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fruitymocha · 1 year

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Elysian

That dream where Albedo crafted you from the finest marble

Featuring: Albedo x gn!Reader (they/them and you/your used)

Warnings: Reader has existential crises at least once per POV switch, slight religious themes,

A/N: here’s you guys’ early Valentine’s gift from me to you. yes, I finally decided to do an explicitly romantic piece (that isn’t yandere). And yes, this is inspired by the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea (actually, it’s more of an au/retelling). It was too good of a concept to pass up on writing. Also you guys have no idea how long it took to find the perfect title (I went through a lot of different ones before settling on this one). By the way, this story kinda takes place in an au where everyone from Mondstadt is living in a sort of Ancient Greece type location instead of regular Mondstadt. I hope I’ve done this concept justice, and without further ado…

Let me make your dream come true…

The reds, pinks, golds, and oranges of the dawn filtered through the windows, coloring the blank canvases, parchments, and sketchbooks, as well as the stocks of clay, glass, metal, wood, and marble.

That’s when Albedo knew he had stayed up too late, pouring over his artistic endeavors. Well, it’s nothing new, of course. It is what he is known for, after all. Albedo, the recluse Renaissance man. He is the epitome of the genius stereotype. A brilliant mind who is awake far beyond reasonable hours, slaving away at the latest inspiration, theory, or idea. A brilliant mind that seemingly has that spark of madness. A brilliant mind who lives for his work. And the two closest colleagues he has, Sucrose and Timaeus, are unable to stop him, though they try with logical reasoning and kind words.

Sucrose walked into the ivory and caramel-colored studio early in the morning to greet Albedo, who had decided to work with her in her endeavors to study biology. Now imagine her surprise to see her mentor with bruise-like dark circles under his eyes, carefully scanning the details of a work in progress sketch. Perhaps a new painting idea, or perhaps he finally decided on a new project for his chalk pastels. It didn’t matter, really. Clearly, Albedo was in desperate need of rest. She cleared her throat, which did nothing to catch the attention of the pale-haired man. Sucrose figured it must have been because her voice was too quiet, or because Albedo was in his own little world, or a combination of the two. With this in mind, the mint haired girl stepped closer to get his attention and let him know she had arrived. In this process, she was able to get a glimpse of a still-life sketch from over his shoulder. A single cecilia in a vase. She barely got to appreciate the sketch before the sketchbook was abruptly pulled away from her gaze and slammed shut by none other than Albedo himself.

“It was uninspired anyway,” he muttered to himself. “I need a grander idea,”

“Um, Mr Albedo-?”

“I knew you were there, Sucrose, I just needed to get everything on paper before I forgot the concept while focusing on our biology studies,” he explained.

“Uh- shouldn’t you get some rest?”

“I’ll be just fine, Sucrose,” he assured her, but Sucrose wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Are you sure, Mr Albedo? You have some pretty dark circles under your eyes-”

“A sip or two of wine should suffice, Sucrose,” Albedo interrupted her concerns, and Sucrose could do nothing but relent. After all, Albedo is the one supervising her, not the other way around.

~*~

After going through a couple scientific experiments with Sucrose and Timaeus assisting him, Albedo made his way back to his isolated studio up in the mountains. Luckily, summer was approaching, meaning the mountain winds didn’t have that wintry bite to them. Instead, they were cool and relaxing as the zephyrs flowed through his fluffy hair.

Many criticized Albedo for his lifestyle, and that notion never truly left his mind, unless he was drowning his mind in academia or the arts to express his passions for such subjects. They called him a loner. Now that wasn’t necessarily true. He enjoyed the company of Sucrose and her biology endeavors. He appreciated Timaeus and his dedication to alchemy. He admired the Traveling Twins, who knew their fair share of the world and the different cultures they’ve been exposed to. And he liked to be in their company, too. Though neither Albedo nor the twins were astronomers in any sense, they did like to occasionally talk about or study the stars together.

But the nearby villagers don’t know that about Albedo because they don’t care to. They just like to point fingers and call him the loner mad genius simply because silence and alone time bring him peace and happiness. He’s perfectly content skipping out on large feasts and village-wide worship of the Gods, but evidently that’s frowned upon. Some have even started the rumor that he’s sworn himself to never fall in love. That never actually happened, he simply isn’t interested in any of the local villagers. No, he can’t imagine ever thinking of any local villager in a romantic light. In the past, he still held hope that he’d meet someone different. Someone with whom he could share mutual appreciation and respect.

Someone who wouldn’t judge him for his behavior. Someone who would instead try to be empathetic and understand things from his perspective.

But no, no one in this tiny communal village has that sort of grace or kindness to them. He’s given up on that fantasy. Perhaps he should seriously consider adopting a nomadic lifestyle for a bit and explore the world with Aether and Lumine. Maybe only then would he find someone to suit his tastes, wants, and needs.

Before he knew it, Albedo had arrived at the door of his secluded studio, roof supported by towering columns. Caryatid columns, the columns made to look like women supporting the roofs of buildings with just their heads.

It was then that Albedo had been struck with inspiration.

He rushed into the studio, pulling out his sketchbook and using his stylus to sketch a figure. A figure that did not yet have a definite appearance, simply a vaguely human body in a vaguely anatomically accurate pose. Leaning forward, with robes and a vague sketch of hair billowing around the body as if the wind were caressing the figure. A hand outstretched in an almost theatrical manner. The figure was just like the frescoes of nymphs and angels on the ceilings of some temples of worship.

And then drowsiness hit Albedo like a spell. He knew he wouldn’t get anything substantial down in this state, so he decided to leave the details for tomorrow. Besides, he had big plans for this concept. He knew he’d need to be absolutely focused on each and every detail. But first, he’d need materials. Yes, he’d need a supplier to get him an appropriately sized block of the finest marble…

~*~

For next couple days, Albedo was hard at work, trying to vividly imagine the perfect being to encapsulate in marble. What body type should they have? What kind of hair type, and how long? What would the shape of their eyes be? What about face shape? Nose? Lips? He tried to mix and match many different combinations of features, but it always seemed like something was off. Missing. But what?

Just then, a knock was heard at the door.

“Come in,” Albedo called out to the visitor as he took one last look at the sixth facial rough draft. The door opened to reveal Aether and Lumine. “Ah, it’s you two. Welcome to the studio. What brings you here?”

“Sucrose told us you were busy at work with a ‘grand project’. May we inquire as to what that project is?” Lumine asked.

Albedo thought for a moment. This project, as grand as he believes it to be, is a project he holds dear to his heart. To reveal everything would be to lay his heart out for all to see. He would be completely vulnerable. But he still trusted the twins with his feelings, so he gave them just enough information.

“I was inspired by the Caryatids outside the studio. I was…overcome with a desire to sculpt a person,” he explained carefully.

“So are you going to find a model?” Aether asked.

“No,” Albedo said immediately, perhaps slightly harsh in tone. He cleared his throat, and attempted to prevent a misunderstanding from arising due to his carelessness. “I’d rather not base the image on someone else. This is a being of my own creation. A muse that has yet to exist,”

“Do you know what the statue’s gonna look like yet, Albedo?” Aether asked, as Lumine eyed the sketchbook left open on the page of drafts.

“I’m guessing it’s a work in progress,” Lumine said, still eyeing the drafts. Albedo grabbed the sketchbook, promptly closing it.

“I’m still working out the details, but I think I have a general idea…” Albedo looked away briefly, almost in a timid manner.

“So, would this…muse to-be…be your ideal person?” Lumine inquired.

“Ideal…person?”

“Like, romantically? Would they be your dream lover?” Lumine pressed on.

“That’s- that is not the intention I had for this project. I simply felt like creating a human sculpture,” Albedo was nothing short of bewildered by Lumine’s suggestion.

“Lumine! You can’t just make assumptions like that! Sorry, Albedo,” Aether apologized awkwardly. Albedo simply sighed.

“It’s quite alright. I’m used to…strange assumptions… at this point,”

Of course that didn’t make it any less jarring for him to think about this odd suggestion. However, Albedo wasn’t about to let Aether or Lumine carry the burden of guilt for stirring emotions he’s certain they didn’t mean to provoke. And so, he bid the twins farewell at sunset so they’d have enough time to get to the village before nightfall. Meanwhile, on the seventh draft, Albedo took features he’d liked from the previous six, as they’d all had similar faces, but slightly different auras to them.

As night fell, Albedo looked at the finished seventh draft. Something still felt missing, though the model was perfect. But what was missing? Albedo decided to take a break and look out the window to calm his mind. The stars were twinkling, painting the indigo sky with light.

Huh. Light.

Albedo turned back to the seventh draft. That’s it. Of course! Each draft had an aura, but it was missing a light. And so, Albedo focused on adding that light to those eyes.

And there was his muse. His greatest project. Perhaps even his magnum opus. Only time will tell, but one look at the seventh draft, and he knew it was the final draft. His muse was finally complete. Now all that was left was for the marble shipment to arrive.

~*~

The marble had arrived. Now of course Albedo never neglected his alchemical studies nor Sucrose and Timaeus’ occasional request for help or clarification. However, just thinking about getting to shape the fine marble sitting in his studio was enough to make him feel giddy. Everything was there, he just needed to put in the work.

So when he got back to his studio at the end of the day, and saw the giant block of marble sitting under his skylight, he was itching to get on the oddly shaped (but perfectly stable and practical) wooden platform and grab hold of his mallet and chisel.

And that’s exactly what he did.

For the next few weeks, he slaved away at the slab of marble, getting every detail down. Every edge, every curve, every crease and every mark. And of course, he never forgot to give his muse that light in their eyes. And finally, his muse was finished.

At the foot of the statue, Albedo gazed at those light-filled eyes. And right then and there, he felt a strange fondness. Like he wanted to cherish it for himself. The magnum opus no one would be able to freely gaze at. No one but Albedo himself, the creator. But he realized he forgot one thing: a name.

He tried many different ones with many different origins, meanings, and sounds. But eventually he settled on one.

“Hello, Y/N. My name is Albedo, and I am your creator,”

~*~

You were nothing but a marble statue. A hand reaching out for nothing, yet outstretched so delicately. You could not express your emotions on your face, nor speak, nor move. And yet, you knew that you were conscious. Sentient. You could feel and think just as your Creator could. Or, at least it seemed to work similarly for you based on what your Creator vocalized to you.

Mostly, he wallowed in loneliness and misunderstanding, but he always told you that he felt at ease with you. Sometimes, though, he’d get visitors.

A short, mint haired girl named Sucrose, who evidently studies biology and alchemy under your Creator’s supervision. She was soft-spoken and kind. She always referred to your Creator as “Mr Albedo”. As for how she treated you, she was in awe. She quite liked your robes and your expression, and sometimes she would talk to you, as well. You liked her presence, and perhaps if you could move or speak, you would’ve liked to be her friend. Friend is the right word, yes? At least, Creator calls her “friend” and you think you’d like to spend time with Sucrose the same way he does.

A young man with brown hair named Timaeus, who also studies alchemy, but evidently does most of his work in the village. Apparently, the village is filled with people, but your Creator has said many times before that the people there make assumptions about him. You’d like to go to the village anyway, though, if only to see Timaeus’ work (and maybe make those villagers understand that they were wrong about Creator).

Blonde haired twins. The boy, Aether, had his hair in a braid, and primarily wore gold and dark brown. He was kind, and always willing to help. He simply referred to your Creator as Albedo. Aether would sometimes put things in your outstretched marble hand, such as flowers. You really appreciated that. In fact, he, Sucrose, or your Creator himself would take the time to explain what it was you were holding. You wished you could go outside so that you could see the flowers growing in their natural habitats. Maybe you could even go with Aether, or Sucrose, or-… well, as much as you’d like the idea, you doubted Creator would humor you just to take you to see flowers. But it would be the perfect opportunity to let Creator take a break, Y/N! Your inner self told you. No, you knew your best bet was convincing Aether or Sucrose. Lumine, the pale haired one cut in a bob, wearing white and pale blue, would tell you stories. Stories of foreign lands, epic battles for survival, and sometimes more mundane events such as strange, funny, or recent things they witnessed or heard from others. You’d never seen the faces of the people Lumine talked about, like Jean, Klee, Diluc, or Venti. But, due to all the stories you’d heard about them, you already felt connected to them in some way, like distant friends.

Even so, you still longed for a way to leave the studio in the mountains, and see all these people for yourself. See the world for yourself. Oh, how you longed for someone to grant you true life. Perhaps Creator, who in theory could figure out a way to create life someday. Or Sucrose, who specializes in studying life and living organisms. Or even the patron god of this nation that everyone talks about. What was his name? Ah yes, you remembered now: Barbatos. Perhaps he could extend his divine touch and bless you from the heavens, or wherever it is that he resides.

But for now, you’d simply have to remain content with what you had.

~*~

Albedo, in the end, allowed his closest friends to see his masterpiece. But as the days went by, he felt more and more of an attachment to the marble statue in the center of the studio. As the days went by, your presence only became more and more lovely. Why or how, Albedo couldn’t put his finger on, but he knew he was falling hard and deep. For you. You, who embodied everything divine and perfect and Elysian. You, an entity Albedo couldn’t fully break away from.

And so, he started to come up to you in your delicately crafted glory. He stood upon your platform, and gently rested his face on your outstretched hand. “Oh, Y/N, how I wish you were truly alive…” he murmured, staring at your unmoving eyes. “Perhaps then, you and I could form a true bond. Not one of Creator and the Created, but simply two souls that belong side by side,”

Obviously, you did not move, nor make noise. You were a statue, after all. Nothing more. Were the villagers right? Was Albedo truly so isolated he grew an attachment to a human-shaped object by accident? No, it couldn’t be, for he already had close friends he saw fairly often. And yet there was something about you that drew him in, statue or not.

He recalled Lumine saying something about inventing an ideal partner. At the time, it sounded absurd, and absolutely was not his intention. But now, Albedo wasn’t so sure of himself. Maybe it wasn’t the intention, but did Albedo end up creating a dream person by accident? Is that what you are to him? He didn’t exactly know, but he knew one thing: he did care for you immensely. You were precious to him, that was undeniable, and he couldn’t imagine that ever changing.

Before he knew it, it was nighttime once again. “Y/N, I’d better get some rest. It is already late. Good night,” he said, gently running his thumb across your outstretched palm before stepping off the platform you stood on, and making his way to the corner of the studio where he often slept, not too far from the skylight, which you now stood under.

~*~

Days went on like this. You wondered what he meant when he spoke to you about bonds. You were his Creation, but it seemed he wanted something different from you. Would he prefer it if you considered him a friend, like Sucrose and the twins were to you and him? Or was there something else still? As much as you tried, you couldn’t easily make that transition in your mind. You managed to stop referring to him as “Creator” in your head, but you could not quite bring yourself to refer to him by his name. It felt too special for you to use, as you were but a being of marble. You were not human.

As the days passed, you would watch him work on his art projects. Sometimes, he would sketch things in the studio that he brought from the outside world, such as fruit or flowers. Sometimes he’d use chalk pastels or charcoal and draw something, or someone. There were even times when he’d do something more hands on, such as pottery, glass blowing, or wood carving. He did like to experiment in every sense of the word, it seemed. But he put the most effort into his paintings and his marble sculptures. And no matter what he worked on that day, he’d always show you what he accomplished with a shining light in his eyes. Genuine passion. He’d ramble to you about what inspired the art piece, explain his thought process, and share what the piece was supposed to represent. It seemed every piece had a story. A purpose. If you were a Creation in the same way that his paintings were, then what did you represent? What was your story? What was your purpose? He never did tell you, even if he did show you great care and kindness.

Every day was like this.

Until Sucrose and the twins came to inform the lone sculptor of the coming celebration. Down in the village, seven days would be given for the people to dedicate themselves to their patron god, Barbatos. Seven days to appreciate what he stood for: the winds and freedom. The temples would also be open to accept confessions and prayers from all who sought out guidance. At least, that’s what Sucrose told you.

