#infami 🔪 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rollingsins · 1 year

Text

all hers, part xiii

summary: You deserve everything Ghostface is giving you, you know it deep down. Why should you live while the others died?

warnings: (+18), Tara is Ghostface, mention of murder. Ghost face spoilers for Scream 1-4.

word count: 4.5k

a/n: 👀 smashed through my writers block, let me know your 🔪🔪 theories.

You haven’t left the car - or Tara’s lap - by the time the police arrive.

Sam greets them, watches as they make their way through the house, casing for strewn pieces of clothing, discarded weapons, footprints, handprints, anything.

But there’s nothing to find. Ghostface is long gone.

By the time they’re done, your anxiety is at an all time high, not even Tara’s arms around you enough to quell the fear inside you. Your chest thumps uncomfortably. Your palms are shaky, sweaty. Flashes of the mask, the knife raised against you.

Is this how Tara’s victims felt in the end? Is this how Wes felt?

The only difference between you and Wes is you’d survived. And he’d died innocent while you survived, guilty. It isn’t fair. You deserve everything Ghostface is giving you, you know it deep down. Your will to live is selfish, almost.

Why should you live while the others died?

The answer is pressed to your side. She’s beautiful, as ever, squeezing your hand so tight the tips of your fingers turn white. Her knee bounces steadily, an indication of her nerves. Her dark eyes are wild, flitting from you to the house to the officers on the lawn. Scanning, as if Ghostface will jump out at any moment. God help him if he does, when she’s like this. White-faced, quietly stewing in her own anger and anxiety. You can almost hear the cogs turning in her brain as she runs wild with the possibilities of who it could be.

The police have questions, what feels like millions of them. The most pressing is why. Why would Ghostface target you specifically? Of course, you know why.

You don’t mention the other victims. You don’t mention Tara’s Ghostface mask hidden in a lockbox in her closet. You don’t mention the motive Ghostface had all but spit into your face.

Someone who thinks you should pay.

Tara, a little on edge, tires very quickly of their incessant questions.

“There’s never a why, do you even live in this town?” Tara barks, voice hot with annoyance, “They’re random. They’ve always been random.”

“That’s not exactly true.” It’s Sheriff Hicks. She climbs out of her squad car, slips her gun into her holster as she stands.

Your chest tightens. She makes you so nervous. You’re so scared one of these days you’ll slip, blurt out the truth before it’s too late.

“Billy Loomis blamed Sidney for his mother abandoning him. Nancy Loomis blamed her for killing her son. Roman Bridger and Jill Roberts wanted infamy.” She surveys you, hand resting gently on her holstered pistol, “The question is: what does this Ghostface want?”

The back of your neck prickles uncomfortably under her gaze. You sink deeper into Tara, wear her almost like a shield.

“Forget his motive, what are you going to do about catching him?” Tara says, arm tight around your waist, “I want a squad car here 24/7. I want officers escorting YN to school. I want a walkie talkie and a phone number so we can have direct contact with them whenever we need-”

The thought of stepping foot into that house sends shockwaves of panic through your body. You grip her waist, tight, trying to draw her attention.

“I can’t go back in there.” You say, voice tight, “Tara, I can’t stay here tonight. I can’t sleep here.”

If Tara’s surprised by this, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she wraps her arms tight around your shoulder and presses a long kiss to your forehead.

“Okay baby.” She says, “We’ll stay with your parents, how about that?”

“I can post a squad car.” Sheriff Hicks interjects, “Two officers. I’ll give you their cell numbers. I’m afraid we’re all out of walkie-talkies.”

She looks at you, for the first time in a long time there’s sympathy in her eyes, “You’re going to be okay.” She promises, “My officers are the very best. But you call me if you remember anything. Anything at all that could help.”

The moment is interrupted by the sheen of blinding headlights. You avert your gaze, blink away the stars in your eyes at the sudden intrusion.

It’s a familiar truck, the heavy slam of the door signals the driver has exited the vehicle. You squint, make out Richie’s figure as he rushes towards you.

