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kareofbears · 3 years

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plainly in truth, chapter 3/5

"Without you around, it's sorta like stuff is just kinda...bleh."

—

Or: hiding, confiding, and misguiding.

read on ao3 or below the cut :)

Ryuji grips the letter like it was silver and he was a werewolf in the full moon.

He picks it up, skims over the first line before putting it down beside him, feeling worse every time he does it, only able to read the fine-printed lettering from the flickering lamp post above him. The constant change in light would normally bug him, but he doesn’t really care about it now; it’s not like the words would change in his hand, and he’s long since needed to actually read it to know what it reads.

His feet dangle over the canal, enjoying the way a rush of adrenaline would go through him when he looks down into the deep waters. It’s late enough in the night that even with the city lights around him, he can’t gauge how deep it goes.

Soseikawa Park was only a five minute walk from Odori Park, but with the narrow river and steeped hills, Ryuji found it secluded enough to let himself sit. Breathe. Not exist, even for just a few minutes. It’s like having his own bedroom, except it smells faintly like a sewer and there’s an intersection about ten meters above where he sat underneath the overpass. If he can ignore the never-ending rumble of cars and trucks driving above him, it can almost be considered peaceful.

He lets himself fall back, the grass tickling the back of his neck and his spine screaming in relief. They’re heading out again in two days, which means more days of being in an inescapable RV surrounded by his best friends who are keeping an eye on him because they’re good people who don’t know how to mind their own fucking business.

Idly, he lets his hands pull and brings it to his face—blades of grass. He lets it get taken by the wind. After brief consideration, he shoves the letter back into his pocket before he can do the same thing to it.

He is so tired.

Blindly, he hits the vague area of where his pocket is and fishes out his phone, hitting the first speed dial before he can talk himself out of it. As two rings go by, he stupidly hopes that she doesn’t pick up, as if she hasn’t ever missed a phone call from him even when she’s at work.

The third ring gets cut off halfway through. “Ryu!”

Despite himself, he grins. “Hey, ma. Checking in for the weekly call.”

“I was just thinking about you,” she says, and he can hear the laundry machine run in the background. “I was wondering if you had eaten today.”

“Ma, you ain’t gotta worry about that kinda thing anymore. I’m a big boy now.”

“You’re breaking my heart!” He can almost see her, phone tucked in the crook of her neck, work-worn hands folding her laundry as fast as she can so as to not hold up the next person in line. “It doesn’t matter how big you are, you’re my boy. How can I not think about whether my boy is eating or not?”

“All I’ve done on this trip is eat, ma.”

“Oh, and Akira! How’s that handsome boy doing? Still taking the world by storm?”

That pulls a genuine laugh from him—he never needs to hold back when it comes to talking about Akira, at least. “You know it. He’s the only guy in the world who can stand toe-to-toe with me in chowing down. I swear, he’s slipping some of it under the table ‘cause he’s so damn fast. Forty seconds! Forty seconds to inhale an extra large beef bowl! Blows my mind, seriously.”

“Could never do anything in halves, can he?” she chuckles, before the quality of her voice shifts. “And are you enjoying yourself?”

He hesitates. “Yeah, of course. It’s a roadtrip across Japan, how can I not?”

“Good.” There’s some crackling over the receiver, and he guesses she’s probably adjusting the basket full of clothes on her hip. “That’s all I want to hear. As long as you’re happy, Ryu, I’m a happy old woman.”

Ryuji opens his mouth, ready to console her.

I’m always happy!

You worry too much, ma.

There’s nothing to worry about.

“Sorry, but,” he swallows thickly. “I think they’re calling for me? So—”

“Alright,” she says, and he might be imagining the disappointed tinge to it. “Call back when you can, okay sweetheart? I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” he clears his throat. “I love you, ma.”

“I love you too, Ryu.”

He hangs up, letting the phone slip out of his fingers. It lands hard on the flat grass

For a long moment, he just lays there, listening to the gentle lapping waves and cars honking with impatience of people who have somewhere to be. He tries to meditate for half a minute, with all the information he had learned from a couple of YouTube videos, and gives up, because of course he does. Squeezing his eyes shut, he can’t do anything about the creeping dread that’s in his stomach getting stronger, squeezing and squeezing until he feels sick. It’s like his insecurities are having this huge fight against each other, feeding off of one another until it gets too big for him to handle and all he can do is breathe and try to do something about it.

And he’s fucking sick of it—breathing. He’s sick of the stupid breathing techniques, sick of counting down from ten and waiting for his own heart to chill out because his brain won’t stop reminding him of everything he did wrong, of shit he’s still doing wrong because at least this way, nobody knows what he did was wrong. It’s just him that can point and laugh at himself, and that’s way better than having the world do it for him.

He doesn’t cry, because he’s not a crier. He’s the type of guy to throw a fist through drywood before shedding a tear, and he hates that about himself. Rather than do something that will actually help, Ryuji lays there, perfectly still. Listening. Waiting for a meteor to fall on him, or for the overpass to crash its entire weight on top of him.

Instead, he hears footsteps.

His heart rate slows by a fraction, and opens his eyes to meet gray ones. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Akira says, a smile in his voice. “How did you know it was me?”

Ryuji almost feels offended. He would know Akira by sound alone, the way his heels would click in the Metaverse. The way the balls of his feet would strike the earth, hardly muffled by grass or cheap sneakers or anything else as trivial. Ryuji would know he was there; no matter how blind he was with hatred for himself, his love for Akira would always guide him back to where he needs to be.

“Lucky guess.”

“One hell of a guess.” He plops down onto the grass and Ryuji lifts his head, allowing Akira to wiggle until he could use his lap as a pillow. “Your turn,” Akira says.

“My turn to what?”

“To ask me how I knew where you were.”

“Oh.” He lets his eyes slide shut again. “I kinda just assumed you could do that.”

“You assume too much of me sometimes.”

“I assume the right amount.” Ryuji refuses to shiver when he feels long fingers start to card through his hair. “You’re giving me goosebumps,” he sighs.

“That’s a good thing, I think.” The fingers pull away and he’s about to complain when he feels something gets thrown over his torso. “Here. You always end up forgetting to wear an extra layer when you go out like this.”

Ryuji rearranges Akira’s jacket over himself. “Sap.”

“You know it.” He resumes combing through his hair, and Ryuji lets himself relax, just a little. It’s strange—it’s hard as hell being around other people nowadays, and even though Akira can make him feel that sometimes, mostly it helps the eternal twisting of his stomach to settle.

“You’re good at that,” Ryuji mutters.

“Thank you. I’ve had plenty of practice with Morgana.” And just to make it worse, he uses a little bit of nail on his nape, sending electricity running down all the way to his fingertips.

His mouth twists unhappily. “Don’t do shit like that while talking about the cat, for the love of god.”

Akira does it again, like the little shit he is. “You still have that weird thing with your neck?”

“Quit it!” Ryuji slaps his thigh and he can’t muster much anger when he can feel Akira’s shoulders shake from silent laughter. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“You’re right.” Gently, softly, like the world’s lightest feather, he feels lips brush his temple. “I’m funnier.”

His eyes open, and his entire vision is obscured by curly black hair and tender eyes. “You’re right,” he breathes. “You’re funnier.”

Akira bends down again, and Ryuji catches his lips, overflowing with something soft but unafraid, and it’s so good that Ryuji reaches for his cheek just to make it last a little bit longer.

When they break off, Akira kisses his temple again, this time on the left side. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Uh,” he scratches his head, brain a little fuzzy. “Tuesday?”

“It’s Wednesday, and I meant the date. It’s August tenth.”

“Okay?”

Akira thumbs at his collarbone. “I know this might be a little lame that I know it by heart, but I left Tokyo on March 19th. That would mean it’s been—”

“One hundred forty-four days since you moved away,” he finishes. “I know.”

Akira blinks, and then laughs, and Ryuji knows it’s an especially good one because sound actually comes out this time. “Yes,” he says, elated. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

“I told you dude, we’re really on that telepathy shit.”

“We really are.” A pause. “I miss you.”

He’s about to joke—I’m right here, you big dummy—but find that he just can’t. “I miss you too.”

They can’t say what they mean: I will miss you. Summer vacation doesn’t last forever, and two months will always be a hell of a lot shorter than the rest of the ten months that they’ll be apart. Somehow, he dreads seeing Akira gone, and he’ll dread seeing Akira back in Tokyo because it would mean that he’d actually have to see what Ryuji’s really like. Actively pushing away his best friend just so he doesn’t have to see his failures; doesn’t that just make him the worst piece of shit in the world?

There’s a gap, though. A little loophole. A crack in the timeline. A place where maybe he’s allowed to be a hollowed out version of happy; the now.

“Tomorrow’s our last day in Sapporo?”

“Yeah?” Akira replies, surprised at the change in tone.

“Which means Jail stuff is done, right? All your grocery shopping and Sophia Prime’s been ordered and packed up?”

“Yes,” he says, a lilt in his voice. “It’s all done.”

Ryuji sits up and faces him, reaching for his wrists, relishing in the heartbeat thumping against his palms. “Let’s do something. I don’t care what, but let’s do something. Eat at a diner, go to a museum, rob a bank, whatever.” He runs his thumb along the veins there, long since those bumps have been ingrained in his brain. “Let’s do something, just you and me.”

“Are you asking me out on a date, Sakamoto?” He has a cocky look in his eye, and Ryuji’s half-tempted to kiss him again just to wipe it clean off his face. “You know I’d follow you anywhere.”

He knows. That’s the scary part. Would Akira still follow someone he doesn’t know as well as he thinks he does? “I’ll get us lost,” he jokes.

Akira doesn’t laugh. “I’d rather be lost with you than learn to lose you.”

It’s been ages since he’s been flustered at anything Akira does, but he feels a rush of heat crawl up his neck. “I’ll—” Ryuji shakes his head, willing his embarrassment to go away. “Shit, uh—”

“I’ll pick where to go,” he interrupts, a little too smug for his liking. “I’d say I’ll pick you up at your place, but…”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a comedian,” Ryuji rolls his eyes. “I’ll be ready whenever.”

“Fantastic.” Akira checks his phone, wincing. “It’s late.”

He grips his wrist tightly. “I know.”

Thankfully, he’s never needed to explain much to Akira. “Okay,” he says softly. “Ten more minutes?”

“Yeah.” He lets his eyes slide shut once more, letting out a breath. The world will keep spinning. His stomach will keep twisting. Time will keep marching on, but at least he has this. “Ten minutes sounds good.”

—

The first words that Futaba says as she enters the RV was: “Oh, hell.”

“Hello Futaba-chan, Yusuke-kun,” Haru greets cheerfully from the booth. “How was your shopping trip?”

“...Fine,” she replies, stepping aside to let him in, lugging a four-foot tall canvas in his arms that accidentally hits the ceiling. “Got a new Featherman action figure.”

“I got a canvas,” Yusuke answers from behind the wall of white. “Though I assume you can see that.”

“I can.” Her smile doesn’t falter, and it’s making the hair on Futaba’s nape rise like a nervous animal. “Quick question, since you both are here…”

Haru pulls a tote bag from underneath the table, and it’s so heavy that when she throws it on the table, her teacup nearly topples over. “Would you like to take a guess of what’s in this bag?”

A billion jokes pop into Futaba’s head, but both of them stay silent, terrified and confused. They both knew this was coming, but they didn’t expect her to be so forward about it.

“I suppose that’s a pretty strange question, I’m sorry. Let me try again.” She reaches in and pulls out thick, heavy textbooks, all brightly coloured and consist of beaming, diverse students on the front cover. “Care to tell me why you were both looking at cram books while we’re on our fun roadtrip?”

Yusuke pushes Futaba aside, eyes on the books and wide with shock. “You bought them?!” he exclaims.

“Wait—” Futaba hops repeatedly, trying to catch a glimpse from over his shoulder. “You bought all of them?”

“Of course.”

“But why?”

She thinks about it for a moment. “Hmm, think about it this way. If Akira’s in charge of the group as a whole, and Makoto’s in charge of the more analytical aspect of things, think of me as a somewhat stern yet loving parent who doesn’t quite know how to mind their own business.”

“I thought that was Ann’s job,” Futaba mutters, heart hammering in her chest.

“Now,” Haru leans forward, and as if to prove her role, speaks in a gentle tone. “I’m not mad at you. That would be ridiculous. But I saw you two looking at these books, and I know how expensive they can be, so I’ll give them to you.”

She blinks. “You would?”

“Absolutely!” Haru smiles wide. “On the condition that you tell me why you need them.”

Futaba and Yusuke exchange a glance, before Futaba makes a T with her hands. “Timeout!” she yells, dragging Yusuke by the collar out of the RV.

“What do we do?” he whispers once the door is shut. “It’s not as if we can tell her.”

“I don’t know, maybe we should?” she pushes up her glasses. “Damn, the things money can buy you. Our vow of silence is getting thrown out the window for two handfuls of yen.”

He looks her dead in the eyes. “I would tell the world my deepest secrets if it meant having lifetime access to a grocery store.”

“Don’t say that, you sellout!”

“I’m not selling out. My art already reveals the deepest portion of my soul, it’s not my fault that the common observers cannot pick up what I’m putting down.” He squints against the setting sun. “She’s waiting. What do we do?”

“Okay, okay, okay, just let me—” her mind whirrs rapidly, and for a second she really feels like Sophia. “Give me a second.”

“I have a suggestion,” he points at her. “If we’re not averse to lying, let’s tell them that you need them for school. You’re struggling with academics, you need a bit of outside help, so we took a look at the textbooks.”

“Good idea! Wait.” She frowns. “They’ll never buy it. Let’s say that you need them.”

“I’m at the top of my class!”

“But they don’t know that!” She balls her fists together, determined. “Okay, let’s do this.”

“I didn’t say yes to this.”

Futaba kicks the door open, making Haru pause wiping her spilt drink mid-stroke. “Inari’s struggling with his classes!”

“I—“ Yusuke stammers. “Yes,” he confirms. “I’m struggling with my classes. They’re mighty indeed, and even I find them difficult. I am...struggling.”

Haru looks at them doubtfully. “Yusuke is?”

“I am,” he answers as Futaba says, “He is.”

“Yusuke,” she repeats, gesturing to the neatly-stacked pile of textbooks on the table. “Is struggling with precalculus?”

They stare at her. “Yes,” Yusuke says, slowly. “I am struggling with previous calculus.”

“Out of curiosity, Yusuke,” Haru scratches her cheek. “Do you know what a parabola is?”

“Of course I do,” he replies with the wisdom of a thousand monks. “It’s a self-contradictory statement.”

“That’s a paradox,” Makoto corrects from the steering wheel.

“What the heck?” Futaba jumps a foot in the air. “Why are you here? Why were you hiding?”

“I like to sit here a few hours before we start another road trip,” she says, before glaring at them. “You two. Does this have to do with Ryuji?”