Funny how no one knew of your sentience, yet they treated you as a living being and friend anyway. Was it your human design that prompted this? You found this to be likely. But you secretly hoped that someone had noticed the spark of life in your marble eyes, no matter how faint. If those around you truly understood you, you would be less lonely inside. Sure they talked to you, and acted like you could hear them (which you could, but they didn’t know that), but it was a one-way path. They couldn’t hear your thoughts. You couldn’t express your emotions to them. They had you, but you didn’t truly have them, did you?

In any case, Sucrose, Aether, and Lumine all suggested that your creator at least spend one day of the festival down in the village. He said that he’d consider it, but your weren’t entirely sure he meant it. After they left, the alchemist sighed and slumped into his painting chair.

“As if I want to go to the village… then again, if I don’t go I’ll get more criticism… hm…” he continued to mutter to himself about the good and bad sides of going to the village. You want him to go though. Just once. Even if you will be lonely up in the studio on your own. It’s okay, as long as he lives life. He sighed again.

“Just one day. I’ll go for just one day. And I’ll bring you something from the village. That way, you can also celebrate and show respect to Barbatos,” he said to you in that smooth, calming voice of his. You’ll miss him dearly, of course. But you’re also so happy that he decided to enjoy himself, at least for one day. And you’ll even get a small thing so you can celebrate too, even if you are stuck in your marble form.

But it seemed the festival wouldn’t be happening for a while. So you and he waited.

And as the time passed, you began to notice smaller details and habits. The more you stared into his eyes, the more you felt drawn by their bright hue. His pale hair looked quite nice from where you stood. Perhaps if you could move your fingers, you’d like to see for yourself just how his hair feels. You imagine it to be soft and pleasant to the touch. Your heart seemed to overflow with a certain feeling whenever he came up to you and gently held your outstretched hand, or looked deeply into your eyes.

But you knew it was not the same as your fondness for Sucrose, Aether, and Lumine. With them, you simply wanted to spend time, have a good laugh, and share conversations and memories. With your sculptor, you wanted… more. You didn’t know exactly what you wanted from him, but you knew you wanted to be closer to him than any other. You cared for him very much, and wished for nothing but time and closeness. Together. He always tells you that you were a gift from above: a glimpse of divinity. However, you couldn’t help but think of him in a similar way. While appearance is trivial compared to character, you could not deny the way his appearance seemed to exude grace, wisdom, and compassion. There was a dreamlike gentleness to his very soul that bled out into his outward appearance, and you would be a fool to lie and tell yourself it was an illusion. The only problem was that you didn’t have a word for this sentiment. You knew it was more than friendship, but what could be more than friendship?

Is this the type of bond he wanted? Or were you being too much? How could you ever know?

Unless you somehow prayed to Barbatos for guidance. After all, you already knew how the ritual worked after watching your dear sculptor openly pray in your line of sight multiple times. Perhaps if you managed to do so during the festival, you’d be more likely to receive an answer?

All you have to do is wait.

~*~

Albedo felt like he was losing his mind. Only slightly, but the feeling was there nonetheless. He felt an unusual attachment to Y/N, his beloved muse. They were nothing but a statue, and yet it was as if they had a soul all their own. And not just a “soul” of art, meant to convey the story or purpose of an art piece. No. Albedo felt a certain aura coming from Y/N. Almost as if they were conscious. Sentient. Alive.

Regardless, Albedo found himself becoming more wistful and forlorn at the fact that you were not technically a person. Simply a creation he thought up one day and gave a marble vessel to. He found himself wishing you did have a human body. He could feel it in his bones that if Y/N were to become a being of flesh and blood, they would stick by him. But would they love you? His inner voice interjected. Would they know what love even is?

Albedo had no way of knowing the answer.

Unless he decided to seek guidance from Barbatos, that is. Perhaps on the day he decides to go to the village, he can stop by one of the shrines of depths and pray. What he would ask of the Wind God, Albedo didn’t know, exactly. But he knew he had to ask about Y/N.

~*~

And so, the first day of the Festival began after your patient waiting. The sculptor had left, not for the village, but to get fresh air and create art outside. He reasoned with you that doing outdoor activities amidst the mountain breezes would show sufficient appreciation for the Anemo God’s wind currents. Oh, how you wished you could feel such a thing against your skin. The most you could do was listen to its whispers from the inside.

But you had plans for this first day. You decided you would attempt to sleep. While you had no need for it, not being truly alive, you wanted to experience what he referred to as “dreams”. You decided to try and calm your mind… let it wander.

But you did not seek to dream for the sake of dreaming. No. You sought to use dreams to communicate with others. Perhaps through your dream, you could contact the great Wind God and ask to be granted life. And, at night, as an added bonus, you could try to communicate with your sculptor— no— Albedo, through these dreams. Your heart fills with joy at the thought of finally being able to express your thoughts and feelings, and truly form a bond with him. However, try as your instincts might, your current marble vessel cannot move to express the joy and energy that fills you to the brim. It feels as if a whirlwind were trapped, encased within a jar made of thick glass, difficult to break through. Oh how you could not wait to make this first attempt at contact.

When Albedo returned, you had noticed that his hair had become tousled playfully by the winds outside, and he was none the wiser as to the state of his pale locks. He once again decided to show you his latest creation, as he always did.

“Look at this latest painting, Y/N. It depicts the winds blowing against a field of wildflowers. Yes, this location is on the mountain. I decided to paint this in honor of the first day of the festival, since the wind’s effect on the wildflowers is technically the focus. I… I wish you could have seen it for yourself instead of a painted recreation. But, it can’t be helped. You are a being of Elysian marble, after all. I couldn’t possibly risk the elements damaging you,” he set the painting on his previously empty easel, and poured himself a glass of wine. As he took delicate sips of the red drink, he glanced at you every now and then.

“Tomorrow, I will go outside with Aether and Lumine. We will see if we can find something suitable for you to hold for the rest of the festival. But for now, I must get ready for bed. Good night, my dear Y/N,” he said. And when he rested his head upon the pillow of his bed, you too, prepared for a night of dreams.

~*~

Albedo was in a sea of grass and wildflowers, rippling like waves due to the cool winds. But there was something else. In the center was a circle of cobblestone, and a marble pedestal. Just in front was a plaque that had your name on it, a short description of how you came to be underneath, as well as your creator’s name.

But you were gone. The Elysian figure was missing from their rightful place. Albedo, unaware he was dreaming, quickly became concerned with your whereabouts.

Meanwhile, you walked barefoot among the wildflowers. Yes, walked! Your skin was no longer pale marble, but a lovely and healthy shade of (s/c). Your hair was well kept and (h/c), with the perfect (hair type) locks. You, unfortunately, could not see your eyes, as there was nothing around that could reflect your face back to you. But no matter. Perhaps in another dream a mirror or other reflective surface would be more readily available to you. You excitedly flexed your fingers and toes and arms and legs, and you stuck out your tongue, moved your eyebrows, smiled widely. You did all those things you saw everyone else do and more. You twirled in the dream-wind, spinning on the balls of your feet, and soon enough you jumped and swayed your arms, playing around with the freedom of movement you never had as a marble statue. And all the colors and sounds around you were so pleasant and vibrant and comforting to you. If this is what it meant to live, then surely the Wind God would not fault you for your desire of true life.

Everything was in so much detail you could almost feel the wind and smell the flowers. It was all perfect. Albedo truly did have a vivid and artistic vision, even asleep! But you soon noticed him concerned over your whereabouts, and you noticed your vacant pedestal. So you decided to approach him carefully.

And soon enough, the both of you locked eyes in this wondrous dreamscape Albedo created. Or did you create it? Was it a combination of both? Surely it must have been, or perhaps it didn’t matter. It could have been orchestrated by Barbatos himself for all you care. What mattered was that you both froze at the eye contact.

“…Y/N?” Albedo asked tentatively.

“Indeed. I’m here,” you smiled widely. You decided you liked your voice. Surely you must find a way to use it more when you are granted life.

There was only one problem.

You knew Albedo didn’t recognize you as sentient. He had not reached a point of lucidity in this dreamscape. Even if he did, he likely thought you were a figment of his subconscious reflecting his desires back to him. But he’d understand someday, you were sure of it.

“I want to ask you something. Before you wake,” you said tentatively.

“Of course, what is it?” you could tell Albedo was still somewhat bewildered by your human form in this dream world.

“Is there something beyond friendship?”

Albedo paused for just a second before responding.

“Yes, of course. Love,”

Love. Is this the answer you were looking for? Is this what you felt for him?

“What does it mean… to love?” You asked him. Albedo chuckled and smiled.

“Why don’t we sit down?” You caught a starry glint in his eyes. Not of mischief, but of genuine happiness. The same glint he always had when he showed you his art pieces. But somehow, it was stronger. Was it because he could finally talk to you? You sat down across from him, among the rippling wildflowers.

“Love can have different forms, actually. You can have philia: ‘love’ for your friends. Though that really is known as friendship,”

“Like with Sucrose and Aether and Lumine!” You said excitedly. “I’d like to be friends with them when I am granted life,”

“Right. Then there’s storge: love for your family,” you stopped smiling.

“But…as your Creation…I have no family,” Albedo gently placed a hand on top of yours.

“Family doesn’t have to mean blood related. Sure, most people mean that when they say family, but in your case, you can choose. Whoever you feel can support you and stick by you like a parent with their child, or a sibling with their fellow sibling, or whatever you want to imagine,”

“So, storge is love for someone who guides you through this world with love, right?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, but once you’re granted life, we can talk more about the world,” Albedo promised.

“Is there an example in the real world you can give me?” You asked.

“I suppose I’m like an older brother to Klee, if we’re listing people you already know…” you smiled once again.

“Okay. Is there anything else?”

“Oh there’s more than just two. I’m just getting started,”

“What’s next?”

“There’s agape: the love people have for humanity itself,”

“You can love everyone?”

“Well, not every single individual, no. It really means something more along the lines of compassion or empathy. Where you’d be willing to help or care for others when they need it,”

“Ah, okay, so would that apply to the village?”

“Actually, yes. Mostly,”

“Except they don’t really like you,”

“Hold on, there, they don’t hate me. They just don’t know me that well,”

“…If you say so…” you said. And then you felt it. Your fingers and hands and wrists became stiff, as did your toes and feet and ankles. You looked down at your hands, terrified of the lack of movement. You were slowly turning back into marble and you could feel it. You began to panic. “Why is this happening? I’m dreaming- I can’t- I don’t-”

Albedo grabbed you and held you close, running his fingers through your hair. “Hey, you’re okay, I promise,” he said to you. It crawled up your arms and calves.

“No… I don’t want to be a statue… I want to live!”

“You will be granted life. I will make sure of it,” you felt in go to your upper arms and thighs. There was no way for you to move now.

“Every day… I just want to live like you. I want to leave the mountain and meet people… I want to actually talk to Sucrose… and Aether… and Lumine… and you. I want to meet everyone you all talk about… I want to know what it is you mean when you say you want to create a bond with me…”

It was up to your midsection, creeping too close to your heart for comfort.

“Please don’t cry, Y/N, you’re going to be okay, you’ll be alive soon,” he promised. You couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, and barely choked back the sobs wrecking your throat.

“I need you to listen to me… I can hear you… and I can see you in the real world. I may not be able to speak to you, or move, or show my emotion on my face… but I am sentient… I can think and feel just like you, out there… please believe me…” it soon reached your neck.

“…you’re not dying, Y/N… you’re okay, as long as you haven’t been chipped away, or destroyed…” you saw a glint of lucidity. He now knew this was a dream. But he never confirmed that he believed in your sentience.

“…don’t you believe me…? I may not have a vessel of flesh and blood… but in my mind I’m real… I’m a person… I’m alive in my mind… why won’t you believe me…?” It made its way to your jaw, and now you’d hair was solid and unmoving. Albedo said nothing. He simply put his chin on the top of your head and held you close.

And then your crying stopped. Albedo closed his eyes, and held you, but soon enough, your presence was gone altogether. Your platform and plaque were also gone. And the wildflowers suddenly didn’t look so vibrant or beautiful to Albedo anymore.

Your consciousness returned to the marble vessel in the studio. You were stuck once again. You wish you could cry or scream or throw a fit. But you couldn’t let it out. All you could do was try to bear the emotional pressure that filled you to the brim. You could hear Albedo’s soft breaths behind you. He must still be asleep.

He didn’t believe you, did he?

Was it really a good idea to follow him into his dreams?

Perhaps tomorrow night, you should attempt contact with the Wind God instead.

You could hear Albedo tossing and turning in his sleep behind you.

~*~

The second day arrived, and a new face burst through the studio. A little girl with blonde pigtails and a red dress. She was very excitable, and you almost worried she’d crash into one of your creator’s works.

“Klee, be careful!” Albedo warned her, though his voice still maintained that calm and collected demeanor.

So this is Klee.

“Okay!” She said, ceasing to run, though she still jumped in place a bit. Then she noticed you in the middle of the studio. Of course. “Who is this person?” She asked.

“Y/N, my latest marble sculpture. Aren’t they lovely?”

“They’re very nice looking! I wish they were a real person, then you wouldn’t be so lonely up here,” if you had the ability to laugh, you would have.

“I’m not lonely, Klee. Sucrose and the twins visit me often, and Timaeus stops by sometimes as well,”

Sucrose, who accompanied Klee during her trip to the studio, nodded her head in agreement.

“But when they’re not here and I’m not here you’re alone,” You found it particularly satisfying how Klee essentially voiced your unheard concerns in your stead. You tell him, Klee!

“…Y/N keeps me company…”

“Mr Albedo, Y/N is a statue,” Sucrose pointed out.

“Regardless,” Albedo interrupted, wanting to move on, “we should be getting ready to go down to the village,”

“Yay, festival day!” Klee got all energetic and excited again.

“After today there are still five more days, Klee. So don’t feel like you need to do everything all at once today,” Sucrose reminded her gently.

“Okay!” She said. Albedo then looked up at me as Klee was busy talking to Sucrose.

“Are you truly… sentient? Have I truly created a conscious being?” He asked softly, looking up at me. Of course I couldn’t respond. He took a deep breath and sighed.

“Okay, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to tell you a code word here in our waking world, and if you know the word when you gain true life, I will know for sure that you were right,”

You waited in anticipation for the word he would give you.

“…I’m sorry I can’t wholeheartedly believe in your sentience. I just have no way of proving it,”

So what’s the code word?

“Hmm… let’s see if I can come up with a good code word…” Albedo pondered for a moment before turning to you.

“I’ve got it,” he said with confidence. “Elysian,”

Elysian, huh? I can remember that…

“If you come to life, and you say this word, I will know you are sentient,” Albedo confirms.

“Albedo, are you coming? We’re going out to the town again,” Sucrose called.

He turned to look at Sucrose and Klee.

“Coming,”

He turned back to you.

“Goodbye, Y/N,”

And with that, you were all alone.

So you decided to try and sleep again.

~*~

When you opened your eyes, you were in an empty plane, with nothing but teal surrounding you, and a few cecilia flowers on the ground, creating a path to a short figure. They wore white garments that didn’t cover much of the body. Then again, you only wore a simple white robe. Who were you to judge? You loved the freeing feeling of being able to move once more, and ran over to the figure. They also had large white wings protruding from their back. Their hair was dark with longer teal ends, braided. Their eyes were a similar color.

“Who are you?” You asked them.

“I am Barbatos, God of Wind and Freedom,”

“I am Y/N… a marble creation made by Albedo,”

“Albedo… I am familiar with him and his… reserved tendencies,”

“Barbatos… may I ask a question?”

“Of course, Y/N,” he chuckled.

“What is stronger than friendship?”

“Why, love of course,”

“But what does it mean to love?”

