causing him to let go of the door. it wasn’t “he cares more about rust than about a child’s life” or something, i dont think he can actually hold “hey look at that i gotta check that out” and “i need to hold the door open so the child doesn’t get hurt” in his head at the same time, rust is his favorite stim/an impulse thing that takes over everything else and his perception of reality and the things going on around him changes very quickly and easily. more on that later. but the important point here is it wasn’t a malicious plot, or a neglectful careless action, he literally did not realize letting go of the door would cause harm

he stabbed himself accidentally with the nail and passed out for a while (the fact that he immediately bled that much is concerning too, he probably has hemophilia which is. a medical condition outside of his control, as well) and after all that he had completely forgotten about the child altogether (and says “i must have dozed off” so he doesn’t even understand he passed out. and might not remember the nail thing in the first place)

we don’t see what happened after this, we don’t know how he responds when he investigates the fish and inevitably finds an unexpected charred corpse in there, but i guarantee he won’t remember why its in there or understand that its a corpse. we dont see it again so its. entirely possible he didnt recognize it as a person and either just disposed of it or, uh, ate it. but if he did, it wasn’t with the knowledge and comprehension of it being A Corpse or the memory of how it got there

theory: on salad fingers and memory / comprehension of death and consequences

more on that subject

- we see him frequently doing things and then immediately forgetting he did it or forgetting what was happening. he accidentally squishes the bug (which also was not malicious or intentional, he intended to pet it but just. went too hard) and has no understanding either that its dead, or that he killed it. she has gone flat and gooey for some unknown reason. that’s strange. she needs to go have a wash, that’s no way to be.

he eats the jeremy fisher puppet at one point and then immediately goes “where have you gotten to??”

he even briefly forgets hubert cumberdale’s name and immediately comes up with another one without realizing it, and then later goes back to hubert cumberdale again with no mention of barbara logan-price

he refers to the same little yellow guy as��“young child” and also Auntie Bainbridge later on. he keeps up the fantasy of... whatever the fuck yvonne was being his child for a pretty long time but then when he arrives at “auntie bainbridge” ‘s house he suddenly forgets why he’s there, and even apparently forgets what yvonne is and uses ‘her’ as a window rag instead and never mentions it again (I also don’t think she was in the sandwich at the end either. it’s hard to see but the sandwich contents are vaguely brown and theres a visible lump in the black goo behind him. i like the idea that the lil yellow guy made the sandwich for him)

salad fingers is constantly subconsciously adjusting his reality to fit Whatever Makes The Most Sense At The Time and does not consistently remember things (sometimes even major things. he remembers his puppets the most consistently and still even forgets hubert’s name) or have a concept of cause and effect

i think he possibly has some sense of recognition, “I’ve seen this person before,” but doesn’t always remember Why he knows them, and his mind just automatically fills in the blank with whatever makes sense to him. he doesn’t remember who the yellow guy is, but knows he knows them Somehow, so, ah, of course, it must be auntie bainbridge out for her sunday stroll :) and he knows he’s there for a reason, but not what that reason was, so he decides it must be time to clean the windows

- milford cubicle was already dead when salad fingers opens the door, but he has no idea that hes dead. this isn’t even a cause for concern. my, he must be tired, that’s all. he kept milford there until he rotted away, too, so there was never a point where he realized anything was wrong (until he became skeleton. more on That later too)

- he finds a corpse buried in the yard and rather than confronting the confusing and alarming reality of that situation, why it must be kenneth, back from the great war! at no point does he understand kenneth is definitely dead

theory: kenneth vs glass brother

i think he really did have a brother named kenneth who probably died in the war. could be some subconscious connection between “recognizing” a corpse as his brother, but i dont think he realizes any of that. i think the glass family is probably a trauma based hallucination, but a... well, reflection. pun not exactly intended lmao. on how his real family was and how they treated him

i dont think glass brother is the same brother as kenneth, since salad fingers interacts with them completely differently

kenneth is a corpse that salad fingers projects a personality on and speaks for, while glass brother seems independent and malicious toward him. i think he had a good relationship with kenneth (so, when salad fingers imagines that he’s here, it’s cause for celebration and he’s projecting onto something inert and “safe”) and also had another brother (who was probably his twin) who bullied him and acted violently, so when that trauma resurfaces, he hallucinates a vicious Other that he cannot control or speak for.

