#not sure if these are two separate books given on two separate occasions or the same book -- I choose to believe there are two

[huanglaoshu]

I saw her off and returned to where Jeeves kept his vigil in the car, all smiles. I was all smiles, I mean, not Jeeves. The best he ever does is to let his mouth twitch slightly on one side, generally the left. I was in rare fettle, and the heart had touched a new high. I don't know anything that braces one up like finding you haven't got to get married after all. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Jeeves," I said. "Hope you weren't bored?" "Oh no, sir, thank you. I was quite happy with my Spinoza." "Eh?" "The copy of Spinoza's Ethics which you kindly gave me some time ago." "Oh, ah, yes, I remember. Good stuff?" "Extremely, sir." "I suppose it turns out in the end that the butler did it. Well, Jeeves, you'll be glad to hear that everything's under control."

--Jeeves in the Offing, chapter 11

"In the meantime, pigeonholing that for the moment, did Miss Cook and Mr. Porter have their conference all right?" "Yes, sir, they conversed for some time." "In low, throbbing voices?" "No, sir, the voices of both lady and gentleman became noticeably raised." "Odd. I thought lovers generally whispered." "Not when an argument is in progress, sir." "Good Lord. Did they haven an argument?" "A somewhat acrimonious one, sir, plainly audible in the kitchen, where I was reading the volume of Spinoza which you so kindly gave me for Christmas. The door happened to be ajar." "So you were an ear-witness?" "Throughout, sir." "Tell me all, Jeeves."

--Aunts Aren't Gentlemen, chapter 9

I would gladly have continued our conversation, but I knew he must be wanting to get back to his Spinoza. No doubt I had interrupted him just as Spinoza was on the point of solving the mystery of the headless body on the library floor.

--Aunts Aren't Gentlemen, chapter 9

[hopelesslyhopeful11]

The Future Betrayer of ACOTAR

*I already know this is going to definitely make people mad, but be kind y’all, this character isn’t you and has no reflection on who you are as a person*

The Hint of a Future Betrayal:

In ACOSF, we get this quote from Briallyn (who was working very closely with Koschei) that they are aware that there are members in the night court that can be persuaded to help them with the right motivation.

The Right Incentive and Motive

Like any crime and suspects, we must look at who has motive and who is desperate enough to commit said crime. That being said: who has been hinted since ACOWAR to want something very desperately to the point of delusion? I favor Elain and here is why I think so:

Here are three separate occasions across two books that we have Elains storyline heavily showing her desires and wishes to be human. To the point where she followed something into enemy camp away from her loved ones because she was that desperate to be human again. That is definitely foreshadowing especially when we see it across two books and with what we learn in ACOSF in regard to Elain.

The Evidence in Elain’s Storyline in ACOSF

The next part of placing a suspect is gathering the evidence to suggest your suspect is guilty and ACOSF has pretty good evidence.

Above is only one instance (had to cut out the others bc tumblr does like more than 10 photos per post), but there are multiple instances showing that Elain and Elains storyline is suspect. Like Elain is noticeably absent from the pages in ACOSF which was shocking in and of itself, but what’s even more shocking is that the scenes we do get show us she is sneaking around/lying/and not acting as she normally does (and p.s. we know Azriel isn’t the one teaching her to be sneaky since from his own thoughts we know he hadn’t been alone with her since ACOFAS). This all is just very suspicious.

So who is she working for/sneaking around to?

We get this from ACOSF that Koschei is doing anything he can to free himself and even further drives the point that Koschei knows he can manipulate someone in the IC. So it is reasonable to theorize given everything we know from above that Elain may be influenced to help Koschei under the delusion that he can help her be human again.

To Conclude,

Maybe all of this is just a coincidence. Maybe it is nothing at all. Or maybe it’s everything. I’ll leave you with two last photos that further drive the connection between Elain and Koschei with this line in ACOWAR of Elains mind and this picture saved from SJMs deleted pinterest.

Surely looks to me like SJM was trying to paint a picture of who’s entangled with Elains story and specifically her mind and with all we know from ACOSF, it’s not hard to believe that Elain is going to have a part in freeing koschei with the promise of being human again.

I am once again rewriting to implore you to remember that this is just a theory that I believe is very sound based on everything I posted above with textual evidence and SJMs pinterest. It does not mean I think Elain or people who relate to Elain are evil and underserving of good things. If you cannot debate like you are a human capable of empathy, please see yourself away from my page.

~~Live, laugh, SJM~~

[princeloww]

rivals plot summary (including content warnings)

What to expect from the new DT show, basically. Vague spoiler warning.

Tony Baddingham, DT's character, runs a British television company in the Cotswold area. He is a lord and, as you might guess, extremely rich. He tends to manipulate people and spend their money instead of his, so that when his ventures go wrong, other people are left scrambling to pick up their losses, while he's completely fine.

He has a long-lasting rivalry with the tory minister for sport, Rupert Campbell-Black. Rupert is extremely charming and athletic, and has a new mistress every week. He is divorced and does not see his two children very often. He's an athlete at heart, and adores his horses more than people --- but politics are a lot more stable than that.

The plot follows a very large cast of characters, which can be quite confusing at first. I had to go back and work out who Beattie Johnson was, for example, because I'd completely forgotten who she was and who she was involved with. There are lots of wives and husbands and mistresses and children, so it gets a bit complicated. Most of the characters are somehow linked to Corinium, Lord B (Tony Baddingham)'s TV company.

Tony hooks up with and employs an American director/writer, Cameron Cook. She moves to England to work at Corinium. Her arrival and bad attitude forms tension in the Coriunium workspace, and the tension furthers when Declan O'Hara, an Irish TV presenter and author, arrives at Corinium. He is a leftist (in contrast to the conservatives around him) and often discriminated against for being Irish. At times he is accused of having IRA links, mostly just to make him look bad. He and Tony's personalities clash, leading to a fall out at Corinium. Declan, in a drunken rage, quits his job and falls into a bit of a bad state.

Recovering from the publicity of his departure, Declan groups up with Rupert Campbell-Black and a few others (including Tony's brother, Basil Baddingham) to create a rival television company, Venturer, to challenge Corinium and Tony for the franchise.

There is a lot of romance and a LOT of subplots. Declan's daughter, Taggie O'Hara, is a dyslexic cook who struggles to find work due to her inability to read and write. She develops a crush on Rupert, who is considerably older. If I start talking about how much I despise their relationship, I will never stop. Taggie will probably be quite a main character in the show, I'm guessing. Declan also has a wife, Maud, who is a failed actress and spends all of his money.

Tony's wife, Monica, is very charitable and employs Taggie despite Declan and Tony's rivalry. She is aware that Tony is having an affair with Cameron Cook. An affair which, while Cameron is under his employment, becomes extremely toxic and abusive.

I'm sure the show will be rounded out a bit for modern audiences, but warnings wise (at least in the book), Rivals includes themes of sexual assault (particularly groping), misogyny, domestic abuse and much more. A big majority of the characters are rich and extremely corrupt. Tony, the baddie of the story, has some of the worst moments. There is a scene where he hits and throws a woman until she is bleeding, because she's 'betrayed' him. He also threatens to kill somebody. On a separate occasion, he tells a distraught SA victim not to tell anybody, because the attacker is somebody who he needs on his side, for money. There is also, obviously, given the kind of characters we follow, a lot of classism. Valerie Jones, for example, exists as a punching bag for a middle-class Northern woman who wants to be like the rich Southerners.

Tony might be the bad guy, but Rupert, who we're supposed to like, is also awful. He's Jilly Cooper's little golden boy, despite being horrible. I hate him so much but Jilly clearly loves him. He gropes eighteen-year-old girls and objectifies every single woman he speaks to.

Again, I'm sure a lot of this will be toned down, but watch with caution. The story has light moments and lots of romance, comedy and drama --- it just occasionally dips into dark themes. There will probably be lots of dinner parties, as every other scene is a giant social gathering. As much as I have issue with Jilly Cooper, she is absolutely excellent at writing large social scenes with dozens of different subplots combining.

There's also a weird theme of characters describing 14-year-olds (specifically 14-year-olds) in weird predatory ways. It's weird though, because a strange amount of characters do it -- to the degree where I think it's just Jilly Cooper describing them weirdly. She acts as though being a teenage girl is a woman's prime and that she is wasted after that. She has also gone on the record to state that she hates feminists. I'm not a giant fan, frankly.

On a lighter note, if you want to tell who's supposed to be a good guy, just remember that the good guys always quote poetry and like animals.

Despite its many flaws and dark themes, Rivals really is an interesting read. Jilly Cooper says the weirdest, most fucked up things ("she's like a little sister", thinks Rupert, right after staring at the 18-yo's ass) but the story really supports itself. It's interesting, gossipy, raunchy and very well written. Cooper is an expert at big scenes, and works so well with the giant ensemble cast. I disagree with a lot of things she says, but I think the show will be really good. I'm super excited and can't wait to watch it. There's a particular scene with David's character that I'm looking forward to; while in the book it was a bit scary, because we know how Jilly is with teenagers, there's a scene where Tony drives Declan(his enemy)'s daughter home, and is actually very nice to her before realising who she is. I think DT will do this scene a lot better, and it might actually be a bit endearing. Idk, I don't wanna jinx it, but I think it has potential to be a sweet scene, with the charm DT typically brings to these roles.

If anyone has any plot-related questions, or about David's character or anything, please feel free to ask! I'm more than happy to ramble about this book, because I do really like it. I see and dislike its flaws, but personally I am able to look past them and appreciate the story and characters. They're all horrible people, but let's be honest. They're politicians and rich, tory lords in the 1980s. They were always going to be horrible. You can like something that contains problematic characters without necessarily, immediately condoning and agreeing with those things. People online and especially on places like TikTok seem to struggle with this concept, but I'm a firm believer in media literacy and accepting flaws. You can like something that is bad. You can like villains. It's fine.

Declan is my favourite btw. Live laugh love Declan O'Hara

[valerieofavonlea]

I think we as a fandom are overthinking the terms of the duel too much

So I just went through and reread most of Taravangian's chapters for a different theory, and something really stuck out to me, especially in RoW.

We were given some frankly kind of vague terms at the end of RoW between Dalinar and Odium, and with a long wait in between books, what else are we supposed to do other than pick apart every tiny detail and theorize? I have some thoughts.

This might get a little rambley so buckle in.