“To love someone is to care for them. To see the inside and outside equally, and to accept their imperfections. But you want to know two types in particular: eros and pragma,”

“What do those mean?”

“Eros is the romantic or physical type of love. To find someone physically attractive, and initiate physical displays of affection. It’s sensual in nature. Pragma is a long term type of affection. The kind where you want to be with someone forever,”

“Is that how I feel about Albedo?”

“I don’t know, is it? Only you can know for sure, Y/N,”

You thought for a moment, almost scared of the epiphany you’d reached. You’d need time to digest it all. But you had one more thing to ask.

“If it isn’t too much to ask, I would like you to grant me freedom of my own,”

“What do you mean, Y/N? Are you unhappy with your life?”

“I want to be like the others. I want to live life as a human. I don’t want to be an unmoving statue for eternity,”

“Hmmm… I shall see what I can do, dear Y/N,”

“Thank you, Barbatos,”

He simply smiled as he played his lyre, and soon enough, you awoke.

~*~

As the days of the festival inched by, Albedo started to wonder what he should do. He had come to the strange conclusion that he had fallen in love with Y/N, his marble creation. But he had no idea how to cope with this latest discovery. So he visited the Temple of Barbatos in a time when the winds were strong and the sun was high.

“Lord Barbatos, hear my prayer,” he said to the towering winged statue as he placed his offering of cecilias. “May you grant me the freedom to find love similar in spirit to Y/N, my magnum opus,”

Barbatos, from the winds above, indeed heard Albedo’s prayer. Though he knew what Albedo truly wanted to say. He wanted Y/N themselves, not a mere facsimile. And with his prior knowledge of Y/N’s desire to have the same freedoms as a living human, he crafted his perfect plan for the two yearning souls.

~*~

When Albedo arrived back in his studio, he knelt at your feet.

“Y/N… you’ve stolen my heart. I cannot lie to myself, or to you. Oh how I wish you were made of warm flesh instead of cold marble,” he rose to step onto the platform, and cupped your cheek. “I fear I shall not be happy with anyone else except you,”

Barbatos, who watched from above, watched in anticipation, and enacted the plan.

Albedo kissed you on your marble lips, and the generous Barbatos granted you your ultimate freedom: humanity.

When Albedo separated from you, he leaped away in shock, and you stepped down from your platform. You looked at your hands, bending your fingers excitedly. You touched your hair, your robes, everything. You smiled.

“I’m alive!”

“Whats the code word?” Albedo asked, his voice nothing more than a wind’s whisper in awe.

You smiled wider.

“Elysian,”

Albedo leaped into your arms.

“So you were conscious the whole time,” he whispered.

“And I love you too,”

“Forever?” He asked.

“Forever,” you nodded.

~dream realized~

#genshin impact #genshin oneshots #genshin albedo #albedo #albedo x reader #oneshot #albedo x you #albedo x y/n #genshin x reader #genshin x y/n #genshin x you

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sailorgreywolf-german · 2 years

Text

Correspondence

This is for the first day of @hwsrarepairweek2022

The theme is Writer/Artist.

Plot: Saxony reunites with a former lover after the first World War and returns some old art.

Characters: Saxony (OC) and Poland

Ship: Saxony/Poland

Word Count: 1.3K

The gallery was bright with the curtains all open, and it was exceptional for seeing the color in all the paintings. Saxony knew he was overly proud of his collection, but he had created many of the pieces himself and been exacting in collecting others. They were by the great masters and he knew how to judge a piece of work.

Perhaps it was self-indulgent to maintain his own expensive collection when there was such significant economic stress in the country. But he had lived through so many changes of time, and he knew that it would pass eventually. Art was eternal, and it would continue whether the economy was blooming or floundering.

Saxony was standing in the gallery looking at a particularly striking seascape. It was not the most technically perfect, but that did not matter. It was off the coast of Gdansk, and the connection to his dear husband was enough to make it one of the more precious pieces in his collection.

He heard the sound of footsteps on the marble. Footsteps he was very much expecting. He turned to see Poland walking across the gallery. He looked well, very well. For a man who had been at the center of a war, he looked remarkably good. He was handsome and fit as ever, as though the war had barely left a mark on him.

Poland only stopped when he was right next to him. He looked at the painting and said, “I know this view.”

Saxony heard the warmth in his voice, like the view gave him nostalgia. Poland said, with the smirk turning the corner of his mouth, “And I think I also know the artist.”

He gave Saxony a knowing glance that made it very clear what he meant. Saxony smiled back as he said, “I am sure that you do.”

There was something about seeing Poland in the warm sunlight that always made his heart race. It was like looking at an angel, as snide and self-centered and flawed as that angel could be. If he had a camera, he would capture the sight so that he could always look at it. But he also found photography to be more vulgar than a painting, so it was better without.

He saw the way that Poland rolled his eyes before he said, “It is not that at all. Your work is all beautiful. I know because you have a signature; I can see how much love goes into your work.”

Apparently oblivious to Saxony staring, Poland said, “I think I am standing right next to him.” Saxony was certainly flattered that his old lover could recognize his art so easily.

He felt a modest warmth in his cheeks as he answered, “I’m sure you can tell because it is not as masterful as the others.”

Saxony found himself shocked that the man was putting it so clearly. He had accepted long ago that not being aware of other’s feelings was one of Poland’s faults. He had no desire to question the newfound awareness.

Instead, he said, “Do you want to see the paintings you came here for?”

He meant the room that was exclusively for the pieces he painted when they were married. He had saved as many of them before the partition as he could and had been safeguarding them for more than a century from any hungry Great Power that may want to steal them.

He had never been entirely sure if it was because of a selfish desire to maintain his own art or a certainty that Poland would be independent again. He would love to say that it was all in the spirit of love, but he was aware of how attached he was to the canvases that he labored on.

Poland gave him a small flirtatious smile and said, “I came to see you.”

It was shockingly sincere and Saxony was not sure what to say back. Though Poland could be easily affectionate, he was not usually so vocal about it. Saxony couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that Poland must want something from him and was slowly easing him into it.

Poland continued, “I didn’t send you letters during the war just because I wanted some paintings back.”

It was true that he had sent letter after letter. The first one had arrived, much to Saxony’s surprise, a week after Russia had entered the war. He glanced at Poland and tried to read his expression. His eyes had the usual shine of cunning, but there was some sincere affection as well. The letters had been the same; they were long accounts of Poland’s ambitions to regain his independence and to have all of his lands back. Those ambitions lay bare had been an act of enormous trust and intimacy.

Saxony had seen the deeply determined man that he had fallen in love with years ago in those words. He said, “I was surprised that you were able to send them at all. Tsarist agents don’t take kindly to sending letters to Germany.”

Poland scoffed with all his usual aristocratic charm. He answered, “Tsarist agents? Fools. You underestimate me, my dear, if you think that I cannot get a letter past them.”

He looked every inch the fox that Saxony knew him to be. He smiled at the thought that none of Russia’s dominion had erased what made Poland so charming.

Poland continued to speak, “My compatriots did tell me not to send letters to an agent of the Kaiser. But they don’t know you like I do. I know you didn’t willingly join Gilbert’s empire.”

With that he touched Saxony’s face softly and said, “You would never.”

Saxony answered, “It was at the tip of a Prussian bayonet. When Dresden fell, I had no choice. Gilbert-“

Poland put a finger to his lips and said, “I know, darling. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I understand compromising to survive.”

Saxony wanted to kiss him so badly, but he decided it was better to stay on topic. If he kissed him, he knew he would not stop, and the paintings would be utterly forgotten. He could see the way that Poland was staring at his lips as he said, “You do still want your paintings, don’t you?”

The other man was still staring fixedly at his lips as he answered, “I want back everything that was once mine.”

Saxony caved and allowed himself to lean down enough to equalize their height difference. Poland did the rest. The touch of his lips was hungry, like he had been starving. Saxony had not imagined how badly he had been missing the feeling. He felt himself whine slightly as Poland ran a hand over his face.

If not for the art, he would have gladly let himself continue. He pulled away and said, “Let me show you what I’ve kept.”

Poland bit his lower lip and nodded. Saxony knew Poland had not wanted to stop, but there was at least one matter he wanted to get sorted.

He led Poland to another room of the gallery. It was full of portraits of Poland and a couple that included Lithuania. Saxony knew how he looked, but he had been caught by a muse and the utter fascination had not let him go. He had even finalized many of his sketches after the partition. It had felt like a labor of love to reproduce the man’s face even while they were separated.

Poland looked at him for a moment and then said, “I want you to paint me again.” Saxony had guessed that Poland wanted something from him, and he was glad that it was just a portrait. He would gladly take the chance to paint the man who was always in his mind.

Poland looked around and whistled, “These have multiplied since I last saw them.”

Saxony answered, “I missed you, so I painted you.”

He asked, “A portrait to celebrate your independence? Perhaps in uniform?” He could already see it in his mind’s eyes, the handsome victorious soldier with a general’s star.

Poland looked so glad to hear it. He said, “I knew you’d understand. That sounds absolutely perfect.”

He put his hand on Saxony’s face again like a reward for understanding him so well. Saxony chuckled and said, “You will have to remember that the first rule of sitting for a portrait is that you can’t touch the painter.”

Poland gave him a smoldering glance and said, “Touch me now and paint me later.”

#hwsrarepairweek22 #hws poland #hws saxony #saxpol

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jjamjamm · 2 years

Text

The Resident Artist

Masterlist | Domestic Oneshots Masterlist

Wordcount: 852

Summary: Part 2 of Forgetting Something. Your mother arrives at the mountain and gets to work on the royal portrait.

“Mom!” You exclaimed, pulling her into a hug the second she was inside the mountain, “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

“How could I miss all this?” She asked, pulling back to take in the mountain, “The outside really doesn’t do it justice.”

“Itching for your sketchbook already?” You teased, “Thorin really is sorry he couldn’t make it.”

“Nonsense, he’s a king.” She said, “So long as he’ll join us for the portrait.”

“You’ll definitely see him before that.” You began, lighting up as you realized what she said, “Wait, you’ve decided to take the job?”

“Of course, I did!” She laughed, “I get to spend time with my favorite girl and work on my art again.”

As your mom snapped back into her art habits, meeting a few snags as she went, she also got used to life in the mountain. She had made some friends already, growing particularly close to her artist friend, Ori.

Time passed as she rediscovered her artistic side, though as she practiced, she would surprise you with sketches of you and your husband. As she worked, her linework improved and she came to capture Thorin’s features beautifully.

“Honey!” she called, catching you while an important conference was getting out. Balin was clearly amused by her as she approached, “Honey, there you are. I know you said you had a big meeting today, but I just got some canvases in and I’d love to try a practice portrait with my paints.”

“By all means.” Balin jumped in, “Consider these two freed up for the day.”

“Thank you Balin.” Thorin nodded, before your mother linked arms with both of you and whisked you away to her studio. She had Thorin take a seat, with you sitting angled so that your legs touched his. She sketched the basics of where you sat before working on some of the details.

Without moving too much, you slid your hand into his, looking over to see his smile. You turned away, worried you’d laugh at him since he was so stiff but still winking and smiling at you.

“You two are cute.” You heard from behind the canvas, and when you looked your mother held her hand above the canvas, watching you two fondly.

When she finished with the both of you, she wouldn’t let you see it as she rushed you out to let her work on it and give you both a break.

A week later, Ori burst through the door to where Thorin was working. You had finished reviewing what you had to for the day, teasing your husband that you were more productive when the noise of the door caught your attention.

“Ori, what’s the matter?” Thorin asked, rising to his feet, worried something had happened to someone.

“Mom’s alright, right?” You asked, resting a hand on Thorin’s forearm out of fear that she may actually be unwell.

“Not at all, she’s fine.” Ori promised, “Come with me, it’s urgent.”

Ori led you through the halls, bubbling with excitement as he held the doorknob, “Are you ready?”

“Yes, Ori.” You assured him, but when he opened the door to reveal your mother standing next to the portrait, “Oh, mom.”

She had captured the love between you two, while maintaining the air of grace and dignity the king and queen had to present. She was nervously awaiting your reactions, but you could see the pride she had in her work.

“It’s beautifully done.” Thorin complimented, linking hands with yours, “We definitely had the right artist for the job.”

Your mother grew bashful at the compliment, but walked you through the piece nonetheless, “I wanted to keep it professional, especially for you two, but when you were together you looked so in love. I knew I just had to paint that.”

You pulled her into an embrace, “Mom it’s perfect.”

Thorin agreed, “I wish my parents would’ve had a portrait like this.”

“I told her it was perfect, I mean just look at the two of you.” Ori gushed, gesturing to the painting, “I was wary of it when she said she wasn’t doing a ‘traditional’ portrait, but this is beautiful.”

“I will admit, it was hard capturing this handsome face.” Your mother cupped Thorin’s jaw.

Thorin chuckled at that, stroking over his beard when she let go, just incase his beard had been mussed up by the contact.

“I think you’ve done a marvelous job.” Thorin praised her, as the two of you decided that even though it was meant to be a practice portrait, it was just what you wanted to have hanging for everyone to see.

As a result of that portrait, your mother found herself swamped with commissions. Since everyone wanted to have their very own portrait, your mother would be staying in the mountain for longer than she planned. She was thrilled at the extra time she would get to spend with her daughter and favorite son-in-law: the king.

#the hobbit #the hobbit x reader #Thorin #ficdump

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gardenofgods · 2 years

Text

“I know it seems like we’re going a little bit far, but just trust me, okay? Oh, and close your eyes also. We’re almost there.”

“It’s okay. I do trust you. I think I’m more curious to see what it is.” Elys replies, closing her eyes as instructed. She feels her mother’s hand rest on her back now, Giratina helping guide Elys given she can’t see at the moment. They crunched through fallen leaves and pine needles, around a quarter of a mile from the house now. It felt kind of silly to be walking through the forest in their costumes like this, but Elys always loved spending any time with Giratina, no matter what they did or how goofy it was.

After a moment, they would stop, Giratina putting her hand on her daughter’s shoulder now. “Alright, we’re here. Open your eyes.” Elys did as she was told, laying her eyes on a small house of sorts. Above the door was a sign, the words ‘Elys’ Art Studio’ burned into a slab of wood.

“No way,” she says, rushing towards the small building, “did you build this?” Elys is already peering into one of the many windows on the studio, seeing countless art supplies inside. There were also pieces of furniture inside, like plush chairs and beanbags, likely for anyone else who wanted to come hang out while Elys worked on her art.

“Well... no, not exactly. Creating things isn’t my talent, but I helped design it and give inputs that I thought you’d like... like all of the windows. It lets you see out into the forest from all sides, so there’s plenty of inspiration you can get.” Giratina opens the door for her, Elys already rushing inside to look at everything.

“It has electricity and internet. So you can work in the dark, or bring in your laptop to look up references online.” Giratina points towards a drawing tablet, clearly top of the line and loaded with all sorts of features and programs. “Your brother got that for you - we figured you might want to try out some... digital art? I think that’s what it’s called. But I also know you like traditional art still, so... there’s tons of supplies, paper, canvases... basically everything I thought you would need. I didn’t touch the stuff in your room so you could have a chance to move it if you wanted.”

Elys was already flipping through some of the sketchbooks on the desk, and eyeing all of the drawing tools lined up neatly along one of the walls. She didn’t expect to get a whole place like this to herself. “I can’t believe this is real.” Elys comments, unsure of what to do with herself. “I don’t even know how I didn’t notice this either.” She turns back towards Giratina, moving to give her a hug.

“Thanks mom. I love it, and I love you.” Giratina, of course, returns the hug, unable to hide the smile on her face at her daughter’s happiness. “Don’t mention it, kid. Happy birthday.”