it also tracks that the abusive brother was his twin - he sees himself reflected in the mirror, and something in his own face reminds him of that lost brother until it “becomes” him

he refers to kenneth as his younger brother, and sees him as a being that does not look like him, while glass brother is literally his reflection, so it would make sense if he had one identical twin and one younger brother

ive seen theories that he had a real sister named bordois too, but i think him calling the bug “little sister” was just. a term of endearment or one of his little odd language quirks, he seemed to be talking to it more like a pet than like a sibling

theory: regarding mable

- ok people are saying salad fingers killed mable at the picnic but i Really Don’t Think He Did

we never see him acting out violently when he gets scared. he tends to try to escape situations that stress him out, he shrinks, he cries, he goes into his cupboard (which is. incredibly upsetting given the fact he was almost definitely abused by his family)

he takes on a kind of Authoritative Tone often, he gets sort of ruffled up and disdainful toward things, but that’s not what he does when he’s scared

when he’s actually distressed (rather than irritated) he tends to break down and retreat. this includes when other independent beings act in ways that unsettle and upset him

so i dont know where the “he freaked out and killed her” idea is coming from. he suddenly goes from outside at the picnic to having a breakdown in his house so. he most likely just ran

i think the Only time we see him act out violently is when he decides he has to punish marjory for not getting a haircut like he asked - he tears her hair out, but for me that scene was particularly concerning because it was so unlike him. that was an anger response, not a fear response, though, and he tends to be harsher toward things that he’s actually controlling (I don’t think we ever see him decide to Discipline something that was independent from him other than the horses, and he didnt hurt them)

ordinarily when something irritates him he just goes “hmph! so distasteful. how rude. i shan’t have this behavior, you know” but doesn’t really actually do anything about it, and moves on

anyway we never see mable again so i think either he freaked out and ran away and she just didn’t come back, or he scared her and she ran away, or both

there’s a dress visible briefly when salad fingers is making his Flesh Boy which could be mable’s (he did comment he liked it) but it’s not 100% clear, and that doesn’t necessarily mean he KILLED her for it. she could have changed into something else and left it somewhere and he found it. she could have died under unrelated circumstances, and salad fingers found her - he doesn’t comprehend death, so. probably he decided they’ve made amends now and she’s given him her dress as a token of friendship, or something

i dont think it really looks that significantly like hers but the fact that it stands out so distinctly from the rest of the Pile could mean something

but i just feel like if he had killed her we would’ve seen her corpse again, he doesn’t have a concept of murder, or death at all, or consequences, and his memory doesn’t hold out that consistently, so if he killed her, he probably would have calmed down later and then forgotten what he did and came up with a new way to explain the corpse in front of him - oh, how rude of me, mable’s here dozing right off and i havent even offered her a blanket. let’s get you to bed

like, he probably would have dragged her home with him, with the intention of being a good friend/host to his guest, not understanding what happened. he kept milford cubicle around a really long time

it wouldn’t be like him to have any concept of hiding the evidence

speaking of milford

theory: regarding milford cubicle

salad fingers keeps milford’s corpse around until it starts rotting, and then after a very confusing series of events, the corpse is suddenly a skeleton, which surprisingly alarms salad fingers considerably, and then he goes out to find a whole bunch of himselves eating various bits of gore. they give him a present, which is a hat very clearly made of milford’s skin

my conclusion: salad fingers, in some kind of dissociative fugue state, skinned and ate the remains of milford cubicle himself and turned the remaining skin into a hat. he also saves some of it to make hubert cumberdale (the real boy) later as well, probably forgetting where it came from. he does not realize he’s done this or remember doing it, so his scrambled mind tries to make sense of it with other selves eating unknown flesh, and a lovely hat appearing (which he doesn’t seem to notice is made of flesh)

you can also see milford’s original name tag in the drawer later on when he’s building the flesh boy, so. he kept that after the mysterious disappearance of milford’s flesh, apparently. more evidence that that skin is probably also his

some other scattered thoughts regarding the most recent string of episodes and salad fingers’ mental state:

ive been trying to figure out what the fuckhell happened with the yvonne incident and everything that happened in the birthday episode

im really concerned for salad fingers’ health and mental state, as it seems to be deteriorating

some yvonne theories ive seen:

1. he ate the burned corpse of the kid who died in the oven, and it made him very sick, which ultimately resulted in a charred mass he couldn’t digest - he steadily gets worse, until his body finally ejects it (yvonne’s “birth”) and after that his health starts to recover again. since the oven incident happens really early on, all the times he mentions his stomach being upset after that until he becomes deathly ill would make sense, so i think this is plausible

2. the hair he found in the cupboard was actually a parasitic worm that grew in his stomach after he ate it and became yvonne. i think this is Possible, it is a really strangely wormy looking hair, but it doesn’t move and he mentions stomach pains before this, so it seems less likely to me

3. i also saw the concept that salad fingers is a trans man who suffered a miscarriage at some point in his past and yvonne represents that, and i can definitely see where the idea is coming from but i do think something really physically happened to him in the present time, i dont think it was all a trauma-based hallucination, since the yellow guy reacts to the black ooze and something was definitely making him severely ill

so. i Don’t Know what the fuck that was about but i think the burnt corpse theory makes the most sense

on that note: there’s a lot of cannibalism imagery in salad fingers

we have no IDEA where he’s getting food from. im pretty sure its been confirmed that he is Not a zombie, we see him bleed, pass out, sleep, etc so it seems like he must be a living person who has ordinary needs. but we see him eat... his own puppets. hairs. sand. the soup glass mother instructed him to make, which made him very sick. he has a working oven but doesn’t seem to have consistent access to water. he had a fish somehow but who knows where it came from. it’s very likely he doesn’t get food often and some of his hallucinations and mood swings could be caused by starvation (and when he does eat, it’s things that are outright inedible or probably not good for him)

the burned corpse disappears and is never mentioned again (though salad fingers is very sick afterward). milford’s flesh disappears and salad fingers violently hallucinates multiple selves gorging themselves on unknown flesh

and what concerns me the most about that is that he loses a lot of time in that episode

he passes out in the woods and when he wakes up, it looks like a shit ton of time has passed

we don’t know how much is reality and how much is his warped perception, but it looks like a tree has grown and his physical condition has deteriorated

he looks really, really unhealthy and haggard for the rest of the episode

i think he had a huge dissociative episode and lost possibly weeks of time, probably due to starvation, and he ate milford cubicle and very possibly other people as well

so my question is. how often does this happen to him

and what happens to him during that state? does he become violent and dangerous without being aware of it when he returns to himself again? or has he just been ravenously scavenging corpses when he gets desperate enough?

its possible dr papanak is another personality he has, one that’s “buried out in the woods” that he becomes when he’s in a really, really bad mental and physical state

he looks much better in the next episode (though that’s also when he has his outburst with marjory. could be that he’s still staving off the violent urges/hasn’t fully come back to himself after the last incident) and I’m really hoping the fact that he was able to finally stand up to his family (at least in some sense) and smash the mirrors could mean he’s making steps toward recovery after whatever the hell all that was

there’s not really much space to do anything with his life or get much help given the circumstances but watching him slowly losing himself even more is Awful :(

i hope we get more episodes im so desperate for more information now

lastly, some random observations

i tried to read this newspaper and it looks like it’s actually written in french, which is interesting given that salad fingers seems to be british (but fond of france, and seems to speak french or at least knows one phrase)

i wonder where he got this, or whether it ever meant something significant to him

theres a lot of evidence that he can’t read (takes no notice of the “harry” nametag and immediately names him something else, “reads” a letter that is actually a newspaper clipping in another language he’s holding upside down, “writes” a letter that is just scribbles) so i dont think he learned his one french phrase from this or anything but, still. vaguely interesting. maybe he has been to france before and brought this back with him for some reason. maybe he’s actually in post apocalyptic france and was just originally from england. We Don’t Know

theres a weird little face in the. heater? whatever that is in the background for a second and i dont like it

salad fingers leaves horace in charge, but then sees him (as a live horse) in the woods, but then comes back to find him both still on the shelf (as a toy) and in the room (as a live horse, now with his, uh, surgery scars) but doesn’t seem to notice this and doesn’t comment on it

i dont know what the hell that means other than possibly his reality is even less consistent and logical than usual/a reflection on his mental state deteriorating