“Hey. I came here as fast as I could. Where’s Sam, is she okay?” He’s out of breath, a little panicked as he scans the driveway for his girlfriend.

“Sam’s fine.” Tara says, her shoulders tight, “YN was attacked.”

Richie blinks.

“By Ghostface? Are you alright?”

“Of course she’s not alright.” Snaps Tara, “Some psycho just attacked her at knifepoint.”

She pauses, as if something has just occurred to her. Suspicion brews in her eyes.

“Where have you been?”

Richie draws his attention back to her. The lights of the police sirens flash across his face.

“I was meeting some friends at a bar,” Richie says, “Is Sam in the house?”

“What friends? You got an alibi?” Tara asks, her eyebrows drawn tight.

“You’re not serious?” Richie stares back at her.

The Sheriff tilts her head, suddenly interested.

“Do you?” She reiterates, “Tara and Sam are accounted for. We’ll need to corroborate with any potential witnesses who can place you at the bar.”

Richie opens his mouth in disbelief. He looks between the three of you, waiting for the punchline.

“I didn’t make it there. Sam called-”

The Sheriff hums, scribbles something down on her notepad.

“So no alibi.” Tara scoffs, “You’ve been here two weeks and the one night you go out, YN gets attacked.”

“This is ridiculous.” Richie splutters, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, “Tara. Why would I attack YN? I have no motive.”

But Tara’s mind is made up, she crosses her arms, glares at the Sheriff.

“Are you going to arrest him or what?”

“Tara. I can’t just arrest people.” The Sheriff says, closing her notebook. She looks at Richie, “I suggest you outline to one of my officers the exact route you took to and from the bar. If we can place you on CCTV we can rule you out as a suspect.”

“You can’t arrest people?” Tara challenges. There’s that fire, the one that’s been brewing for the last hour, finally emerging, “What kind of a Sheriff are you?”

“Tara.” You hiss. You turn back to the Sheriff, eyes wide, “I am so sorry, Sheriff, she’s just scared-”

“Scared?” Tara says, sounding outraged. Her dark eyes burn, “I’m furious. I have a prime suspect for you and you won’t arrest him-”

“Just because you don’t like me doesn’t mean I put on a Ghostface mask and tried to kill your girlfriend.” Richie argues, loudly.

“What’s going on?” It’s Sam, finally emerging from the house. Richie and Tara both turn to face her, matching expressions of outrage on their faces.

“What’s going on? Your creep of a boyfriend just tried to murder my girlfriend.” Tara snarls.

Richie throws his hands up.

“Why? Why would I want to kill her?”

“I don’t know.” Tara says, “You tell me. Because you’re twisted?”

“You know what,” Richie says, his nostrils flaring. He points his finger at her, “It definitely wasn’t me, because if I was going to murder anyone, it would be you-”

“Stop it!” Sam yells, “Both of you. God. You’re like fucking children.”

They both fall silent. Glare at each other. Sam storms off, presumably back into the house. With a final dirty look at Tara, Richie turns and follows her inside.

You take Tara’s hand, rub your fingers over the back of her hand reassuringly. Richie is a little strange, granted, but you seriously doubt he’d try and kill you. You’ll talk her down later tonight, you figure. Right now; you want out of here.

“Do you have any more questions, Sheriff?” You ask, quietly hoping the answer is no, “I need to call my Dad.”

She surveys you for a moment.

“I think we’re all good here.” She says, finally, “Call me if you remember anything.”

Your Dad is freaked, rightfully so.

In a panic, he demands you come home. He seems to be so frightened he doesn’t even protest when you tell him Tara’s coming too.

She’s still glaring at Richie as she pulls out of the driveway, leaving the slew of officers and sirens behind as she makes her way to your parents home. One hand on the wheel, the other gripping your thigh, tight.

“It’s him, I know it’s him.” She stews, hands tightening on the wheel, “How fucking suspicious can he be. Meeting with some friends, my ass.”

“We don’t know that, babe.” You say, squeezing her hand, “He’s kind of right - what’s his motive? As far as I know we haven’t done anything to offend him.”