Let's establish a few things, and then I have a point, I promise. I know everyone is focusing on the draw, on not making a plan for if no one wins, because of Wit's story. That makes sense and could be obvious foreshadowing. But Dalinar in the moment kind of threw out everything Wit had carefully prepared and put together very simple terms. I still don't know that there's a whole lot of room for a draw with the terms we have, nor does Todium imply a draw when he's reviewing the deal, but a victory:

"The way to win was to make sure that, no matter the outcome, you were satisfied. Odium should never have entered a deal he could not absolutely control. 'It can still be done,' Taravangian realized, seeing the possibilities -so subtle- that his predecessor had missed. 'Yes... Dalinar has set himself up... to fail. I can beat him.'"

I'd also like to point out how Odium operates, as stated on at least two separate occasions:

"Should we write... a contract?" "Our word is the contract. I am not some spren of Honor, who seeks to obey only the strictest letter of a promise. If you have an agreement from me, I will keep it in spirit, not merely in word."

and

"This isn't some deal with a Voidbringer from your myths, where one tricks the other with some silly twist of language."

Now it is unclear if this is a Rayse philosophy or something the shard itself is bound to, but it is interesting nonetheless.

Now, onto my main point. Taravangian is a scheming, conniving character who spent four books paying chess, outsmarting and manipulating, and very very carefully planning. His arc in RoW is quite interesting then, as he gets dumber and dumber, he begins to see less value in the intelligence. For all his smarts, all his planning, he has managed to save just one city out of an entire planet, landed himself an execution as a traitor, and burned countless potential allies.

"Smart Taravangian has proven insufficient. Smart Taravangian has failed. He hasn't just been made intelligent. He's been given a coin and a curse. Intelligence on one side. Compass on the other. When smart, he assured that compassion was the curse. But was it really? Or was the curse that he could never have both at once?"

By the end of RoW, Taravangian has become so much a being of pure emotion that he's constantly attracting spren, and he has become the perfect vessel for a shard of pure emotion.

The old Taravangian would have chosen the scheming, the wordplay, outwitting anyone and everyone he could have. The old Taravangian would have reveled in a tiny tiny loophole or trick of wording only he could see, but he got a whole lot of nowhere with all that scheming.

"Odium had bet so much upon Dalinar being his champion. Now that was in chaos. The god bragged about his plans, but Taravangian knew firsthand that you could plan and plan and plan, but if one man's choices didn't align to your will, it didn't matter. A thousand wrong plans were no more useful than a single wrong one."

So, what if he is leaning all the way into the passion thing now rather than the intelligence he was chasing for most of his life? Because the scheming and trying to overthink didn't work out that well for him, but the emotion, the feelings, that's what got him this power (and the capacity to save everyone). So the question becomes, are we as a fandom approaching the duel incorrectly, trying to think too hard about loopholes and the specific wording, when this new version of Todium would be more likely to use an emotional approach? Something to think about.

[bg-brainrot]

WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 3: What it Means to Love

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence

WC: 2.9k words, 3/?? chapters

Summary: Now 29, you're still trying to piece together parts of your past. In particular, what exactly was your relationship with Astarion?

A/N: Spoilers for the Pale-Elf quest end, also an fyi that I didn’t want to just retell the quest, so it focuses a lot more on present-tav looking-in.

Ao3 | [Ch2][Ch4] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

Despite your best judgments, you’ve begun acting against your parent’s advice. They’ve told you on more than one occasion, learning too much of your previous lives can lead to heartbreak, to suffering. It can affect the course of your current life in ways that you won’t understand until it’s far too late.

You’d listened for a few good years, of course. But every time you enter a trance into one particular past life, you find yourself inexplicably drawn to it. The previous life in question is, of course, the one where you met Astarion, the silver-haired vampire. So you caved and did what you find easiest in this life: cracked open a book.

General information was surprisingly easy to come by, as you were apparently incredibly famous– saved-the-realm famous.

After finding this out, you’ve taken to calling this life the Hero’s life. You had, allegedly, saved the city of Baldur’s Gate almost two and a half centuries ago, alongside the companions that appear in your memories. Even Astarion, with his snark and sass, seemed to be part of the credited heroes.

As for the vampire in question, that man wouldn’t leave your waking or trancing thoughts, no matter how hard you tried. You’re not sure if you find his persistent appearances annoying or endearing at this point. 

You’ve learned a lot about him over the years. Useless facts, like his favorite poetry, his love of embroidery, his preferred wine. One night you spend all four hours of your reverie quietly sitting next to him, tending to your weapons. Every once in a while you’ll think, Surely, there can’t be any more memories with this man? But somehow he will always appear to you again a few nights later.

What bothers you is that so many of them are aimless and mundane, joking, traveling, sitting together. They aren’t helpful, which frustrates you endlessly. The point of your reveries is to help you live your new life, and you’re simply not seeing how these fit in. They certainly feel out of place given the other things you’ve learned of that particular life– the dangers that seemed to lurk behind every corner, the constant feeling of a life on the edge of death. 

You also find that, no matter how many times you meet him, spend time with him, you are never certain: were you in love?

It’s a question you aren’t really equipped to answer. You don't suppose you've ever been in love before, and at 29 years of age, it seems a bit too early in your long-lived life to bother. What you do know is that second memory in the woods, it was not love. 

It all feels so ludicrously fake until a few moments begin to change your mind. Once, he cries your name, charging into combat to save you. Another night, he quietly holds your hand, surrounded by a world shrouded in shadow. A separate encounter, you expect things to escalate to another desperate attempt to get lost in each other, but instead you lay down together, entering your reveries side-by-side. After these moments, the memories feel like they take a turn: all lingering looks, soft touches and, above all else, real, genuine conversations.

After a while, you’d learned of his time as a vampire spawn under a cruel master. You’d learned of his scars, his family, and his hopes and desires. Seeing the man behind the smile felt like a sucker punch to the gut, to both you and your past-self.

For your past-self’s part, you see them open up around him– certainly more than they have in any other memories. As a result, you learn more about them than ever. They tell him their worries: about facing an incredible evil, about not making it out of the whole ordeal alive. They’re a relatively young elf, they still have so much life ahead of them, and apparently this is all being ruined by a worm in their brain.

As if they didn’t have enough to worry about with that looming over them, each of their companions seems to have their own troubles that seemed to need your attention. You only live their life a few hours every week, and you can’t imagine bearing the burdens that they do– it’s clear that you possessed a strength you can only dream of now. They seem willing to make any number of sacrifices for these people and it makes you feel strikingly inadequate, easily overshadowed by their spirit. If I’d lived through their hardships, you think. Would I be this strong?

After a time, your trances surrounding Astarion turn to more concerning subjects– of devils and profane rituals, of the truth behind the machinations of Astarion’s master, Cazador. Gods, you hate Cazador. Everything you’d learned of that man made you want to meet him and give him his comeuppance. You hope at the very least that your past-self ensured he died without mercy, that the man’s wicked life finally caught up to him.

Tonight, you get your wish.

When your eyes open in your former self’s body, the first thing you notice is Astarion. The pale elf is ahead of you, his back turned, hands clenched in fists at his sides.

The second thing you notice is the amount of worry you feel. Your past-self seems frozen in place with it, and you can feel your body barely resisting the call to jump into action. Not sure what you’re witnessing, you wonder if you’ve stumbled into a lover’s quarrel.

Then you hear his voice. “Do not slouch before me, boy! Have you no respect for yourself?”

You’re certain that the instinctual rage you feel at that voice is something that defies lifetimes. Your past-self is brimming with it, their blood pumping in their ears as they watch the scene unfold before them.

Distantly you register him goading Astarion, Astarion responding with a fury matching your own. Despite the anger burning in both of your bodies, through your very soul, you can’t help but look at the man and balk. Wait, is that him? you think. That’s Cazador? He looks pathetic.

He looks like nothing more than a sniveling aristocrat, a dime a dozen in large cities like Neverwinter. You wish you could take control of your memories and tell him as such. Perhaps you’d spoil his outfit and sneer at him or ruin his standing among the rest of the nobility. More permanently, you’d like you just rain sunlight on him and watch him burn. Unfortunately, you’re only along for the journey, so you watch as your past-self and Astarion confront the man.

“A pity you amounted to so little, despite my efforts,” the man says, his words harsh, his tone belittling. It reminds you of one of your old Evocation teachers. He’d act mighty, tell you all that he’d done for you, then leave you to the wolves come examinations. That man ended up blown to bits in a miscast spell, and you hope you’re about to see a similar fate befall this vampire.

You’re in the midst of your musings when the pale elf recaptures your attention. Astarion’s response is passionate, holding the unfettered hatred of two centuries of torment, “NO. No. Fuck you. And fuck everything you’ve ever done to me!”

The words snap you out of your own thoughts, forcing you to focus on the scene before you. This isn’t for your enjoyment, and the villain isn't here to give you failing marks. Cazador is far crueler than any man you’ve met in your entire waking existence and this is a life or death situation. You suddenly feel so small in the middle of this, woefully out of your depth.

Your past-self is more than prepared for the situation though. They say that you’ll make the man pay, and their voice is colored with a righteous fury that you can only feel second-hand. Your own anger seems petty in comparison.

“I will not speak to cattle. This is between me and the boy.” Cazador sneers as he dismisses your words.

“You son of a bitch!”

Then Astarion is charging at him, your arm is outstretched as if to stop him, but he’s long gone and your fingers grasp at nothing. Dread fills you as you see Cazador stop him in his tracks, a glowing red magic emanates from his staff.

Cazador spits more venomous words at Astarion, all the while bathed in the red glow of the ancient ritual. You can feel your body straining against every impulse to rush forward and attack the vampire lord where he stands. But they hold back, and you can sense that it comes out of concern for Astarion– an odd reasoning in your mind. Surely Astarion would want you to focus on killing Cazador. 

Before your past-self decides on a course of action, Astarion is being flung, tossed like a ragdoll across the cavernous room that Cazador calls his lair. You watch, helpless, as magic envelopes him, stripping him down to be a mere component for the ritual.

“No! Stop him! Get me out of this!” you hear Astarion shout.

He’s about as far away from you as the ritual circle will allow, trapped by a flick of a madman’s wrist. So you’re surprised to feel a calmness come over you as your past-self assesses the situation. You’re not privy to their thoughts or considerations, but, having seen so much of their past now, you’re reassured that they will get out of this alive and well. Hopefully with Astarion in tow.

Cazador either doesn’t care about your calm confidence or is simply too self-absorbed to notice. He raises his arms in triumph before beginning the profane ritual, “Witness the birth of the Vampire Ascendent! Ecce dominus!”

All hells break loose as the pact magic of Mephistopheles binds each of Cazador’s sacrifices to sigils on the floor. Several creatures of the night come forth, ready to do the vampire lord’s bidding. Werewolves bear their teeth at you, bats fly up onto the platform, and ghouls flank Cazador on either side. It’s a frightening sight to you, and unlike anything else you’ve witnessed in your memories or life. For once, you’re glad you’re not in control, because you’re not certain your legs would be willing to move.