“T-timeout!”

Futaba makes a beeline to the door again, but Haru’s faster. She slips past them, standing in their way, perfect smile still in place. Sometimes Futaba forgets how strong she is in negotiations; her and Yusuke were probably tutorial levels compared to the upper management of Okumura Foods. “Answer her question, please.”

Yusuke sighs, tired. “You know what you’re asking for, don’t you? If we tell you what’s happening here, it would be breaking the trust of one of our teammates.”

“Yusuke!” Futaba hisses. “Are you really thinking about telling them? It’s not even our secret to tell.”

“No, it isn’t.” He makes eye contact with Makoto. “But she made a point. What would make us better friends: if we kept a secret to the grave while letting him suffer, or tell someone who can help even if it means being some sort of tattletale?”

“But…” she trails off, resolve crumbling. “Dude. It’s going to suck so much.”

“I know.” He pats her head, before moving to Ryuji’s backpack once more. “Don’t worry, I’m willing to take his anger if need be.” Yusuke gestures to the booth. “Everyone, take a seat. It’s about time this finally gets cleared up.”

Smoothing out the envelope in his hand, even more crumpled than when they had it last, he clears his throat, takes one last glance at Futaba to make sure. At her tentative nod, he begins to read its contents in a loud, clear voice.

When he finishes, they sit there, staring at the thick paper in silence.

“Oh my god,” Makoto breathes. “I knew it was bad, but—”

Haru shakes her head. “Not this bad. And he talked about it so much, but we didn’t even…” she glances down at the textbooks, idly rubbing its spine. “I didn’t think much of it.”

“None of us did,” Yusuke says. “But does that make it any better?”

They fall in silence again, but Futaba can hear the answer loud and clear. Hell no.

The door opens forcefully, pulling them out of their stupor.

“What’s up, my beloved friends!” Ann calls, shopping bags in tow. “God, I’m gonna miss Sapporo. Things here are so cheap compared to Tokyo, sheesh!” She sets them down, laughing when nobody says anything. “Jeez, what’s going on? Did I miss something?”

“Ann-chan,” Haru says carefully, all sense of cheer, for intimidation or otherwise, gone. “Take a seat. There’s something you should know.”

—

The Ferris wheel looms over them, blocking out most of the sunset behind it. “Nice,” Ryuji grins appreciatively. “I should’ve seen this one coming.”

“You should’ve,” Akira agrees, tugging him into the open carriage. He goes in willingly. “It was staring at you the whole time we’re in Sapporo. And besides, every romantic movie has a Ferris wheel scene, doesn’t it?”

“Oh yeah? Name one.”

“Death note.”

Ryuji makes a face, and Akira laughs. “Yeah, I know. Bad example.”

It’s a tight squeeze but they sit next to each other, ignoring the bench in front of them. The seats are hot, and even though it’s nearly evening, the heat barely eases up on them. Still, he finds himself pressing himself against Akira. He runs cold, much colder than Ryuji; narrow wrists are ice, prominent collarbones frost.

The two of them lean over the window, pointing out random scenery as if it were the first time they were seeing them. Restaurants, statues. Weird looking cars and flower beds. Decorated high rises and insects that fly by. It’s like they were tourists, or a retired couple who just want to travel the world. He’s never wanted to be old before, but Akira always has a way of making him change his mind.

Like clockwork—Ryuji makes a joke. Akira laughs. His heart feels lighter.

When he finds himself leaning against him, feet up on the bench, Akira wraps his arms around his shoulders unhesitatingly. Ryuji wonders if he can hear the way his heart thuds inside his bones. He wonders if he knows it's for him. The Ferris wheel stops, right at the very top, gently swaying like it were a giant cradle. They’re not very high up, but it’s far enough that he feels like he’s left the entire world behind.

Ryuji presses his lips against those wrists, relishing in the way he can feel the heartbeat increase. “You nervous?”

He can feel his head shake behind him. “I’m happy, I think,” Akira says in a hushed voice, like it was a secret, like it was a sin.

A breeze flows through, and Ryuji closes his eyes when lips press against just below his ear.

Would it be worth it to have a Palace? A Jail? Would it be worth it to lose himself, just to be in this moment for the rest of time?

Carefully, he flips himself sideways, just so he can press more of himself against Akira. The carriage rocks gently, and the metal bench underneath them is sharp and uncomfortable. Arms tighten around him. Chest to back, knee to knee, they couldn’t be closer, but Ryuji leans back, wanting nothing more than to bottle the rhythm of his breathing and the smell of his soap.

I’m happy, too, I think, he wants to say. If we stayed like this for the rest of our lives, until our skin is permanently tattooed into the hot steel and our bones are the only thing they take out of this bench because the rest of us had already rotted, then I’d be pretty damn happy.

Craning his neck backwards, Akira is already staring.

Then he’s kissing him—once, twice, again and again, and Ryuji realizes that something’s different. This wasn’t the kind of kiss he was used to. There was a desperate air to it, an urgent edge from both of them that neither was ready for. Stealing each other’s breath and giving it back; the cycle continues, the clock keeps ticking.

Ryuji pulls himself up, not breaking the kiss, cupping his cheek and soaking him in like a flower to the sun; an endless yearning, like he’d shrivel up and suffocate if it vanished. The sun framed Akira, and for a split second, he feels like he understands what Yusuke sees on a canvas.

When they part, foreheads leaning against each other, Ryuji lifts a trembling hand to wipe the tear that rolled down Akira’s cheek.

“What’s up?” he asks softly. “Is something wrong?”

“I feel like you’re a miracle, Ryuji.”

How do you respond to that? When the person who said it feels like they’re the one who’s magic, who’s too good to be true?

“Fuck miracles,” he says, pulling Akira in again.

—

The circuit felt like it ended too soon, but it’s night when they finally stepped off, holding hands and faces flushed. He hopes the ride operator doesn’t hate them, but he’s in too good of a mood to really complain.

Ryuji stops in his tracks when he sees who’s in front of them.

“Ann?” Akira questions, taken aback. Eyes dark and brows pulled close together, clutching her purse like a weapon of war—she looks like she’d just seen someone set an orphanage on fire.

Her voice is shockingly deep, gaze fixed on Ryuji. “I’m borrowing him for a second.”

Before either of them can say anything, Ann takes him by the bicep, and he can only glance at Akira before he’s dragged back into the Ferris wheel.

“Did you even pay—?”

“Don’t start,” she hisses, pushing him on the bench, hard. “Don’t you dare start, you damn liar.”

His blood runs cold. “What?”

No. That’s impossible.

“Don’t play dumb with me.” She shoves her hand in her bag and throws something rubber at him. “Do you know how long it took me to find a good one here? I spent my entire day in the shopping district—not looking for clothes, or shoes, or whatever the hell I thought would be fun. No, I spent our last day in Sapporo looking for that.”

Ryuji looks down at the hot compress in his hands, a lump in his throat.

“Because you weren’t doing anything to your knee,” she continues, jaw tight. “Despite me trying my best to help you get better. I thought that you must’ve been really fan-freaking-tastic at hiding the pain that you told me about. That I trusted was the truth because you’re one of my best friends and I trust you. I trust you with my life, my secrets—” Ann grits her teeth. “What the hell?”

“How did you find out?” he asks hoarsely.

She knows. If she knows, they could know. If they could know—

“Damn you, it doesn’t matter how I found out!” she throws her hands in the air, voice so hurt that it twists his insides impossibly tighter. “You think I would care? You think that this is important enough to lie to me about? Dammit, I don’t care that you—”

“Don’t say it,” he begs. “Please.”

“I don’t give a single shit that you failed second-year, Sakamoto!”

Her words ring against the steel walls, deafening.

Bile crawls up his esophagus, and he readies himself for another attack. But for some strange reason, his vision doesn’t blur. Instead, anger kicks in like it always does.

“You don’t care?” he asks, incredulous. “This doesn’t even have anything to do with you!”

“It does when you lie to me about it!” she yells back. “Do you not care about me? About your friends who would go to hell and back for you?”

“How dare you—!”

“You lied to me, you hid it from everyone else, you ignored our advice because it doesn’t mean shit to you.” She points a finger at him. “And look where that got you.”

“Shut up.”

“We all noticed, you know! Each and every one of us noticed that something was up, even the literal robot—”

“Shut the hell up, Ann.”

“And for what? All you accomplished was hurt our feelings, hold in yours, and keep it from the love of your life—”

Ryuji stands up, rocking the carriage and nearly toppling Ann off her feet.

“It’s because I fucking hate myself!”

She grips the barred window, eyes wide. They stare each other down for a few long moments, before the ride comes to an abrupt end. The door swings open, allowing a cheery greeting from the oblivious employee.

And then Ann sighs, shoulders deflating. “Come on,” she jerks her head to the door, before stepping out herself. “Let’s go.”

“What?” he asks, puzzled. “Where?”

“If we’re going to delve into the psyche of Sakamoto Ryuji, we might as well do it with some food in front of us.”

—

The cafe Ann takes him to is bright, filled with pastries and crowded with people—stools are pastel blue, baristas are wearing cute bowties, and each cup of coffee comes with an alarming amount of whipped cream on top. Sojiro would have a heart attack if he walked three kilometers of this place, but Ryuji’s glad that the resemblance is far and away than that of Leblanc.

The booth is pressed into the corner of it all; up against the window and far enough from the main bustle that they’d have to really put their all into it if they wanted to take their order. On one side sat Futaba, nervously tracing shapes on the window while Haru sits beside her. The opposite end has Yusuke and Makoto.

They all look up when they hear the bell chime, and Ryuji almost laughs. “It’s been a long ass time since I’ve seen you guys look so serious,” he remarks, sliding next to Makoto while Ann sits next to Haru. “Where’s the food at? Come on guys, food’s good for you.”

He raises a hand. “Excuse me! We’re ready!”

“Ryuji,” Futaba’s voice is brittle. “I—”

“Hold on shorty,” he reaches to pat her head, voice coming out soft. “We’ll get to that. I promise.”

A waiter comes, takes their drink order, and leaves. When he does, Yusuke places a heavy hand on the table. “I was the one who told everyone.”

“That’s not true!” Futaba cries out, and everyone jerks back in shock. “That’s bull! I’m the one who told him to go through your stuff ‘cause he was worried about you, but I’m the one who actually—”

“No, I’m the one at fault here,” Haru casts her gaze downwards. “It was really none of my business, but I forced these two to tell everyone here. I’m so sorry—”

Ryuji sighs. “Guys, it’s fine.” He’s met with an incredulous look. “Okay, it isn’t, but none of this is your fault, you know? I’m not mad.” His gaze shifts to Ann. “But you’re allowed to be mad at me. I know I shouldn’t have hidden it.”

She gives him a weighted look. “Then why did you do it?”

“Ann,” Makoto warns.

“No, I’m not budging on this.” She leans forward. “He lied to me. Lying doesn’t get you anywhere good. That was really stupid of you.”

“Ann!” Futaba cuts in, horrified.

“You’ve seen what happened with Shiho.” Ryuji flinches back like he’s been hit. He knows. Ann knows he knows. But she keeps going anyway. “She lied to me about what was happening, and I lied to her back. It kept going and going, and—” she snaps her fingers. “She’s gone from my life. For how long? I don’t know, maybe until we graduate. Maybe until her rehab ends. Maybe longer. Who knows? All I know is if we had just—talked, or—” Ann shakes her head, frustrated. “From the start. Tell us what happened. And afterwards, let us help you, or I swear to god I’m going to cry, and I know you can’t stand it when people cry.”

The silence is deafening, even with the clamor of people and voices around them.

Ryuji lets out a breath. “Yeah, alright.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You will?”

“I will,” he repeats, idly checking his pulse. Heart rate is a little quick, but in no danger of having another breakdown. “I’ll tell you everything.”

The waiter chooses that time to drop off their drinks; all cold except Haru, nursing a hot cup of tea. They definitely didn’t buy enough to justify the god-knows-how-long they’re going to spend here, but they’re just gonna have to suck it up.

“Alright,” he starts when they’re alone again. “We going from the start?”

“The very beginning,” Ann confirms.

With one last glance at his friends, he sighs, sits up straight, and flashes them the biggest grin he can muster:

“Hi,” he greets. “I’m Sakamoto Ryuji, and I failed my second-year of high school.”

No one’s expression shifts, not even an inch. He can’t help but be a little impressed. “You guys know that I’ve never been the greatest with books. Shit, screw greatest—I’ve ranked bottom five ever since I started middle school. Didn’t help that my leg got fucked to high heaven and everyone started hating me. Nearly dropped out a couple times. Had no one, really. Worst time in my life, hands down.

“So imagine this dumb little kid, middle of April, running into this guy.” Without meaning to, the grin shifts into something more genuine. “Good-looking dude, super smart, real charmer but you wouldn’t be able to tell just by lookin’ at him. And that guy saved my life. Ten, twenty, thirty times over. He was so great that the dumb kid obviously fell in love with him. But what’s even crazier is that the guy fell in love with the dumb little kid, too.

“Crazy, right? Sounds made up, but I promise it’s true.” He catches Futaba’s expression shift to exasperation. “I know, I can’t believe it either.”

“That’s not what I meant, you sap,” she says.

“Yeah, but that dumb little kid,” he explains. “Couldn’t believe it. Literally couldn’t believe it. Thinks that he struck the lottery, struck by damn lightning. I mean—” Ryuji laughs a little. “How can someone so amazing and cool be in love with such a moron? What made it worse…”

He gestures at all of them. “Was that the guy had so many people in his life who was also amazing. His social circle was made up of, and correct me if I’m wrong: a successful journalist, a politician, some dude from the mob, a random child who breaks gaming records on the daily, and I’m not even counting people from this goddamn table. So dumb little kid knows, he fucking knows that somehow, someway, he tricked the cool guy into falling in love with him. The kid sucked, no, sucks,” he corrects. “At everything. Can’t do anything worthwhile.”

“Ryuji…” Haru whispers.

“Almost done, I know it’s running on kinda long,” he promises. “So the dumb little kid became kinda obsessed with the group’s ‘activities’, and it’s obvious why he would, right? If he knows he’s not good enough for the guy he’s in love with, then he can at least try to be. But since he already sucked at school to begin with, dummy over here completely bailed on school and ended up flunking so bad that he failed an entire year.”

An entire year. An entire year.

It’s becoming harder and harder to breathe, but he’d rather get hit by a truck than lose it in front of so many people. Gritting his teeth, he does what he knows is bad, what every google search and YouTube video says you should not do—he pushes his feelings, far and hard away from himself, so far that it’s like it doesn’t even exist.

It works surprisingly well.

“And, uh—” Ryuji clears his throat. “He hid it. Because you know the one, single thing that’s worse than realizing you’re not good enough for the other person?”

No one answers. “Waiting for the day that they realize that you’re not good enough for them.”