#🔸 distorted renegade ➤ giratina.#🌸 npc: elys.#🌸 drabble.#gira rn trying not to cry: oh my god. am i actually a good parent :'))#long post #this idea is so off the walls but once i got it into my brain it wouldnt let go

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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 3 years

Text

part i, autonomy in your coherence | c.g

With something like time that runs round with the world — ignoring it’s inhabitants and stealing things that you’d hidden away for safekeeping — you’ve taken up the hobby of art, furiously sketching faces that are six-feet under.

The skill is beautiful and horrific all the same, watching like a person with amnesia as the portraits begin to lose their depth, the freshness, the personality that came free with who you’d chosen to print on the page.

You’ve forgotten your feelings for Carl, because he didn’t feel the same.

You just wished you did a better job at it.

WARNINGS: mentions of death, suicide ideation

this is a continuation of watch you burn away and i recommend you read that, first! this is also part of a series, so here is the masterlist if you need it!

(cross-posted on ao3!)

Your father once told you he had a patient that died from heartbreak.

“Your heart can’t really break, though, right?” You’d said. A doctor for a father and a laboratory technician for a mother made you more than aware of things, seeing through the myths and pretty white lies of figures like Santa and the tooth fairy.

(They had gone through with it anyway, because although their child knew, it was a gateway to normality in such a busy home.)

Your father scratched his chin, unsure how to respond. “My patient had died from a broken heart, though the process wasn’t as simple as it’s term name. A broken heart — the nonliteral meaning — can be the cause and the domino toppling to many things that could lead to death.”

“Like what?” You’d said with little admission into the conversation, having been flicking through a novel you’d picked up a while back (which featured a one eyed pirate and his partner who’d ended up dying in the end — not that you knew, yet, at least.)

“I don’t know, er,” Your father swirled his coffee lightly, gesturing wildly with his free hand, “Mental health issues, for one. Erratic actions, depression, a lost sense of self. Obsession.”

“Huh,” You muttered, looking up at your father for the first time. “A lost sense of self? Really?”

“What is your father teaching you?” Your mother said, stepping into the kitchen with a questioning expression. The conversation ended there, without so much as a thought after.

You wish you pried your father for further answers. What you’d give to get the workaholic of a man to dump his duo psychology medical major thoughts unto you with little care.

The knowledge would be gold in your time of need, when pulling and pushing distance further between you was like venturing through a field of thorns.

(Perhaps you just missed your parents. But that couldn’t be it, right? They’d died and you had lived, their blood on your hands and the gun in your fingers, their glazed over eyes and your own that nearly matched, cold and willing without a drop of emotion.)

But you’d gotten through it for him— without him. Without anyone, quietly harboring scratches and bleeding from the field with little effort.

If someone asked, you would tell them with full and honest confidence that you harboured no more attachments. You were a naive teenager, running through your feet and over yourself for something that was just a crush.

Crushes are — in their whole singularity and purpose — temporary.

They are brief, and momentarily something that causes ripples and waves in your thoughts, just the slightest mention or faint sight makes you detour down a road of sickly sweet dreams and fantasies.

He was first love (like? You didn’t love him, no, it was a crush and it was something for the unattainable and the inappropriate — in which with full truth, he was.) so you poured the honey glazed remembrances and rose coloured lenses over your memories, because he was a first love, and you know that those were cracks in the heart, growing vines and constricting the part that was him — the part that’d always, always be there, without a doubt.

(However much you didn’t want it to be.)

The leaves and the venomous flowers that sprout in decaying grooves come with age, and you are older now.

You bear fresh scars that litter your entire being and wear newly buried bones of people who were once not just that, the dirt still sitting in the crevices of your nails, and you seem to forget their voices with each passing day.

More and more, the faces look like reference art rather than a taken from life picture, which was all telling them to sit still and watching their eyes crinkle at the edges when you show them the result, voices echoing and asking if they could have it.

Everyday, as it has become a peevish habit like biting your nails or obsessively reminding yourself your stove is off, you draw pictures of everyone.

If you are close enough with them, you ask the subject to sit and model for you, analyzing every breath and laugh they take when you crack a joke or engage them in meaningless conversation just to see how the light hits their brows when they raise, the shadows pooling in their aging lines.

Everyday, you wish and hope and even fucking pray that their portraits continue to be something of anxious routine, rather than trying to dump their image out of your head and onto paper so you can see their faces one more time.

His image seems to change with each moment he sits in for you, once a face with two piercing blues, then a patch and eyes that looked at the dusty wooden floor, and later, someone who looks at you straight, something that told you he was a survivor, who bore his battles proudly, the scar on the right of his face sitting ruggedly and bewitchingly.

You draw him, exactly the way you see him, and when you show him the picture, he laughs, and says “You made me look too pretty,” and you shake your head, “It’s exactly the way I see you.”

You do her, too, upon request. When she sits, you draw her almost like it was professional, drawing the curvature of her face with exact precision, intense shading, marking the features she holds. The dip in her nose, the straight of her hair.

(You often forget who you’re drawing in these moments, and when you step away from the canvas you’re hit with whiplash. It’s subconscious, the way you do these things to please him, wanting to see so clearly how his face spreads delicately with delight.)

It takes a little while for you to convince Ron. When you first propose the drawing, he gives you a confused face, before walking off to do shooting practice. He’s gotten better with the gun over the years, and doesn’t respond when you tell him you know why.

(His mother didn’t come out of it alive, and his brother didn’t come back without harm. The younger boy was alive, but would grow up with only his brother by his side and one less limb to account for.)

The second time, he makes a snide comment, albeit with no bite, about how ‘you must be a horrible artist, to ask me of all people to model for you.’

The third time, you’ve dragged him to the small office you makeshifted for the drawings in the garage. He studies every slit of paper you’ve ripped out of your book, the unfinished sketches or yet-to-be painted canvases piling up against the walls. Complete works sit proudly on your wall, displayed for the world to see.

His hands hover over the paints sitting on your desk, charcoal, dirt, sticks, paintbrushes, handmade dyes, wallpaper cut-outs.

“Why?” Ron says curiously.

“‘Why?’ what?” You echo, fiddling with a fork you grabbed from the kitchen, splaying out a thick lather combination of beet dye and cement onto your finger to check the consistency.

“Why do you draw these portraits? I get the others because,” He says, leaving the words “because they’re dead” hanging in the air between you two in mutual and regretful acknowledgement, “But you draw these everyday. You drag Carl and Enid off, or just sit on the benches and draw Maggie and Glenn knee-deep in the dirt.”

You sigh a dreadful breath, wiping the rest of the beet-cement mix onto the page with the pad of your fore-finger. “We’ll forget them one day.”

He looks at you, unblinking. The dead, the gone, and the soon to be long forgotten only existed in your memories, in your words, and when the time came that the world had moved on and stopped, they would cease. Their whole memory relied on the living, nothing about them able to reach and grasp life on their own. Memory was all that was left, and it was all you could do to wash away regret.

“And the rest?”

You bite your tongue hesitantly, your movements rigid, “You see their portraits. Everyday they get less and less coherent. When — when time comes , these drawings will be the only thing getting me by.” You whispered.

The ball had dropped. Coping and grief in it’s big and ugly form, preying on your conscious hungrily, taking shelter in your largest worries. Claws sunken in your flesh, the monster was a thing that felt like it would never go away, because it would loom right alongside death itself, watching and waiting for the moment they’d deemed someones time to have been enough.

(It would never be enough. Enough meant they’d pop in from next door and ask to borrow something, enough meant they’d swipe dirt across your face to make you angry — enough meant they would come in everyday and sit for their portrait once more.)

A creaking on the floorboard caught your attention, eyes watching as Ron’s feet walk to the corner of the room, before hopping onto the wooden seat with little effort.

“I’m not going. I never will. But — do it anyway. I’d… like to see how I look on paper.” He said cheekily, picking up a thin pencil off your desk and handing it out to you.

So you did. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes snowballed into hours in the dim lighting of the garage, asking the blond to turn his body, stretch his head and make different expressions, fulfilling and destroying the little worm of worry sitting in your head.

When you’re done with the charcoal, turning it around for Ron to see and to inspect, he asks, “What about you?”

“And what about me?” You say. His questions never make sense without further discussion, but the boy always has to wait for you to pry and ask him to elaborate.

“You don’t have any drawings of yourself. You’re the artist, the photographer, the one who makes these things that will stay longer than the memories and the words — so what about you?”

It’s rare that Ron delves into his emotions and the things he really means, but when he does, it’s something that stays, for a long while.

“I,” You didn’t have an answer for it. You weren’t one to do a self-portrait, it not being the same as having someone to sit and take from. “I don’t want to.” You finished simply, an ice cold realization coming to reality in you.

“Why?” He says the same words as before, but the words hold a heavy weight.

“I don’t know.”

You knew.

Maybe one day, you’d wished that you’d wash away like seafoam on the beach. You wouldn’t leave a single portrait behind of you, and the memories and the words were left mum behind his lips, because you knew how he got in a loss.

Quiet and unfeeling, it was so selfish of you that you’d counted on how he got in that state to leave you behind, neglecting you like the fruits of your memories you’d never get to bear.

Ron’s gaze bore into you like he knew exactly what you were thinking, telepathically taking in every thought you’d conveyed at your dispense.

“You should.” Is all he says, before stepping off the wooden stool and out the door.

What was wrong with you? You feel so… entirely foolish. Obsolete. Embarrassing.

You walked past the remnants of those who were gone everyday, obsessively creating canvas over canvas of them and the only thing you could think was that you’d wish to position yourself beside them?

This world was catching up to you, and fast, but you’d just have to run faster than it could.

#twd #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes #chandler riggs #angst #the walking dead #twd x reader #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead carl #carl grimes x you

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tfwlawyers · 3 years

Note

Not me singlehandedly going through your entire parent trap au I’m so invested even though like half of the posts are from 2015 💀

THESE THINGS HAPPEN I get such a kick out of knowing this au is still making its rounds though 😭😭

and yk what just because I know I’m never going to do anything else with this, have a 3.5k attempted scramble of fic for this au I tried writing back also in 2015. i was even less of a writer back then than I am now so it’s absolutely terrible but have at thee

“Oh, wait...” Trucy winced and tapped her earring. Apollo’s eyes widened in realization. “Looks like we have one more thing to do tonight - it’ll be super quick, I promise.”

“Oh no,” Apollo said, visibly paling, “there’s no way you’re doing that to me-”

“Then cutting my hair was a total waste,” Trucy huffed, tugging at a newly shorn lock, “because there’s no way I can go to camp with pierced ears and come home without. Come on, Polly, where’s your sense of adventure? It’s just one little pinch!”

“Just one?” he asked hesitantly, eyes now trained on the sharp needle laying on the table.

Trucy paused. “Well... I guess it’s technically two. I really only wear the one earring, but both my ears are pierced.”

Apollo sighed. “Great.”

“Nah, I got this,” Trucy said, grinning toothily. “I went with Aunt Maya when she wanted to get hers pierced, even though she chickened out at the last second.” She picked up the needle and a book of matches from the table, eyes glinting. “I had to get mine repierced because of infection the first time too. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

“Put that apple slice back,” Apollo said, narrowing his eyes at the piece of fruit in Trucy’s hands. “They’re acidic, I don’t need that anywhere near me and oh God you’re really going to shove a piece of metal into my ear, aren’t you-”

“You sure I look okay?” he asked, patting down the skirt. He squinted down at the stark white boots he’d thankfully fit into. “I’m terrified to walk in these, they look like death traps -”

“Which is why we’re practicing,” Trucy said primly, wiping her hands on a gel-stained rag. She still didn’t quite have a grasp on the correct ratio of product to actual hair, but she was much better than when they had started five weeks ago. “Now, walk towards me.”

“One last thing, I guess,” Apollo said, removing his bracelet and handing it to Trucy, watching as she carefully slid it on. He rubbed his now bare wrist absentmindedly, feeling strangely naked without it.

“So... this is really it. We’re really doing this.”

“We’re really doing this,” Trucy confirmed, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. For all her apparent enthusiasm, she looked as nervous as he felt. The studs in her ears reflected the morning light.

“Give papa a hug for me,” he said, smiling weakly.

“Give daddy one for me too,” she said.

They hesitated a moment more before Trucy threw her arms around her brother’s shoulders. Apollo’s arms immediately snaked around her waist, drawing her in tight. They clung to each other, silently willing and praying this was somehow going to all work out - that they wouldn’t just to get to meet their other parent, that they wouldn’t only get a few short weeks with the other father they hadn’t even known had existed, but that they could find some way to reconcile the two, that they wouldn’t have to lose anyone across the wide expanse of the Atlantic ever again.

“You’ve had your ears pierced,” he said almost absently, cradling her head between his hands and gently turning her neck back and forth to better view the studs. He clicked his tongue. Trucy felt her heart sink.

“Do you... hate them?” she asked tentatively.

Edgeworth’s eyes snapped to hers. They were the same soft gray color as the paint Daddy always kept too much of around the house. “On the contrary - I find they suit you incredibly well. Please tell me you didn’t get an infection.”

Her face split into a wide smile.

Apollo thumbed through a stack of canvases that had been shoved into a corner. There was a thin layer of dust of them; if he had to guess, he’d say they hadn’t been disturbed for at least three months - not a particularly long stretch of time, all things considered. They were clearly less polished works, lacking the technical skill and attention to detail that made Phoenix Wright a name to be reckoned with in the art community, but they were still beautiful in their own way. Paintings of vineyards and what looked like London, towering skyscrapers and calm seas and -

His father.

Apollo blinked.

The portrait of Miles Edgeworth drawn in rich oils did not blink back. Nor did the three that followed.

“There were a lot of paintings of the same person in daddy’s works. Some guy with grey hair,” Apollo said, struggling for nonchalance.

Maya’s grip on the mixing bowl faltered. “Is that so,” she said carefully.

“Was he one of daddy’s favorite models or something he just never told me about?”

Maya pursed her lips and continued stirring with a newfound vigor. “You could say that.”

“You’re not Apollo?” he asked, voice thick. “You’re Trucy?”

She smiled weakly. “That would be correct.” One strand of hair fell lank across her forehead - how did I not notice, Apollo hasn’t used nearly that much gel in years - and he absentmindedly tucked it behind her ear. He felt her press into the warmth of his hand, as if she were afraid he might suddenly vanish across the Atlantic again.

“I hope you don’t - I hope you don’t hate me,” she said, voice beginning to waver, “it’s just that Polly and I met at the camp and the whole thing sort of just spilled out. I’ve wanted to see you for so long, and Polly felt exactly the same way about Daddy, so we sort of just - just switched lives and hoped it wouldn’t take you so soon to notice. I really hope you don’t hate me, because I’ve wanted to meet you basically my whole life and I hope that maybe one day you can love me for me and not Polly and -” (this is ALL from movie tho so mix this up)

Edgeworth’s left hand came to cradle the rest of Trucy’s face, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Oh, my dear,” he said, cautiously tugging her forward. She came willingly, all but sprawling across his chest, tucking her head underneath his chin and wrapping her arms around his middle. “I’ve loved you since the day you came to me,” he whispered into her hair, blinking away the beginnings of tears he felt gathering at the corner of his eyes. He felt her tighten her hold and he did the same.

He poured himself a thumbnail of scotch, perfectly content to pretend he didn’t have tickets to a plane back to a state he had vowed never to set foot in again departing in less than four hours. “He was rather handsome,” he found himself admitting, absentmindedly swirling the glass and taking a sip. He paused, staring at nothing and mumbling to himself, “...had the most crooked smile. Always made me weak at the knees.”

“What was that, sir?”

Edgeworth snapped his attention back to the other man; he’d nearly forgotten Gumshoe was even in the room. “Nothing, nothing, never mind, have you seen the tickets?”

Gumshoe shrugged. That was Trucy’s cue.

“Almost ready, papa?” she asked, stepping smoothly into the room from her hiding place behind the thick wooden door. Edgeworth looked just as wild-eyed as she’d been hoping.