#salad fingers #pinned #media analysis

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evanescentjasmine · 4 years

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Writing Egypt and Egyptian Characters: Rusty Quill Gaming Edition

I’ve finally caught up with the Cairo arc of Rusty Quill Gaming, which I was anticipating and dreading both. Fiction set in my country usually reduces it to a caricature of itself, especially when it takes place in the Victorian era, but considering everything they’ve said in their metacasts I was hoping Rusty Quill Gaming was the exception.

It wasn’t.

I’m aware the game world plays fast and loose with history and setting, but the problems in this case are more than just inaccuracies. However, because I want to help fic writers and artists be able to portray Hamid and his family well, this resource will be split into two parts. The first part will tackle details I’ve been asked about with regard to the setting; it may touch on things RQG went wrong, but I’m writing it primarily as a resource for artists and writers. The second part will be my criticism of RQG, and why I found the Cairo arc actively harmful. This includes discussions of Orientalism and some racist text.

I should also preface this by saying I’m not a historian. Everything I say in this resource is a combination of what I grew up with and what I remember from school, supplemented by Google and guesswork. I’ll be explaining my thought process throughout, which can help you see what’s actual history and what’s my extrapolation.

Part One: On Egypt

Historical Context:

Figuring out the history of Egypt in RQG terms is a bit complicated, so bear with me because this will take a while.

In real-world history, Egypt was a Roman then Byzantine province from 30 BC to around the mid 600s AD, at which point the Arab conquest swept through and Egypt became Muslim.

What this means is that when the Meritocrats took down Rome and took over the world, Egypt was still a Roman province. That gives us a several hundred year gap before the Arabs that may have maintained the same culture? Or morphed a little back to some pre-Ptolemaic Ancient Egyptian, given their Meritocrat, Apophis, is named after a great Pharaonic serpent?

Either way, given Hamid’s name and the fact they live in Cairo, the city built by the Arabs, we can assume the Arab conquest still happened somehow, despite having a Meritocrat in Egypt. Maybe a Meritocrat out there is Arab and settled in Egypt for a bit with or before Apophis? Maybe it took a couple-hundred years for the Meritocrats to get all the previous Roman areas under control? Maybe there was a whole war and the Arabs won and settled and eventually they got to a truce or got absorbed into Meritocratic lands?

Many Muslim dynasties ruled throughout the period from the mid 600s to the 1500s. Given the lack of Islam in this world, probably the Arabs were unified by some Pre-Islamic deity/deities and brought them over as well, because I refuse to just sweep everything under the broad Greek God rug.

In the 1500s, another Muslim dynasty took over--this time, from outside of the country, which is why it’s considered separate from all the rest. At this point, Egypt became part of the Ottoman Empire until the 1800s, which is when the Mohammed Ali dynasty started to try and secede and rule independently. And there was a brief blip of the French occupation for two years around then as well.

And, of course, we can’t forget about British colonisation, which started in the late 1800s with a veiled protectorate.

Presumably, since France and Britain are also Meritocratic and it seems like Apophis is currently ruling, we can disregard everything from the Ottomans onward. This changes, or should change, a ton, because Ottoman rule informed a lot of things from fashion to slang to nobility and so on.

What we’re left with is most likely a Cairo that is still Arab but with much more Pharaonic influence, as Apophis is in charge, as well as continuing Greek influence due to the Gods. I am not a Coptic Christian, so I cannot speak to how these changes in history and religions would affect the Coptic language and culture, but no doubt it would still be around.