“And that’s pretty much the bulk of it.” Reaching for his mug, he takes a sip of his lukewarm lemonade. Damn, he really did talk for a while. “I didn’t want to tell the rest of you because one, it’s really fucking embarrassing that I failed, and two—”

“Akira can’t know,” they all say in unison.

“Exactly, you guys get the point by now.” He drums his fingers against the table, trying to ignore the blatant gloom cast on all of their faces. “Question time starts now, if anyone wants to ask anything.”

Makoto opens her mouth, but he beats her to it. “If anyone even thinks about feeling pity, or be all ‘no, you’re smart actually!’, I am walking out of this cafe and I am not looking back.”

“What about summer school?” Makoto asks immediately. “If you didn’t want us to know, then you could’ve taken that without even telling us.”

“Summer school was never an option.”

“And why not?” she slaps her hand against the table. “It would’ve solved this entire situation!”

“Because Akira was coming home for the summer,” he says simply. “And I wanted to enjoy my time with him without this hanging over my head.”

Her jaw drops open. “But...that’s…”

“Stupid?” he offers. “Idiotic? Really dumb? Potentially throwing away my entire future? Yeah, I gotcha. Another part of it was that the thought of staying at Shujin for another minute makes me want to jump into traffic, if that helps make me look a little better in your mind, miss prez.”

Makoto’s expression of confusion freezes, taken aback by the harshness of his words. Ryuji cringes at himself. “Sorry.”

“No,” she says finally. “The fault is mine. I have no right to judge your actions, or to pretend I know what kind of stress is burdening you.” Hesitating, she asks, “May I request another question?”

“Shoot.”

“What were you going to do when we eventually go back to Tokyo?”

As expected of someone who went head-to-head against the ace detective in front of the entire school; her questions are brutal. “I don’t know, honestly. I was planning on ignoring the problem for now and just sort of,” he gestures vaguely. “Enjoy the summertime sun?”

“A moment,” Haru goes through her bag. “It’s a long story, but I have these—”

The second the books peek out of her tote, he recognizes the cover immediately. “Cram books? You bought some?”

“Yes!” she answers, mistaking his reaction for eagerness. “It’s a very small gesture, but I’d love for you to have them.”

“I—” he leans away from them, breath catching in his throat. “No.”

“No?” she blinks.

“Not now, senpai.” Trying out his new trick again, he forces his heart to slow down, forces his breathing to regulate again without any of the techniques, and forces himself not to feel any of the fear that he’d normally have to go through. It works, but barely. “I’m not—I don’t think I’m ready to deal with that yet.”

“That’s fine.” Haru puts them away, and as hard as he tries, he can still see how dejected she was. “I’ll hold on to them for you.”

“Thank you.” He glances around. “Any last takers? Q&A is almost up.”

“I have one,” Yusuke pipes up.

“Go for it.”

“How are you?” he asks genuinely.

Ryuji can’t help it—a laugh gets pulled out of him. “How am I?” he repeats.

“Yes. How are you?”

“Uh,” he laughs again. “Not good, man. Not good.”

Everyone startles when Ryuji stands abruptly. He slams down the rest of his lemonade, relieved at how it helps his parched throat. “Alrighty, that took a lot out of me! Let’s get out of here, I’m sick of being surrounded by fake coffee and poser cafe fanatics.”

“I’ll take care of the bill,” Haru says, following his lead and scooting out from the booth.

“What? No, come on. I don’t care how rich you are, at least let me pay half.”

“Ryuji.” She looks him dead in the eye. “I’ll take care of the bill.”

“...Yes ma’am.”

Slowly, they all start filing out, some exiting the cafe while Makoto goes to the till with Haru. Ryuji reaches for Ann’s elbow before she can leave. “Hey.”

Turning her head, it’s as if her lips were permanently stitched downwards. “Yeah?”

“I’m really sorry I lied to you,” he says, somber. “That was shitty, and it doesn’t matter what I’m going through—you can’t deal with lies. I get that. I won’t put you through that again.”

Ann kisses her palm before slapping it against his forehead. “You better not,” her voice drips in affection. “You said not to console you—”

“I did, and I meant it.”

“But I’m here for you,” she rubs his skin harder, and he winces at the chafing. “You know that, right? No matter how crazy the shit inside your head gets, I want you to talk to me.”

“I know it,” he says, not just because he wants the friction to ease up. “I know it now, for sure.”

“Good.” Ann releases him, and goes to join Haru and Makoto up front. “You might want to head out. Someone’s starting to make a fuss.”

“What?” he turns around, making direct eye contact with Futaba, nursing a blank expression on her face. “I see.”

The bell chimes once more when he steps out, relieved at the cool summer air that hits him. “Shorty,” he says in lieu of a greeting. “What’s good?”

“Here.” Ryuji glances down at her, who’s holding a familiar, now very-crumpled envelope between her fingers. It’s weird seeing her hold the letter announcing his failure like a bomb, but he understands the sentiment. “I had to show Ann because she wouldn’t believe me until I got some proof.”

“Thank you,” he says, shoving it in his pocket. “I’m not mad at you, you know.”

“I know you’re not.” She swallows and stares down at her shoes. Her laces were covered in little beads and stars, something he had bought for her during a weekend hangout once. “This isn’t me pitying you, or showering you with some kind of boohoo potion.”

She swallows again. “I failed my first year of high school. It was for a completely different reason—guilt for who I thought I killed rather than wanting to be something else. But I know. I know so much about what you’re going through.”

Futaba looks up, and his heart wrenches when he sees the tears in her eyes. “I’m so, so sorry if I made you sad, or that I kept calling you stupid back then,” she sobs. “I don’t mean it, and I’m so mean to you all of the time but I don’t mean any of it. I told everyone your secret because I wanted to—” she hiccups, and she pushes her glasses to the top of her head. “I wanted to give you your own version of what the Phantom Thieves did for me, but I reached out to you guys back then. No one forced me to do anything, but I took that choice away from you.”

He pulls her in his arms, and her tears are hot even through his shirt. “I know, Futaba,” he says, patting her head. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

She hits his chest weakly. “Me taking care of you?” she sniffs. “I’m literally the one crying right now.”

“Just for now though,” he shrugs. “Next time I cry, you’ll be the one handing me tissues, I swear.”

They stand there, the two of them standing in the middle of Sapporo while people give them weird looks—Futaba, unable to stop the tears from flowing down her cheeks, and Ryuji, refusing to ever let his emotions make things worse for everyone else again.

—

When they get back to the RV, each of them emotionally exhausted, Ryuji goes to kiss the top of Akira’s head. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Akira looks up from his card game with Morgana and Sophia. “You look like you had a wild night. Ann take you all somewhere fun?”

“Totally,” he says, sliding the letter back in his backpack. “Best night ever.”

“Take me next time. Sophia’s kicking our ass.”

“She is not!” Morgana denies, tail swishing. “Just a little,” he relents.

“I’m gonna get ready for bed,” Ryuji announces, hiking his backpack on his shoulders and heading out, before running into Ann outside.

“Oh my god,” she says, disturbed. “He really, really doesn’t know.”

“Yup,” he moves past her. “And we’re keeping it that way.”

#p5 #p5s #mine #fic tag #plainly in truth #ryuji sakamoto #akira kurusu #akiryu #pegoryu #ann takamaki #futaba sakura #persona 5 #persona 5 strikers #chapter three! *thumbs up*

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sweets-fanfics · 5 years

Text

Homecoming 14

Title: Change

Wordcount: 2443

warning: Agnst

Tags: @rollyjogerjones @nokuchishika

AN: Bit of a short one so I don’t go too long.

______________________________

You walk up to the Saint Denise hotel and look up to see Mary Linton looking over the edge of the balcony. She doesn’t see you, obviously. Why would she? You were not the cowpoke she thought she’d see today.

“Mrs. Linton.” You call out to her making her look down towards you. You chuckled to yourself at the symbolism. “There was an emergency at camp and I came in Arthur’s place.”

She seems to pout and disappears into the room. You are about to think she wouldn’t come back out and began to turn to leave when Mary walked out of the front door. “Miss Van Der Linde, what a surprise.” She says very much not surprised.

“Mrs. Morgan.” You correct her with a sly smile threatening to form at the corners of your mouth. “But yes, I saw you needed help so I came to offer my services.”

“Ah…” She seemed irritated. “Well, Arthur didn’t need to send someone else.”

“Oh, Arthur was too busy to even see your letter. So he doesn’t know I’m here.” You hand the letter to her.

Mary takes it slowly and gives you a rather mean look, “Did you come to gloat?” She asks.

“Not entirely, I did actually come to offer help if you needed it.” You stepped a bit closer so only she could hear you. “But I did come to tell you that this will be the last letter you send to Arthur.” You say in an even but almost threatening tone. She looks at you angry but you can see the fear that’s hiding underneath. “What did you need help with, Mrs. Linton?” You finally say back in your normal tone.

“My… My father, he sold my mother’s broach and I need help getting it back.”

“Arthur said your father was quite a charmin’ fellow.” You sigh turning to Suzie and climbing up. You hold a hand out to Mary who looks at you confused, “Come on.”

The two of you quietly ride down the road until you get to the area near the stables. “Why was he tryin’ to make money?” You ask as you help her balance herself as she gets down.

“Oh, he’s been doing nothing but gambling and drinking lately.” Mary waves her hands above her head.

“I thought he was always like that?” You ask thinking back to Arthur describing him.

“You and your ‘husband’ seem to talk quite an awful lot about my family.” She sighs. “I’ll go in and get him.” She slips in the stables. You stand there for maybe only a moment until the stable doors slam open making you and a stable hand nearby jump.

“Mary, I’m a grown man, I don’t need my daughter to parent me!” Mr. Gillis erupts.

“Daddy please just tell me who you sold the broach too. It wasn’t yours to sell!” Mary snaps back at him.

“He’s a charmer ain’t he?” You mumble making him give you a dirty look.

“Mind your business girl!”

“Daddy, you be nice to Miss Van Der Linde she’s just here to help me.”

You suppress an eye roll at her saying your maiden name and instead held your hand out to the man. “I’m Y/N Morgan I’m a student at Oberlin College.” Slight lie, you had been a student there.

“Morgan?” He asked giving his daughter a dirty look.

“Yes, Arthur Morgan is my husband, I heard you two were… acquainted.” Mr. Gillis made a ‘bleh!’ sound and began to walk away but you yanked his collar forcing him to look at both you and his daughter. “Listen, Mr. Gillis. Please just tell us who you sold the broach too. Would Mary’s mother have wanted this?”

“It was mine!” He yelled like an immature child. “I gave it to a loan shark named Ashton to pay off my debt.”

You knew the name, Ashton. He had been the man the school had sent to get money owed. “I know him.” You dropped his collar turning to Mary. “I’ll go get your broach.”

“Miss Va… Mrs. Morgan, you don’t have too. Those men have weapons,” She seemed genuinely worried.

“Mary, I’m a very good shot.” You assure her as you hop onto Suzie. Mr. Gillis scoffs at your remark.

“A good shot?” He asks sarcastically, “A woman?”

“Yes. Mr. Gillis, a great shot.” And with that, you ride off towards Ashton.

______________

Arthur

Arthur rides back into camp with Susan and a battered Tilly. When he stops the wagon the two ladies keep thanking him to which he reassured them it’s okay. The sound of their arrival makes Henry pop up from the gazebo. He runs over and hugs Tilly tightly.

“Tilly! I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you better.” He says as she smiles and hugs him back.

“Oh, I’m okay. I can take a few hits. How about you help patch me up.”

“With pleasure!” Henry agrees before saying thank you to Arthur and the two of them walk away.

Arthur was tired and a bit sore from being socked in the face. He looked around the camp for you but didn’t see you anywhere. When he checked the horses he noticed Suzie was missing too. “Are you lookin’ for someone?” He hears Abigail ask as if she already knows the answer.

Arthur turns around and sees Abigail and John both smiling at him slyly. He walks up to them and sighs, “She told you.” He whispered.

“Nope, Abigail found out. We won’t say nothin’.” John pats Arthur’s shoulder.

“But also, you received a letter while you were gone. Y/N read it and said she had an errand to run.” Abigail added. “It looks like she went towards Saint Denise.”

“Saint Denise…” Arthur’s voice died as he tried thinking who would send him a letter.

“I can give you two guesses who I think it is.” Abigail puts her hands on her hips and pouts.

“Damn it. I told her to stop contactin’ me.” Arthur said in a gruff tone before heading towards Athena.

“Where are you goin’?” John asked.

“Make sure Y/N don’t kill anyone.”

He didn’t even get that far into Saint Denise when he saw you getting off of Suzie. He started to call out your name when he realized you were talking to Mary.

__________

“Taa-daa.” You said handing her the broach.

“You got it?” She asks jumping up from her seat.

She looks at it in her hands and begins to tear up a bit which scares you. “What? Is it broken?”

“No… I’ve just been horrible to you… and you still.”

“I mean, yeah you have. And don’t get me wrong. I never want to see you again. But I can at least help out someone in need.” She smiles at you kindly and pulls you into a hug. She can tell you get stiff when she does so she hugs you tighter before letting go.

“Thank you, Y/N Morgan. Arthur is a lucky man. You… You two take care.” And before you can say anything she disappears in the crowd of people leaving you alone.

You let out a small huff when a familiar hand touches the small of your back. “Was Tilly okay?” You ask looking up at Arthur.

“She’s a bit beat up… but she’s strong.” He kisses the side of your head. “What were you up too?”

“Mr. Gillis tried to sell the damn broach again. I had to chase the loan shark down to get it back.” Arthur gives you a proud smile.

“Look at you…” He lifts your chin and kisses the tip of your nose before leaving a soft peck on your lips.

“I mean… I still told her to never contact you again.” Arthur chuckled and pulled you into a hug. “Let’s get some food before we go back… I don’t want stew tonight.”

“That is a brilliant idea.” He agrees as he takes your hand and the two of you walk into the city.

You both ended up at the saloon. Nowhere else really seemed to be open so the two of you ordered the dish which ended up being stew but, at least it had more flavor than Pearson’s.

“Arthur?” You ask as you finish your food. He hums softly in response, “Was… I okay last night?”

Your question makes him choke on the bite of stew he had just taken. You giggle a bit as his face turns red. “You were more than okay, my love.” He says to you softly. “That.. umm,” He looks around a bit, “That was the best I’ve ever had.”

You roll your eyes and smack his hand, “Oh, now you are bein’ silly.”

He takes your hand and smiles as he looks into your eyes, “I’ll never lie to ya.” Now your face was the one turning red so Arthur chuckled and changed the subject a bit, “Abigail told me she found out.”

You sigh a bit, “She told me too, she cornered me when I was leaving our room.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Abigail.” Arthur laughs. “She said she won’t tell anyone but it looks like she told John.”

“I feel tellin’ Abigail anythin’ is telling John.” Arthur nods in agreement as he finishes his food. He looked up and could tell something was still on your mind.