“Yes, of course, I’m almost finished packing -”

She didn’t even have to look at his still mostly bare suitcase to know he was lying.

“ -and you did tell your father we were coming, didn’t you?” he finished, placing his drink on a nearby dresser and running his fingers shakily through his hair.

“Absolutely,” Trucy promised.

“Ah,” Edgeworth said, fiddling with his waistcoat buttons. They looked like they’d been polished recently.

“Liar,” Gumshoe leaned down to whisper. She shushed him.

“Might I suggest we continue this little gathering inside,” Maya said, already beginning to shepherd the twins - the twins, she was going to need another vacation just to process the fact that they were together again - into the room. She twisted back around to look at Edgeworth, still shoving Apollo (that was Apollo, right?) forward. “Hi,” she began again, offering a free hand, “you probably don’t remember me -”

“Maya!” he interrupted, smiling warmly and bending to kiss her chastely on the cheek. His breath was sour with vodka and his glasses clunked awkwardly against her face. As he turned and stepped fully into the room, Maya’s cheeks(rp) began to hurt from smiling so fiercely.

“I knew I always liked him,” she said to no one as she closed the door.

This was ridiculous. This resort was full of entirely too many people who favored the same sort of eccentric clothing that man had even fourteen years ago, a disproportionate amount of them with the same slate grey hair. He almost would have written that (awkward*) expression seen from across Dahlia’s shoulder/a hotel lobby as a figment of his overtaxed imagination had it not been so much realer than the stacks of canvases in his studio. Which meant Miles was here, but he’d swept the first level of the hotel twice already after begging Dahlia to take to her room for a bit, the pool area was as depressingly empty as the inside was, and -

There he was.

Across the pool, descending the steps carefully from the inside lounge area and walking on the balls of his feet like he always did when he’d had a bit too much to drink (and why did he still remember that) was, without a doubt, Miles Edgeworth.

Phoenix suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

Edgeworth was halfway down the opposite path before Phoenix realized he should probably do something.

“Excuse me,” he said, shouldering his way through the crowd. It would be rude and more than a little intrusive to just call out his ex-husband’s name in the middle of a resort, right? Perhaps not as rude as nearly shoving the poor bellboy into the shrubbery, but, well, desperate times called for desperate measures.

He didn’t immediately notice the odd assortment of friends and family and a lumbering man in striped green swimming trunks perched on pool chairs as he stepped past, but they certainly noticed him.

“Daddy, are you okay?” Trucy asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said vaguely, refusing to take his eyes off Edgeworth. He was abruptly terrified he might vanish again if he did.

“Nick, watch out -”

“Hey, pal -”

“Daddy -”

With that, Phoenix collided into a passing service boy, arms pinwheeling wildly as he fell directly into the pool behind him.

“Hello Miles,” he said, smiling sheepishly and wringing out his tie. He fought the urge to rub the back of his neck and settled for clenching his hands into tight fists instead. “Or do you people call you Edgeworth now?”

“Miles is - Miles is fine,” Edgeworth said weakly, trying to look anywhere but Phoenix, as if this was a perfectly normal conversation they should be having for the first time after fifteen years. “My father still calls me Miles.”

Something warm coiled in his chest. It felt infinitely more dangerous than it had fifteen years ago.

“You always had a smart mouth,” he murmured, rubbing a swathe of cleaning ointment along the cut on Phoenix’s forehead. Phoenix hissed.

“So glad you remembered,” he bit through gritted teeth.

“Hush.”

Phoenix hmmed but stayed silent for a few more seconds, staring at Edgeworth as he dug back into the first aid kit. Edgeworth tried not to flush under the scrutiny.

Phoenix held his wrist in a loose grip. He should have felt clammy from the pool and the rapidly descending night, but he blazed oddly hot against Edgeworth’s skin.

“Miles, I-”

“Feenie? Who is this?”

“Dollie!” Phoenix said, shooting upright and wincing at the sudden dizziness.

Edgeworth’s burgundy coat was hung carefully over his arm, too thick for the warm California night. The buttons on his waistcoat glinted from a nearby streetlamp’s glow.

Phoenix swallowed.

“Do you have any idea where they’re taking us?” Edgeworth asked, leaning in slightly. Phoenix’s (nose twitched? something about scent memory?) and he refused to let himself acknowledge that Miles’s choice of aftershave hadn’t changed since the day they’d met. He abruptly remembered the taste of cheap wine and overly sweet cake on his tongue, felt the ghost weight of a ring fifteen years gone.

He hastily turned away.

“No idea.”

“Grandfather chipped in a bit -”

“Apollo,” Edgeworth warned.

“Alright, so Grandfather chipped in a lot, whatever, we’re poor teenagers, the point is,” he said, emphasizing the final word by pulling the ship’s impressive doors open with a firm tug, “it’s ours for the night.”

Phoenix whistled shrilly in appreciation, instinctively reaching out to ruffle Apollo’s hair. It was a testament to how important the night was that Apollo merely batted Phoenix’s hand away. “Seriously, dad,” he mumbled. His scowl was clearly forced, however; he felt oddly warm that he was able to finally use that word at all.

“Subtle,” Phoenix remarked.

“Mm,” Edgeworth agreed. “I don’t suppose we should let their efforts, however misguided they may be, go to waste, should we?”

“You just want to know who else they roped into this ridiculous scheme of theirs.”

“Oh, because you don’t.”

“I,” Phoenix said, moving to the chilled champagne propped by the windowsill and popping its cork, “have a perfectly healthy level of curiosity. It does not involve wondering what’s going on in my kid’s head. Trucy is a teenager. That’s terrifying.” He carefully poured the sparkling drink into two glasses and offered one to Edgeworth.

“I find that somewhat difficult to believe,” Edgeworth said, striding forward and taking the proffered glass. He made certain their fingers did not brush. “Thank you.”

They waited until she had hastily bowed out of the room before turning their focus back to each other. “Miles, that’s why we came up with this arrangement in the first place,” Phoenix continued, nonplussed.

“Really?” Edgeworth carefully picked up his glass flute, trying to ignore the tremor he felt running through his hands. “I thought it was because we’d agreed to never see each other again.”

Phoenix’s heart clenched. “Not ‘we’, Miles,” he said slowly, spreading his hands on the tablecloth and feeling like if he missed a step here, he would risk something he couldn’t afford to lose again.

Edgeworth took a shaky draw of wine. “You know,” he said slowly, seemingly forcing himself to meet Phoenix’s eyes, “that part is unclear to me as well.”

“Oh, you don’t remember the day you packed?” Phoenix asked.

“No, I remember that day perfectly. Did I hurt you when I threw that - oh God, what was it -”

“It was Kamisar’s Modern Criminal Procedure. It left a dent in the wall from where it rebounded off my head.”

“Oh,” Edgeworth said, at least having the grace to look properly abashed. “Right. Sorry.”

Phoenix shrugged. “It’s not like I was making it that easy on you.

And....” Edgeworth trailed off, twisting a napkin between his fingers. “You didn’t chase after me.”

Phoenix felt (something) shift. “I didn’t know that you wanted me to.”

“A toast to -”

“Our children,” Edgeworth cut in. He ignored the tightening in his chest at the our.

“Our children,” Phoenix repeated slowly, as if the words didn’t quite match with what his mouth had wanted to say.

“We both got where we actually wanted to go.”

Phoenix’s eyes never wavered from his. “We did,” he said, voice strange.

They toasted again and finished their meal in silence.

“Apollo, what are you doing in those clothes? We’ve got a plane to catch.”

“We’re getting totally ripped off,” maybe-Trucy said. “Daddy said we’d get our camping trip and we want to go.”

“Wait, hang on,” Phoenix interrupted, “what camping trip?”

“The one Aunt Maya and I make you take us on every year before school starts,” almost-definitely-Trucy said. Phoenix began to lift his finger in triumph, sure he’d found his kid -

“ -the one behind the house that runs all the way up to Gourd Lake, remember when you fell in that one year,” I’m-not-too-sure-if-this-one-is-still-in-fact-Apollo finished.

Phoenix’s arm fell listlessly to his side. Edgeworth snorted.

Phoenix shot Edgeworth a look. Thanks for helping, one of these is yours. “This is entirely unfunny, you’re going to make your father miss his flight,” he said, shifting his attention back to the twins. Honestly, he was an Ivy University graduate and Miles was a world renowned defense attorney, how were they being duped by their own kids -

“Apollo -” Edgeworth began.

“Yes?” they both said in unison.

Edgeworth groaned. “They get this from you, I’m sure,” he said.

“It’s not my fault you’ve apparently been raising a devilishly deceptive teenager,” Phoenix quipped back, never taking his eyes off the twins. He could feel the beginnings of a migraine pound at the base of his neck. “He’s probably rubbed off on Trucy.”

The twins grinned.

Phoenix rubbed a hand over his eyes before stooping to their height once again. He stared hard at each of them, looking back and forth between their faces. “This one’s Trucy,” he said slowly, pointing a finger to the sibling in orange. “I’m positive.”

“You know, I hope you’re right, Daddy. You wouldn’t want to send the wrong kid all the way back to Germany - ”

“ - would you?”

How was any of this fair?

“Here’s our proposition. We go back to Daddy’s house, pack our stuff, and the four of us leave on the camping trip.”

“The four of us?” Edgeworth interjected. They ignored him.

“And when you bring us back,” maybe-Trucy-maybe-Apollo continued, “we’ll tell you who’s Trucy and who’s Apollo.”

“Or,” Edgeworth said, carefully stepping around and in front of Phoenix and crossing his arms firmly across his chest, tapping his finger rhythmically against his arm, “new plan. I take one of you back to Germany with me whether you like it or not.”

Two identical sets of eyes twinkled back at him.

(He felt a migraine beginning to pound in his left temple.)

“You can cook now?” Edgeworth asked.

“Oh yeah,” Phoenix said. “I can make pasta. And pasta. Probably more pasta, if you ask really nicely.”

“Hm,” Edgeworth said, eyebrows scrunched in mock thought, “pasta sounds good.”

Phoenix grinned, bumping Edgeworth’s shoulder. He was warm through the cotton. “Pasta it is.”

Edgeworth looked across the seat at Apollo. His glassy eyes reflected the flickering street lamps as the taxi sped down the empty street.

“Apollo, I -” he began, deflating as Apollo turned further away. It’s entirely justified, he thought despondently. I’d hate myself as well.

“Grandfather?” Apollo called, shrugging out of his heavy jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. The house was silent.

“I’ll check the study,” Edgeworth said, tugging his jabot loose. Apollo nodded and headed towards the direction of the kitchen, toeing off his shoes on the way. Pushing open the wide doors that led to the study, Edgeworth saw someone reading a paper at the desk. He cocked his hip against the door and crossed his arms. “Hello, father. We’re back.”

The newspaper lowered. It wasn’t Gregory.

“Hiya, papa,” Trucy said. The corners of her mouth were quirked despite her obvious attempts to reign in her expression. “Did you know the Concord gets you here in half the time?”

Edgeworth slipped against the doorframe. He felt the knob dig into his hip. “I - yes, I’ve heard that.”

(Edgeworth was acutely aware of the doorknob digging into his hip from when he pressed against it. “I - yes, I’ve heard that.”)

Apollo walked into the room, drawn to the sound of voices. When he saw Trucy his face split into a blinding grin. “What are you doing here?”

Trucy neatly folded the newspaper on the desk and clasped her hands in front of her. “It took us about thirty seconds after you left that we decided we didn’t want to lose you two again,” she said, eyes crinkling.

Edgeworth swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. “We?” he said, voice cracking.

“We,” a new voice agreed.

From the corner of his eye, Edgeworth noted Trucy moving to stand by the far wall of the study, giving the vaguest attempt of privacy. It didn’t matter. His eyes were trained on Phoenix, tracking his movement as he crossed the room.

Phoenix peppered his face in light kisses, smiling into the curve of his throat and pressing his lips to the thrumming heartbeat beneath his skin.

They eventually pulled back, desperate for air. Phoenix’s eyes crinkled - crow’s feet, Edgeworth thought wildly through his haze, he’s got crow’s feet now, I haven’t seen him this close up since - and he rested his forehead against Edgeworth’s.

“God, I’m never letting you go again,” he whispered, hands snaking around the other man’s back to pull him even closer.

“You want to toast with this? I’d have thought you might want to upgrade to something with a little more class.”

Phoenix smiled sloppily, pressing a chaste kiss to his temple. “You’re the only one I said I’d drink it with, remember?”

Edgeworth smiled back. He took the proffered bottle warmed by the weather and tugged his husband into a proper kiss, matching rings glinting in the dying sunlight.

#bluefaewren #replies #parent trap au #attempting to write tag

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early20sfailingplenty · 2 years

Note

🎫 Here’s a gush pass! Feel free to gush about whichever f/o you want, however much you want, then send this ask to 3 other selfshippers! 👑 ~~ [Maybe if you want to do that for the Sinclair brothers❤️ Thinking of you and sending you lots of love🥺💜]

SUE OMG THE SINCLAIR BROTHERS😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 I hope you enjoy this ramble!!!! I'm thinking of YOU and sending you love!!🥺🥺🥺💝💝💝

I've let loooooooooose ~ here, so buckle up! I am going OFF!!😤😤😤

Ohhhhh Vincent. Pretty, beautiful Vincent. Vinny baby. I love him. The first Sinclair I fell in love with; I loved him before I knew his name, before I had seen HOW, the one I always go 'home' to, though I do love them all equally. But Vincent... makes me softer. If any of the three are gonna make me cry just by looking at me, it'll be Vincent. I love his brutality - I'm not saying this to be edgy or whatever, I mean I genuinely wholeheartedly looooooooooooove how brutal he is. It's so fucking sexy and I wish he would stomp on me the way he stomps on Wade and Dalton. Lucky fuckers died with Vincent looming over them, his dark hair framing his face, his solo eye bearing into them, drinking in their reactions, their final moments, his blades in his confident hands... he's so fucking beautiful. He really is. I remember the first time I ever watched HOW, I BLUSHED, hid my face in my jumper, cooed, 'awh'd, and grinned ALL AT THE SAME TIME and that was such a visceral reaction to have to someone I'd only just 'met' but loved for weeks prior to watching the film. But anyway, less about me and more about Vincent. I want to talk to him for hours. About his art, his medium, how he manages to do so much in such a short time, how he chooses his 'canvases' (victims), what he loves about his crafts, his hobbies, his relationships with his brothers and Jonesy, his relationship with me... if Vincent's mind is a pool then I want to dive right in to the deep end without acclimating myself to the icy temperatures first. AND WHEN HE GOT UNMASKED, I HAD THE SAME REACTION AS I DID THE FIRST TIME I SAW HIM, BUT I ALSO HAD A CALM SENSE OF "OH, THERE YOU ARE" AND I FELT THAT WAY SO HARD THAT I SAID THOSE WORDS ALOUD. I had to sit with them for a little while after that, film paused and fixed on Vincent's face. His face. I couldn't tell you why Vincent was the one I was and am so drawn to but maybe it's his... his power. He's quiet, he knows what he's doing and he ENJOYS it (and I love watching him fuck people up like yeeeeeees ~ honey go feral!!! Wish I could let loose sometimes, too😩). He clearly loves his brothers, he's Jonesy's Mama, he's passionate and dedicated to his family, Ambrose, his art... I wanna cup his real face in my hands and smother him in kisses until he shoves me off or cries. I wanna brush and braid his hair and then let him do the same for me - you know what that means to me, dear reader. I wanna curl up in his lap when he's working and go to sleep, knowing he has knives in his apron but instead of harming me, he'll protect me and keep me safe. I want to love Vincent and to be loved by him, too. When he shows up on screen, I smile so hard I cry, I can't help it. It's like nothing can touch me negatively when I'm with Vincent. He just makes me feel better and I wanna wear his jumpers after he's worn them so it's like he's always hugging me and surrounding me. I wanna hold his hands and hold his eye with mine and smile at him and call him pretty and beautiful and tell him all these things and good lorrrrrrrrrrd I love him so much.🥺 Many kissies for him.💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