Defying all logic, the first thing your past-self does is run for Astarion. Past each and every one of these creatures, past Cazador himself– they sprint like there’s no one else in the entire world. Perhaps to them there isn’t. Because you feel it now. You feel adrenaline, panic, fear, but, smothering all the rest with its strength, is pure love.

You hadn’t known what it might feel like, but now that it hits you like a wild Bulette, you can recognize it clearly. It had been there in those small moments, an underlying feeling that never quite reached the surface. Looking back, it’s almost as if your past-self had been trying to stifle it, an unruly bud of emotion that couldn’t be trusted in their fight for survival. Here, faced with the possibility of losing Astarion, there was no use in trying to hold back the flood. And there is no possibility of them leaving this place without him.

“Astarion!” they call out once they reach him. He’s bound by those same red bindings that Cazador used earlier, floating above you.

“Help me!” he cries, and the desperation in his voice is piercing. Your eyes look back and forth, inspecting his restraints in seconds, before you simply grab him and pull. 

It’s not the most elegant solution, but it certainly is effective. Astarion falls atop you, and you distantly hear Cazador’s angry shouts. It hardly matters to you now. “Are you alright?” you hear yourself ask him, relief and concern fighting for precedence.

“I’m fine, thanks to you,” he says, lifting himself off the ground. He looks at you, red eyes filled with determination, and your relief wins out. “Let’s go stab that bastard.”

The rest of your reverie is spent in grueling combat. You feel your past-self fight to their limits, fueled by equal parts anger and love. You’ve learned plenty from them in terms of how to fight and what a real fight feels like. But this? This was revenge. It was messy, it was brutal, and it filled you with an odd sense of awe.

After Astarion deals Cazador a near-lethal blow, you think to yourself, thank the gods, it’s over. You reverie didn’t end though, because it was anything but over. Cazador hid into his damnable coffin, Astarion followed, and you watched.

Watched as Astarion tore Cazador out of hiding, threatened him with his own blade, taunted him with his own ritual. Watched as your past-self pleaded with him, tried to assure him that he didn’t need to sacrifice anything to be worthy. Watched as Astarion tried to convince you that this was necessary to be truly free of Cazador.

You could feel your past-self’s emotions, tumultuous as they are, settle on understanding. You don’t understand– how could you, ill-equipped as you are– but you’re glad that they do. They reason with him, try to persuade him to give up on the ritual as only they know how. 

Both of you breathe a sigh of relief as he says, “You… you’re right. I can be better than him. But I'm not above enjoying this.”

Then a torrent of emotions you hadn’t realized were being held back finally burst through the dam. As Astarion stabbed Cazador, delivering blow after blow, you felt sorrow, comfort, joy, sympathy… pain. The pale elf cries, knelt before his former master, your former-self weeps with him.

You wake up in tears. You’d been looking forward to Cazador’s demise, but something about it leaves you feeling hollow. You’re exhausted by how utterly out of your depth you had been. It was every bit of your energy to hold on to the memory and bear it witness, all you could do to try to comprehend the hurt that Astarion felt.

Despite being out of your reverie, a deep pain in your chest remains. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this before, but you’re nearly certain that this is what heartbreak feels like. It’s almost as if his pain was your pain. Seeing him break down like that was akin to you breaking down, and even now, the tears keep spilling.

You don’t like to admit when you’re wrong, and you’d like to believe that that happens rarely enough that it doesn’t matter. However when it comes to this man, you might need to admit that you didn’t always have enough context to make judgements.

Now that you do, you understand your past-self more than you expect. They were willing to sacrifice anything for him, put their life on the line for him. Something about Astarion makes your heart race, your mind spin, and your very soul weep. What it is about him hardly matters, what matters is that your past-self is trying to push you toward him and for the first time, you think you’d like to listen.

You’d like to begin even more extensive research. This time not about who you were, but about what happened after the events at Baldur’s Gate– More importantly, what became of Astarion after this. You’re too far from Baldur’s Gate to properly investigate or understand what’s mere myth or actual history, however you do know that, as a vampire, he wouldn’t die of natural causes. You’ve yet to dream of his death, so he could very well still be alive.

I should at the very least find out what happened to him, you think. Another, more sensible side of you thinks, Wait. You don’t even know how this life ended. Things could have ended poorly between you, he may even have killed you himself.

Even if you did find him, even if he did love your past-self, you also know that it’s not you who he knows or would care to see. Despite all of that logic, a dangerous, near-taboo thought comes to you, Should I just go find him?

You’re still young though and you understand that this is likely a foolhardy idea– that the exact thing that your parents have warned you against is happening right now. So you decide to consult with them before you make any decisions.

They indulge you a bit, willing to help you with some research, encouraging you to maybe even write a letter if you find the right words. However, they come with a clear warning: no good will come of it if you meet with anyone from a former life. You’re not the same person. It’s been decades, maybe centuries since they’ve last seen you, and they may not be the same person they once were. Don’t ruin your current life by chasing a previous one. Don’t go to Baldur’s Gate.

You nod, figuring that they’re correct. They have centuries of experience, seen countless elves go through what you’re going through. This is only sound, mature advice. That advice carries you for quite a while, staying your hand when you go to practice a divination spell or when you think to seek a teleportation circle to Baldur’s Gate.

However, after decades and decades of dreaming of this man, you find your will wavering, crumbling into dust. One reverie in your 99th year of life finally breaks through the last of your resistance.

[unadulterated-syd]

If u can, please make a Glenn fluff?

Like Glenn goes on a run and finds something his s/o likes, so he surprises them with it. The item could be anything btw, thank you!

Ur work grabs my attention and it's very fun to read!

Don't forget to drink water and rest!!

🌷🌷🌷

I would love to! This is such a cute idea <33 Hope this lives up to your expectations!

You're also our first ask anon!! :)

Warnings - Just normal twd ones, all fluff!

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Though most things had seemed bland and blank since the beginning of the end, little things here and again made you feel like existence was somehow worth it. However, nothing could brighten you up the way Glenn could.

Having met shortly after the beginning of the apocalypse, the two of you got along really well. From the very beginning, he was such a silly and hopeful guy, and you appreciated someone who had skill /and/ compassion. It was hard to find both, most of the time.

Though you'd both admired the group as a whole, having become a dysfunctional family by now, you and Glenn were definitely closest to each other. When either of you needed to talk, it was with each other. You felt comfort in knowing Glenn was around, and he found the same.

By the time Alexandria had come around, you'd been sort of relieved. A sense of normalcy was wonderful, even if you weren't sure about the people in town yet. It was nice to have electricity, water, and frankly the ability to worry about more than just survival.

Glenn had been elected as one of the 'runners', and so had you, both of you elated to work together; along with Tara and Sasha whom you trusted with your life. However, you could say much less about the other two men in said group.

When you and Glenn were given a home to yourself, you'd managed to find an old record player up in the attic, ecstatic to find that it was still in working condition. You'd had one when you were younger, and you yearned for nothing more than to find records for the busted old thing.

After a short while in Alexandria, Glenn and you had found yourselves on separate run shifts, which was unfortunate for you both. You saw one another less and less, almost bringing you to wish you'd never found Alexandria.

However tonight was different, you sat quietly at the kitchen table looking through some books and comics you'd found last run, planning on distributing the comics to Carl and Enid, and giving the books to the other kids.

Halfway through a stack of old spider-man comics, you heard the front door swing open, looking up you were met with an excited Glenn, a childish grin on his face, his hands planted loosely behind his back. "Y/n, guess what I found..!"

You couldn't help but smile at his goofiness, turning in your chair to better face him. "What is it, Mr. Rhee?" You grinned, growing more excited the longer he hid whatever /it/ was, from you.

He pulled a record quickly from behind his back in response to your question, a wider grin appearing on his face as he presented it to you. It was a Queen record, seemed in great condition for an apocalypse. Though old, and rundown, it was the best thing he could've brought you from a run.

"Oh my god..!" You stared between him, and the record, in disbelief. He met you at the table standing in front of you, as he set the record in your hands. "Great find, huh?" He asked, a small sort of pleasure in your excitement rushing through him.

You smiled up at him, setting the record on the table cautiously, as if it could shatter at the first sign of contact with the hard wood. After your attention was off the record beside you, you stood and wrapped your arms around the man in front of you, an embrace of gratitude he understood all too well. The same gratitude he found in the way you'd always bring him camera film no matter the occasion.

You had a mutual silent agreement of love and trust, of kindness and compassion. You both did everything in your power to keep the other happy, his happiness was yours, and yours was his.

"Thank you, Glenn. 'Means a lot." You smiled resting your head on his right shoulder, "I used to have Queen records, just like this one, care to listen with me?" Glenn shifted slightly, and kissed your temple. "Always."

[szollibisz]

■ curtwen?

bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon!

Ok, so I'm not sure if with curtwen you meant both characters separately or both of them if they lived together, so I'm just gonna go with both options.

So, to me, they are both quite neat people in different ways. Owen likes his stuff organized very specifically, and doesn't believe in decorations. Meanwhile Curt has a way more lived-in house, while pretty clean there are some papers lying around where they probably don't belong and a bunch of memorabilia that needs dusting off.

I like to think that after they got together and spent some time at each others' places, Curt got fed up with Owen's house looking like a dentist's office, so one lazy morning while Owen was still sleeping he snuck out a bought a bunch of shit to liven up the place. I'm talking throw pillows, picture frames, decorative books that Owen would never actually read, a nice rug, maybe a vase or two (with flowers <3) etc etc.

After Owen saw everything he tried to act annoyed, after all this was Curt heavily encroaching on his house and his habits. But as much as he wanted to feel mad, it was still one of the nicest things anyone's ever done for him. Each little item was handpicked, and even if no extensive thoughts went into some of them (Curt just thought they'd look great) It was still a radical and positive overhaul for him.

(After the fall, of course, when he goes back to his old house it's all a big reminder of Curt, and how much Curt said he loved him, only to betray and leave him for dead a few years after. He breaks a lot of the things he was given by Curt.)

Curt's house on the other hand has much more subtle reminders of Owen.

Curt doesn't usually smoke, only with other people, so for the longest time he didn't have an ashtray. (If he had a one-night-stand over who really wanted to smoke, so small dish sufficed) And despite the number of times Owen had stayed at Curt's place is way smaller than the number of times he brought a guy home who really wanted a smoke afterwards, he still bought an ashtray just for those few occasions with Owen.