“Did Mary say somethin’ to you?” He asks making you look up at him.

“No… Just, Arthur what if we ran?” He looks up at you a little shocked.

“From the gang?”

“Hasn’t my father been a bit off lately? And Micah as well..” You pull your sleeve up and show him the bruise Micah had left when he grabbed you.

“Did Micah do that?” He asked starting to get angry.

“It was a bit deserved I’ll admit. But hell even Henry has been different. I heard Hosea and Dutch talkin’ about how he killed one of the Braithwates boys.”

Arthur listens but shakes his head, “Maybe one day. But I still think there is a bit of hope left for them… Not Micah, after I see him.”

“I know you want to, but don’t. He’ll just pick on me more.”

He smiles and squeezes your hand. “For you, I’ll keep my cool. But give me the word and I’ll end him.”

“Aww, my hero.” You tease.

__________

After eating the two of you rented a room for a bit so you could make love at least one more time before going back to the crazy-ness that was the gang.

You both hitched your horses by the others and walked into camp holding hands. “My aren’t you cute?” Molly slurred. She had obviously been drinking. “You are so cute it’s disgusting.” She gets up to your face and points lazily at Arthur. “I would drop him while ya can. He’ll get tired of ya. They always get tired and then they do nothin’ with ya. Won’t touch ya or look at ya. And they’ll go around and flirt with the younger girls.”

“Molly I think you have had enough.” You say sadly trying to grab the bottle in her other hand.

“Don’t tell me what to do. Just cause your a Van Der Linde doesn’t make ya able to boss me around.” With that, she bumps your shoulder and wanders off.

“What was that about?” Arthur asks.

“I need to talk to my father.” You say releasing Arthur’s hand and stomping into the house and up the stairs.

You, not so politely, bang on the door to Dutch’s room. He opens it clearly had been asleep. “Y/N do you have any idea what time it is?” He asks annoyed.

“Yes, I do. Do you have any idea about Molly wandering around drunk outside ranting about you flirting with younger women?”

Dutch rolled his eyes and threw his arms up walking back into his room. You quickly follow and shut the door behind you. “What is with women constantly complaining about everything.”

“Hey, that ain’t nice.”

“All she ever does is complain and complain!” Dutch sits on a chair in the room.

“She complains because you gave her all these fantasies that you were going to treat her right.” You say in a softer tone attempting to calm him down.

“And I will! We just need money I have a p-”

“Yes, father you have a plan. We all know about your big plan on some dumb island planting dumb mangos or coconuts or whatever you think it’s going to be next week. But we aren’t doin’ so hot right now. Sean’s dead, I know you guys lost three more folks before finding my brother and me.” You can see him starting to give you that angry look you’ve only seen him give enemies. So, you get next to him and grab his hand, “Daddy, maybe Uncle Hosea is right, what if we lie low for a bit. Don’t do anythin’ with Bronte or in Saint Denise. Let’s just live for a bit.”

He moves his hand away and walks away from you. “This.” He jabs a finger out the window at camp, “Is not livin’.”

“Robbin’ and killin’ ain’t either.” You snap before turning to walk away.

Dutch quickly yanks you back, “Now we ain’t done talkin’ I’m your father, you’re supposed to have my back.”

You get an inch from his face, “You’ve been my father for one year. One god damn year. Uncle Hosea has been more of a dad than you.”

That snaps something and next you feel is a smack across your face. All murmuring you hear outside seems to stop as soon as they hear the contact of Dutch smacking your cheek. You can see the instant regret on his face as you hear multiple pairs of footsteps run up the stairs.

The doors are thrown open by Hosea, Arthur, and Henry. “Dutch, why don’t you go take a walk and cool off.” Hosea (forcibly) suggests to Dutch as Arthur and Henry check over your face.

You wave them both off. “You boys are actin’ like I’ve never been smacked before.” You say trying to make them not feel worried.

Arthur looks as if he’s about to sock Dutch in the face but Henry looked conflicted. “Arthur,” Henry mumbles, “How about you get Y/N to bed. It’s late anyway.”

Arthur doesn’t respond but begins to take you to your room. “My dear,” Dutch calls making you stop Arthur and look at your father. “I am truly sorry.”

You aren’t able to reply because Arthur grunts and continues to your shared room pulling you with him.

#rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fandom #rdr #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader

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that-one-fandom-vore-blog · 4 years

Text

The whole sky was spinning (I might have been drunk)

Hey! Pump them brakes a sec! This a second part of a multi-ending fic, so if you haven’t read part one yet, check it out, ya goof.

To say that Kelly didn’t want to be out on the road in the middle of the fucking night was an understatement. Not only did she not want to be there, she fucking hated herself for clambering behind the wheel to begin with. She’d nearly fixed her sleep schedule, after all, and had been about to go the hell to bed, but... then she’d checked her phone...

So here she was at the godforsaken hour of eleven-fifty-eight at night trying to remember what part of the giant neighborhood Adam lived in. It was dark out, which was to be expected. The headlights of Kelly’s car were the only things piercing the darkness as she thundered forward thanks to her busted muffler. It’d give them enough warning to stop doing whatever the hell it was they’d been doing.

Kelly wasn’t exactly sure what being in a relationship like theirs exactly entailed, and frankly, she didn’t want to think too hard about it. After all, she was no idiot, and she could barely keep track of all the times that Sam had shown up on her doorstep asking for a change of clothes, her own bundled-up in a dripping mess of fabric. She’d come to recognize it as saliva. Which was fucking nasty, in her humble opinion, but for whatever reason, it didn’t bother Sam.

So whatever.

Tapping her fingers idly on the steering wheel, Kelly’s gaze scanned over the houses on the left and right sides of the street. His was the one with... what was it that made it distinguishing? Fuck. Her lips rugged downward momentarily as she tried to conjure up an image of Adam’s place in her head. It was the one... wasn’t it the one with the bigass garage and the peeling red paint on the front door?

Slowing, craning her neck slightly to look at the large windows, Kelly gave a soft sigh. Yep. That was the place. It wasn’t the fact that the house was vaguely familiar that tipped her off, no. It was the fact that it was the only house with the lights on still. Every other place on the block was pitch black, and as Kelly steered her car up and into the driveway, the warm glow from the windows bathed the little vehicle.

Should I text her?

Momentarily, she considered grabbing her phone, though... she left it where it sat in the cupholder. Fuck that. It was midnight and chilly out, and she was not getting out of the car if she could help it. Shifting her weight and peering at the front door, Kelly took the logical next step. With a practiced motion, she curled the fingers of her left hand into a fist, raised it, and slammed it against the horn.

A shrill, long bleat shot through the air, followed by another as she hit the center of the wheel again before leaning back on the ratty seat and waiting.

A minute passed. Two. Three. Kelly’s gaze flicked down to the dashboard clock to confirm that the time had passed, and after a moment, she slammed the horn again, holding it for longer. They were probably cuddling. Adam was a clingy, giggly sort of drunk. He was always sickeningly sweet to Sam as it were, but if he was even a litre intoxicated, his affections were far easier to pick up on. Clumsier. More obvious. She was probably a blushing mess, cuddled up against him as he nuzzled against her... bleh.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding with me...” Kelly murmured to the empty air of her car. She had half a mind to text Sam from where she was siting, and again, she looked down at her phone for a moment before pulling her gaze away in favour of letting the horn blare yet again through the relatively quiet evening. Fuck it. If she was waking the neighbours, she was waking the neighbours.

It took another three sharp blasts before a shape moved past one of the windows. It moved slowly, shuffling and stumbling more than anything— god, he was going to be fucked in the morning— across the window’s length before disappearing.

Kelly undid her seatbelt, albeit, reluctantly. Sam’s texts hadn’t had any errors, so she probably hadn’t been drinking, but if she had been... she’d need Kelly’s support to get back into the car. A sigh pulled from her as she rested her hand on the door handle before letting the door pop open, sending a blast of cold night air into the vehicle. It tore right through her denim jacket, biting right into her skin when she hopped out, shutting the door behind her.

Her boots thumped on the cracked pavement of the driveway as she sauntered up to the front step, not bothering to climb up the small set of stairs engraved in the larger ones. There was the sound of shuffling from the other side of the door. Kelly watched with mild amusement as the knob wiggled in place, twisting back and forth fruitlessly a few times before—

“Wow, you look like shit!” She greeted.

She wasn’t wrong. From the way that Adam kept rubbing at his eyes and looked genuinely confused to see her there, it was pretty obvious that she’d woken him up. How fun. Stepping a little closer, she stuck her hands in her pockets. “I’m here for Sam,” she explained, “so if you’d be so kind, dear Romeo, to escort me to the lady of thine choosing...” Trailing off, she shot him a smile.

He blinked in response. Cocked his head. Leaned down a little bit.

Kelly didn’t do so much as flinch. “Jesus, dude, how many did you have?”

When he responded, his words sounded thick, like they were sticking heavily in his throat. “Not... many... jus’ tired,” he explained, setting one hand down to brace himself. He was all but squatting on the front step, which was fucking hilarious.

“Right, well, sleep all you want once I’m out of your hair, ‘kay, buddy? I’m just here to collect Juliet.”

She could practically hear the wheels in his head spinning as he struggled to process the joke, and when he laughed, it was delayed, coming out a little slowly. “Oh. Did...”

Something in his expression changed. Kelly couldn’t exactly put her finger on what it was that was different, but it started with his eyes. They were a little unfocused as they settled on her face, but the light in them felt... different.

Frowning at his silence, Kelly quirked a brow. “Did I...” she echoed back, only for him to seem to realize his silence.

“Did you wanna see her?” He asked, words blurring together.

Kelly crossed her arms and sighed. “Yeah, that was sorta the whole fucking point of me being her ride, genius, so yes, I’d like to—“

She was interrupted by his fingers curling around her waist. It was a clumsy thing, the way his nails dug a little into her sides as she was lifted in a jerky, uncertain fashion. He was standing up. The ground was pulled away from her faster than she could properly account for, and with a sharp yelp of surprise, she found herself dangling inches from his face.

“—FUCKING CHRIST!” She sputtered at him, already wriggling in his grasp. “DON’T DO THAT!” Her hands pressed uselessly against his fingers in an attempt to get him to at least loosen his hold, though it didn’t do much, if anything.

His brow furrowed. “You... said you wanted to see Sam...” He started to say, trailing off slightly when Kelly shot him an exasperated look.

She had half a mind to jump back into her car and drive away, but... if Sam got home and woke up at home, her chance of getting found out would be significantly lower. Damn it. Dropping her arms to her sides, Kelly gave a low sound of annoyance. “What’re you, some kind of chauffeur? Fine. Fuck it. Bring me to Sam.” There was an obvious sarcasm lacing her words. It was in her expression, too, in the way that she brought her eyebrows down and kept her mouth in a straight line.

Adam stepped inside. Kelly wanted to protest— after all, she was still all but dangling above his face, but she thought better of it. It was only when he shut and locked the door that she really began to worry.

“H-Hey, dude, chill out there,” she prompted, trying her best not to sound too worried. It wasn’t like she’d never spent time at Adam’s before. No big deal. Though she couldn’t help feeling a tad uncomfortable when those lazy, half-lidded eyes trailed over her face. “Hey,” she prompted again, “what are you—“

His mouth opened up beneath her.

For a moment, her blood ran cold. Shit. Shit. This wasn’t good— for a moment, her panicked mind tried to play it off— surely he was just yawning? Yeah. That was it— just a wide, terrifying yawn that showed off all his teeth and the glistening, pinkish tunnel of his throat and—

The grip on her disappeared. She didn’t even have time to cry out before she was sprawled out on an all-too-familiar surface that shifted and prodded at her. Darkness fell upon her in an instant, coupled with the sound of his teeth snapping shut and the sensations of her insides turning to ice.

“ADAM! WHAT THE FUCK? SPIT ME THE HELL OUT THIS ISN’T—“ Grappling against his tongue as it pressed eagerly against her, Kelly interrupted herself with a gag. Her heart was throbbing heavily. Try as she might to get a grip, the muscle would only twist and lick at her with more hunger than before. Fuck, this was disgusting. She could feel his breath on her, smell it, too, the unmistakable scent of cheap booze alone enough to make her feel disgusted.

This whole experience was disgusting.

Saliva clung to her in thick, heavy strands, and as she kicked and squirmed in vain, trying to get his attention, to call him off— she found it only causing her to slip backward. Toward his throat.

A gasp pulled from her, coming out in a frightened, harsh wheeze as— with an effortless slide of his tongue and a deafening swallow— she was forced down and into his throat, struggling the whole way down. The heat intensified by the second, the muscles eagerly taking her in not halting as the squeezed her down the length of his esophagus, relentless in their force until—

With a strangled cry, she fell into his stomach with a wet sounding splash. A liquid soaked her right to the bones— lukewarm and fizzing slightly around her movements. “ADAM!” She roared upward, moving to slam her weight against the nearest wall, though without any sort of warning— she tripped over something. Someone.

“Kelly?”

And like that, in the dark, it clicked. Voice shaking, she slouched against one of the walls, feeling another body shift to gingerly sit next to her own.

“You have got to be fucking kidding.”

Sam sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth, though the sound was muffled a tad by a contented gurgle and the noise of the liquor around the pair of them sloshing as Adam laid himself back down.

“...I’m assuming you didn’t get my texts?” Sam asked, somewhat sheepishly.

Kelly struggled not to focus on the churning sensation that surrounded them. Here they were in the belly of a fucking giant— and Sam was asking normal-ass questions. “No,” Kelly snapped, “why, did you—“

“I tried to warn you... were you listening to your music player?”

Any retorts Kelly wanted to spit died on her tongue. Fuck. That was right— she put it on do not disturb whenever she was blasting her playlist— it was really nothing short of instinctual. She dug the heel of her boot into Adam’s stomach lining.

Sam snorted at her silence. “Taking that as a yes,” she remarked.

“Off my ass, Brown.”

“It’s not my fault that my boyfriend decided to eat you—“

“Couldn’t you have called him off?” Kelly blindly reached for Sam’s shoulder, giving it a small cuff in exasperation. “Fucking hell— I didn’t really want to end up in here again.”

A little rumble from around them sounded, causing Kelly to cross her arms and scuff the heel of her boot again, hitting his stomach wall a little harder. “This is just fucking great. He’s not going to remember this in the morning, is he?”

“Pro... probably not...” Sam agreed. In the dark, Kelly heard the other tiny muffle a yawn with the back of her hand and fought off the urge to give a groan.

“And you’re staying overnight?”

“Yep.”

“Which means that by extension...”

Sam rolled over, her limbs brushing up against Kelly’s momentarily before she settled down against the warm, fleshy wall. “So are you,” she finished, smile more than audible.

“Fucking great.”

Out of all the places to sleep, this had to be one of the worst. The minute shifting and churning of the walls was nothing short of intruding as they pressed against her, the noises were obnoxiously pleased in tone, and that went without mentioning the fact that she didn’t even want to be in his fucking stomach in the first place.