Bo - omgggg ~ Bo!!! Bo my beloved!!! Ugh... Bo beloved. Bo-loved (he would SO murder me but worth it😤). Okay, I’ll stop while I’m ahead. To be honest, Bo TERRIFIED me for weeks after I first watched HOW. It was the raised voices, the snapping, the sudden movements, the predatory approach he has to everything he does… Bo just scared me so badly. It wasn’t until I had multiple in-depth discussions with several people here that I realised something very obvious: Bo is a human. He’s human and he’s hurt and traumatised; a wounded animal with a limb caught in a trap, consuming himself in hopes for escape, and from there I just fell in love. He went from being the one who scares me the most to the one I go to WHEN I’m scared… the duality.😂 He’s… I’m just sat here staring at the blinker key because how could I???? Quantify???? The love I hold for Bo????? It actually feels just a little bit pointless even typing this out because I could have all day to attempt it and yet I would still feel like I haven’t said it enough. I just love Bo. I would never wanna change him, I'd never want him to be anyone other than himself. He's so... god, I can't even. He never had a choice or a chance to be anything other than what we see in canon; he was so utterly destroyed by his early life, as were his brothers, but of course that's no excuse. It's only an explanation. I love his hair, the way it gets messier and more natural as the film goes on, as he loses more and more control. I love his eyes, his accent and the way his voice changes in every scene, as the ruse slips and slides all over the place because he and his brothers underestimated the kids. He's the one I go to when I need tough love. So often I'll open the freezer to look for dinner, and shut it with a, "eh, I'll skip." But then I'll picture that Look on Bo's face - you know the one - and I'll go back to the freezer and put some effort in. I imagine him saying to me, "m'proud o'ya, real proud, yeah" and giving me a smile and it makes me MELT. There's nothing I wouldn't do for a Sinclair to be proud of me, but especially Bo. Especially. Because it would have been truly earned; that would be my pride from Bo. He's the Sinclair it's hardest to get genuine affection from, so if I got Bo to say he was proud of me??? Erika.exe has shut down. I can't listen to his voice without squealing and making a fool of myself - anyone who's watched HOW with me on Discord's voice channels will know this. I wanna cup his face in my hands and tell him it wasn't his fault, he deserved better, and I love him, pretty beautiful man. I feel guilty for being so scared of him those first few weeks, but I try to make up for it with gushes like these. Would that I could tell him to his face, though (irl I'd never be so brave, but we can pretend). I want to love him and to be loved by him, to help him, but also, I genuinely wouldn't want to change any part of him. I love him because he's Bo Sinclair, in all his brutality. He's the one I want to have 3 AM conversations with. I want him to hear all the things I say to myself, repeat them back to me, and then stitch me back together with his own words and what BO sees. I want Bo to love me for me and I want him to show me how to do that for myself, too. In each other, we could learn to love ourselves... that's the kind of journey I want to undertake with Bo. I'm gonna fucking cry.💔

And Lester! asdfghjkl where do I startttttt with sweet roadkill man???? I had trouble reading him at first (Vincent really WAS the one I understood and connected to straight away; of the three, he's my One, though I love them all equally) but slowly, over many watchings, I came to get a good grip on him. He's sweet, though creepy, as blatantly perverted as his brothers (they all show it in different ways; Vinny didn't need to go so hard on those sculpture nips, Bo with his torture dungeon and all the sex toys on the walls, and Lester's blatant ogling of Carly), and he throws red flags in people's faces as hard as his brothers do. But, fuck, I love him. So much. I'm very sensitive to animals so I don't think he and I would ever have a chance together (though realistically speaking, I wouldn't with any of them because I can't drive, I live in the UK and everything and everyone scares me, but you know...😂😂😂), but I like to think he'd appreciate and want to protect me and my sensitivities. I love his voice, his sense of humour which is so dry he's the only one who knows he's joking, the way only he could pull off a dark orange shirt with a dark green cap, the way he has blood and mud all over his face. He's proud of what he does, he works hard, he does his best, he helps his brothers with the town and is just as fucked up as they are... I just wanna curl up in his lap and go to sleep. I want to hug him tightly and tell him I love him, to lick the blood off his face, to help him in all things and to encourage him with anything. To go star-gazing with him, have late conversations and midnight picnics just outside Ambrose. He's just... he's so, so beautiful, and he deserves so much more. The ending is horrific, he loses everything and everyone all in one night, apart from Jonesy, and I want to see him thrive and survive and live his best life. Lester is an absolute sweetheart and he's the Sinclair I'd knock on the bedroom door of when I can't sleep and ask for some cuddles. He's the one I'd let see me cry, the one I'd let hold me on the days I don't want anyone or anything to touch me, even my clothes (thanks, trauma). I want Lester in all his glory, in everything he is. I want to comfort him and help him, cook him dinner and get him to teach me some recipes too (I bet he makes a mean steak). I want to know what it means to be loved by Lester. In all ways - the beautiful, the ugly and every way in between.

I fucking love the Sinclairs, so much. I wish I could hold their hands and say these words to their faces, individually and then all together. They're a beautiful, gorgeous and horrific, sadistic family, and I want in all the way.😭😭😭

#erika sinclair #erika x vincent #<- comfort tags

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your-nanas-house · 3 years

Text

My little artist

pairing: Jeremiah Valeska x artist!(cult member)Reader

warnings: ???

words: 797

summary: Jeremiah wants to decorate his church and asks Reader.

note: ???

....................................................................................

It was a stormy day in Gotham, full of thunder and lightning, which could be heard clearly from Jeremiah's church.

Everything was going on as it did every day:

welcoming and recruiting new followers,

continuing to dig the tunnel under Jeremiah's orders that would reach Wayne Manor,

Jeremiah on his projects monitoring the work of his followers focused on observing everything.

Ecco walked in with new followers who had just passed the test to join the cult approaching his boss, who had his back to her, listening to what she had to say turning, giving a quick glance at the new followers moving his gaze to his secretary, lighting up slightly at the mention of that appointment he had requested for the artistic scope of his church remembering who he had asked to take care of that.

He left the job of supervising the followers to Ecco and made his way to the meeting point.

Jeremiah slowed his steps as he entered the room noticing that Y/n, one of his most devoted followers and for whom he had a preference, was already there waiting as he had told her, sitting quietly looking at the easel in front of her with a hint of a smile as she finished arranging the last few things including the paint and the paint brushes.

As soon as she realised Jeremiah's presence she immediately stood up bowing her head slightly greeting him properly without meeting his gaze, Miah smiled at this, moving towards the young woman making her meet his gaze, taking her chin gently lifting her face looking deep into her eyes "now, you don't need all that, didn't I already tell you, my dear? ", Y/n nodded quickly murmuring an "I'm sorry, Mr. Valeska", Jeremiah smiled wider at the name, purring as the girl continued to try to hold his gaze, noticing just then how close their faces were.

They stayed like that for a few seconds before Y/n broke the silence, blushing and clearing her voice saying all in one breath babbling slightly "I...I brought all the things I need for what you asked me for, I... I finished a first stained glass window, it's just an idea," she stopped talking when Jeremiah silenced her by giggling at the girl's state, moving a strand of hair behind her ear, "sh...honey, remember to breathe...you're adorable when you babble you know, so innocent," he purred again smiling more at the girl's reaction as her eyes widened slightly, becoming even redder than she was before.

Jeremiah moved even closer brushing her lips and then moved away with a malicious smile, sitting quietly on the chair that was placed in front of the easel, casting a glance at Y/n raising an eyebrow without removing that smile from his face "aren't you going to start?" The girl stopped staring at him embarrassed, sitting quickly at the easel "I...I brought more canvases, do you have preferences, Mr. Valeska? " she looked up at Jeremiah who hadn't stopped looking at her "surprise me, my dear" she nodded quickly looking away fixing the canvas at the easel taking the oil paints placing them neatly on the palette examining the brushes then setting all the things aside removing the pencil she had put in her hair starting to sketch Jeremiah on the canvas focused.

It took three weeks to finish the painting and the oil paints had still to dry completely. The girl turned her face towards Jeremiah, who was admiring the painting, waiting for his opinion, he turned and met her gaze "divine, my pet", the girl smiled at this, blushing as she realised the nickname he had used, moving towards the table "I have also brought the window", she made a quick gesture and four followers moved the sheet, pulling up, carefully, the glass pane with mosaic in the background and Jeremiah in the centre also represented as a God.

That too was approved and placed in the window after hanging his painting on a well exposed wall.

As the followers left under Jeremiah's orders he turned to Y/n who was still there, staring at the painting.

A few minutes later the girl turned to him, noticing that there was no one there anymore, apologizing quickly and blushing putting away her painting materials in the wooden case she owned, slowing her movements when she heard Jeremiah's voice, seeing him move closer to her continuing to smile maliciously checking her out "ah, ah, ah, not so fast my darling," Y/n stopped her movements completely trying not to break the eye contact that had been made "I think you've earned a reward, don't you think, my little artist? ".

Jeremiah's malicious grin got bigger as he noticed the girl's blush rising.

#jeremiah valeska x reader #jeremiah x reader #jeremiah valeska #gotham tv #jeremiah valeska imagine #gotham x reader #ecco gotham

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lollytea · 3 years

Note

Hi, I was wondering since it was valentines that you can write a little fluff/romance of louie x ty

If you want to, you don't have to

(It is no longer valentines day. v sorry about that. but anyways I found this in my docs and finished it.)

Louie could appreciate the white noise of rain pelting an overhead surface. It overcame him with an understated peace, brought upon by ten-hour YouTube videos trilling a gentle ambiance as he lay awake in pitch darkness, his shakes beginning to subside.

Fortunately, the bus stop was built with a roof. He had a feeling he would like the rain a lot less if he were to be standing directly under the shower.

He was slouched forward on the bench, numbly mesmerized by relentless droplets that kept puddles rippling. One hand fiddled with the handle of his rucksack, the other being a fidget toy in itself, courtesy of the boy seated next to him.

Messing with Louie’s fingers to keep himself somewhat alert, Ty was clearly still in the process of early morning activation. He had a sharpie haphazardly tucked behind his ear, his eyes were bleary and he didn’t have much to say. The irony of the situation was that they both could have slept in an extra hour if Ty hadn’t read the bus schedule wrong.

Louie figured he should get Ty talking to kick his brain into action.

“So, lemme ask, so I know what I’m getting myself into. Is Cape Suzette crazier than Duckburg?”

“Define crazy.” Ty yawned.

“Is this week with your grandparents gonna be normal or are we gonna get ourselves into some life threatening shenanigans?”

Ty didn’t answer immediately. He scrubbed his eye with the heel of his hand.

“I mean...” He began, uncertain. “If we’re gonna be hangin’ out with grandpa, who knows. I guess the city isn’t that weird, compared to here. ‘Course, there’s air pirates. But y’know the thing about those guys?”

“They’ve got “Air” in the title.”

“On the money there,” Said Ty, shooting him a finger gun. “Me and you are gonna be stayin’ on the ground. Y’know, where stuff is at least sorta normal. So, we should be fine. Why? Ya scared?”

“Ehhh, ‘Scared’ is usually my default feeling about this stuff. But I was thinking more along the lines of just wanting to take it easy. Imagine a boring, uneventful week with lots of naps. For me, that’ll be a treat.”

Ty was nodding along, lacing and unlacing his fingers through Louie’s, as if amazed that they continued to slip so seamlessly into place every time

It was when he made to scratch his ear, that the sharpie dropped into his lap. Ty blinked.

“When did that get there?”

“You put it there while you were still half asleep, genius.”

“Huh.”

Ty picked up the pen, looking to be marveling its very existence, and twirled it between his fingers. He turned his newly awoken enthusiasm on Louie. “Wanna tattoo?”

Louie didn’t think twice. “Nope.”

Ty's grin faltered. It was astonishing how a big, hulking slab of a bear could still pull off such an impressive 'wounded cub' expression.

Louie fully blamed whatever God or mysterious maker decided “Hey, here's my brilliant idea for the final touch on this already sly, sneaky, completely diabolical piece of work. Big, soft brown eyes. I don't think we've given him enough unfair advantages in life. Hey, remember a few months back when I gave that Duck kid a heart melting weakness for brown eyes? Wouldn't it be funny if he ever met this bear kid I'm working on?”

Ty's head tilted to the side, a tiny wrinkle forming between his brows. He hadn't released Louie from under his gaze and Louie was having a difficult time averting his eyes.

“Please...” He murmured and Louie's resistance crumbled.

A few minutes later, Louie had an entire inked sleeve, courtesy of the dorkiest temporary tattoo artist in Duckburg.

The nerve of this guy too....

“Can ya take your hoodie off?” He had asked a moment ago, once Louie's entire forearm was adorned with doodles.

“Oh, I see the angle here. You want me to catch my death?”

“Pssh. Don't be dramatic, Duck.”

“I get cold easily, Cloudkicker.”

Louie had lost both the little squabble and his hoodie and was exposed in just a t-shirt in no time. Ty had promised to warm him up if he caught a chill.

Apparently a body of snowy white feathers was the ideal canvas, Ty had informed him. Louie would be flattered if being a canvas wasn't just a job for entertaining his boyfriend as they waited for the bus.

“Stop moving!”

“It itches!” Louie griped.

“Canvases don't move, y'know.”

“Canvases--”

“Canvases don't talk either.”

Ty emphasized his point by lightly bumping the end of the sharpie against Louie's beak, smile annoyingly bright as ever. Nobody should be this sunshiny when the weather was so bleak.

Louie made a face at him, features wound up in mock disgust. Ty mirrored him.

They fell into a game, back and forth, each making an expression uglier and thus funnier than the next. At some point, weird noises accompanied the faces. Louie didn't quite know when the objective was no longer to spite Ty but to make him laugh.

He also hadn’t realized that he himself was having fun until he heard his own laughter in his ears and begrudgingly accepted that he was no longer under the influence of early morning grumpiness.

Ty was shaking with giggles too, looking at Louie as though he were silver and gold breaking through rain clouds. He glanced down and stared at their linked fingers. His sunny grin faded until all that was left was the shadow of a quiet smile.

Louie was about to break the silence when Ty readjusted his hold, flipping the small, feathery hand palm up and pressed the felt tip of the pen against it.

When he withdrew the sharpie, Louie was blinking down at his hand, his sleepy brain attempting to process the simple, tiny heart in the center of his palm.

Speaking of tiny hearts, he felt like his chest just utterly exploded with them.

This boy....

This goddamn boy with his cute little doodles and his big bright grin on rainy days.

“Canvases don't blush either.” Ty quipped, the corners of his mouth stretched so wide they were twitching.

“You're annoying.” Said Louie, accepting that his lazy smirk had long since broken into a glow. He knew he was probably looking at Ty like the bear pieced his entire universe together and managed every stitch with adoration for the craft.

He might have considered this an affront to his dignity if there had been witnesses. But the world was still asleep and their moment was muted to outsiders by a song of lashing rain.

Remnants of their moment were curtained by the sleeves of his green hoodie, as the bus arrived and he hastily pulled it on.

All that was left was the heart on Louie's palm. But then he curled up his fingers into a loose fist and it was gone.

Well, no. It wasn't gone. Just hidden.

Louie held on to his secret heart for the entire ride to Cape Suzette.

#ty cloudkicker #llewerius

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grav3yardbb92 · 3 years

Text

Dave Navarro x reader imagine

On this very special live episode of Ink Master, two fan favorites will compete head to head. Please join me in welcoming tonight's artist Ryan Ashley and Sarah Miller."