“I’ve been on his ass since he got here.” Tara says, “Maybe he’s sick of me. Of us.”

“Or maybe it’s someone else.” You say, staring out the window, “Someone related to the others. Sadie has a brother, I think. One of Aaron’s friends? One of Chase’s?”

There’s a long list of people who would want vengeance on the two of you. It hurts your head to think about.

“Cool it on Richie, please babe. If he is Ghostface, the last thing we need is him getting spooked.”

“I need to get him away from Sam,” She says, chewing her bottom lip, “If he hurts her-”

“We don’t know it’s him, babe.” You say, pressing your hand over Tara’s, rub the back of her knuckles, “Besides, if he is Ghostface, he’s not going to kill her. His beef is with us.”

It doesn’t calm her down. Her knee is still bouncing when she pulls into your parents driveway, grip around thigh so tight it’s starting to hurt. She shuts off the car and presses a kiss to the back of your hand.

“I’ll figure it out, don’t worry baby.” She says, voice heavy. Despite the comfort she’s trying to give you, her eyes betray her. Brown, wide, swimming with worry, “No one’s going to hurt you, I promise. I’m not taking my eyes off you. You’re not going anywhere alone, I mean it. You’ll have to get used to me watching you pee.”

You half think she’s kidding, until she follows you upstairs and into the bathroom.

“Absolutely not.” You say, pressing your hand to her chest and pressing a kiss to her lips, “Wait here.”

“But-”

“Ghostface isn’t hiding in the bathtub, babe.” You tell her, and close the door behind you.

You pause. Check the bathtub just in case.

Your parents make a fuss, like you knew they would. Your mom rushes off to comfort cook, something she does best, and your Dad gets his power tools out, triple checks all the windows and doors for any shaky locks.

If he minds Tara staying the night, he doesn’t say it. Instead, he hovers at the bedroom door, eyeing her up as he reiterates his safety mechanisms.

“Keep the door locked,” He says, voice gruff as you climb onto the bed, next to Tara, “At all times. Front and back. I have a security specialist coming in tomorrow to install some cameras and alarms.”

“Thanks Dad.” You say. It takes the weight of your chest, just a little.

“I’ve got my shotgun loaded and ready to go,” He continues, “If you hear anything- anything at all - just call out and I’ll be here in a moment.”

“Do you have a spare?” Tara asks suddenly, “Gun, that is? I’ll be a little closer, is all.”

He watches her for a moment. That expression is on his face - the one he always wears when he sees Tara. Mild distaste, like he’s just taken a bite of something that’s gone bad. Briefly, you worry he’s going to try to kick her out.

“I can’t give a gun to a kid.” He says, voice curt. Her brows furrow.

“This kid might be the only person who’s able to protect her in time.” Tara challenges, “You’re all the way across the hall. What if he covers her mouth so she can’t cry out?”

“Babe.” You warn, “It’s fine. We’ll be fine.”

Your Dad shifts his weight, staring Tara down. You know he doesn’t like her, it’s written all over his face. But if she goes, so do you. And he understands that, you know he does.

“I have a handgun.” He says, finally. He looks at you, “I’ll give it to YN. Remember those lessons down at the cabin? You’re confident you know how to use it?”

You nod.

When you were younger, your Dad had taken you shooting, taught you how to fire a gun, how to load it - and most importantly, how not to hurt yourself doing it. The thought of drawing out a gun to protect Tara from Ghostface’s knife makes you feel only the slightest bit better.

He looks back to Tara. The distaste is back in his expression.

“It’s for her. You’re not to touch it. Understand?”

You can feel Tara fizzling next to you. Her fingers curl, and before she can give your Dad the dressing down you know she so desperately wants to give, you jump in.

“She understands.” You say quickly, “Thanks Dad.”

“I don’t know what his problem is,” Tara complains, stormy-eyed, when he finally leaves, “I’m just trying to protect you.”

“He’s just being a Dad,” You say, pulling her into your arms and quelling her mood with a kiss, “Don’t take it personally.”