She wasn’t going to get a good sleep.

Or so she thought.

“If you’re sleeping...” Sam murmured after a few minutes of Kelly stewing in silence, “better do it before he’s fully out. He snores.”

Hesitantly, Kelly allowed her little body to splay out a bit more. The flesh surrounding her sank under her little weight like a hammock of sorts, the warmth alone enough to make Sam’s offer seem a little enticing...

Damn it all.

It wasn’t like she had a choice, right? Yes, she knew she could probably annoy Adam into coughing her up, but...

She laid down next to Sam. Fuck it. If she was sleeping, she may as well do it comfortably. As Kelly’s eyes started to drift shut despite the fact that her surroundings were nothing short of terrifying, she gave a little sigh and murmured into the blackness: “you’ll be lucky to get a fucking ride from me in the morning.”

A snort from Sam sounded off. “Goodnight, Kelly.”

Kelly opened her mouth to respond.

It was then that Adam started snoring.

#soft vore #g/t vore #safe vore #extreme cuddling #the mad ones #the unauthorized autobiography of samantha brown #samantha brown #kelly manning #the mad ones adam

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dahmerthepeoplenomer · 5 years

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Hi all! So this will be my first writing post ever! I freakin’ love Hank and there’s not enough love for him so I decided to join on the Hank Love Movement <3 just some Sensitive/Soft Hank

Before Hank had even gotten to his office, he knew it was going to be a terrible day. One of the reasons being that you weren’t going to be there today since you had the day off. He absolutely HATED when you weren’t there!

You were, as he’s expressed to you before, his light. In fact, you could say the same about him. You’ve both saved each other. He saved you from yourself and you saved him from himself. If you both didn’t believe in soulmates before, you damn well believe in them now. There’s hardly a minute that goes by when he doesn’t think of you or even the things he’d like to do to you...

“Good Morning, Lieutenant.” Connor said, snapping Hank out of his thoughts.

Hank grunts in response.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?”

“What, Connor,” Hank said in obvious annoyance. He loved that damn android like his own kid but he sure did get on his nerves.

“Are you aroused? I’m noticing you have high levels of dopamine which..”

Connor wasn’t able to finish his statement before Hank almost spit out his coffee and managed to sputter out, “Fuck, Connor! What the fuck!? Don’t....don’t ask me shit like that...Jesus Christ!”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I requested that I ask you something personal and you approved so I only thought that it was permitted.”

“Yeah, well, too personal!” Hank responded and began the long boring day ahead of him.

~——————-~

You had the day off so you decided you were going to do something nice for your favorite and most handsome being to ever walk this earth. You just weren’t sure what to do though.

‘I’ll start by cleaning this place I suppose’ you think to yourself, looking around at Hanks distasteful apartment. You went to put away some folded laundry in his dresser drawer when you noticed something at the bottom. It was a picture of you and him around the time you two first met. It was taken at a company Christmas party just over 1 year and a half ago.

You had just started a month or so prior and Hank was less than pleased to be at the event so you decided to cheer him up. You grabbed a Santa hat, which you already had on, and placed it on his handsome little head.

“Cute, y/n, real cute,” Hank said trying hard to hide his amusement.

“Come on, don’t be so bleh!” You stated chuckling. You decided to up the ante. Reaching into your pocket, you grab the piece of mistletoe you were hiding (silently hoping you could use it on him) and stood close to him and hanging it over your heads. He raised an eyebrow at you.

“Oh! What’s that? I think that’s mistletoe Hank and you know what that means...” you almost whisper the ending of your sentence. You weren’t sure what gave you this boost of confidence, maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was something else...

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I dont play by the rules..” Hank said trying to make up an excuse not to lean in to you because if he did, it would completely unravel him. Ever since he first laid eyes on you, this is all he’s thought about. And you can say the same.

“It’s not rules, Hank...It’s tradition...” you speak very softly. You know he won’t budge but you see a sort of conflict in him. Unsure of what conflict it is, you hear him say “Y/n..” almost as a warning. That doesn’t stop you. You close the distance, lips crashing together. You feel his hand lightly come up to your cheek. Things start to escalate quick within you both when all of a sudden...

‘FLASH’...a light blinds you both as you look up to the person behind the camera.

“Aww!” the camerawoman says looking up to see yours and Hanks stunned looks.

“Oh, sorry, I’m just here to take photos for the municipal board. Saw a perfect moment and wanted to capture it. I think you ought to keep this one...Merry Christmas!” The girl says handing over the instant print photo of the two of you and walking away.

You look at eachother, nervously chuckling, before leaning in for another kiss.....

“Aww...He kept it..”, you whisper to yourself, feeling the prick of tears. You then realized what you were going to do next. Throwing on your shoes and Hanks detroit hoodie, you head out the door.

~——————~

This day is just ridiculous. Hank is just ready to get out of this hell hole and go to his girl, his world...his home. He lazily skims through the rest of his work and makes a beeline for the exit.

Connor is already waiting beside the car. They get in and head home.

“You’re noticeably happier, Lieutenant.” said the android.

“Yeah well..”

“I don’t understand. Why the sudden change of emotion?” Connor asked.

“Have you ever been in love, Connor?”

“I am not programmed to..” he is cut off by Hank.

“Don’t give me that ‘I’m not programmed to’ bullshit. I know you better than that and what you’re capable of.”

“Well, no Lieutenant, I’ve never felt love.”

“Yeah well, when you do, you’ll understand what I’m going through.” Hank said and left the conversation at that. The android sat there processing what Hank had just said.

~——————~

You’ve made this damn place spotless! You weren’t sure it was possible because of how it the house looked before but managed it somehow. You had Hank’s present in your hands walking to the living room when a deep voice startled you.

“What’s that, sweetheart?” His gruff voice asks, laughing at you jumping by the sound of him.

“Jesus, Hank! It’s a present.” You say handing it to him. Behind him, Connor takes Sumo outside leaving the two of you alone.

“For...?” He questions.

“Because I LOOOOVE you,” you say reaching up and squeezing his face. He just grins and opens the gift. His eyes widen a bit as he stares at the picture of you and him that’s in a beautiful, almost rustic looking, wood frame. On the frame there’s the time and date that the photo was taken etched into it.

“It’s not much but...”, you start to say but you’re cut off by his lips on yours. Neither of you say anything as he picks you up, lips still locked, and takes you both to the bedroom.

He places you on the bed softly and kicks the door shut. You’ve already started to remove your shirt but he says, “No, no, no, just relax, I’ll do it.”

He finishes unbuttoning your shirt, kissing your bare belly making his way up to your already exposed breasts. Latching onto one with his mouth, he teases the other with his fingers. Your hands grip into his hair as you stifle a moan. His mouth moves to the second mound but his hand travels down and slips underneath your pants. Your hips buck to his hand as he starts rubbing over your panties.

“Hank, clothes..”, you breathe out, pulling at his fully clothed body. He does he deep chuckle that you’ve fallen in love with and starts removing his shirt and pants, leaving him in his boxers. He unbuttons your pants and throws them to the side. He starts to place kisses to your inner leg and makes his way up to your inner thigh. You’re practically begging for him at this point, grabbing his head again.

You can feel his nose slide right up over your bundle of nerves making you shiver and moan in response. He takes the hem of your panties and slides them off of your body leaving you exposed to him. He places a light kiss to the bud and then fully latches on. Pushing your hips against his mouth, you moan and gasp for air. Taking two fingers he delves into you. The knot in you keeps building and building. He fingers and mouth working faster and hard until...

“Hank! Ugh, Hank...”, you moan out loudly as he licks you clean.

As you come down from your climax, Hank removes his boxers and positions himself above you. He kisses you deeply and you return the kiss with the same passion.

“You ready, love?” He groans, positioning at your entrance.

“Please...”, you rasp out.

With your response he fills you up completely. Nothing else exists in the world, it’s just you two. Your legs wrap around his frame as you cling to him. He starts to move slowly and you start to move you hips in time with his. He’s grunting and groaning in your ear until he leans down to capture your lips as he starts to pick up pace. You break apart for air as he angles your hips up and he continues his thrusts, hitting just the right spot within you. You start to whimper uncontrollably as he goes faster.

“Ah, Hank, I’m..”, you force out.

“I know..I know..just let go, darling.” He moans.

He voice was enough to send you over as you climax hard around him. You clench on him for dear life. He follows with his own release, moaning in your ear, “ugh, y/n, I love you. I love you so much..”

Leaning down capturing your lips again, you both come down from your high.

“I love you too, Hank.” You say sincerely.

He then goes to pull out and roll off you but you stop him.

“Wait, just..stay like this for a minute. I like to feel you.”

“Alright but I don’t want to crush you.” He says and turns you both so that you’re laying on top of him instead. You lay there for a little while just feeling and being with each other until you grow uncomfortable and lay by his side. He wraps his arms around you, one around your waist and the other under your head as a pillow. You nuzzle closer to his chest, loving the feel of his soft hair.

“I assume you liked you gift then?” You laugh out.

“It’s beautiful, darling, thank you. So is the house, which I did notice. I love it and I love you...so much.” He sounds like he’s close to tears.

“I love you too, Hank,” you lean up and kiss by his eye, then down to his nose, and finally meeting his lips.

It doesn’t take long for you to drift off to sleep leaving Hank to stare at your sleeping frame. In this moment he realizes that he’s finally, genuinely happy. You’re the person he’s going to spend the rest of his life with.

#hank x reader #hank anderson #hank love movement #clancy brown #this man will be the death of me #detroid become human

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bigskydreaming · 5 years

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Anon who just messaged me just now: omg seriously do not ever ever ever feel guilty about not being able to donate any more, like srsly, I appreciate EVERYTHING that everyone’s done to get me to this point, nothing has been anything short of life-saving. There have literally been days these past six months where I only had a spare two or three bucks to buy food with after rent, and thus was only able to eat because of someone’s $2 donation.

I completely mean it when I say each donation post I’ve made with like, an extreme sense of panic behind it, or that Moukie’s helped me out on, those were ones for stuff that was extremely time sensitive and stressful and urgent and that I could NEVER have managed to make without help. And with each of them, I pretty much juuuuust managed to scrape by with what I needed to come up with - so I’m being 100% literal (for a change, lol) when I claim that I do not think I would be able to be in this position right now if not for literally EVERY single donation I received these past six months.

I just mean like, obviously I don’t know who this is or how much you donated or whatever, but even without being able to tell donations apart, I can confidently say you and everyone else can feel free to feel directly responsible for getting me to where I needed to reach, because like.....its totally and completely true. I may not know how much you donated, but I srsly want everyone to know that whatever amount they sent, whatever it cost them to send it, whatever they had to give up or go without or save or budget elsewhere more than usual (and trust me, I KNOW people sacrificed in order to help me, and I will never ever be able to convey how much I’ve been affected just by KNOWING that people have at times prioritized my situation over their own personal priorities and concerns in order to help me hang in here) - just, yeah, anything you sent, whatever the amount, if it caused any issues for you at all, please please PLEASE know that it absolutely made all the difference in the world for me.

I would never ever want someone to screw themselves over to help me, trust me!! Like, I’m trying to be better about not doing the self-deprecating shtick as much, lol, so I don’t wanna say I’m not worth it, like I feel I’m a pretty cool guy and all and my need was definitely real, lmao, but that doesn’t make anyone else’s needs or issues any less real. You gotta take care of yourself, first and foremost, before you can afford to help others - I get that and truly believe that.

Our fucked up world needs as many giving and generous and community-minded people as it can get, these days, and that for sure includes the people who will hunt around for the absolute last $5 they have, in order to help someone else out....and it absolutely means those are people the world definitely needs to hang in there and stay okay - so always take care of yourself first and foremost, so that you can be your best self when you do have the opportunity to help others.

I don’t think anyone could say that’s selfish by any stretch of the imagination - I think its more like you just making sure you can bring your A-game. No matter someone else’s situation, you shouldn’t ever lose sight of the fact that you are every bit as important and worth prioritizing as any one else.

For the record, I truly do think I’m gonna be fine from here, I've crunched the numbers and I’m pretty sure I’m gonna be able to stretch what I have enough for it to last me during this home stretch.

My surgery was SUPPOSED to be yesterday, but last Tuesday I got a call from my doctor about red tape crap with my insurance company so I was trying to sort that out all last week and thus it got pushed back another couple weeks, bleh, but I’m pretty positive I can make it work and won’t need to ask for anymore help.

I’ve made it through everything I need to do on my end at this point, and now its literally just a waiting game. Just trying to conserve energy and avoid stress as much as possible and give my jaw as little reason to be an asshole as possible, lol, so if I’m sporadic the next couple weeks like I was this past week, that’s the only reason why, nothing bad or anything like that. Just....me not being Good at Patience. LOL.

I understand people wanting to stay anonymous about donations, so I don’t know if anyone will ever take me up on this, but for real, if there’s ever anything I can do or help you out with, don’t hesitate to ask. If its within my capabilities, I would be super happy for the chance to give back in any way at all, and if its genuinely out of reach for me, I’ll figure out what I can do that’s still hopefully helpful in some ways. *Shrugs* If nothing else, I’m told I give good pep talks, when needed? LOL.

But for real, your message was sweet but totally in no way anything you need to justify or defend or explain to me at all. I’m only here because of what everyone’s already done on my behalf, and I would much rather people direct their goodwill towards others in need at this point, or treat themselves, than worry about me financially from here on out. The most helpful thing for me at this point is just good thoughts and hopes for a speedy rescheduling date.

(And that like, the doctor doesn’t accidentally nick a facial nerve and paralyze my face. Apparently that’s only a really really really slim chance and doesn’t happen often these days, but I just mean. Y’know. That would kinda bum me out, so I figure it can’t hurt to get some “Hi universe and also can you make sure the nice doctor doesn’t like, break Kalen’s face, please and thank you” energy out there.)