I stand behind the stage, watching my fiancee as he introduced two of my favorite artist, one of which will be painting their next masterpiece on my skin.

" Your canvases for tonight are very knowledgeable in tattoos and have specific designs in mind. You challenge is to adapt to whatever they ask for, you are NOT allowed to change their minds on placement or design."

Dave let out a small chuckle, the audience may not have noticed, but I sure did. And I knew exactly what he was thinking. Neither of them would be able to change my mind. I fight for what I want. I always have.

" Now, let's bring out your canvases" after he speaks, Dave glances in my direction and I walk out to the stage, stopping to stand at his left.

" As fans and former contestants of the show, you should recognize both these lovely ladies" Ryan and Baby both nod, looking a little nervous, realizing who we both are.

Judges wives.

" On my right, Carol Anne, wife of your judge Chris Nunez and to my left, my beautiful wife y/n." He pauses to glance at me, flashing a small smile before continuing. " Not only are these two ladies special to the ink master family, they have something more inspirational in common...they are both cancer survivors." I smile proudly at his statement, and he looks toward Carol to explain her situation and her tattoo.

" At the age of 19 I was diagnosed with skin cancer, I underwent multiple surgeries and skingraphs along my back" when she pauses to wipe her tears, Chris moves from his seat to hold her. Once she collects her feelings, my husband prompts her to continue.

" And what would you like ?"

" A bouquet of colorful flowers with butterflies down my spine" she answers him with a smile.

He takes a moment to catch the artist reactions, before moving to face me.

I take in a deep breath and his smile comforts me more, enticing me to share my story.

" Four years ago, I had a relapse of bone Cancer in my left hip. I also went through multiple surgeries, resulting in a ridgid scar down my side." As I spoke, Dave took hold of my hand, squeezing it to reassure me. " I would like a black and grey, broken heart, stiched up across the scar" I give out the details of my idea, leaving out a small part, which is a surprise for Dave.

Because Carol and I were both familiar with the artist, we were given the choice of whose work we wanted desplayed on our bodies. Carol chose Sarah as her artist.

" Alright now, y/n, I know you're excited to have Ryan as your artist"

" Oh, yeah, I've been a fan of her's since the beginning, and I know she'll give me an excellent peice."

" Okay, artist, you have ten hours to complete your tattoos. Time starts now"

About an hour into the session, Dave steps into the room, checking on Ryan's progress. " How are you doing, doll?" He questions, leaning down to kiss my cheek. " I'm good" I answer simply, before the needle hits a tender spot of scar tissue, causing me to wince slightly. Dave doesn't address my expression, only smiles at me again before glancing back at Ryan.

"Well, carry on, Ryan, and remember that's my life in your hands" he gestures toward me, finishing with a wink before exiting to check on Ryan's competitor.

Within the next few hours oliver and Chris came in to check out the artpeice. They each questioned her on her feelings on the competition and the design. Then Chris questioned me on the special part, that I didn't mention in the beginning. This is live and Dave is not far away, speaking to the audience, so I quickly shush him and ask him to keep my husband away until the end.

Throughout the rest of the time, Ryan and I are keeping casual conversation as I also listen to dave conversing with some of the artist from past seasons. Before I know it, he is addressing the audience and anouncing the final two minutes. Ryan cleans up my hip and helps me up, allowing me to see the peice clearly. " Wow. That's awesome Ryan"

" Thanks girl, I'm so glad I could do that for you"

The time finally came to reveal my new tattoo to the live audience and all of america watching on tv, not to mention the most important veiwer of my body art. I know I love this, I just hope he does too.

Dave sits at the table, with the other two judges, smiling brightly as I lift the cloth of my top, the him of my shorts pulled just low enough to show off the work, but cover my most intimate parts. The audience erupts in an uproar of applause, shouts, and whistles. A smirk stretches across Dave's face, indicating that he noticed the lyrics of one of my favorite songs from his band, that adorned one side of my, now beautifully decorated, scar.

Ryan begins an explanation of her concept of the design I described to her. Then the three men add their opinions on her work, just as they did Sarah's just a few minutes ago.

" Now that both artist have showed off their skills and explained their work, it's time to get to the judging. Now, it wouldn't be too fair for Chris and I to judge our own wives tattoos, so this decision will be made by the audience and tv veiwers, via Twitter."

After that anouncement, the cameras cut to commercial, and to give the luve audience time to vote, the judges went back and forth with their own comments on the artists work.

Thank fuck! he likes it.

3.2.1.

" Welcome back to Ink Master. The home veiwers and live studio audience have placed their votes." I smile at Ryan, nudging her arm to reassure her.

" And the winner of this special Ink Master show down is......"

Me, I'm the winner and so is Carol. We have and will continue to win our fights, and we will look good doing it.

#inkmaster #dave navarro #red hot chili peppers #janes addiction #x reader #band imagines

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mihrsuri · 2 years

Text

I was inspired by @allegoriesinmediasres to write these up - a series of fictional tumblr posts about the episode in which you find out about Norwich in my Tudors OT3 AU verse Tudors TV show. Under a readmore because CSA, abuse.

Me Before Unmasked: an innocent Cromwich shipper, entirely unaware

Me After:…fuck*

Or to explain - I did not in fact know the history tumblr. We didn’t cover it or if it was I do not remember it from school and honestly I started watching the show because of Rupert Graves and I was So Into The Dynamic. So Into because I love messy exes who are still attracted to each other and also questionable morality and James and Rupert have such a spark etc.

And then Unmasked happened.

That is to say, I cannot ship it any more. I’m not shading on people who write AUs or work arounds but I cannot actually ship it now - I’ll be leaving things up because I know how much it sucks when fanworks just disappear but I’m going to tag it as ‘pre-unmasked airing’ I know my fic isn’t history based at all (clearly etc) but I still cannot ship it, knowing what we know now, even fictionally.

*Look I know people are saying that the signs were there, that there were hints of awful from the start but it could also have been, no shade to the actors or the writers who did a brilliant job but it could have also just been toxic relationship not child abuse.

episode reaction the tudors unmasked 3X12 tudors spoilers

akindofrest

I guess I should make some kind of post unmasked statement because there’s been a lot of discourse but it’s not going to be a popular opinion from me. I still ship it. I plan to continue shipping it. And before everyone comes at me or whatever, we are talking about fictional versions of historical figures who have been dead for hundreds of years. It’s not Actual People Who Are Alive. No one is actually hurt by me shipping a Problematic Pairing Of Fictional Versions Of Dead People.

unmasked the tudors cromwich i am not condoning it but this is FICTIONAL people. FICTIONAL. Calm thy tits.

softlysweetdreams

Re unmasked - being pro-shipping does not mean I cannot be revolted at the fact that people are actually saying the words ‘it was a different time and you are homophobic if you say otherwise’ because no, no it was not. Ten was a child in Tudor times - legally and socially. Rape and child abuse was a crime and it is very clearly illustrated as a crime, a crime that haunted Thomas Cromwell all his life.

Don’t try to rationalise it into something *romantic* or *well that’s just the way it was back then* because no, it was not. It was very much not. Even before the laws were reformed in the 1540s/50s it was not.

(If you want more information about the early Tudor era attitudes and views of childhood etc then Childhood & Crime: Crimes Against Children In Early Tudor England 1500-1560 is the academic text - I’d also recommend this paper by Solomon McKenzie and the book about Norwich that Rupert mentioned he read - The Life Of John Norwich by Alissa Su)

merillyidothvibe

That was perhaps the best episode(s) of the season but also some of the hardest to watch at the same time which is a deliberate choice on the part of all involved - you can feel it in your bones along with Thomas.

-I really appreciated that the show never for one minute pulls the ‘Anne and Henry don’t believe or doubt Thomas’ for Drama because every single bit of historical evidence we have says no (I didn’t think they would because Maya has been so involved etc but it’s still a fear).

-You can see all the ways they built it up in previous episodes and things become sickeningly more awful on rewatch (the flinches! That moment with the silks! Norwich’s lines about art and canvases! G-d Rupert Graves is so so terrifyingly monstrously charmingly evil - you don’t ever see Norwich cracking but at the same time you can feel there’s something awful in every part. That moment when he casually bruises Thomas where no one can see! The ‘I am not damaging my investment’ line!

-That Fucking Story About The Branding.

-Thomas Cromwell chooses kindness every single time. Every single time. He absolutely spits defiance at Norwichs world view even as he himself does not think he has worth he knows other people do. He knows the world does. That’s Something.

cloudsandgrim

#fic #lil and her ridiculous aus #ot3: political power trio #tudors ot3 verse reference

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juju-on-that-yeet · 3 years

Text

At My Worst (Chapter 1)

Work Summary: Thanks to his enduring popularity in the fandom, The Author pops back into existence and the egos must suddenly contend with someone they thought was gone forever coming back from the dead. No one is more shocked than Dr. Iplier, who can't help but remember how things used to be - and slowly fall back into bad habits, despite his better judgement.

Warnings: Mild descriptions of past violence/discussions of death (more tags on AO3)

Read on AO3

Enjoy!

Last he knew, Dark was ripping his eyes out.

Then, he was nowhere and nothing.

Now, he suddenly is, where before he wasn’t, and the rush of sensation returning is terrifying and paralyzing. But he still knows who he is, he knows his name and that he’s a figment, and he remembers his life. Rather, his previous life, he suspects.

It doesn’t take long for The Author to get his thoughts back in order and regain the presence of mind to look around. He appeared standing, and somehow didn’t fall, but he doesn’t trust his legs enough to move just yet. He’s surprised by the fact that he can look around, that the eyes he viscerally recalls losing are back in his head, fully functional. The area he’s in looks familiar, reminds him of the forest his cabin sat in, but it becomes apparent that the place is different now. The trees are less wild, the ground more even. He’s standing on a path, perhaps a nature walk or hiking trail. Last he remembers, there were no such trails in his woods.

He finally walks, letting his instincts take him to where his cabin should be, though he already has a feeling it won’t be found. Sure enough, he goes as far as he can down the trail, leaves the path and goes onward, and eventually finds himself at the edge of a neighborhood. Where the cabin used to be is a two-floor house, probably built for a family with kids, and in the surrounding street are even more such houses.

Author doesn’t know how much time has passed, but clearly, it’s been a long time since his cabin stood. He has to wonder what became of his books, his life’s work. Were they saved by the other egos, or are they forever lost?

For a moment, he isn’t sure what to do. But he’s a clever man, so he thinks. If he exists, surely the other egos must be around somewhere, too. All he has to do is find them. But if they aren’t here, then where?

He walks back the way he came, back to the trail, passing the place he appeared in and continuing onward. By the time he makes it to the trail’s beginning, night has fallen, and the parking lot by the trail is empty. He walks past the parking lot, comes to a road, and walks. It’s not so late that no cars are driving, at least; it only takes a few whizzing by his upturned thumb before one decides to stop.

“Where you headed?” asks the driver, an ordinary-looking man with a moustache. Author wonders how entertaining he’d be in a story.

“LA,” Author says, settling into the passenger seat like he belongs. For having not existed at all twelve hours ago, his easy confidence returns quickly.

“Heh, aren’t we all?” the man chuckles, pulling off the roadside to start driving. “Anywhere in particular? I can put it in my GPS.”

“Not really,” Author says, “Just get me to the city and I’ll take it from there.”

The man shrugs, but doesn’t pry. Maybe he wouldn’t be a protagonist, but possibly a character just there to help the protagonist along, as he is now. Then again, his unquestioning nature would make him easy death fodder, too.

On the way to the city, Author tries to look around the car, just to see if he can figure out what day it is. The radio playing tells him the day of the week and the month before long, but he can’t figure out the year. It’s not a terribly long drive to the city (Author remembers how long it took to get to Dr. Iplier’s clinic, and the distance isn’t that different) (Oh, Dr. Iplier, he must be somewhere too, does he still hate Author for what he’s done?), and once he gets there, Author has but one favor to ask.

“Thanks for the ride, but quick question,” he begins as he unbuckles his seatbelt, “Any chance you have a pen and a notebook in your car I can have? Or even just a sheet of paper and something to write with?”

“Uh, sure,” the man answers, confused by the request but not so much that he won’t grant it. He rummages through the glove compartment until he pulls a notebook with some corporate logo, and a pen with the same branding. “Have these, got them from work a long time ago but I don’t need them.”

“Perfect!” Author exclaims, taking the notebook and pen. He flips through the notebook, taking in the sight of blank pages, empty canvases, ready for him to make his own. “Have a good one, man.”

The man nods, rolls up his window, and drives off, leaving Author standing on a random sidewalk just inside Los Angeles. But he’s not bothered, because he finally has his tools. He can do anything or get anywhere. He knows that Dr. Iplier’s clinic has likely gone the way of his own cabin if it’s been too long, but the egos must be somewhere in the city. Author doesn’t know why he feels that way, but he supposes his instincts have the right idea. He’s always been a creature of impulse, so he does exactly what he did when the sun was up and lets his legs carry him where they may.

When he gets hungry, he enters a fast food restaurant and opens his notebook again, this time to write. While in line, he reads the cashier’s nametag and puts pen to paper: When The Author reaches the front of the line and orders, Stella pays for his meal herself. And she does, without skipping a beat. Author stays in the building to eat, and internally snickers at the confused look he sees on Stella’s face when she realizes what she did, seemingly for no reason.

As far as Author can perceive, it hasn’t been very long at all since he last used his power. But his body can tell it’s been a long time, somewhere deep in his mind knows it’s been forever since he picked up a pen and changed reality to suit his needs. A part of him is glad he’s still got it, but how could he ever lose it in the first place?

Back to walking. It’s late at night, but his mind is too active to be tired. It wouldn’t be the first time he was up all night, whether pacing his cabin trying to untangle the next scene of a story, or painting LA red in search of inspiration, or tormenting a character in the woods, or staying up with Dr. Iplier until the sun came up and he had to return to his clinic in the early hours, yawning through a cup of coffee. Thinking of his doctor only makes Author’s mind buzz even more. How long has it been, truly? What must Dr. Iplier be like now? Can they start over again, now that Author’s been reset?

The more Author walks, the more he feels a pull to keep going. It’s as if there’s a GPS unit inside his brain, telling him which way to go. He has no clue where he’ll end up, but he follows anyway, not having anywhere else to go. Besides, perhaps he’s being led to the other egos, maybe some element of himself is being drawn to them. He still knows that he’s a figment, of course, and that being a figment makes him a little more magical than the average human, a little more special, even ignoring his reality-bending powers. Part of him wants to use his writing to get into a locked car and drive to where the magic inside him is leading, but even at this hour, he knows it’d be quicker to walk.

It’s morning by the time Author feels he’s gotten somewhere, nearly a day has passed since he found himself alive again. By now, the streets are once again full of people and cars, and the swelling sounds of conversation and car horns remind him of his trips into the city with Dr. Iplier. His feet finally come to a stop in front of a huge building. It doesn’t look very different from the other corporate skyscrapers standing along the street and stretching into the horizon, but it radiates magic. It’s a beacon, and Author can tell just by looking at it that this is where he’s meant to be, this is the place he’s meant to stay.

He’s startled out of his reverie by someone bumping into him, barking at him to watch it, and moving hurriedly along. Author is disgruntled, but has little time to get angry before yet another person does the same thing. He moves out of the way of traffic to stand under the magical building’s awning, away from the crowd. Amazingly, no one even seems to see him anymore. No one acknowledges him, or even looks at the building Author is standing in front of. Whatever magic it has, humans can’t see it. Perhaps that’s the point, perhaps the building’s magic is keeping it hidden. Author can’t help but be impressed. If he’s right, it must be Dark and Wilford’s doing; no one else would have enough power. Still, keeping a building shrouded constantly would take a lot of energy, and though Dark and Wilford are powerful, they aren’t powerful enough for something as big as this as far as Author remembers.