He always has some tea in his kitchen cabinets, should Owen show up unannounced, and he has a few loose hair ties here and there too for the same reason. (Similarly to how Owen keeps some great fancy whiskey in his house, despite not liking it at all)

If they were to move in together they'd have a great ideological clash over furniture I think. Curt's a pretty modern guy. He doesn't even really have a good taste in interior design he just likes what's the newest and trendiest, and somehow it works (He may have bad taste, but he'll never escape being a mama's boy) Meanwhile Owen is more of a simple guy in that regard, or more like. Quaint. He's very space efficient and practical, but he does appreciate some fine woodworking (his bookshelves would cost more than the rest of his apartment combined) So they debate argue for a long time on what should they do. At the end of the day Owen cares the least about how things will end up looking, so as long as they include some of his stuff and he gets to decide which drawer will contain what he's fine.

[lvsfacethemusic]

"“—You are too generous to play with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me once and for all. My love and my desires have not changed; but one word from him will silence me forever.”

Lying in bed, after a long session of kisses and massages that had made them lose track of time, they decided to read the book that Louis always carried in his suitcase, and now the dialogues - with their corresponding voices - from Pride and Prejudice came out. almost without thinking out of Harry's mouth. After reading a couple more paragraphs, the favorite part of both of them arrived.

—“It gave me hope that I had not dared to entertain until then,” said Darcy. “I knew enough of her character to be sure that, if her decision to reject me had been firm, irrevocable, I would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine frankly and openly.”

When he stopped to swallow and breathe, Louis placed a kiss on the top of his head; They were leaning on each other on the back of the bed, Harry on Louis, and the latter could also read perfectly.

—"It is not so easy for me to reconcile with myself. The memory of what I said then, of my behavior, of my manners, of my expressions on that occasion, is painful to me in an inexpressible way, and has been for many months. I will never forget his timely reproach: "If you had behaved in a more gentlemanly manner." These were your words, you can hardly imagine how much they tormented me; although I confess that it took me some time to come to my senses. and recognize how fair they were.

» —Of course I was very far from expecting them to have made such a strong impression. I had no idea that they had given so much to feel.

—Well, I can believe it. Then you supposed me exempt from all elevated feelings, I'm sure. I shall never forget his countenance when he said that he could not have addressed me in any way that could have induced you to accept me.

—Oh! Don't repeat what I said then. These memories are not convenient at all. I assure you that I have been ashamed of it from the bottom of my heart for a long time.”

And then Louis finished, somewhat exhausted, because it seemed that a conversation had taken place not about the novel, but about his own life.

—You did it too Harry, you created hopes in me that I have now been able to confirm.

And the named one, closing the book and throwing it on the table, turned around on top of the older man. Like two teenagers who needed to be in contact, that the touch between their hands, the softness of their fingertips anywhere on their bodies was the only guarantee that they were alive. Because they were both sure that from that day on there would be nothing better than being together. And even if they were separated, they would be next to each other sharing things like music, harmony and the hope of seeing each other again; in addition to a home to return to, that apart from that house was one or the other, wherever they were. "

Requiem Of Silence. Extract.

[weissaddams]

are you ready for it?

Chapter 2 - lavender haze

When they moved into their new campus home, Wednesday was sure they brought more than enough stuff from the manor.

Apparently not.

The only things the raven made sure to bring from the manor were her cello, typewriter and her favorite books. Those and whatever trinkets her family and Enid had given her over the years. Unfortunately, her mother had convinced her to only bring half of her dagger collection.

It never occurred to her that they would need anything else. Cookware? Appliances? Groceries? Those and a lot more would be needed, according to Lurch. She supposes it would do them good to learn to prepare more than just iced coffee. Who knew she would miss the occasionally edible food at Nevermore?  

The house was mostly bare when they’d arrived. Her mother had failed to inform her of the decision not to furnish the house after it was cleaned. Morticia wanted to given Enid and Wednesday complete freedom to design the interior on their own, after all.

So, really, all they could do was huddle around the fireplace for the first three nights. Of course, anything was better than spending a night at the same hotel the rest of the Addams stayed at. Specially if they were roomed next to Gomez and Morticia. Even Enid has heard enough to last her a lifetime.

They’d roamed around campus for the first day of the move because Gomez and Morticia wanted to see what it would be like. On the second day, Morticia brought them shopping for whatever else it was their house needed. Everything arrived on the third day and Lurch very helpfully moved everything to whichever spot pleased Wednesday and Enid. 

Their rooms were unsurprisingly polar opposites. Elevated versions of their dorm room in Ophelia hall, sans the wall that now separated them. Morticia had made sure their rooms were painted in their signature colors after the house was cleaned, after all.

Gomez and Lurch were busy making sure all the plumbing, electric and security measures were functioning well.

Morticia set to work on putting away the kitchen appliances and stocking the pantry with Pugsley’s help.

Enid and Thing were helping Wednesday put up her books in the library. Wednesday had her own classification system for her books so she would stand on the wheeled ladder that Enid made sure to hold steady as Thing handed her the books to give up to Wednesday.

Most of everything was set up for the third night but no one was up for cooking so they went out for one last dinner before Lurch drove the rest of the Addams home. 

Gomez shed some tears as they said goodbye. He could not believe his little storm cloud and (hopefully) soon-to-be daughter-in-law were now taking up tertiary level education. He vividly remembers the first time Wednesday brought Enid to the manor. It felt like it only happened yesterday! How time flies!   

Wednesday and Enid watched the hearse drive away. They would be alone for the next eleven days. Alone with each other, of course.

They ended up talking on the new couch about whatever else they needed to buy for the house. Wednesday needed a rack for her daggers, Enid wanted some new succulents in the bathroom and whatever else they thought of.

Thing would not be joining them like he did at Nevermore. Fester and Morticia needed him on occasion but he would stay with them every couple of weeks. He would not survive without Enid's manicures and their girls' night. 

Wednesday and Enid didn’t have much to do for the next two weeks, really, except get settled into the house. They had trouble sleeping in separate rooms for the first few nights but neither of them were brave enough to ask each other about it.

They ended up having brunches at cafes during those first few days of waking up late. Driving to the cafes ended up being good practice for Wednesday to drive around using Eddie.

“Enid, must we really call him Eddie?”

“Oh, but we must!”

It was nice to have a couple of days to themselves without either of their families distracting or pestering them. Enid went for jogs whenever Wednesday was writing and they’d cook and have dinner together after. Sans the few occasions wherein dinner turned into charcoal. Educational moments, Wednesday would call them. Enid stuck to calling them charcoal.

They played together in the living room when they were up for it. Wednesday on her cello and Enid on the upright piano. 

Wednesday would wake up earlier to put out the trash and start the coffee. Enid would be preparing in her room before walking down to help with breakfast. They did most of everything together.

Cooking. Dishes. Laundry. Groceries.

Wednesday opted to throw out the trash herself, though, knowing how sensitive the werewolf’s olfactory senses were.

They knew their routine would be tossed up into the wind once classes started but they’d spend time together while they could. Eating out was always an option, but the domesticity of preparing a meal together kept them both home. 

Because nothing was official between the two of them but nothing was unofficial, either. 

--

are you ready for it? master post

--

i’m really not sure lavender haze should be the title for this but let me know what you think!

also, what tags should this be? i’ve just been winging it with the tags tbh

[triplesilverstar]

Sharing a room for the first time

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Pairing: Vash X F!Reader

CW: Pre-Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, sharing a room, butt staring

Word count: 1.3K

A/N: Chapter four of the "Thoughts lost in the sand" series of one shots

You're exhausted and presented with a problem you weren't ready to deal with as of yet. Too bad it's the only option, and you end up sharing a room with your sort of friend slash traveling companion.

The innkeeper is starting to sweat at the stare you're leveling him with, and the blond next to you is waving his hands trying to diffuse the situation. There’s a single room left. And this town only has just one hotel. 

“Check again.” the exhaustion from walking for the last few days is settling in, all you want to do is get a hot shower and sleep for the next few days.

“Miss, for the fifth time. I only have one room available.” You’re certain there’s a visible twitch in your jaw. “It does have two separate beds, and that is the best I can offer, at least until next week. We’re all booked up with the bus running behind.”  A sigh slowly pushes out of Vash who seems to have had enough of this back and forth. 

“We can just share the room, Snipes, it’s not that big of a deal.” Eyes narrowed you turn to look at him and glare. He swallows, a bead of sweat trickling down his face “Plus, wouldn’t you rather sleep in a bed than out in the dunes?” 

His logic has you there “Fine” immediate relief flies across the innkeeper's face as he starts to fill out the paperwork “But if you try anything. I will break every finger in your hand and keep the other one for a trophy.” 

“Ah, come on now. You know me better than that” his laughter at your threat rings through the doorway. And you’re left rolling your eyes at his response, handing over the required amount of cash. Paperwork aside and aliases written in the register you trudge along behind the innkeeper to the room. It does have two beds and a single small bathroom, more than enough for your needs. 

Once the innkeeper departs, you find yourself slipping your pack from your back, jacket folded and dropped on the end of the bed, boots removed and placed under the foot of your claimed space. “Unless you have an issue with it, I'm getting a shower.” Shaking his head in the negative as he seems to be settling into the desk, pulling out a cleaning kit and a small radio. 

Dragging your bag into the bathroom is a pain, given the small space but you aren’t routing around in it for clean clothes after your shower. You sure as hell aren’t going out into the room in anything but a towel either, much as if you’d the room to yourself would have been your preference. Clothes placed on the sink, you start the shower and strip, ducking under the spray you hiss when the heat first hits your head. Quickly scrubbing down and rinsing you sigh, the heat feels amazing against your exhausted muscles. Your calves have been burning for a while now strained from everything over the last few days, honestly with how they ache you aren’t sure how much longer you could have gone without having to stop and let them recover. As much as you like the heat, you’d much rather be settled in a bed weight off your legs, and turn the knobs to stop the spray. 

Drying off and slipping into clean clothes you’re already starting to feel better, rolling your shoulders and hearing a pop from both, a few twists and a series of pops and clicks resounding from your back. Stepping out of the bathroom you hear low music playing the sound drawing your attention, Vash is sitting at the desk his own jacket removed and tossed on his bed his sunglasses are still on and his pistol is in pieces while he works away. 

Sitting on the bed you’d claimed back against the wall with your legs stretched out in front of you feet hanging off the end you settle in letting the remaining tension slowly leave your body. Deep breath in, deep breath out. The occasion clicks and the scraping of metal draws your attention, and after a while you find yourself watching Vash, or at least what you can see of him. 

“Any reason why you’re staring” his words are soft and while you’d think it’s a question, his clipped tone makes it clear it’s a statement. 

“Still a little wary of sharing a room” shrugging your shoulders you keep watching him and listening to the radio playing. The clicks a brief interruption to the low playing music while he keeps working at one of the parts “Who taught you how to clean a gun?” 