There would also be a bigger, more long-standing connection to other Meritocratic countries. This explains why Hamid was British-educated and so many people speak such good English without a British occupation to create the power disparity that would make that necessary to rise in Egypt and such a mark of status.

However, this presents several confusing and contradictory aspects of the world building:

Why doesn’t this go both ways? Why aren’t there people in England and France who know Arabic or are influenced by Egypt? All we get is that the Tahan family are big. That’s it. If these countries are equals, it sure doesn’t look like it.

If Apophis is pharaonic and Ancient Egyptian culture and knowledge are so ubiquitous...why would they hollow out a pyramid to put a bank inside? It’s a tomb. It’s made to bury dead kings in a way that follows possibly still-existing cultural and religious beliefs. It’s the equivalent of someone building a bank inside a mausoleum. It’s bizarre.

Relatedly, if Ancient Egyptian culture and knowledge are so ubiquitous, why is Carter mentioning the Rosetta Stone? Why would the knowledge necessary to translate hieroglyphics have been lost?

I mention these questions so fic writers can keep them in mind while writing and, of course, it’s entirely possible to create a workaround. For example, maybe the Rosetta Stone is supposed to be translating something else, like an ancient hidden magic?

Describing Cairo:

I want to make one thing very clear: Cairo is not, despite Alex’s description, like Vegas. While we do certainly have hotels and casinos, to reduce the city to only that is very harmful for reasons I’ll go into at the end of this resource.

Cairo is a very old city with a mix of architectural styles and is very heavily Muslim in real life. In Arabic, its tagline is often “city of a thousand minarets,” so clearly RQG Cairo will be fairly different. Given Apophis’ influence, Ancient Egyptian styles might be more prevalent in Cairo, but very likely not in the form of pyramids unless those pyramids were for the dead. In real life, some buildings do incorporate Ancient Egyptian flavour, usually just in the form of lotus columns or hieroglyphs. These would only be found in public institutions, however, or, frankly, tourist-bait.

Residential buildings tend to be clustered very close together and, since it’s an old city, streets are crowded and winding as the city keeps building on itself and spilling out of its previous bounds. Estates do, of course, exist, but I’d suggest against using Bryn’s example of Alhambra as a setting for the Tahan home. Alhambra is a palace fortress in Spain and, although it’s Andalusian and therefore influenced by Muslim architecture, it’s very different than anything in Egypt. It’s as absurd as saying a posh British character lives in a house that’s basically Versailles and leaving it there. I’ve included images of some Egyptian residential estates below, all from the 1800s to early 1900s.

And here are some photos of Cairo in the 1800s:

As you can see, not quite Vegas.

A fic set in Cairo can certainly still have the Cairo strip with all the casinos, since that’s an aspect of canon, but a place like that would probably be geared more to tourists and foreigners than locals. So long you’re aware of this while writing, and that Cairo would exist beyond it, you should be fine. It might also be worth having characters explore the actual city.

Weather:

The stereotype is that Egypt is just hot and sand year-round. It isn’t. The further south you go, the hotter it will get, so that Upper Egypt (which is in the south, yeah), is hotter than Lower Egypt, which is where Cairo and Alexandria are. Alexandria, by virtue of being on the Mediterranean, has fairly cold (for us) and rainy winters and mild, humid summers. Cairo gets very occasional rain and has harsher summers but is also dryer.

And, of course, a thing to remember is that even in the depths of the desert, the morning might be quite warm but the night will be quite cold as well.

Sandstorm season (called khamaseen) takes place from April - May but in the middle of Cairo it’s more of an annoyance than anything else.

Language:

Since they speak Arabic, it’s important to note that spoken Egyptian Arabic is very different from written Classical Arabic. Egyptian is a mishmash of Arabic, Coptic, a bit of Greek, and a bit of French (and, in the real world, some Turkish too) all smashed together. Accents differ from city to city, and Cairene Arabic is best known for the fact we pronounce the letter jeem as geem (so all soft Gs are turned into hard Gs) and tend to replace the letter qaf with a glottal stop.