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knightofameris · 4 years

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aaaAAAAAHHH THERE IS SO MUCH TO RESPOND TO OMG HOLD ON DHSKSN

before i start let me just say thank u guys (just in general) for being so kind and welcoming...,, today was so bleh and i just have been feeling worse and worse (yes i did cry for an hour but m ok now) and i go on tumblr and i almost cried again bc i saw all the asks...,, it’s so refreshing to just be hit w all this love........so thank u,,... much love from 🧸 dhdjd

onto the convos! hi ames i’m glad ur taking a break or at least are hopefully trying to!! i will kick ur shins and take ur kneecaps if u aren’t hehe :> pls take care of yourself and this goes for anyone else out there reading this!!! i’ll support u 100% :D

(i learned how to press return so my msg isn’t one big para im so cool) anyways fbdjdjHDKSSJ UGH that sounds like so much woRK dbskdndk WHAT WERE THE CONVOS EVEN ABOUT???? i get so drained so quickly and i always need a break from everyone so PROPS TO U??!!?? i personally take ss so i just switch back n forth between my photos and the ask box JDNSKD im so lazy

YEAHHH art !! i love art sm!!! practice sketches ooo of who i wonder? do tell more... AND I’M PROUD OF YOU MORE!! but like fr i’ve gotten so much better in the past 6 months and i’m really happy w how it’s been going, maybe i’ll show u sometime C:

WAIT HOW TALL ARE U??? are we both short queens????!!!?? JDBAKDJSK it makes it all the better having somewhat tall hq interests 👀👀 I GENUINELY DONT THINK SUGA WOULD HAVE BAD TASTE EITHER??? mf could be out here in sweatpants and a t-shirt and he’d look like he stepped off broadway istg. and GRRR seeing u talk so passionately about teaching HFJSNDKDDK im so proud of u and i have only been talking to you for so long LOL !!!! i cant wait to see u do great things in the future ames!!! i’m so proud of you :D keep going!! ok ok and finally, FINALLY, i’m glad you’re doing better!!! dummie thick surgeon but at least it’s somewhat resolved fhskdkdkq (sorry if i seem so out of it in this omg i’m so exhausted) -🧸

AAHHA oops SORRY AHFSDANFF

AWW baby, i’m sorry today was hard for you!! i’m glad that I, and everyone else, was hopefully able to make today a little bit better. WE LOVE YOU HERE <3 <3 sm uwu and crying feels good sometimes! yk, just gotta let it out. i hope you go get some rest because you deserve it, crying takes a lot of energy hgnfngkng. and if you ever need an ear I am here to listen <3

LJDFAL;SDJF the way I'm p sure you already took my heart,,,

I STILL DONT HAVE THAT FEATURE. AM SAD. and I DONT EVEN REEMBER we just kept sending memes on one thing or dog pictures on another, etc. and it just. different conversations ASDJFKDAJSF. AND DON’T WORRY i totally get it. i take a few days away from texting every so often and yk. I'm like simultaneously social and not tho adslfjdlsajf. ALSO THAT’S SO SMART,,, u have the brain cell here.

AW i would love to see your art if you’re ever comfortable to share,, BUT IM SURE IT’S AMAZING ANYWAY!!! we LOVE IMPROVEMENT. look at you go IM PROUD OF YOU MOST!! and omg I, I can only draw girls recently for some reason. and if I draw boys they’re just pretty boys,,,, i mean it’s suiting for suga though he’s a very pretty boy u__u

i ammmmmm 5′1″ (153 cm) owo. so I'm assuming,,, you’re also short AHAHAH. suga literally reaches the minimum height that i’d want in a guy. BUT LIKE SHORT BOYS ARE CUTE TOO I’VE BEEN “WITH” MOSTLY SHORT BOYS. asjldfasldfjasjf I'm mad suga can pull off any outfit and would be prettier than me smh.

AJDFALSJF PLLSS ;-; I'm proud of u more...! what are you interested in for a career ?? 0: i know for me that I do want to be a teacher but I want to do other things too! something in the entertainment industry but who knows asdljfalsdfjasf

LMAO my surgeon was kinda funny tho made it relaxing before going under anesthesia and donut worry about seeming out of it, I'm constantly out of it. no brain cells 25/8

#AJLFASJF multiple conversations are the only way to go LMAO #im ngl im just a lil lazy w these tags rn #anon bby #a.responds #a.anonfamily!!#from.🧸#for.anonfamily!!

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dishonoredrpg · 4 years

Photo

Congratulations, TARYN! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE MOON with the faceclaim of FRIDA GUSTAVSSON. In spite of a few understandable bumps in the road, you really blew me away with Maiden! The Moon is a very understated character, to me, in that their subtleties and smaller notes are what really make them interesting. You took them in a direction I wasn’t expecting, but I enjoyed the ride nevertheless -- I also enjoyed the ups-and-downs of the plots quite a lot, and how you tied everything together with a nice little bow in regards to her interest in botany and the past which she is still trying to uncover. Altogether, this was a delight to read, and I can’t wait for Maiden to grace the dash!