Dinner’s awkward.

Your head is a mess, heart pounding out of your chest every time you think of the looming threat. Tara grips your thigh under the table protectively, as if she’s afraid Ghostface might launch in any second and send the roast laid out on the table flying.

Your Dad glares at Tara. Tara glares back at him. Your mom stares at you, worry in her eyes.

You stare down at your plate, your appetite somewhat dissipated.

“I just don’t understand.” Your mom says for what seems like the hundredth time this evening, “What does he want with you?”

“What does he want with any of them?” You mumble, “He’s a psycho, that’s all.”

You push a rogue potato around your plate, starting to regret the choice to come home. At least Sam’s questions were easily combatted by one of Tara’s swiftly timed jabs. You could hardly expect Tara to snap at your Mom.

“Let’s not talk about it.” Your Dad says, to your relief, “You’re freaking her out.”

“I’m just saying,” Says your Mom, chewing her lip, “Are we sure he was there… for you?”

She lets it hang. The scrape of cutlery against plates stops momentarily, as the entire table takes in the implication. You frown, look up at your Mom.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” She says, hurriedly. You don’t miss the glance she sneaks at Tara.

“Seriously?” You say, “You’re blaming Tara?”

“I’m not blaming anyone.” She says quickly, “I’m just saying-”

“Well, don’t.” You snap, standing up, “God. Tell me now if you don’t want us here and we’ll go.”

“Of course we want you here.” Your Mom says, “YN, sit down, please sweetheart-”

“I’m not hungry.” You say, scooting yourself away from the table, “Thanks anyway. Come on, babe, let’s go to bed.”

They don’t protest as you lead Tara upstairs and into your bedroom. You slip your pants off, curl up into bed, take Tara in your arms.

“Your Mom’s right, you know.” She says, after a quiet moment, “None of this would be happening if it weren’t for me.”

“Don’t say that.” You murmur. You press a kiss to her head, wrap your arms a little tighter around her.

“It’s true.”

It is true. But she doesn’t need to think that, not right now. You curl your fingers through her dark hair, scratch her scalp affectionately.

“You-” You hesitate, picking your words carefully, “You’ve made some mistakes. But that’s in the past now. You turned over a new leaf, remember?”

You remember it vividly. The night after Amber’s death, making her swear black and blue she’d never kill again. Promising her she’d never have a reason. She shifts in your arms and looks up at you. There’s something in her eyes. Fear. Hesitance.

“Baby,” She says, biting her lip, “Whoever this person is. I have to kill him. You know that, right?”

Your stomach flips.

“No.” You say immediately, “No, Tara.”

“If he’s alive, he’ll hurt you. You know I can’t let that happen. We can’t turn him in, he knows too much. It’s the only way.”

That sinking feeling is back. The one that had been there when Chase died. The one after Amber and the one after Wes. Like everything is crumbling around you. You squeeze her a little tighter.

“I’ll do it.” You say. The thought makes you sick. The thought of her doing it makes you sicker.

“No, baby.” Tara says. She presses a kiss to your shoulder, “Not after last time. Look at what Wes did to you.”

“I don’t care.” You say, shaking your head, “I don't want you doing it. You can’t-”

Be trusted, is what you want to say. The Rage is terrifying, violent, and you don’t want to reawaken it. You hold it back, pull her closer to you.

“I don’t want that part of you back. I don’t like that part of you.”

Tara’s quiet a moment.

“It’s already back, babe.” She says, pulls your hand to her chest. Her heartbeat is wild, out of control, “Don’t you see? It isn’t killing that prompts it. It’s anybody trying to get to you.”

You’re too tired to fight. Too tired to admit she might be right. At the end of the day if it’s her or him, you know what you’d rather her do.

You lean down, press your lips to hers, try to redirect the conversation.

“You will sleep tonight, right?”

“Not likely.” She admits, her grip on your hips tightening.

“Let’s take it in shifts.” You suggest, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, “Half and half so we both get some sleep.”

She nuzzles her nose into the side of your neck.

“Okay. I’ll take first watch.”