“A few people, mostly self-taught” Ah. Pushing yourself forward you grab your bag once your feet touch the floor, rifling through the gear stoed inside until you find what you were looking for. Your cleaning kit, rolled up carefully to ensure you don’t lose any of the tools that keep your weapon in working order. Flipping it open you take a few measured steps as he watches you from the corner of his eye, pulling out one of your picks you hold out your hand palm up expectantly. Glancing at you curiously he does place the piece he’s working on in your hand, flipping it you turn so he can watch your hand movements, pick turning in sharp circular motions. A quick tap against a rag on the table shows the carbon flecks falling away. 

“You can borrow this for tonight, should speed things along” handing him the tool while he nods, hair bobbing along and a cheerful thank you from him. Walking back to your bed and taking up the same position as before and go back to your breathing, except this time instead of staring at Vash you attempt to meditate. You’re absolutely terrible at it, but it does help you become aware of any tight and sore areas of your body. Maybe tomorrow you’ll try to spend a few hours stretching different muscle groups to loosen some of the tightness from your body. 

“Sorry if I’m interrupting, but what time do you get up in the mornings? Ya know, in a hotel. I know you wake up with the sun when traveling.” His voice is a low rumble, barely louder than the radio playing beside him. Normally when you’re each in your own room you don’t see one another until well past breakfast. 

"When I wake up. If I don’t have anywhere to go I sleep till my body wakes me up.” You don't bother with opening your eyes “Don’t worry about waking me. I can sleep through a typhoon.” 

A loud snort leaves him then a soft chuckle “Was that a joke?” You just grin instead of verbally answering him. Eventually, you find yourself starting to doze while sitting up, opening up your eyes Vash is still working away but pauses as you stand. “I can turn out the lights if you’re going to bed.” 

“No, it’s fine. Light doesn’t really bother me, I can sleep through a lot of things most can’t. Plus you need the light for that” pointing at his partially re-assembled pistol “So keep the light on as long as you need. That being said, while I can sleep through a lot of things you try anything funny and I stand by my earlier threat.” Smirking, a narrow smile on your face that is all teeth leaves him swallowing hard, hands a little shakier now. 

“Ah, right. Goodnight then!” Crawling under the covers and laying on your back you let the sound of music lull you off to sleep. 

In the morning you woke up to Vash doing push-ups in his turtleneck and you have to admit it makes for a nice view to wake up to. You might feign sleep a little longer so you can keep watching his butt without his notice. It’s a very nice butt that he hides under the fabric of his jacket, one you wish he didn’t hide away that much.

Back to series

[usmsgutterson]

Laughin', Smiling, Just--Existing - Raylan Givens x gn! reader

OOOOKAY!! First ever fic for raylan givens!! this one has been two weeks in the making and there are lots more on the way bc I adore him wholeheartedly and have finally gotten to season six after weeks of bingewatching.

fic type - this one is very fluffy!!

Warnings - the reader works as a PSW/CCA in a nursing home so there is one mention of bodily functions--it's more of a reference and it's completely nondescript I promise--and there are mentions of the residents getting aggressive (reader comes home with a bruise on their chin bc of a resident punching them in the face, a scenario based very loosely off my own experience working in an LTCC. They also mention that there might be a few more on their arms and abdomen bc of residents in wheelchairs landing jabs to their stomach with their knees, which has happened to a few of my old coworkers before) and Raylan's line of work is,, well, raylans line of work, so guns, getting shot at and being the one to do the shooting are mentioned. dickie bennett also holds a knife to a pregnant woman in this one (not depicted, briefly mentioned bc raylan was in a crappy mood over it, as he should be) and weed and alcohol are mentioned

Your life with Raylan is normally something close to the opposite of easy, yet still a few backwards steps away from difficult. You’re known to hate his occasionally hectic hours, hate the toll it takes on his body and you know some part of him has to hate it, too. Deep down, both from assumption and the fact that it’s something he brings up once every two or three months, you know he misses teaching shooting at Glynco, though he misses it especially after his worst days.  

You work in an area completely separate of law enforcement—you’ve been working as a PSW since you’d graduated and completed your program when you were twenty, and in the near twenty years since then, your worst days and how you feel at the end of them aren’t even slightly comparable to how Raylan feels at the end of his worst ones. 

You’d done long distance while Raylan was in Miami and were happy to do so, knew that he was happy to do so in turn, and he paid for your flights whenever your smooth weeks came up, made sure to book that time off so you could spend it together. However, when he was transferred to Lexington and moved in with you, hiding your elation was quite the task, and how well you hid it for those first two and a half months when Raylan had come home had been more impressive than not.  

But still—you were up long before he and you normally got home about an hour and a half after he did when you were working and when he had a slow day spent doing paperwork. On days where he was chasing down a fugitive or driving to Harlan, he normally came home after you had been home for at least an hour, sometimes two or three.  

The worst of his days normally meant he’d either been wounded by someone or he’d killed them, and he ended the worst of his days in the hospital to treat his wounds or at home, at your kitchen counter, nursing a neat whiskey while staring at the counter top.  

Your worst were normally a cacophony of crappy coworkers, crappy residents, and sometimes coming home with a bruise because a resident had grabbed you too harshly or, on the rarer occasion, gotten aggressive and punched you in the face or landed a knee in your abdomen. Your worst days were normally not more than shitty coworkers, shitty residents—in both metaphor and physicality—and spending all three of your breaks wanting to go home but finally giving in and having a good cry on your last one, taking an extra five minutes to make sure you’ve convincingly managed to pull yourself together before you head back onto the unit they've assigned you to.

You were never shot at while you gave the residents their food, or while you were in the middle of rolling your eyes when the activities coordinator paged for a PSW to assist when you were short staffed and the LTCA was on break.  

Raylans job was at least partly getting shot at, and sometimes those bullets landed where they’d been aimed towards. It scared the ever-loving shit out of you some days, not knowing if he’d be home at 7:30, when you’d be coming in after a thirty minute commute between the LTCC you worked in and home, or if he'd be laying in a hospital bed, recovering from a bullet wound that had found a home somewhere in his torso.  

After a particularly difficult day in the middle of April, you come home and slip out of the shoes Raylan had gifted you for the previous Christmas and the ones you’d worn to work daily since. You slip your light jacket off and pull your hands through your hair, sighing and pressing your forehead against the door for a few seconds.  

“Raylan?” You call, some part of you terrified that he won’t be home yet even though he normally gets off an hour before you do, outside of when you’re mandated to work nights or he's out in the field.  

“Kitchen, baby,” comes his response. “You doin’ all right?”  

Your scrub top feels too tight, you can feel the hemline of your scrub bottoms on your inner thigh brushing against it like it’s a demon, and you’re so happy your smooth week starts after the 18th that you could genuinely cry about it, but you don’t respond with any of that.  

You don’t respond at all, actually, first heading up to the bedroom that the two of you share to pull a brush through your hair and relax your scalp before then changing into a pair of sleep shorts and one of the Henleys he wears to work on a fairly regular basis. You drape a cardigan over it because Raylan is a big fan of keeping the house cold, pull off the compression socks you wear to work and trade them for a normal pair before you make a beeline down the stairs and for the kitchen.  

“Tough day at work?” He asks pretty much the minute he hears your footsteps as you rush down the stairs in what's almost a sprint, a smirk glinting at the edges of his lips in the last three seconds before he sees you. “Yeah--you did. How’d that happen?”  

The minute you’re within arms reach, Raylan reaches out and lets his hand grace a purple bruise that has spent the last six and a half hours since the residents ate lunch blooming across the bottom of your cheek and your chin.  

“Not tougher than one of your days, I’d imagine,” you laugh. “We have a resident—Lucille, is her name—and she got a little aggressive when she realized we’d moved her husband to a different unit, is all. She took it out on me, but it’s better I get socked in the face than a man of almost 100 years.”  

“He’s almost 100?” Raylan asks in disbelief. “Which makes me think his wife’s the same age—people who’ve been around since 1910 can’t be that strong, Y/N.”  

“He’ll be 100 in two months, and she’s just turned ninety,” you respond. “Closest to an older guy you’ve ever met or dealt with is Arlo, Raylan. You don’t got as much experience as I do, evidently.”  

He laughs, and you let him pull you in and kiss your forehead. “Evidently,” he whispers against your hair. “Glad you made it home in one piece, Y/N. Those residents can be quite the hell raisers sometimes if what you've told me in recent is to be of any indication."

You sigh, press yourself as close to him as you can physically get. “Probably got a few new ones on my arms and stomach too,” you respond, referencing your bruises. “Switched off from Harlan to Mayfield after my lunch break around one thirty. It’s the smallest unit but it’s got the most aggressive residents. They normally have three PSWs down there but all I had with me was the float because Amara, the new hire who’s been around for two weeks, called in sick and Ellie will be on mat leave until September. Had an LTCA with me to help when the float wasn’t around, but I couldn’t find it in myself to guiltlessly ask them to do shit that’s above their pay grade.”  

Raylans lips find the top of your head, one of his hands gently cupping your face. “It’s your smooth week after tomorrow, right?”  

“If I called in sick and took an extra day, how much judgement would I be dealing with?”  

“You dealt with a lot of shit today and you need to lick your wounds,” Raylan laughs, kisses the top of your head again. “No judgement—from me, at least. I was just debatin’ calling Art because I heard that door open and could sense somethin was a bit off with you, wanted to be there if you’d let me.”  

He pauses, pulls away from you enough to look you in the eye. “Are you okay?” He asks, voice somewhat hesitant. “Like--you’re not dealin’ with compassion fatigue or anything like that?”  

“You were Harlan born and raised, didn’t go into the medical field, and you know the term?” You laugh a little. “Not to make you seem dumb but—it's—I have never heard someone outside of the medical professionals I know bring that up.”  

“Art was talkin’ about it today, actually,” Raylan laughs along with you. “One of his daughters is a PSW and she’s just quit workin’ at one of the LTCCs down in South Carolina because of compassion fatigue and a bit of a mental break. Wanted me to make sure you weren’t dealing with the same—he looks out for you where he can, y’know.”  

You’ve been with Raylan since you were two fresh out of high school idiots and completely and utterly clueless about your lives to come. You’d been together since you were eighteen and he was nineteen and had only just started working in the mines with the likes of Boyd Crowder. 

It’s been two decades since those days, though. You’ve known Art for as long as Raylan has known him, have become decent friends after such a long while. He looks out for both you and Raylan where he can, even if he hates Raylans frequent dumbassery while in the field.  

He once told you he did it despite himself and because, dumbassery be as it may, Raylan was still your husband. He sometimes joked he only protected Raylan where he could because he owed it to you for the mac and cheese you’d bring to the office parties in the Glynco days, something you laughed at but sometimes believed to be the truth.  