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC NAME: Taryn PRONOUNS: She/her AGE: 21+ TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST & currently I’m stuck at home and rarely allowed to leave the house because I’m immunocompromised… bleh. In a week or so I’ll be considered okay to rejoin people, and then I’ll be on the job hunt - which I only mention because it may change my activity ability once that’s happening! I also do help out behind the scenes at another roleplay, so some creative juice goes there. Overall, ideally I’m at least online everyday to chat, plot, or post a reply. Some days the ole mental health needs me to stay off screens for a bit or just says You Aren’t Writing Today, but I’d say it’s been a while since I’ve gone more than 3 days without posting on an rp account, so whatever that translates to -- 7/10, maybe? ANYTHING ELSE?: Other than what I already messaged you about (and thank you again for your understanding!!), I just want to say I interpreted things a little differently than the recent skeleton edit/your anon answers imply -- I thought her magic manifested at thirteen with the instance of Moon freezing her mother’s arm, meaning her mother knew from that early age that Moon had powers, and only told Moon to leave when the rumours spread. I think that switches up the dynamic you might have imagined, but hopefully you still like it! I was also a little confused as to whether or not the Moon’s mother ever instructed her in the work she does -- because there is the “All she ever does in return is chuckle and pat you on the head, but you figure that she’ll tell you one day.” line, but it seems that’s when she’s younger, and I figured if she’s working as a botanist at the castle she must have been lessoned in the stuff to some degree. So there is mention of her mother teaching her botany in her history, but it’s not an ~important detail at all and could literally just straight up be removed from the bio without issue. Can you tell I’m anxious and need to over-clarify everything? Lmao. Anyway, thanks again Julie!! IN CHARACTER SKELETON: The Moon NAME: Maiden Mallorian / “Triss” I don’t largely go into naming conventions but I think there’s some worth in discussing it here! The use of Maiden as a given name is meant to embody an Otherness by using a commonly-used noun in place of a traditional name (... though I guess all names are nouns too… anyway), as well as a mystique. EG: If every young, unmarried woman is a maiden, then who is the girl we call Maiden? Is she all of those young women, or none of them - is she a person, or a concept? Can a woman even have an identity with a moniker shared by so many -- a similar question to can a girl have a sense of self if she is raised in isolation, if her teachers are not people but the meadows, the crows and the heaths and the moors? There’s also certainly the archetype of The Maiden in literature, particularly in relation to the trio of Maiden / Mother / Crone. Beyond her mother embracing this triumvirate of feminine archetypes and deliberately naming her after as much, there’s just that very literal interpretation - I’ve named her after the maiden archetype, pure and simple. Her mother is, clearly, the mother, and I see the High Priestess rounding out that divine feminine trio as the crone -- the most aged of all, the closest to death, and the bearer of the most knowledge. Furthermore you have the scrubbing of this name and the replacement of it with Triss -- a simple, short nickname that bares no importance or meaning, and instead effectively erases the things that made her unique. Maiden tends to forget or, at least, forgo introducing herself with the alias both because she dislikes and genuinely forgets to use it -- so you may have a smattering of people who know her in-character as Triss, but to those that she knows better and/or takes a liking to immediately, they’ll know her as Maiden. Which, if I’m continuing to be a little extra with the name analysis, is also a good representation of her duality/contradiction -- two names, two selves, two parts to the moon (glowing at night; invisible by day-hours), the illusion/deception part of the moon tarot, and all that jazz. FACECLAIM: (1) Frida Gustavsson (2) Ashley Moore AGE: Twenty-five DETAILS: So, full disclosure, I’ve said it a dozen times to a dozen different people but I had the hardest time deciding on a character -- I was literally stuck between five or six skeletons until like 48 hours before the submit closed. They were as varied as The Moon to Temperance to even the dark horse of The Hermit plowing its way through my heart, and what attracted me to that array of characters on the whole was just the ability to see a story in them. I could find in each of them a distinct past and complex future, but the Moon ended up pulling ahead as I started to collect inspiration and jot down notes -- it was Maiden’s story that wouldn’t leave me alone. And I will go into an attempt to tell you why below, but realistically that’s almost the best reason I could give you -- because they won’t unstick from your shoulder or let you reach for someone else. They demand to be spoken for. Truthfully, I love tales of daughters and their mothers. I love the narrative passed between them, how one can be an extension of the other -- I love a retelling of an immaculate conception where the magic is found in the mother, not an absent-holy father (even if said immaculate conception is just myth, because who says a story isn’t as important as a truth). I love women and their stories, and how no girl is ever so far from being a witch -- basically, I adore that Girl Magic, so it was her background that appealed to me first. Because while we’re talking about Girl Magic, there’s such a potential for that with The Moon. I saw her at the crux of an eccentric mage and a clumsy apprentice, possibly hovering in the middle because she has no instructor, only herself -- so she is forced to experiment and create and learn all at once. I also love archetypes of wild women, though that doesn’t have to mean the ones that run with wolves -- sometimes it means the ones who sleep next to them. I’m very drawn to stories of the Others, the ones a half-step from society, who hold something unusual and distinctly enchanted about them -- and Maiden, whose magic has manifested in a way that may prove unique to all humanity, certainly has that Otherness going for her. Women in real life (and in fiction) are so often grouped into homogenous categories or expectations that being able to write one who not only defies societal conventions, but exists outside them entirely, and with contradictions inside her -- phew. That’s some shit I can fall in love with. I do find it difficult to dissect and lay out who Maiden is so plainly -- to me, that’s like writing an analysis on a novel I haven’t finished yet. I can’t separate her bones for you yet on the table because I’m still unrolling them from the skin myself, measuring out the angles of her joints, sizing up her feet, etc. But I like that I know this muse is going to unravel for me with time, despite how much I already have done -- that’s actually a very important note to me in a character, feeling that there is still progress to be made as both myself and the muse go through the roleplay together. Though, that being said, I also don’t remember the last time I’ve been able to create such a long-term character arc from the get-go -- which is super exciting, tbh, and yet another reason I got drawn into the Moon’s lunar pull over the others. Got me out here feeling like I could write a novel 😭 BACKGROUND: let us begin, as all stories do - and as they must - at the beginning. to be fair and honest, as stories never are, we must admit that this is not quite the true beginning. that beginning, in this case and all others, would mean the black-star start of the world (or in the very least, if we are to cheat just slightly, the origins of magic - but i digress), when everything came from nothing and nothing meant everything. but for both your time and mine, we will skip past the first red, slashed dawn of the world, and even beyond the fantastic sky-breaking initiation that brought magic, though they did not come all that far apart, as you may think. i also feel that it is my duty to you, dear reader, to state my bias. that is all. i state it. i type it in bold letters, black like stones from the bottom of a cold ocean and just as cold. it has been relayed, and i have done what is necessary. i have no obligation to further explain to you what it may be, or to who i am favored or embittered - indeed, i staunchly oppose such action, as you yourself must have an active part in this tale, a responsibility to seek out what is truth and what is exaggeration - and there is no point in asking. but don’t read too much into this. all this facetious, drawn-out text is only a disclosure. this is a story, real as your whale-blubber bones, and i am not lying about any of it. all i mean to say is this: it is a sign both of humanity and of narration that we should always, must always, pick a side. it is simply necessary, just as it is necessary to remember this when one is the listener. never believe a narrator who does not disclose themselves upon the opening of a story, and never trust one that calls themselves impartial. they are lying. it is only natural to crave loveliness, or wickedness, or both, and it can only be expected that a tongue slants and bends to accommodate such reactions of the heart. there is no story that is all truth. there is only love and the words we create to try and express it; never quite accurate, never quite enough, like a burr soaked in honey and left on your tongue. stinging and sweet, but no matter how you try, you cannot spit it out. (remember, look closely, but not too hard). this is our story. i leave it in your mouth. there are three things in succession: a bargain, a girl, and magic. the order of these both matters and does not. it does not matter because all these things are one and the same in the end. it does matter for reasons that will become apparent shortly. there is, as many tales go, an unhappy woman (why it is never a man that is so morose and dissatisfied with life in these stories, we shall leave for the scholars to explain). she lives in a stretch of land where few who are not seeking her come, and spends her days shucking the cures and harms out of flowers and counting the wolves that pass by her road. the first bargain, by all accounts, happens some time ago, before we begin the meat of our tale: the woman lives simply but she lives alone, and for that fact alone she is considered both strange and in necessary want of a companion, for it is a truth universally acknowledged that even a peculiar woman is in want of a husband. yet no sojourner or knight come to her door seeking remedy is invited to stay longer, no boots left at her doorstep despite the impressive if not daunting presence of her beauty, and in the absence of romance the people in the farmlands grow restless, then talkative. what does a woman want beside a mate, they wonder? particularly when she is young, and beautiful, and alone, they add, because in these stories and every one that will be told thereafter until my throat is split in a great red grin, that is all that matters to an active audience. a child, they murmur finally. it must be a child. there are varying accounts of what happens next, but let me give you the gristle: a swell comes to the solitary woman’s belly, and in more moons, so comes a daughter. no one remembers when she is born, and it is something of a wonderment that she exists at all; far and wide she is eyed thrice-over by all those who see her babe form swaddled in her mother’s arms, wondering over which crib she has been snatched from. the farm-folk in the nearby flatlands believe that she was not stolen or bred but placed, a changeling offered to her mother in exchange for a bargain made with the undying god, or conjured up by spell and pure maternal desire alone (for you were a fool if you believed these simple folk saw a woman, young and beautiful and alone and with her fingers in the dirt, and never called her witch). others still swear the child came from the unfolded petals of a white flower, her minute form bundled up where the pollen was meant to be. whether this gossip speaks to the audacity of the men in the telling of the lie or the stupidity of the listener for believing something so unnatural, i will let you decide. or perhaps you believe in magic. do you? i digress. so as you are learning, the first bargain is both unimportant and not. completely individual and irrevocably part of a far larger, grander whole, indistinguishable from the rest. but next comes the girl, as i promised. and she is very, very important. she is our story. she is her mother’s in full, because blood and magick are one and the same, and the farmers are right in this alone: her mother loves her as meat loves salt, as lions love flesh and blood and not cabbages, and there is no unnatural thing in this world she would not do to make her borne. she loves her from dusk to dawn and dirt to moon, and so she gives her a name stitched with irony so that the fates will not sew it into her bones: maiden. a thing from every story, a girl on every street. she names her after a concept so that she will always be real, made of life. so that the tales whose paths she walks will not decide for her. mother and maiden live in the little cottage in the wide grasslands between wicked wood and dry cropland, and in the nothingness they have everything they need. mother hunts for their supper and teaches maiden to carry a bow when it is time, and more importantly how to give thanks to the beasts they carve up on the wooden table. they collect logs for fires and till the gardens by hand, taking from the earth all that they need and never - as mother instructs - a drop more. they play games of knots and crosses in the dirt and maiden makes dramas with the figures mother whittles, and to give you the very best truth of all, they want for very little that they do not have. she learns how to be a raven (observing), a fox (clever), a rabbit (swift), a riddle (everything all at once, and only sometimes a girl) from mother and the animals both, and she walks about the meadows barefoot and learns from the trees and birds, loves them the way she never loves people only because she has not had the chance. mothers and fauna are all well and good to take lessons from, but they do make a strange girl. she tells her secrets to the bees and watches the far-off puffs of smoke from the farmlands, pretending they are streams from a dragon’s nostrils and not the warmth of a hearth with children her age sitting next to it so that she does not feel sorry for herself. to her, there are but two people: her mother, and the people she trades with. it is not so bad; they are both very good at being alone, and the people of the nearest town are even better at reminding them to stay that way. when they blow into the hamlet on the western breeze maiden makes games of hanging off porches and climbing things that should never be touched, and she laughs so freely all the other children cannot help but come out from their hiding places and join her until their fathers call them back in. not with her, they say. not that one. — but o, how sweet and precocious a child she is when the visitors come, wrists knotted behind her back and eyes tied forward as she questions their intentions and demands, as if in secondary payment, life stories as recompense for mother’s skills. how you would have loved her, i tell you, that girl with her flaxen hair and moon-eyes, tugging on sleeves and walking the verbal-stride of a child who never learned how to shrink herself — how i love her even now! and if i must tell you something else: magic is rarely courteous, and almost never consolatory. when it arrives, no matter how many pieces of furniture i have shifted in my heart to make way for a girl called maiden, it comes with no such open space in its pit. where i have crafted an open sitting parlour it has bedroom sets and wicker fruit baskets and even a few grand lamps (never mind the fact that lamps do not yet exist; in the cavity of magic, there are always lamps), and so when it arrives she feels the weight of all these things dropped upon her head. and mother, who does so well at holding her silence it resembles a newborn babe swathed in cloth, still grips the quiet as carefully as church glass - even with one arm in disuse. you know by now, of course, what has happened. it is no secret to you or i what occurred that day, as some pieces of stories swell until they brush up against the audience independent of the narrative altogether. the effect was grand even if the moment was not, for unfortunately sometimes even the greatest plot devices happen when the writer is sleeping and cannot pause to fancy it all up. one moment a hand is merely a hand passing twine and foxglove, the next it has frozen in place. it might have been a lovely image under any other circumstance: the look of a pale, slim arm grasping a hanging purple head of flowers beneath thick, glittering ice like a delicately painted carving in a snowglobe. But indeed, how the image shook them instead of the other way around. in an effort to distract her, mother peels open the earth’s secrets at the seam and lets her peek into the sticky, moist centers and slurp the knowledge for herself. she shows her how to unfold plant-magic on the large wood table and lessons her on how to use it kindly in poultices and elixirs and bunches of dried ravensmaw. she learns what is used for fresh wounds and the herbs best combined to stave off heartbreak, and they are more similar than you think. but things are, distinctly, never the same: in a house that has only ever had two voices, there arrives a great sweeping of silence. mother is far-away in a place of wondering, the spot where mothers are ought to go when considering how best to protect their child. maiden too spends time in that same seat questioning who it is that has made her and why they stole from two separate bowls of clay, though the pair never seem to sit down and share a table in that place in peace. life goes on this way, i am loathe to report, until it gets worse. there is an awful quiet that does not leave that house, suspended between the unasked questions of what to do and what am i? maiden is kept from leaving the cabin or its surrounding pasture in ever-climbing extents until she is nought but bound to them, and mother makes the trips to the farmlands for supplies alone and ushers her out of the room when clients arrive. so, here she is in full, with flaxen hair and a moon hidden underneath her tongue: clever and strange, curious and lovely, tall and just a little too spindly-boned. a raven, a fox, a rabbit, a riddle, and sometimes a girl. magic bound in bones. a shut-in who never had reason to grow a heart, but did anyway, and now she is left to the lonesome. truly, can we blame her for what she did next, for answering the door all those moons later simply because someone knocked, and letting them in without checking if their teeth were bicuspids or fangs? can we fault that lonely creature for believing she could help, and fixing the tonic herself rather than waiting for mother, as instructed? can we accuse her for what came next, the slimmest moment of ice crystals skittering across a workbench, cold little diamonds that another less-shrewd eye might have ignored, but this one picked out? and what of the day the child got lost with a thorn in its foot, how she snuck from the cabin and cooed for them till it was yanked free, the simple smoothing of her thumb over the sole leaving it smooth as milk — i ask you that, in true: what crimes would you charge her with? do you blame the tiger for its hunting? it is only following nature, after all. or do you cast your stones on the people who threw nets through the trees and called it protection, expecting not to bleed. one cannot take in a wolf and expect it to never look back at the forest, no matter how well fed it is kept. like a flower cannot choose its colour, we cannot help what we become. she could not help what she did. it was only in her nature. so like rain, like a black cloud, like bad omens, the rumours come for the maiden, the one in the meadow, the one in the little wooden hut with the strange-beautiful-alone mother. daughter is even worse than the mother, they say. i heard it was ice — no, wind — nay, she is vitalus too — they build and rise until mother-maiden can hear the gossip in the air, having travelled by raven-feather and west-wind. of course none of it is the truth, for she bares a reality that no one yet knows — something hidden away like an egg inside an egg at the deepest part of the world — but it does not matter. audiences do not look for fact, they clutch only to wickedness or sweetness, as i have already told you. mother grows panicked with hydrangeas of fear spouting out of her ears, demanding a flight to be taken, and daughter lies awake at night wondering how to do so without wings — questioning how it has come to pass that she knows the roots and berries and grass, but not the woods or how to survive in them. you know, still, what happens next. there is another knock at the door, and despite lessons learned, the maiden answers the call: and this time it is death standing there waiting. they come to an agreement. sometimes death, too, is kind. history peeks its lazy, pinned-down eyes around the corner when the maiden of this story leaves her little hovel, fingers made of revolutions and religions clinging tightly to the doorframe to watch her go. the journey is perilous and full of dark places and occasional humour, if you are interested in that kind of adventure. i will tell it another time, when the back of my tongue has been given rest. i wish i could tell you, dear reader, which sort of story this will be: drama or comedy, mask one or mask two. but i don’t know yet. we will find out together, which makes us accomplices, you and i - like colleagues. two thieves after the same jewel. i have told her story because i love her, this much you know to be true by now, because we do not let the ones we love tell war stories. which is, in essence, what every story we can ever tell is: a battle of wits, or a conflict of hearts, or the combat of self against self. there is always a fight against something. it’s the nature of humanity, to push and poke and burn. —- – and now you see what i meant at the beginning of this tale: bargain. girl. magic. all of it comes in that necessary order and none at all. bargain. it arrives first, before her birth, a rumour; at the same time, it is the last twist, the thing that brings her to this castle. girl. she is born; she exists. magic. her blood, her marrow; a complexity of sparks and hope. a beginning, a middle, an end. a circle. a moon. PLOT IDEAS: These are laid out in a potential arc/chronological order of when I see them happening, but with the exception of a few, almost any combination could work! I. SHUCKED FROM PETALS. I’d like to grow Maiden’s role as a botanist -- both in terms of having her interest in botany itself swell, and also expand this into something of an inventor or potioner function. While she’s currently making strange concoctions at the King’s request, as an inherently curious woman I see these demands as something that will spark interest in her to create on her own. While in her youth she quizzed her mother on the applications of leaves and stems, now that she has no mentor for the process, she can only question and find answers by working through the hypotheses and methods herself. II. ON THE BASIS OF MORALITY. I see very strongly Maiden descending further into the plot to assassinate Septimus and joining the group of revolters in a more tangible way. Her ability to fight and knowledge of courtly life are both lacking, but she offers a unique vantage point of visiting all manner of individuals with the perfect excuse -- their health. As she becomes more decidedly entangled in the rebellion efforts and subsequently offers up her services to them, she begins to craft salves and potions with hidden effects, used in application against those they stand against (a poultice made with an herb that lends to truth when tending to someone with information / a drought with added pollen so that a guard may sleep through their shift that night, etc). Less fleshed out, but still worth noting: if the laced salves and elixirs are a no-go, she could slide into something of a spy/informant role fairly easy. Again, she has easy access to any array of people as the castle, and can come and go from different bedsides silently -- listening in on conversations all the while. III. FASTER THAN MINE ARROW. At the behest of the revolution -- where intentions ring with righteousness yet impact may be less virtuous -- I see Maiden encouraged to embrace her Inferni powers by rebel cohorts. While it’s not a path I see her arriving at and walking on her own, as she entrenches herself in the ideals and plots of the revolution, it would still be a willingly-made choice -- albeit perhaps still a reluctant one. She far prefers to heal than harm, but as the plot to kill Septimus ripens, she would accept the notion that an offensive skill gained by her becomes a shield and sword to the cause. I interpret this as less of an embrace of violence and more an eventual acceptance of her magic in all its parts; Maiden removing her gloves and making attempts at practicing Inferni magic brings with it an acknowledgement that not only are these powers part of her but they are hers alone to control. If she can develop some mastery over them, she can use them as she sees morally right, rather than their use dictated to her by others (so she believes). I want to see her not think of her magic as an intrusion and a mystery, but rather some native at the pit of her -- like stone in a fruit. As long as it is there, one could not bite straight through her. Sub-bullet because it’s not a huge thing, but I’d love a moment where she’s practicing with the ice in the greenhouse and loses control, subsequently destroying much of the flora in there beyond salvation -- cue a sobbing Maiden. Also! Would love to use this as an excuse for the Hierophant to become a sort-of mentor for her -- a dynamic she would undoubtedly seek out and beg for if the time came. IV. WHERE TRUTHS CONFLICT. As clearly as I envision Maiden’s loyalties knotting tighter to the revolutionaries, I don’t believe her resolution is iron in every aspect. While she may agree that King Septimus needs to be removed, deciding which successor she wishes to support would be far harder. This plot could be as simple as indecision and uncertainty on Maiden’s part, or could be as complex as a more nefarious individual taking advantage of her courtly ignorance and indecisiveness by manipulating her into backing their pick for future ruler. V. THE CURE & THE RUIN. Working intimately with anything lends to cross-contamination -- including poisonous plants. My thoughts on this fork a few different ways here, albeit my personal fave is the first bullet: Through her own misinformation or inexperience, Maiden accidentally begins to poison herself through prolonged exposure to toxic flora and their materials. Seeing as she’s in the greenhouse for hours at a time nearly every day, this would lend to a good, steady incline of symptoms -- paranoia, delusion, hallucinations, etc until they potentially culminate in a kind of temporary “madness.” An individual or party on the loyalist side discovers what she is doing for the revolters, and applies the same concept -- a slow poisoning, made to look accidental by exposure to the wrong flower. This may be less likely as it might be implausible for another character to have a knowledge of botany that surpasses her own and plant something toxic in the Greenhouse without Maiden realizing, but I’m totally open to it! Similar to the last, rather than a loyalist poisoning Maiden, they find a way to access her stash of concoctions and alter them so that they harm rather than heal those she is working with. Could be particularly dramatic if she is working long-term on a member of royalty or influential revolution member -- ie. something like visiting them daily to apply salve on a new wound that needs consistent tending. VI. WHAT ARE YOU, SWEET CREATURE? Maiden’s dual powers are bound to come into public knowledge eventually, and I think there’s the opportunity for some terror and delight there. I’ve been ruminating a lot on what the hybrid of her Inferni and Vitalus powers mean -- An Inferni rarely lives past thirty, and Maiden is already twenty-five. I’ve been imagining that she has not seen or felt the costs of her power like other Inferni due to the innate nature to heal, which is undoubtedly something other Inferni would desire. Whether Maiden willingly lays herself down to experimentation in the name of aiding the Hierophant or she’s literally captured by Septimus and crew for a less careful kind of research -- I’d love to see her secret blown up and her safety compromised as a result. VII. IT HURTS TO BECOME. I have little octopus tentacles coming out of this plot because I can see multiple variations on the same idea, so -- As inspired by the “Vitalis magic often manifests itself in nobility” line from the magic page, Maiden is discovered as the descendent of a noble bloodline. This could mean her father was the bearer of a title, or that even in a Mother Gothel-esque fashion her mother took her from a family in the desire to have her own child (though I favour the former). This is less about an advancement in her social standing/hierarchy and more about playing further with the themes of birth and identity. Particularly as an individual that isn’t well-matched to courtly manner and expectations, what would it be to disturb her peculiar existence further and force her into a lifestyle she has no interest in? How does it detract from her purpose and goals? Her mother is found out as someone who previously stayed at the Temple of the Undying and departed in some form of scandal known to the High Priestess. I think this would be particularly impactful if her mother’s time there overlapped directly with the High Priestess, and their relationship marked by some form of betrayal on her mother’s end. This would make her mother a necromancer, a fact that if going from this route was certainly kept from Maiden, or we could work with the concept that perhaps she was merely an emissary there. This bullet is less formed as it would require plotting with at least one other player, but essentially it boils down to braiding the High Priestess into her backstory (or, at least, the Temple of the Undying) -- a completion of the maiden/mother/crone build, if you will. Realistically, the above could be combined -- her mother has a past tied to both the Temple of the Undying, and her father is of noble descent. Lastly, this idea could also be twisted into a falsehood/manipulation of someone from Septimus/the Loyalist side -- she does not have noble blood and/or her mother’s past is made up, but they have fed her this story(s) in an attempt to distract/derail her from her purpose, or otherwise sway her onto the side of the Crown. VIII. THE MAIDEN IN THE TOWER. I see very clearly what Maiden could be in years time -- in the same way the King has the Tower, or perhaps even The High Priestess, I envision the capacity for Maiden to become an advisor in the arcane arts to the future ruler. This is very epilogue-esque content, the resolution to a tale long told, something far-off and subject to change depending on how the roleplay unfolds -- but if I was planning her arc from where I stand now, that would be the resolution. A femme!Merlin now in tune with her magicks, a strange figure forever working away in her greenhouse-laboratory in the highest room in the tallest tower, descending to the court only to offer counsel and smile at a few bugs… art. And maybe, just maybe, there’s even a bard out there singing about a strange moon-touched woman and her magic, who came from the Farmlands and ended up in a castle. That, I think, would make an awfully good story. CHARACTER DEATH: I’m definitely not opposed to it! If you see a plotline where her death makes sense I’m open to at least having the discussion -- it would probably depend how I’m feeling about her character development, as I do see quite clearly how far Maiden could develop with extensive, long-term rping (the Merlin-esque shit) and it’d be super cool to get there. WRITING SAMPLE SAMPLE #01. TWENTY-FIVE. CASTLE TYRHOLM, THE GREENHOUSE. Based on headcanons found in the extra section! it is the damnable wine she calls to blame for her recession from the great hall. yet still unused to its potency, it turns her stomach and her mind with it, until she is unbalanced and sure a marble placed upon the centre of her would roll only to one side, lolling comically behind her left ear. maiden swears she can hears it as she takes her leave from the night’s feast, a hideous clacking circling around her skull as she takes the steps to the greenhouse. the sound was a well accompaniment to the noise of heart against rib, that lub lub that reminisced so closely to collection of stones in a velvet satchel. how is that for an appraisal, she thinks. an inferni and a vitalus yet, and yet you cannot even hold your liquor. down below, music begins. septimus is performing one of his many wonders, conjuring up new entertainments like a foreigner’s god and his labours – things meant to fell mortal men in their spectacle. the sound, though muffled by stone, is light and deceptive with a beat kept by tambourine and wound through with panpipes. it crashes and crawls as a serpent through brush, dragging its body across the span of men’s shoulders and up the marble spires until it reaches the slender ankles of maiden high above, who slips from the darling (albeit pinching) satin slippers borrowed from the magician. o, that that song had teeth. it would sink them pit-deep into that lovely, exposed ankle. the footfalls that emerge from the far entrance are remote in distance, yet the cadence of it -- quick and spry, in the pattern of a courtly dance -- are close and recognized by ear in an instant. “your skill is in the making of noise, bard. so i would suggest --” she calls to armel with a bland hum, bent over a troop of growing windflowers as she cuts the largest at the stalk, her sharp fingernail used in place of scissors. “leaving behind these foolhardy attempts to remove sound from your being altogether.” maiden looks up then to the musician’s hiding place, half-covered as he is by bushes camellias and hanging vines. the look given beneath her brows is chiding, but it is a reproach with a single candle lit within, a glance perhaps warmed by liquor despite its meaning. “how do you always do that?” he asks, and maiden decides there is something rather feline about him as he emerges from the brush, shoulders rolling with that mandolin hoisted over one. “i didn’t say a word.” “you do not need to. your stroll speaks for you.” the air is moon-hot and the music swells below them, rising like tide to their knees, now their hips. her voice is cut-rope, one end loose in the water, and maiden lets the tide of the pull her, only one end remaining on shore. “asides…” she sighs, “you limp on the left.” “i do not.” “indeed you do. like a horse with a lame leg.” it is a full-force lie, dropped into a casket of wine and pulled out stinking, and armel catches her half-crescent smile at the same moment he spots her bare feet. “i suppose you won’t be returning to the ball, then.” maiden turns and takes to walking the length of the greenery. her back turns to him, but not unkindly; instead her slow, graceful gait seems an invitation to join, though he does not follow. she listens to armel as she winds through the tall grass, eyes upon the stalks, searching for anything that might catch her eye. in the moonlight she is all silhouette and odd-shapes, ever and always a little too-tall, a little too sharp-boned at the joints. but when she moves like this, slow and easily-flooded as moonlight itself, one could forget all that. “dancing slippers are quite unsuitably named,” she says by way of answer as the bard begins an absent strum on his instrument. “they give me no motivation at all to partake in such merriment.” armel does not answer, instead quite pensively continuing to pluck at notes while looking at the near distance -- assumedly undergoing great internal debate as to whether or not he was, truly, a lame horse. “a peace —” she slides the long stem of a gore-red windflower behind his ear when next she passes, as natural a move as though it were but tucking a strand of her own hair behind her ear. maiden smiles. “you actually limp on the right.” //