She looks towards the handgun your Dad left for you on the bedside table, tugs it carefully over to her side of the bed.

“You know how to use that?” You ask, a little skeptical, “You know to turn the safety off?”

“Yes babe, I know how to use a gun.” She assures, a little irritated you asked.

“Alright, alright. Just checking. The last thing I need is you shooting yourself in the foot.”

“Give me some credit,” She grumbles, “That’s something Chad would do.”

You kiss her, softly, then snuggle down into her chest. Listen to the rise and fall of her breathing, her rampant, crazed heartbeat as it pumps in her chest.

“Remember to wake me.”

She doesn’t wake you, as you should have predicated. When you open your eyes it’s the next morning, and she’s pressing a warm kiss to your lips.

You scrunch your eyes, blink her into view.

“Babe? Did you stay up the whole night?” She kisses your forehead, nudges a warm cup of coffee into your hands.

“I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway. There was no point in me waking you.”

“Baby.” You groan. Her eyes are red, tired. You press your hands to her cheeks, lean up to kiss her.

“You’re exhausted.”

“I’ll nap in science.” She promises, “Mrs. Fletcher is enough to put anyone to sleep. Besides. I needed to make sure you were safe.”

She kisses you again.

“Speaking of: I asked Chad and Liv to stop by with a few supplies.”

She reaches for a paper bag, empties out the contents onto your mattress. You sit up, interest piqued.

It’s nothing less of an armory. You blink, hold up a small metal device.

“A rape whistle and a taser?” You say, “Babe, how am I supposed to take this into school?”

“Keep them in your purse.” Tara says, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable request, “It’s not like they check our bags. It’s for emergencies.”

She presses a long kiss to your forehead, “But you won’t need them. I’m not leaving your side. Not for a minute.”

“I have Chem today,” You say, heavily, “And you have English. We can’t be together all the time, Tara.”

“We’re skipping.” Tara says, “I’m taking you home early.”

“Tara, if the school calls my Dad and he finds out I’m skipping classes-”

“He’ll do nothing.” Tara says, fire behind her eyes, “You’re eighteen, he can’t force you home with him. And if he tries then I’ll-”

“You’re not killing my Dad.” You say, firmly. She pouts a little.

“That isn’t what I was going to say,” She says, a little put out, “I’d give him a piece of my mind, is all.”

You sit up, pull her into you.

“Sorry, babe.” You apologize, soothe her with a kiss, “I’m just a little on edge.”

“It’s fine,” She reassures, “Just please keep these on you. Please.”

You agree for her sake.

Word gets out quick.

People stare in the hallways, everyone trying to get a glimpse of Ghostface’s latest victim. It’s unsettling, this much attention. You grip Tara’s hand tight in yours and try to ignore the leering of the other students as she walks you to your locker.

When you reach it, Mindy, Chad and Liv are waiting for you.

“Is it true you saw him?” Chad asks, wide-eyed.

“Is it true he stabbed you?” Liv asks.

You shoot her a look, open your locker and grab your books for first period.

“Does it look like he stabbed me, Liv?” You ask, witheringly.

“Give her some space guys,” Tara says, pushing Liv back slightly, “She’s not a zoo animal.”

“Still.” Mindy says, “You survived a brush with Ghostface. Not many people can say that.”

You ignore the hot flash of dread that zaps through you at the mention of him. He could be anyone. Maybe he’s even here now, watching you. Waiting to get you alone. It must flash through your face because suddenly Tara’s hands are on your waist, rubbing your back reassuringly.

“She doesn’t want to talk about it.” Tara says, a little protectively, “Why don’t we meet you guys in Math.”

“Come on.” Mindy says, “Not talking about him gives him power. You don’t know who it is, right? Maybe we can help you figure it out.”

“Maybe it’s you, Mindy.” Liv says, voice sweet, “After all, you’re obsessed with horror movies.”

Mindy looks over, sharply.

“What kind of motive is that?” She says, annoyed, “Besides, I’m not the only one who likes horror movies. Tara does too. Maybe even more than me.”