As if he needed more confirmation that it’s been a long time since he last existed.

Still, he’s made it to where he wants to be, and he’s not about to stop moving forward now. He walks to the door, pushes the double-doors open, and steps inside.

The doors open up into a wide lobby, high-ceilinged. Off to one side is another set of doors, wooden and old-looking. There’s quite a few other, more typical doors along the back wall, a couple labeled that lead to staircases and some without labels that likely lead to other rooms. There’s also an elevator in the center of the wall. The lobby is much bigger than the outside of the building would suggest, and Author has to assume it’s more magic at work. He has no more time to wonder, because one of the unlabeled doors opens.

Out steps another man, with hair swooped low and orange sunglasses and a tank top with the Bing logo on it, of all things. He stops mid-step at the sight of Author, and Author can’t help but pause, too. He doesn’t know who this person is, but he can tell he’s a figment. Not only that, there’s something too familiar in his hair, his face, his height. This figment is another one of Mark’s.

Author already felt like he’d found the right place, but now he knows for sure.

“Woah, how’d you get in here??” asks the figment, walking up to Author as his shock gives way to confusion. “Wait, are you a new ego?”

“You could say that,” Author replies with a shrug.

“Oh, sick!” the figment exclaims, now grinning with excitement. He reaches out to shake Author’s hand, and his grip is stronger than Author expects. “My name’s Bingiplier, but like, everyone calls me Bing. What’s your name, dude?”

“The Author,” Author answers, a little bewildered by Bing’s energy. Granted, he certainly seems like someone Mark would conjure up as a joke, but most of the true joke egos barely lasted a week.

“Oh cool, you write and stuff?” Bing asks. He frowns for a moment. “I gotta admit, though, I’m totally blanking on what video you’re from. I don’t watch all of Mark’s videos, but like, I don’t think anyone was expecting a newbie to show up soon.”

“I do write,” Author replies, though his mind is buzzing with the new information. No one’s expecting him? Then how is he here? “I can reality-bend with writing. I write it, and it happens.”

“Nice!” Bing says, “That’s, like, super-powerful. We haven’t had a real reality-bender show up in ages. Actually, your deal kinda reminds me of The–”

“Hey.”

A monotone voice, deeper than Bing’s, interrupts. Author and Bing both look to see someone else approaching. Author can’t help but grin, because this is an ego he recognizes. Googleplier’s hair is still long and shaggy, he still has his glasses, and even though figments don’t truly age, he looks older somehow, more mature. He’s not glitching the way he did when Author knew him, and his jaw is stronger, his stature more imposing. It takes a moment for Google to see Author past Bing, and it takes a moment more for him to register what he’s seeing. His eyes widen behind his glasses.

“Author? Seriously?” Google asks, incredulous.

“Wait, you know about him? Did I just miss the memo on a new ego coming or something?” Bing whines before glaring at Google. “Are you here for an actual reason, or just to butt into my conversation?”

“Ollie wants you, you won’t answer his pings, and the others are still charging,” Google answers, deadpan. Bing pauses a moment, face screwed up in confusion, before understanding slowly dawns.

“Oh, he did ping me. I was busy talking to the new guy.”

“Ping you?” Author interjects.

“Oh yeah, I’m an android!” Bing says brightly. “So’s Google, but he’s just the old default.”

“Leave already before you get dismantled,” Google growls at Bing, but his eyes don’t leave Author.

“Ugh, fine,” Bing sighs. He flashes Author a peace sign as he walks away. “See ya round, dude!”

Google waits until Bing is out of sight before approaching The Author.

“How are you here?” he asks, more bewildered than Author has ever seen him.

“You tell me,” Author scoffs, “You were always the know-it-all. All I know is that one second I didn’t exist, and the next second I did.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About a day? Popped into the woods where my cabin used to be.” Author stares hard at Google. “How long has it been? Since Dark tore my eyes out?”

Google hesitates for a long moment before responding.

“Six years,” he says.

Author’s jaw drops.

“Six years??” he gasps.

“Six years,” Google repeats. “It’s 2021, now.”

“When did Bing show up?”

“2017. Four years ago.” Google thinks for a moment. “Technically, that makes him older than you.”

Google’s right. Author was only a couple years old when Dark killed him. At this point, he’s been dead longer than he’s been alive.

“Jesus Christ,” Author mutters. He can hardly wrap his head around it.

“Jesus Christ is right,” Google growls, “How the hell did you get here? You died. You faded away.”

“I already told you I don’t know!” Author snaps. Google gives him a look like he doesn’t believe him. “Look, I appeared, I felt the urge to come here, and now here I am. So now what?”

“Now I have to take you to Dark.”

“Yeah, no. I remember how our last interaction went.”

“You have to,” Google sighs, clearly resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Every new ego has to meet with him–”

“I’m not new.”

“–And besides, nothing in this building happens without him knowing. I don’t like dealing with him either, but I’m not about to get in trouble for not telling him about you.”

“No choice, huh?” Author sighs. “Alright, let’s get this over with, I guess.”

Google leads Author to the elevator in silence. He presses the button for the sixth floor – the highest one – as Author thinks.

Six years. He still can’t conceive of it. Even for a normal human that’s a decent chunk of time, but for a figment, it’s like a lifetime. Plenty of figments don’t even make it to six years old…though clearly, Google and Dark have, and Author has to wonder who else has. Six years and six floors of this building means a lot of new people.

“Figures you and Dark stuck around,” Author muses to Google, “The fans always do love the grumpy ones. And now there’s Bing, and that “Ollie” and the “others” you mentioned…”

“That would be Oliver, Chrome, and Plus,” Google says, “The three of them are androids, other Google units, in fact.” That fact makes Author bark out a laugh.

“You got clones, now??” he snorts, “That’s awesome. Think I could borrow one for a story?”

“No.” Google’s response is instant, paired with eyes glowing icy blue.

“Alright, alright,” Author sighs, “Six years and you still haven’t gotten a sense of humor.” He pauses for a moment. “How many of us are there now?”

Last Author recalls, there were eight, including himself. Google barely needs a moment to mentally calculate it before he has an answer.

“Twenty-one,” Google answers.

“Twenty-one??” Author exclaims, jaw dropping.

“Twenty-two, now, with you. There’d be even more, but some have faded away.”

“Is anyone I knew gone now?”

“No, the oldest ones are still here.”

That means Dr. Iplier is still here. Author can’t help but feel relieved. He’s not sure what he’d do if he found out Dr. Iplier had faded away sometime during his absence. He’s so cheered by the thought that he forgets why he’s in the elevator until it finally stops at the top floor.

Right. Dark’s still here, too.

“I’ve already sent Dark an internal ping,” Google says as he leads Author out of the elevator. “He’s expecting you now.”

“Snitch,” Author mutters under his breath. Google rolls his eyes, but he chooses not to respond verbally.

The pair pass several doors as they walk, and Author wonders how many of them lead into the bedrooms of egos he hasn’t met. He wonders what Dark is like now. After all, Google seems to have barely changed aside from no longer glitching constantly. But he remembers how the people outside couldn’t even see this building, remembers the sheer size of the place, and knows that Dark must be much more powerful than he used to be to be able to pull it off. Too soon, Google and Author arrive at a door that’s much nicer than the others so far. Google knocks, something that the Google Author remembers would hardly ever do.

“Come in,” says a deep voice from inside. An older voice, but the same one that Author remembers well.

Google opens the door, and The Author steps inside.

Dark is not like Google. He doesn’t look the same as he did before. His hair is longer, swooped to the side. His eyes are still deep brown, nearly black. He’s wearing a suit and tie now, his skin is gray. Most striking is his aura. Where it used to be minimal, only wisps of smoke that showed themselves occasionally, it is now a swarming mass of writhing black tendrils surrounding him. It shakes even as Dark stares evenly at Author from behind a large wooden desk. Dark’s expression is cool and calm, and his hands are folded on his desk, but there’s tension in his shoulders and a hardness in his eyes.

“You’re dismissed, Google,” Dark says to Google, “But do not mention this to anyone.”

Author glances at Google, who nods and leaves, closing the door behind him, leaving Author and Dark alone.

“So,” Author says breezily, pushing down and hiding his discomfort. He’s not scared, but he does feel awkward, and a little annoyed to have to see Dark at all. “Nice place you got here.” He flops into a chair in front of Dark’s desk. “I hear there’s twenty-two of us now, crazy how time flies.”

“Exactly how did you come back?” Dark asks, without a hint of humor.

“I told Google like three times, I don’t know!” Author says, his annoyance getting the better of him. He takes a breath and calms before continuing. “I don’t know. I woke up in a forest, the same one where my cabin is. Or used to be, it’s just houses there now. I hitched a ride to the city and walked until I got here. It’s been about a day since I woke up.”

“I see.” Dark sighs, leaning back slightly in his seat. “This has never happened before.”

“I’ve gathered that.” Author frowns at Dark. “I might as well address the elephant in the room. Are you gonna pull out my eyes again or what?”

“No,” Dark answers, voice tight and aura swarming faster, “I will not. Things have changed since then, that is no longer how I deal with unruliness.”

“Is that what you call it?” Author mutters, “‘Dealing with unruliness?’ Does that make you feel justified for killing me?”

“You’ve been gone for six years,” Dark snaps, “Don’t pretend you know anything!” All at once, Dark’s form cracks, a shadow of himself turns away to scream in frustration. The scream is cut short, the whole thing lasts only a moment. Despite himself, Author nearly jumps out of his skin.

“What the hell was that!?” he shouts.

Dark settles himself, chuckling quietly. His aura calms somewhat, but it continues to churn the air.

“As I said, things have changed.” Dark rolls his neck, it cracks like the vertebrae are clacking against each other. “To put it in a way you would understand, my story has been rewritten in recent years. There’s a lot for you to catch up on.”

“I’ll pass,” Author retorts, “I’m not about to stick around here with you.”

“I’m afraid you have no choice.” Dark’s eyes go steely. “You may have guessed from the large number of us that Mark is much more popular than he used to be, which means we need to be more careful. You recall my desire to unite us all in a single building.”

“The building I died in, right?” Author snaps.

“Yes,” Dark replies coldly, undeterred by Author’s attempt to fluster him. “This building, in fact. The more popular Mark gets, the more recognizable we become, and the more vital it is for us to avoid attention. This building is imbued with magic to prevent humans from seeing or entering, and there are rules about the ways in which we may interact with them.”

“If you’re gonna tell me I can’t write my stories–”

“You can write as many stories as you like,” Dark says smoothly, “And you may use humans as…protagonists, if you so choose. But your stories may not be published, and you may not develop close relationships with humans.”

“And if I break the rules?”

“You get to visit my void.” Dark grins. “A place made of pitch, so dark you cannot see your hand in front of your face, cold and just quiet enough to hear its voices. It only takes a few hours to break someone weak. For someone strong, maybe a week.” He tilts his head. “I suspect a day or two in there, with no one to control and nothing to do, will drive you mad. At the end of a week you’d be tearing off your own skin just to feel.”

Author wants to scoff at the dramatics, but there’s something in Dark’s eyes and posture that makes him believe it.

“What if I leave anyway?” Author asks, “Strike out far away and find my own place?”

“Then you’ll have all twenty-one of us looking for you, whether actively searching or keeping an eye out. Once you’re found, the punishment would be immense. We’ve had egos run off before. The longest one ever stayed lost was eighteen days. Perhaps you could last longer, but your punishment would be that much longer as well. And if my void does not deter you, there’s a holding cell in the basement that’s designed to cancel out magic and keep figments contained indefinitely, where you can stay until you come to your senses.”

Author glowers, considering. It’s clear that he has no choice but to go along with the arrangement, but he’s too stubborn to give in yet.

“Any other rules I should know about?” he asks derisively, “Is there a dress code? Do I have to ask you if I want dessert after dinner?”

Dark glares at Author for a long moment.

“My, not even death could change you.”

He lets his own words hang in the air before continuing.

“The other main rule here is that you cannot harm another ego. Self-defense or defense of another ego won’t be punished, but aggression and attacks will.”

“That’s rich, coming from the one who tore my eyes out,” Author growls.

“You can watch your attitude,” Dark snaps, voice dangerous and aura waving wildly. “I’m still the leader, and you still need to respect me. You may not have changed, but I have, and I am much stronger than you can imagine. If you continue to draw my ire, you will find out just how much stronger I’ve become.”

Dark wasn’t nearly this imposing back in Author’s heyday. He didn’t have this maturity, this intimidating tone of voice, this simmering rage that only shows itself in bursts. He used to be pettier, whiny, more mean than cruel. There was a reason Author didn’t fear him, and it was that he could tell, clear as day, that Dark was threatened by him. But the Dark that sits before Author now is not threatened. He’s angry, but not defensive. He means every word he’s said to Author, and Author knows that Dark will make him regret pushing his buttons if he persists.

So he stays silent for a long moment, and Dark’s aura gradually calms, and his expression smooths back out.

“Good, we understand each other,” he says, “Now, you need to meet the other egos. I’ll call a meeting for the others.”

“Google said the others I was around with are still here,” Author says, remembering, “Are they coming, too?”

“Yes,” Dark says, “But their meeting alerts will have…context. They’ll know it’s you before they arrive.” He sighs then, raises a hand to rub his forehead. “Speaking of context, there’s something you should know before this meeting occurs.”

“What’s that?” Author asks, curious. Perhaps a little nervous, given Dark’s behavior, but he’d never admit it.

“After you died, a new ego appeared, one who looked somewhat like you, who had no eyes. It came about that he had all your memories, but he wasn’t you, isn’t you. His name is The Host, and as far as we all knew…you became him, you were reborn as him.”

Author thought he was done being surprised, being shocked. But this revelation is the worst of all. He became someone else? There’s an ego here that has his same history, and the six years he missed on top of that? A clone like Google has, but one that has a different life, has a life at all. Someone who’s The Author, but isn’t. Someone The Author was supposed to be. The one who came from the ashes of Author’s death. While he spent six years in darkness, this other him, this Host, was living the life that should’ve been his. It only gets worse the more Dark explains. Author hardly perceives Dark’s words, but he perceives their meaning, especially when another name is mentioned. The shock builds and deepens.

It’s not enough that Host now has Author’s body, his memories, his life.

He has his love, too.

His doctor.

Dark explains that Dr. Iplier and Host have been in a relationship for years, and something inside Author crumbles.

This is the man he was so excited to see again, the man he’d hoped he could start over with once he found him. He’d dreamed of that on his long walk to the building, dreamed of Dr. Iplier lighting up at the sight of him, dreamed of them both apologizing to each other for how they ended things, dreamed of them reconnecting, rekindling, loving each other all over again. But the dream shatters further the more Dark speaks, and the more Dark speaks, the more Author’s vision tunnels and the louder the blood rushes in his ears. Dr. Iplier didn’t wait for him. He moved on. He moved on with this facsimile of Author, and did so a long time ago.

Author doesn’t hear what else Dark says, he’s too busy thinking. But no matter how much he thinks the situation over, he can’t accept it. He won’t allow this ache in his chest, this burning in the back of his eyes. Dr. Iplier may have moved on, but some part of him must still love Author, if he moved on with the newer version of him. The way they loved each other was like nothing else, even six years later there’s no way Dr. Iplier has forgotten Author, has forgotten what their love felt like, has stopped missing it. Author will find his way back to him somehow, fix their relationship and fix his own breaking heart.

There has to be a reason Author came back to life. There’s no possible way him and Dr. Iplier could end like this. And Author may be a lot of things, but he’s not a quitter.

He can’t give up on Dr. Iplier, his heart won’t let him.

#markiplier fanfiction #the author #markiplier the author #dr. iplier #darkiplier #my writing #fanfic #markiplier #at my worst #how many chapters will there be? who knows! not me XD #i'm hype for this tho owo #poor author; getting blueballed by himself from the future/present :/

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