SAMPLE #02. AGE FIFTEEN. A MOMENT OF WEAKNESS & A DESPERATE ATTEMPT. Fire, it would seem, had ceased to be a friend to her. As a girl she had delighted in it, waving her hands above it, warming herself on it, staring at every passing wooden cart laden with people in the chance that one of them could be a fire-eater. Ice, that thing that ate and yawned across lakes and thatched roofs as if it remembered it had once devoured the world, was far more cruel in Maiden’s opinion. Could I not, at least, have had that which heats and provides sustenance? And more than even these sweet instances from childhood, she knew of fire intimately as an adult. It was a different kind of flame that brewed in her than what ran free in the wild; it was less violent and more warm, meant for thawing out the cold hands of children or creating delightful ever-shifting silhouettes on walls. She walked alone because she liked it, and spoke to strangers for great lengths of time because it excited her. That was her kind of fire, and so Maiden - it could be said - was as much flame as anyone, even as she chilled the air around her with her very presence. That was why, as she sat on her knees before the great outstretching flames of the parlour’s hearth, she had no caution as she threw paper into its guts. “Enough of this!” The girl was alone, but spoke aloud: it was part of her charm. Like a girl in a folktale who was subjected to life in a tower, she existed brightly when on her own because she knew no other way. The Mallorian girl did not need the accompaniment of another to prove her own worth. The fire sputtered charmingly in response, engorging itself as it swallowed paper and turned it into little pieces of nothingness. “No more curses, no more ice or damned magic!” Her hand shakes, but her heart holds its breath and remains steady. Stained at the tips with ash and melted ink, Maiden sits back on her thighs with a great tremble and stares into the flames before she falls to the pose of prayer. “Undying God, harbinger of all things, if this is your doing, let it be undone. I have wronged you not at all, nor my mother; I am not your child. Please.” Her ears burned pink with fear for addressing a deity with the same volume she would have a man standing before her, but it was too early to stop now. She pauses momentarily, straining to listen for a rumbling voice come from within the fire or swung in on the wind and branches. There is nothing but the crackle of pop of breaking wood. “Then -- then if it is the household spirits come for me, unhappy gnomes with rumbling tummies ‘for we have not been feeding them, emerge now! Or call it all off! Call it off, I say, spirits - take this magic from me so I may live in peace!” Again, she waits. And perhaps, if you would hold your hands over the ears of your heart and allow this young woman to admit it, she might have told you that she truly expected a troll-like little fellow with a green cap and scowling mug to emerge from beneath the ottoman. But there still is nothing, not even the tap of impatient little feet from behind the curtains, and her brows furrow as she stares into the hot gold and rose colours of the fire. Maiden sighs, a heavy breath that drops out of her mouth and rolls into the soot of the hearth. She suddenly feels much too old for these follies. Looking over at the pile of hastily-written spells and official decrees of intent (from Maiden to the Undying God, officially) to rid herself of this curse, the wheat-and-snow coloured girl pauses (and it pains me to say it, dearest reader, but the truth of the matter is that in the light of this blaze, she very much resembles the beautiful women you read about who either have very tragic ends or very wonderful ones in tales you all know). She had burned not even half yet, each one a representation of a day that had been ruined by questions or cold or mother’s worry, and there were still more to go. But no sign of the Undying in her great black steed, or impish house elves crawling out from the cracks beneath the woods. For a moment, she considers stopping. She considers picking up the remainder of the letters, tying them up with some of mother’s twine, and returning them to their proper drawer in the study. But as her hand hovers of the papyrus, her heart protests and causes her to pause. She is, after all, no girl in the tower. She will not sit in anybody’s stomach and wait for the woodsman. And if, in the odd and unusual chance that this circumstance of odd and unusual proportions is caused by something otherworldly, Maiden Mallorian shall not bow to it. No, no bowing indeed. “Now listen here --” Her voice raises, grows taller and older. It might be imagination, but the fire seems to as well. “Whether you be Undying God or lowly household gnome, I shall have no more of this. Do you understand? Are you listening, creatures?” There is nothing so impressive as unafraid, youthful folly. “I shall not be carried away to a cold temple to be a child of misery, and will not let this magic ruin me if you shall not bring me answers. If one of you are indeed responsible for this, it ends now. I am Maiden Mallorian, daughter of Yareli; and a right all in my own!” The sweet curves of her breasts rise and fall like toppling empires as she throws the remainder of the pages into the fire, staring fiercely into the contents as if to decipher an answer in their ash. There is a sudden seizure in her instead, a tight and pressing thing foreign to her soft-spun body. It demands something of her, as intent as fingers pressing into her ribs. She picks up the letter opener at her side, brought from the study to slide open old envelopes, but now she raises it to her chin and cuts in one fell swoop. It does not happen with ease, but off comes a handful of her hair. The edges of her locks are jagged, but the pieces in her palm look like fine oat straw that glitter in the light. She throws that, too, into the pile, and does not realize it has chilled. “There.” She speaks. It is solid and sure and sane. “There is my tribute.” Magic cannot be made by offering someone else’s liver. You must tear out your own and never expect to get it back. “Please... take it away.” Her voice, once grand and ringing of dynasties past, now calms. She begins to sound once more like only a girl of this century. “I am… Maiden Mallorian… and I do not wish to live a life of unhappiness.” The strength that once held her shoulders aloft departs in a gentle breath, leaving her soft to touch -- quivering. “If you shall not take this from me... I will make my own way, no matter who has done this -- be it God or beast or some creature in between --” She stands, in possession of some quiet power. “One day I will find my truth. And then I will know a free heart at last.” She leaves before the paper and hair have all disappeared, trusting the fire -- that once-longtime friend, that formerly beloved and willingly indentured servant -- to do as it is meant to. As the cold evening wages on the flame starts to die, and, left unattended, everything turns to ash. All that is left in the hearth of the Mallorian home is the same colour: black. But it is not a frightening colour if you look closely. It seems, perhaps, the ink in this story is drying. It is time for a new chapter.

EXTRAS A NOTE ON ~MAGICK: I just wanted to state that while I loved imbuing her story/personality with themes of oddity and enchantment, I don’t expect any of these things to be real. Her biography was supposed to be an exaggerated verbal retelling, and in example: the rumour that Maiden’s birth was the result of not a normal conception but pure willpower and magic is just that -- hearsay crafted by unnerved townsfolk trying to justify a strange, unmarried woman in the woods and her peculiar daughter. I’m also not sure what balance you’re looking to strike between realism and fantasy, so if things like her pet owl are too much the former -- no problem!! I could definitely tone down anything you think is too out there! PINTEREST: here. MUSE TAG: here. CHARACTER INSPIRATIONS BIG AND SMALL!: Kayley (Quest for Camelot), Garrett (Quest for Camelot), Phoebe Buffay (Friends), Amalthea (The Last Unicorn), Rapunzel (Tangled), Merlin (The Sword in the Stone), Arthur (The Sword in the Stone), Taran (The Black Cauldron), Eilonwy (The Black Cauldron), Katrina van Tassel (Sleepy Hollow (1999)), Nimue/Lady of the Lake (Arthurian mythology), Honey Lemon (Big Hero 6), Vasya Petrovna (The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden), Kida (Atlantis: The Lost Empire), The Mage (King Arthur: Legend of the Sword), Luna Lovegood (Harry Potter), Thumbelina (fairytale), Circe (Circe by Madeline Miller), Yvaine (Stardust) HEADCANONS: She has a mild form of associative prosopagnosia, a type of facial blindness. While Maiden can distinguish faces from one another, it’s essentially difficult for her to recognize those she’s newly met or has not known (and subsequently seen) for a certain amount of time. As her youth in the woods meant infrequent visits from varying strangers and acquaintances, Maiden learned from a very young age to identify those she met with other signifiers -- the pitch of their voice, their cadence, the pattern of their boots on her mother’s shop’s creaky wood floor -- and she has become exceptional at it. While she may struggle to associate new faces with names, if she has heard your voice or the template of your gait, it is likely she can recognize you from the sound of these alone in the next room. Contingent on the above, I like to picture a longstanding game between Armel and Maiden with him attempting to sneak up on her, trying to outdo her hearing abilities only to be smoothly called out each time -- like the first twenty seconds of this scene from Tarzan. -- And obviously this was inspo for one of my writing samples! Major sweet tooth, and most likely has a standing relationship with The Hanged Man who provides her with desserts in exchange for tonics or pouches of seasoning curated from Maiden’s personal collection up in the greenhouse. Alternatively, she’s The Hanged Man’s personal Garfield, constantly being chased out of the kitchen before she can stick a finger in icing or steal a hot bun. Another Armel headcanon because I’m a sucker for a Found Sibling dynamic: Maiden has been teasing him for ages with the concept of knowing (and withholding) an Epic Folksong that her mother taught her and that would be just perfect for him to perform. There’s every likelihood that there is no song and she’s made it up to amuse herself, but every once and a while she hums a foreign tune or drops a few words from the “lyrics” to keep him interested. If it is a real song, bonus points if she’s making Armel do little chores etc to earn another piece of the song. Subject to plotting with Death’s player, I imagine her nickname/alias Triss was borne from a singular moment where they introduced her to someone within the castle upon arrival -- only to bluster that she used that strange name, Maiden, which confused the third party. Death makes a quick save by adding that “she means only that she is a maiden from the Farmlands,” and creating the assumed name on the spot, forcing Maiden to adopt it. Both due to falling asleep atop a text after extensive nights reading and researching and the comfort of being around plants, Maiden often sleeps in the greenhouse -- in fact, she prefers it to the cramped quarters she’s been given, and keeps a spare blanket there at all times. In the greenhouse has also come into residence a fat, one-eyed grey cat who she has named Augrunn, known affectionately (or otherwise) Auggie. Grumpy and demanding, Maiden found him taking shelter in the greenhouse on a particularly rainy day, and though he comes and goes as he pleases, it’s now effectively his home. Auggie is known to both yowl for personal space if you’re too close and swipe if you stop petting him too early. Similarly, Maiden has an owl-friend whose name I haven’t decided on, but the front-runner is currently Archimedes. Unbothered by Augrunn’s attempts to snatch him out of the air, he’s a chill little feather-loaf that watches the comings and goings of the greenhouse from the carved wood perch she has made him. He is aware of the location of Maiden’s sleeping quarters, and can occasionally be found sitting on her windowsill when she’s there. She bruises very easily, even in circumstances unrelated to use of her Inferni magic -- just as likely to get a mark from walking into a corner as she is to scar from the use of her ice powers. Insects don’t bother her in the slightest. Growing up in a small home filled with plants, there were always bugs crawling around the flora, and Maiden appreciates them all. She will 100% pick up the scary spider you’re flinching from and make sure they get back to their web. Prefers to be barefoot, and likely does not share the same feelings of taboo around exposed skin as most others -- to her, flesh is only flesh, and a very natural thing at that. Temperature is a funny thing for her -- given that she seems to emanate a kind of cold, I think it stands to reason that she doesn’t easily chill, but that it is also hard to heat her up. I picture it like a normal hand held above a flame, then one stuck in the snow -- it’s going to take longer for her to melt before she feels any pain from the fire. CONNECTIONS: *Obligatory these are just ideas and I’m totally open when it comes time to plotting with these players! THE HIEROPHANT: Chihiro and Haku vibes (that sort-of-romance entirely unnecessary, though I would be down for Maiden to have a little crush), basically. Give me a Maiden as impressed by their showy nature as their inner fire to overthrow Septimus -- an Inferni mentor, even, or just an individual that helps guide her through the dangers of Tyrholm’s court. Also… ice and fire... I meant to do more but ran out of time rip

#accepted #accepted: the moon

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