This means that a Cairene wouldn’t be called Jamal, they’d be Gamal. A Cairene would pronounce burqa as bur’a.

Since religion plays a big part in language, RQG Egyptian Arabic may be a bit different. For instance, the greeting most people associate with Arabic is “Assalam alaykum” but that’s very specifically Muslim or at least associated with Islam, and might not have been as wide-spread given...y’know, that Islam doesn’t exist. I’m not saying it’s incorrect to use, just explaining the context.

Alternatives could include “Sabah/masa’ el-kheir” which means “Good morning/evening,” and “Naharak/Naharik saeed” which is, “May you have a good day.”

Fashion:

Although this didn’t really feature in RQG, I’ve received a lot of questions about the period’s fashion and honestly it’s my favourite thing ever so I probably would have touched on it anyway. I’ll only go into broad strokes, as there are plenty of regional variations and, again, I’m no expert

Women

Egyptian women covered their heads and sometimes their faces not out of religiosity but out of a cultural expectation of modesty. This may well have come about as a result of the Arab/Muslim cultural majority, as to my knowledge this wasn’t the case in the Greek and Roman periods, but women of all religions covered their heads so that would likely still be the case in RQG’s Arab Egypt.

This isn’t with the hijab we know today. It may have been a cloth or kerchief tied over their heads and then the melaya laf (which is larger cloth, almost a sheet) that they wrap around themselves and over their head, as follows:

The black face-covering was called a burqa or bur’a (not the same as a Muslim burqa, which serves similar modesty functions but is a separate thing) or a yashmak and may have been opaque black, white, or netted, such as in this picture:

Underneath the melaya they would be wearing a long, loose, patterned dress:

Upper class Egyptian women tended to wear Western dresses with a white yashmak that covered their faces and heads. A yashmak is Turkish, however, and without Ottoman influence this style and name might not have caught on in Egypt.

Men

While the melaya laf and yashmak have disappeared from Egypt, the traditional men’s gallabeya and ammama, or turban, are still seen widely today. The gallabeya (or jellabiya, outside of Cairene Arabic) is a long, loose garment with wide sleeves and no collar. It’s in muted, neutral colours, usually lighter ones like white or beige in the summer and navy blue or grey in the winter. You’ll have seen examples of it in the pictures of Cairo above, and here’s another one:

Middle to upper class men and civil servants, however, tended to wear English suits with a tarboosh, or fez. Since fezzes were also a result of Ottoman rule, RQG Egyptians might not wear them.

And yes, impressive moustaches were also very much the fashion.

Names:

The running joke is that Hamid’s name is unnecessarily long, but my name is longer, and I don’t think that’s particularly unusual. We don’t usually go around introducing ourselves with all of them, admittedly, and I’m not sure whether Hamid does this as a way to indicate he’s overly fancy or because Bryn doesn’t realise it, but four names is not long. My ID boasts five, and I know of at least one more.

Arabic naming conventions use patronymics for all children, regardless of gender. What this means is that my name and my brother’s name is identical except for our first.

Mine is Jasmine + Dad’s name + his dad’s name + his dad’s name + his dad’s name

And my brother is also First name + Dad’s name + his dad’s name + his dad’s name + his dad’s name.

Egyptians do not typically have last names, but an important family may all choose to identify under a name and use that as their last, such as the Tahans. In my case, I use my fifth name as my last name and introduce myself in everyday life as Jasmine Fifth Name. Notably, my brother does not, and goes by First name + Dad’s name instead. This isn’t unusual. On paperwork, however, we still have the same name.

Additionally, Egyptian women do not take their husbands’ last names in marriage, nor do children take any of her names.

I’m not sure why, according to the wiki, Hamid’s sisters seem to have taken their mother’s name. Following Arabic naming conventions, they would all be First Name Saleh Haroun al Tahan, and their father would be Saleh Haroun al Tahan. A possible workaround might be that halflings have their own naming conventions that mean daughters have matronymics and sons patronymics.

A note to podficcers: please google name pronunciations beforehand because Alex and Bryn’s are actually often wrong. Ishak, for instance, is not pronounced Ee-shak. It’s Iss-haaq or Iss-haa’, because of quirks of the Egyptian accent I mentioned earlier.