“I know he does,” you nod. “I know you do, too. I’m grateful for it.”  

“We’ve been married for nineteen years now,” Raylan says. “I was twenty-one and couldn’t picture my life with anyone else. You were twenty and--well, I can't pretend to know your thought process as to be willing to marry an idiot like me. Now, near two fuckin’ decades later, here we stand, somehow. I’m gonna call in, baby. Even if you don’t, I’ll still be waking up for five thirty so I can worm thirty minutes of watching you sleep out of a day of housework.”  

You laugh. “I think Raimi is the RN on nights this week. I’ll give him a call at nine, but my jaw hurts right now and if I have to cook dinner I will be losin’ it.”  

Raylan kisses your forehead. “I’m gonna order us a pizza. You’re only allowed to lose it in your exit interview, should you ever quit.”  

“I’ve stuck around there outta spite, Raylan. I ain’t quittin’ til I’m at least 70.”  

Raylan laughs. “Well, whichever kids we have will just put you into the care centre by that point, won’t they? You’ll never escape if that happens.”  

“You’re goin’ there first,” you respond. “You’ve got a year on me, remember?”  

“It’s one year, Y/N,” he shakes his head. “Even if I do go in first, you’ll be followin’ close behind.”  

You shrug. “Still one year where I’m not in the home and you are, buckaroo."

Raylan snorts. You grab whiskey, glasses, and add ice to yours. You pour it out as Raylan orders a pizza for delivery, watch him walk out into your living room and are completely and totally unsurprised as you hear the sound of country music being played distantly from a record player you’ve kept in the farthest corner of your living room since you put it there upon moving in, back in the days of your and Raylans relationship being long distance and only getting to see him face to face once every six weeks.  

“So that’s a no on the whiskey?” You ask, taking a sip of your own as Raylan comes back around, leaning against the door frame that separates the kitchen and dining area from the living room.  

You hold his whiskey out to him, watch him slam it down like it’s a shot and remember, for all of half a second, being eighteen. You remember that birthday, approaching Mags about buying a few joints to help you sleep and accepting her offer with many thanks when she threw the apple pie moonshine in as a birthday present.   

You remember offering Raylan a glass of the stuff two weeks into your relationship and five months after your birthday, when you’ve been a graduate from your high school for a total of three months and have gotten a bit of moonshine along with your weed whenever you’ve gone to visit Mags’ store in search of food for the inevitable munchies.  

You remember watching him take it like a shot and laughing at the grimace that showed up on his face, kissing him on the cheekbone while you tell him he should sip it. 

Now, you’re thirty-nine and he’s forty, and you’ve been together twenty-one years and married nineteen. He takes whiskey like a champ now—unlike he used to—same with the apple pie shine you still travel to grab a jar or two of whenever you’re in Harlan for some other reason, using melatonin as an excuse to stop off at Mags’ store rather than the weed that you haven’t smoked since you’d moved to Lexington full time at twenty five.  

He extends a hand out to you, grinning slightly. “We’ve got whiskey, and we’ve got good music,” he says. “You know what I’m about to ask you, Y/N.”  

You slam your whiskey before you can stop yourself, take his hand with a smile so big that it hurts. 

“And I think you know my answer already, Mr. Givens,” you laugh as you let him pull you into the center of your living room, the two of you dancing like you used to at the parties Mags invited you to whenever she held them, the ones you always brought Raylan along to after grinning in a way that you knew made it innately difficult for him to refuse.  

Eventually, a slower song comes up, so naturally, you start up a slow dance. Raylan holds you close and you’ve the mind to let him, basking in the sheer comfort you feel whenever he’s so much as within your vicinity.  

Since you were eighteen, he’s been one of the biggest points of comfort in your life. When you started the PSW program he was there. When you’d been at the point in said program of doing on-site training, Raylan came down to Harlan from college every weekend he could manage and comforted you when the change in environment felt like too much to handle. You’ve spent more than half of your life as his partner, and you wouldn’t have it any other way, if you’re being completely honest with yourself.  

“I wake up most mornings feeling like I don’t deserve you, y’know?” Raylans voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “Even when we were younger—I'd look at you while you were laughin’, or smiling, or just—existing, I guess, and I would go “there ain’t no way in hell I deserve this person. Not a chance.”” 

You grin despite yourself, gaze softening as your eyes meet his. “You deserve me and everything I can give you,” you say it gently, like you’re trying to remind him of such when he’s drunk out of his mind and can’t quite stop rambling.  

Raylans gaze softens, and you know exactly what it means after having been with him for so long—he doesn’t believe you, and he’s had a shitty day, and all it’ll take is three seconds before you’re consumed with the urge to know why he’s so mellow when normally, he can get angry with the drop of his damned cowboy hat.  

“What happened at work today, Raylan?” You reach over, take the needle off the record. “I know something did, before you deny it. You mentioned being down in Harlan when you woke up this morning, remember? One of the only times both of us have had to be up for six. What happened down there today?” Normally, with his work hours, he’s not up until seven or going into work until eight, but Art had been up because his boss had woken him up and had decided to make it Raylans problem at six in the morning, due to his ties to the county.  

“Got called down there because of Dickie fuckin’ Bennett,” he laughs tiredly, gaze still soft as he looks at you. “Had an ex girlfriend come around, I guess—point is, she was eight months pregnant and I watched him hold her at knife-point today. Mags got to him before the back up I called in could manage it, and when she was done with him he was seeing stars. The girlfriend was scared shitless, and rightly so, and I just—I couldn’t stop thinking about how desperately I wanted to get home. I needed this, Y/N. More than I think you’ll ever be able to comprehend.”  

You bite your lip. “Well, I’m glad my mere presence could be of assistance to your mental health then, Raylan.”  

He laughs. “Don’t you get too big of an ego on me, Y/N,” he says. “And--before you start, don’t go feelin’ bad for venting to me about how shitty your day was, neither. You’re allowed to have bad days, same as me.”  

“Well--true as that may be, my bad days are just bruises on the chin and crappy people to work with. Sometimes I get bitchy when we’re understaffed, but those things should not a bad day make, especially not compared to one of yours.” 

“I would rather not sit with the knowledge that you might’ve been the one to watch DIckie do as he did today, had our places been swapped,” Raylan says.  

“And I find the idea of comin’ home and seein’ you bruised preferable to comin’ home and seein’ you shot, Raylan,” you laugh. “But--our bad days are valid as any, they just have different weights.”  

“Yeah, and I’ve had a bad day, where it seems you’ve had a bad week,” Raylan laughs. “Not once since you started working as a PSW have I ever seen you come home and debate calling in, even when your smooth week starts after your next shift.”  

You press your forehead against his shoulder, arms around his waist, and try not to break down in his arms.  

You’ve worked days every single day you’ve worked that week, and you hate them. Evenings feel like the jackpot in terms of shifts for you, normally, and you’d rather work a night than work day shifts. During the day, residents are awake. They’re easier to accidentally provoke, easier to anger at almost nothing.  

“I wanna quit,” you whisper.  

“I know, baby,” one of his hands goes to your hair. “Todays got me contemplating Glynco again, honestly.”  

You let him pull you as close as he can, want nothing more than to just fall asleep in his arms and wake up way later than you’re supposed to to find his arms around your waist and his chin tucked into the crook of your neck while he holds you as close as he can manage while he sleeps. 

But, of course, the doorbell rings. You pull away and head upstairs for your phone while Raylan pays for the pizza, call in sick with the excuse of joint pain and happen to walk downstairs in time to see Raylan asking for the next day off.  

When Raylan grins at you, you know Art has agreed to the extra day on top of the week Raylan had booked out in time with your smooth week.  

The two of you head back through the kitchen to the dining room, and when Raylan hugs you from behind while you pour out a glass of soda, all you can do is smile. 

“I adore you, Mr. Givens,” you say, passing him your glass so that he can add ice to it. You pour him one without—ironic given that he prefers it when the house runs cold—while he adds ice to your glass and grabs the paper plates so that you can avoid doing too many dishes when you tackle housework tomorrow.  

“I return the sentiment, Mx. GIvens,” Raylan says it with a shit eating grin, and you kiss him in spite of it.  

The two of you eat dinner while he lets you talk about the good parts of your day—a resident who had a fall and hadn’t been eating great since had started eating really good again, another of the residents made so many jokes that you lost count after twenty seven, and the compression socks had worked wonders and your feet didn’t hurt so terribly upon arriving at home. 

The good parts of Raylans day wound up being the look on Arts face when he was pissed off at someone other than Raylan. It was the glass of Mags’ apple pie he’d gotten when he went to question her at her store, seeing DIckie Bennett’s face bloodied to near unrecognition, and the sound of your voice when you’d come home, exhausted but relieved and, dare he say it, a little happy. 

All in all, it’s an amazing end to a shitty day, and you’re grateful for it.  

[chanoyu-to-wa]

A Brief Update (7/7).

Dear Followers and Readers,

It has been horribly, horribly hot here the past week or so. So much so that every attempt to pack boxes left me gasping for breath after 15 or 20 minutes. As a result, I have been focusing my efforts on the translations, since that at least allowed me to work in an air conditioned room. Even when some of the material in the translations seems to have been discussed before, I generally produce a new translation, from the sources, on each occasion (not only in the interests of including new material -- which was certainly the case with this morning's post -- but because it is almost impossible for me to search out posts that were made years ago, since my eyes have not been working well enough to make that an efficient process: it is easier to produce a new translation than to try to scan through 12 years of posts, which could potentially take several days). I hope that the new information -- including the formulae of all of the six traditional varieties of neri-kō -- will be of interest.

The other day I heard from Elmar, who informed me that none of the 15 or 20 people who have recently started following this blog has seen fit to contribute toward its support. In the aftermath of the many new expenses that I have been facing recently, I had only $100 for food when the month of July started (which makes things difficult when food costs more than $7/day, even if one is trying to subsist on little more than instant noodles). And, of course, the necessity to run the air conditioner almost constantly this past week, will shoot the July electricity bill through the roof.

I understand that many people do not have much extra money these days -- and that there are probably many more exciting possibilities for disbursing that money than donating it to this blog. So it seems necessary to say that I am going to be forced to stop posting unless this situation changes. I could easily take a bus to a mall or department store, and sit there during the hottest hours of the day, but that would mean I would be unable to do any work on this blog (I obviously can not afford to add the $40/month expense of a wi-fi account to my already overwhelming burden of expenses, and it is impossible to do any work when I am separated from the books and other resources that are needed from time to time -- when I had to stay in Guam for more than two weeks three years ago, I ended up having to take a large suitcase full of books and papers to support the work on this blog that I was going to undertake while there).