Part Two: Criticism

I understand it can be difficult to portray a country different from yours with accuracy. I understand the RQG crew will not have had the perspective on Egypt and Cairo that I do by virtue of living here. I do also acknowledge that I’m sure none of this was actively malicious or on purpose.

But it doesn’t have to be on purpose to hurt, frankly, and given how often the RQG crew have talked about their responsibility with a game that’s intended for an audience, I expected better. Bryn has spoken about not wanting to fall into stereotypes for Hamid and, to be fair, by being a non-religious fancyboy Hamid does neatly avoid the religious zealot and the noble (or ignoble) savage routes. Unfortunately, he falls into another, which was hammered home by the portrayal of Cairo and the Tahans as a whole.

Our first glimpse of Cairo, after the sandstorm clears, describes it as “basically Vegas,” with hotels and garish casinos catering to the rich all along the “Cairo strip.” From then on, our only other images of Cairo are vast estates and a pyramid in the desert.

The only named Egyptians we meet are the Tahan family, who are introduced through an absurdly lavish estate compared to the palace fortress of Alhambra, a gambling problem that apparently runs in the family, murder, and corruption, as the head of the family who has already covered up a crime for one son then turns himself in to protect the other.

Then, to top it all off, Hamid is apparently utterly incapable of understanding why letting his brother get away with murder is an issue until the paladins point it out.

Do you see the pattern, here?

I understand this was aiming to be a criticism of the rich and powerful, but the fact remains that the Tahans are the only representation of Egyptians we get. While this may not be harems and hand-chopping levels of Orientalism, the image presented is of Cairo as a den of excessive wealth and vice, and Egyptians as corrupt and immoral.

This isn’t new.

The Middle East and North Africa (as well as India and China and everywhere else considered “the Orient”) has often been tied to images of wealth and overt splendour, usually hand-in-hand with the Oriental despot and corruption. This view went beyond just fiction and influenced the policies with which we were ruled.

Cromer, Consul-General of Egypt, wrote books called Modern Egypt. He had this to say about us:

“The mind of the Oriental, on the other hand, like his picturesque streets, is eminently wanting in symmetry. His reasoning is of the most slipshod description. . . . They are often incapable of drawing the most obvious conclusions from any simple premises of which they may admit the truth.”

In his opinion, our inability to follow logical reason led to us being inherently untruthful and, therefore, immoral. Similarly, British statesman Balfour was of the belief that:

“Lord Cromer’s services during the past quarter of a century have raised Egypt from the lowest pitch of social and economic degradation until it now stands among Oriental nations, I believe, absolutely alone in its prosperity, financial and moral.”

Egypt was under British colonial rule from 1882 - 1952.

You can see, I hope, why a storyline focused on an Egyptian family’s corruption in an Egypt characterised almost entirely by its casinos and one lavish mansion was very uncomfortable. The fact Azu was one of the people trying to explain morality to Hamid keeps it from sliding into a clear East vs West dichotomy, but the fact remains this is a British show featuring British players and this is the story they chose to tell.

The rest was just salt in the wound, really.

I expect mispronounced names and pyramids and jokes about camels in most media, but rarely do the makers of said media then go on to pat themselves on the back for doing their “due diligence” on a metacast about sensitivity.

I see weird naming conventions and mispronounced names and “basically Vegas” and “crocodile steak” and “camel’s milk froyo” and I do not see due diligence.

I see a setting that barely looked past Cleopatra and I do not see due diligence.

I see a storyline that shows only excess and immorality and corruption and I do not see due diligence.

I see a disregard for me and mine, and I do not appreciate it.

Literature I’ve referred to in writing this criticism:

Orientalism (1978), by Edward W. Said

Orientalism in the Victorian Era (2017), a paper by Valerie Kennedy

Orientalism in American Cinema: Providing an Historical and Geographical Context for PostColonial Theory (2010), a thesis by Samuel Scurry

Popular Culture, Orientalism, and Edward Said (2012), an article by Robert Irwin

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