The heat has been so bad that the router that allowed me to use my telephone (an internet phone) and laptop in addition to this PC burned out a couple of weeks ago; and in order to get that working again I was informed that I would have to pay for a new modem, plus pay the technician to come here and literally plug it in (this kind of modem is only provided by the telecom company, at a cost of $35 for the modem plus $35 "installation fee" -- and, no, the customer is not allowed to just plug it in by themself). So the issues just continue to pile up, and are, once again, making it harder and harder for me to continue. I try to save money by not running the air conditioner at night, only to wake up gasping whenever the heat in my room becomes too much, so I am forced to run it for 10 or 15 minutes. The lack of sleep that results is, of course, having an impact on my mental acuity, further limiting the time I can spend productively during the day.

And that, being enough complaining, is where I guess I will end this. My thanks to the few people who do continue to support this work. But given the pressures of inflation (whenever demand is high, the utilities now raise the rates, and they never come back down again, so I am sure that will just make the upcoming electric bill just that much higher), their generosity alone is no longer going to be enough to keep this ship afloat....

Thank you all for your time.

Sincerely yours,

Daniel M. Burkus daniel_burkus@yahoo.com

Donations: https://paypal.me/chanoyutowa

[shipcestuous]

You're comment about stories focusing a lot on uncle/nibling (love that word, btw!) relationships until they actually turn out to be parent/child made me think of a non-incestuous example in His Dark Materials. (All canons, it's important to the plot to ever be lost in adaptation.)

At the beginning of the story, main character Lyra Belaqua is (platonically) smitten with her uncle, Lord Asriel. She's been told she's an orphan and her parents were Asriel's brother and sister-in-law, and due to their family connection and his obligation to their deceased relatives, Asriel kindly pulled some strings to have her raised and given a full education in Jordan College, not taking care for her himself but having her be around important scholars and their research since a very young age. Lord Asriel himself isn't around too much, being busy with his own research and his adventures around the world, but besides being Lyra's benefactor, he's intelligent and cunning, charismatic, strong-willed, fierce, and aloof in a bit of a "noble rogue" way, with an air of mystery and danger about him, so whenever he comes visiting, Lyra is immediately drawn to him and trying to get his attention. They're actually rather similar, with her being also very stubbon, resourceful, quick-witted and good at thinking on her feet, with an indipendent and rebellious streak. As the plot of the first book/movie/first season of the HBO show goes on, there's at least two separate occasion when she has reason to believe he's in danger, and her first instinct is to come save him.

However, the truth about their familiar relationship is revealed well before the start of the second installment of the story and, suffice to day, even if she still cares about him, Lyra is not happy at all about Lord Asriel lying to her through her whole life. Them only reuniting after the fact and Asriel being devastated and furious at her sight because he thinks for a moment he'll have to sacrifice her in the experiment that will kick off his grand plan doesn't help... neither does him being relieved to realize she's brought her best friend along and deciding to sacrifice him instead. (For extra context: Lyra's just been through hell and back to save said best friend and a lot of other children along with him. Even later, his death at the hands of her own father, after she herself caused them to meet through her attempts to help them both, as well as the knowledge of what Asriel is willing to do for his ideals, haunts her.)

An extra layer of complication is also added by Lyra finding out the identity of her real mother, Mrs. Coulter, around the same time as all of this goes down. When Mrs. Coulter first shows up in her life as a sort of mentor figure, Lyra is immediately enchanted by her. Mrs. Coulter is an independent woman with important connections in a very religious and patriarchal world, she's beautiful and elegant and refined but also well-educated, passionate and unafraid to speak her mind, witty, and well-respected. It's been ages since I read the book, but I'm pretty sure that, before she learns the truth, Lyra actually fantasizes about her and Asriel meetting, falling in love, getting married, and adopting her or at least taking her on their joint travels around the world. However, under her perfectly put together appearance, Mrs. Coulter hides a dark, unstable side. When she finds out she lied to her, Lyra must confront that and the fact that her mother has been involved in some genuinely horrifying things... things that would have harmed Lyra herself in a very direct manner, if Mrs. Coulter had not intervened at the last second. And even then, Lyra is faced with the devastating fact she only intervened to save her own daughter, and was absolutely willing to let so many other children go through the same process because she counted them as acceptable losses while trying to achieve her goals.

The backstory to Lyra's parentage and its secret is that Lord Asriel and Mrs. Coulter met when they were younger and fell in love, drawn to each other's passion and intellect, but she was already married at the time. Their affair resulted in baby Lyra, but when Mrs. Coulter's husband realized that "his" daughter actually looked a lot like a Belaqua, Mrs. Coulter faked Lyra's death and entrusted her to Lord Asriel, who in turn hid her away in a country house he owned with a nanny. However, Mrs. Coulter's husband eventually found out and stormed the secret house. Luckily, Asriel engaged him in a duel before he could get to Lyra, and finally killed him. After that, with the scandal brought to light by her husband's death and her reputation and her reputation ruined, Mrs. Coulter refused to have anything more to do with her former lover or their daughter.

After rebuilding her standing as a dignified high society woman and academic, and becoming involved in the thing mentioned above, the one actively targeting and harming children, Mrs. Coulter ended up thinking back to the daughter she herself had given away, worrying about her safety and, perhaps, even wondering if things could have gone differently. So, years later, she tries to keep Lyra close to keep an eye on her and reconnect with her in her own way, still with revealing their true relationship to each other. But while Asriel is distant and close-lipped about anything too personal, Mrs. Coulter deals with the need to hide everything by developing a possessive, even obsessive attitude towards her that gets increasingly uncomfortable (at least once involving violence, another time essentially keeping Lyra prisoner) as the story goes on.

And yet, at the end of the day, both Lord Asriel and Mrs. Coulter deeply love Lyra, even if not in healthy ways. Their ending, for all their high ideals, selfish actions, and dramatic gestures, is agreeing to sacrifice themselves for Lyra, knowing they're going not just to die but to destroy their souls, but accepting that fate for the chance to save their daughter.

Both relationships are incredibly intense and, while I've never shipped either (the age difference would be a bit much for me, and Mrs Coulter in particular crosses a line at one point that squicks me out beyond repair, I'm afraid) but if it turned out other people shipped one or both, I'd honestly just say "oh, yeah, sure, I get it."

I'm rather familiar with this series. I read the books when they came out, so I'm pretty rusty on those details, but I've seen the movie a few times, and I watched the first season of the series from a few years ago.

This is another great example of a prominent "uncle" that turned out to be the father. Although this might be one situation where I'm OK with it.

I've always shipped Asriel/Mrs. Coulter a lot, so I was kind of stuck on that and never really looked at the relationships with Lyra in that way. But it's really interesting that the dynamics with both parents are Lyra's fascination with a glamorous figure. And then, as you described, slowly learning some horrifying truths about what they are each willing to do.

Particularly with Lord Asriel, when he comes to visit, it's like a celebrity that's coming. She's shy and excited and all that.

[pandaspwnz]

so.

we might have to put down my youngest dog Lily. She just turned 5 but a few months ago she started limping so we took her to the vet and found out she has arthritis. No big deal, she's on daily painkillers, seems fine. Then she starts limping again and wouldn't really stand or walk very far, and we take her to the vet wednesday and get a shot of a painkiller that should work better over time, since her regular painkillers weren't doing enough to manage it. Thursday she seemed to be doing better again but then suddenly friday evening something happened and it. got. bad. she limps constantly, legs shaking badly, hind legs won't support her weight, won't take more than 4 shaky steps without sitting down again. We were in contact with a vet over the phone saturday and sunday to figure out if it was urgent or something that could wait til monday (since in the weekend just stepping a foot in the door would be 2200 dkk (around $320). We had given her her regular pain meds, even though we were supposed to cut down on half of it after the shot, but clearly she needed it. The vet over the phone says we can give her some regular strength paracetamol and if that manages her pain well enough, we can wait. So we get her more painkillers, she takes them, it seems to help a little. Meanwhile my mom was willing to be carrying Lily to where she needs to go, but I dug out a cart we had in the basement so Lily could ride on that and spare my moms back and Lily's own little legs.

So today, monday, we got an emergency visit at the vet and the vet says it is. bad. they're overbooked and busy but she said she wanted to see Lily right away and went and made sure they could squeeze Lily in for an x-ray and bloodtest.

So we leave her at the vet to get the x-ray and go home and a few hours later we get a call and it turns out Lily has completely torn her cruciate ligaments in BOTH hind legs. We don't know if they went at the same time because somehow?? this little fucking terminator has said. NOTHING. No howls, whines, screams, anything. Nothing.

Only option is surgery. But it is SO expensive. Getting one leg fixed is 24000 dkk ($3.5k), but since it's both they can do it for 38000 dkk ($5.5k). And that's not touching the 6000+ dkk ($875) diagnosis fee we paid today, or any medicine for treatment post surgery. We thankfully have insurance which will cover a total of 29700 dkk ($4.3k) UNLESS we/the vet can say there's a chance she tore her ligaments in two separate incidents, in which case they'll give us that amount twice, once for each leg. I don't know how it works, don't ask me. It's fucking stupid.

Thing is, we live paycheck to paycheck. At a push we can scrape together 15700 dkk ($2247) which we already spent some money on today for the diagnosis fee on, and we have 3 other pets we need to take care of. If we spend all the money we have and then some on Lily and something happens to the others, we wouldn't be able to do anything. So basically my dog's fucking life is depending on if the vet can somehow tell us, either truthfully or by sticking their necks out for us, that the ligaments tore in two separate occasions. Otherwise we just can't afford it.

Which fucking sucks and makes me so angry because she can get the surgery and there's a really good prognosis!! It's like an 85-90% chance she'd be completely normal once she's all healed (it would only slightly increase the risk of getting arthritis, which she already has a little of anyway). And it has to come down to fucking money.

And we are not. at all. willing to do surgery on one leg at a time. Absolutely not. We are not going to have her suffer for so long just because it would make it easier for us to somehow pay for.

Anyway, we have a surgery booked for monday (which is in a whole fucking week!! that's so long from now!) but we don't even know yet if she can have it. We're expecting a call from the vet who saw us initially so we can find out if we can say it was two incidents or not. We'll know at the latest on wednesday and if not, then we just. have to put her down. because of money. we don't want her to be in pain. but man this just fucking sucks. she's my little baby and I don't want to lose her.

this was taken on the way home from the vet. (yes she's fat we know, she's on a diet and already lost 1.5kg)

please send good vibes

[asachuu]

(8/10)

Part 5.1: Arthur’s memoir

Content warning: major Stormbringer novel spoilers.

[List of all parts]

[Part 5]

The first crucial thing for me to describe is Arthur’s memoir, or rather the most relevant parts of it for me to refer to later on. It’s split into two sections across the book, but I will put them both in this place together.

This particular section of the novel is Arthur’s recollection of events before “meeting” Paul, at the beginning of the novel’s fourth part. Here, he writes about being on a mission, in which he fought an ability user under the alias ‘Faun’. That ability user, however, had a certain “secret weapon”, referred to as ‘Black No.12’ — an artificial life form whom he created, capable of manipulating gravity and nullifying physical attacks, whom he controlled. Arthur freed this being from his creator’s brainwashing, to which ‘Black No.12’ regained his consciousness and attacked ‘Faun’, decimating half the facility in the process.

After all these events had transpired, Arthur carried this being with him to the inn he was staying in at the time, wondering what will happen to him and whether the government will dispose of him. He ends this entry by writing a line irrelevant to some, yet noteworthy to others— about how distant the fireplace feels to him.

In his second entry of this part, he writes about having asked an informant on what to do about ‘Black No.12’, to which he was told that the being should be trained into an intelligence agent, as he held information about enemy organizations. His education was assigned to Arthur, who wasn’t sure whether he was capable of doing something like that.

Arthur notes that in his job, he is not allowed to have any personal relationships with anyone, not even his own family, due to it potentially becoming a weakness. He states his parents and former lover live in the belief he had already died, and he abandoned his past and even his old name for the code name ‘Arthur Rimbaud’. Knowing he could finally do something for someone else, especially for his new friend, made him happy, that of which he states himself. He knew that he probably would not be remembered after his death, only being given an unnamed tombstone, but he was alright with it now— as long as he could leave something for someone else’s sake before that happened, he’d be content.

His first task was to give his new ‘friend’ a code name, to which he chose ‘Paul Verlaine’, the real name his parents had given him. He ended this section hoping Paul would read his memoir someday to find out the truth of his existence.

Now, the next part is separate from the first one with the time of it being set much later, but it’s in the same section of the novel. This is the last entry written.

In this one, Arthur talks about being assigned a new mission, to infiltrate a military base of another country and retrieve a certain ‘ability weapon’ — a boy who supposedly harbored power to destroy the whole world. He stated this mission was dangerous, yet they could still return alive, especially if he was together with Paul. Due to how reliable he considered his partner to be, he had been wondering about something he could do in return.

The answer he came to was to celebrate Paul’s ‘birthday’, which he thought to be the day the man fought and killed ‘Faun’. In his own words, he believed everyone’s birth to be an occasion worth celebrating, and for that occasion, it’s important to give the person in question a present. For Paul, he decided to not only get a bowl of pudding and a bottle of wine, but also a particular black hat, one which he made himself. According to him, the special materials that this hat was made of would be able to get Paul closer to being a ‘human being with a free will’.

Despite that, he stated his partner didn’t understand the notion of it whatsoever. After Arthur explained what birthdays meant to him and gave him his gifts, Paul didn’t express any surprise or happiness, merely stating he would ‘take them for now’. In Arthur’s further words, he states he wasn’t sure if it was the right thing for him to do.

This part, as well as Arthur’s whole memoir, ends with him hoping to find that out the next day, during their mission together, and stating he would overcome anything for Paul’s sake.

Part 5.2: Chuuya’s flashback

This part occurs during Chuuya and Paul’s fight, in which he is made to remember the day he was retrieved by the two spies. I will skip a little bit ahead to what I consider the most important interaction between them.

In said recollection, Paul carried Chuuya as they had to flee from the military, who became aware of their presence in Japan. Though Arthur was willing to continue going forward, his partner stopped behind him, refusing to go and give Chuuya away to the government back home. Instead, he wished to have him grow up in some peaceful place without knowing who he truly was and how he came to be.

While Arthur wished to speak to Paul, he was harshly told not to get closer, upon which he asked for his reasoning in confusion. To that, Paul explained how hopeless and sorrowful it was to know he isn’t truly human and every one of his actions was merely something predetermined, but Arthur tried to reassure him he most certainly is human, stating they have spoken about this many times before, too. His partner, however, did not want to listen to any of it, saying he hated hearing that sentence the most.

Seeing as there was no time to speak of such things, Arthur couldn’t do anything beyond saying they’d discuss it back home, but Paul told him it’s far too late for that. Back at home, he would be supervised by their organization once more, all while nobody could do anything about him here, and thus he got out a gun with the intention of shooting his partner. He was asked whether he was able to do it, especially to someone who had given him the life he had now, but he only apologized, stating he wanted to save himself. Despite some genuine grief in his words, he still pulled the trigger, and even though Arthur managed to activate his ability, the bullet pierced his hand, as it was affected by Paul’s gravity manipulation and could shatter his subspace. That, however, was said to not have made him angry whatsoever.

Before the pair began their life-or-death fight, Paul told him he did a lot for him, but he made a mistake of letting him live, to which Arthur claimed it was no such thing.

This section ends here, with the continuation being something we learned in Fifteen before. The Arahabaki explosion occurred next, after which Arthur lost all his memories of these events and began his eight years of work in the Port Mafia, whose members saved his life.

Part 5.3: the epilogue

This is perhaps the most important part of the whole novel to note if we are to discuss this topic. I will try to bring attention even to the details in it, as those make all the difference.

The section begins with the aftermath of a battle featuring Paul approximately nine years after his betrayal of Arthur, who is now seen to be living through his final moments. Thinking he was going to die, he was quite content with the thought, and the reader is made to believe he passed away for a short moment, until we get to realize he was still alive at a time he shouldn’t have been.

The thing which kept him alive was described as a crimson cube keeping his heart beating, yet he didn’t know why it was there as it was a familiar sight to him. A while later, a voice from the past spoke to him, and only then it is revealed that Arthur was the cause of it. Paul, of course, couldn’t believe it, as Arthur had already long since passed away.

He then tries to speak to Paul, but the latter is still wondering just what was happening. He assumed Arthur must have been an illusion serving to make him see his wrongdoings, to which he is told he is nothing more but a ghost who waited for him in the country. Paul, however, didn’t believe him again, stating he can’t be a ghost as he would be cursing him to death instead of trying to help him. At Arthur’s calm demeanor, seemingly posing absolutely no threat to him, he shouted at him and ordered to get angry at him for all he’s done in the past, stating his partner must hold a deep grudge against him for getting shot and dying without his old memories, all of which was Paul’s own doing.

Arthur, however, states he doesn’t feel that way, and according to him, he came to apologize. At his partner’s confusion, he explains he wished to save him and believed he did so, but he only pitied him and pretended to understand him instead. He did not believe a simple apology was acceptable for his actions, and thus he thought of what to do for him instead for the year he’d been wandering after his death. His answer came in the form of bringing Paul back to life at this very moment. That came with one drawback, though– seeing as Arthur had no longer been alive at this time, he was using his ability on himself. Since he could not use it on two people at the same time, it meant he was giving up what was left of his own life, but as he himself commented on it, it was alright— he was already dead, after all.

Having Arthur gradually disappear in front of him, Paul seemingly for the first time called out for that not to happen, but unfortunately for him, it could not have been stopped. His partner’s last words were him stating he hadn’t liked his birthday present before, all those years ago, and thus this was a replacement for it. Finally, after wishing him a happy birthday once more, he disappeared forever, leaving Paul alone, yet alive, where he sat before.

Only then did Paul understand just what Arthur had done for him— turning himself into an ability just for the sake of saving his life. The only thing he regretted in that moment was the huge loss he realized he suffered, the loss of his partner he never seemed to have considered before. Though he asked why it was so, why Arthur smiled in his last moments when he was currently dead because he had been betrayed by the very man he saved, it was to no one in particular. It is stated he “knew the answer, but he didn’t understand it”, and he recalls all Arthur had done for him in the past, from helping him and giving him a life to smiling shyly as he handed him his birthday present long ago.

Paul eventually breaks down at the very end, apologizing over and over, stating he finally felt sad about it all, but of course, nobody could have heard him. It is later said he no longer had anything he wanted to do, nobody he wanted to see, as the one single person who truly mattered to him now was gone forever.

[Part 5.4]

[writtengalaxies]

hmmm gotta think for a second.

i have a few Qs to pass the time i guess? heres some stuff ive asked my friends to get to know random things about them lmao. feel free to skip the more weird ones, but yes these are real things we've asked each other

also! feel free to ask me any questions too. i havent got anything better to do (<- thats a lie) and i would love to get interrogated this fine friday evening <3

▪︎got any OCs? if yes, can we hear a little about them?

▪︎ favourite punctuation sign?

▪︎ most preffered emoticon? (NOT emoji)

▪︎ if you were a pen ink colour, which would you be?

▪︎ favourite planet in the solar system?

▪︎ have any collections? (dolls, rocks, books, etc)

▪︎ how do you dream? (1st person, from a screen in your mind, 3rd person, etc etc)

▪︎ can you wake up on command?

▪︎ how do you think/can you hear your own thoughts?

▪︎ if given the possibility, would you like to live in a different universe without a way back? (an oc world, a tv show, book, etc)

▪︎ favourite video game song from its soundtrack?

▪︎ have you ever met online friends irl? if not, would you like to?

thats it for now. maybe. <3

OH LET'S ROCK HECK YEAH.

I have...so many OCs. So...so many. That's like, a separate post of it's own. Between self-inserts, characters I write, characters I LARP, D&D characters, other tabletop RPG characters...it's absurd numbers. XD

>:3 is pretty much one I use constantly. ╰(*°▽°*)╯is my favorite kaomoji!

Orange. XD It's my favorite color!

It's gotta be a shout-out to those dwarf planets! Haumea is a dwarf planet near Neptune that's an ellipsoid shape and has rings! And two moons of it's own!

I collect rubber ducks! Specifically the cheap ones from crane machines.

I...am weird and I don't usually dream? I'm pretty sure it's related to having aphantasia, but on the rare occasions I do dream...it changes on what perspective I have. I actually can read in my dreams, and it's all clear words and numbers to me, not shifting symbols like a lot of people have.

Waking up on command...If I tell myself when I fall asleep I have to be up before a certain time...or if I set an alarm...I will be up before then. Otherwise...nope!

Another one that I don't know how to explain. I don't have a voice or words or images, but I don't know how to put it into words about what happens.

When I was younger, I would have said yes. At this point in my life? Honestly, I'm really happy with where I am and I'd be heartbroken to lose everything that's here.

I...don't usually listen to video game soundtracks and I usually turn the music off in games, unless it's an audio cue. >.< If I had to chose, I'd say "We Shall Sail Together" or "Becalmed" from Sea of Thieves, or any of the Boss Fight music from Valheim.

I have! I actually had a whole bunch of them over my house earlier this summer, as well as one of my internet friends actually moving to the area and ended up with one of my real life friends because they hit it off!