“So Tara attacked her own girlfriend, that’s your theory?” Chad says, incredulous.

Mindy shrugs, “It’s happened before.”

She turns to you.

“YN, ever get the feeling like Tara wants to kill you?”

“I’m going to kill you in a minute,” Tara growls.

“Yeah.” Mindy nods, like her theory is confirmed, “Major Ghostface vibes.”

“Stop it,” You say, reaching for your Math textbook, “Tara didn’t attack me, she was with Sam. And I’d really rather not talk about it.”

Mindy’s shoulders deflate a little.

“Wes likes horror movies too.” Liv pipes up, “Maybe that’s why he ran away. He wanted us all to think he was dead so he could live his true life as Ghostface.”

You roll your eyes. Let them bicker. As you grab your final textbook your finger catches on something soft. Something you didn’t put there.

It’s a t-shirt, worn, gray, ACDC logo on the front. Your fingers curl around it, brows furrowing. Something hard is within the fabric. You fish it out, turn the cool plastic in your hand. It’s a DVD. Stab 2. Your stomach flips.

You slam your locker shut, white as a sheet. It draws the attention of the entire group. You feel a little dizzy, like you might pass out. Someone had been in your locker. It feels more of a violation than it should. Tara straightens, grips your hand.

“What’s wrong, babe?” She asks immediately.

“Bathroom.” You mumble.

You don’t say goodbye to Tara’s friends. You tug her behind you hard and fast, not sure how much longer you’ll be able to stand upright.

When you reach the bathroom, you slam the door closed, fish out the t-shirt and thrust it towards Tara.

“What’s this?” She looks confused. Flips the t-shirt in her hands.

“It’s Wes’,” You say. You take a heavy breath, try to quell the blood rushing to your ears.

Tara swallows. Her fingers brush the DVD.

“Stab 2.” She says, furrowing her brows, “What is this supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.’ You say, biting your lip, “Nothing good. How did he get into my locker?”

“The school has cameras.” Tara says, thinking fast, “If I can get into the security feed I might be able to see who it was.”

“How are you going to do that?” You ask,

She bites her lip.

“I don’t know.”

“Please don’t get yourself in trouble,” You say, reaching for her hand. You entwine your fingers, “The last thing I need is you getting kicked out of school.”

“I’ll be careful.” She promises. Dips down to kiss you.

Then, she retracts, tosses the t-shirt and DVD in the trash.

“Tara. What are you doing? What if we need that?”

“We don’t need it, babe.” Tara assures, “Ghostface is trying to fuck with us, that’s all. Besides, the last thing we need is for the Sheriff to catch us with Wes’ old t-shirt and one of his movies.”

She pulls you in again, holds you tight.

“Are you going to be okay in class?”

You nod, drop your forehead to her neck. Wrap your arms around her waist. Your hand catches on something in the back pocket of her jeans. You furrow your brow, then tug it out.

“Tara!” You hiss, mouth dropping, “You brought a knife to school?”

Tara blinks back at you.

“Of course I did.” She says, “There’s some lunatic running around. You really thought I wouldn’t come prepared?”

“Baby, if one of the teachers catches you with this-”

“I have it hidden.” She assures, “They’ll never see it. How am I supposed to protect you if I don’t have a weapon?”

You're more concerned with protecting her. There’s a horrible niggling feeling in the pit of your stomach. Like Ghostface has been a little too easy on her so far. The knife in her hand gives you only the slightest reprieve.

“Let’s go to class.” She says, with a kiss to your cheek, “Do you have your rape whistle?”

You shoot her a look, tug at the string around your neck. She’d insisted you wear it at all times.

“Right here, babe.”

“Good girl.” She kisses you once more.

Your fingers curl around the taser in your back pocket. Slip your phone into your backpack and head to class, Tara’s fingers entwined with your own.

You take a deep breath. You're in school. In the middle of the day. Hundreds of students around.

Whoever Ghostface is, he wouldn't be so stupid to attack you in broad daylight.

Right?

next part

#ghostface!tara #all hers #mine #scream #scream vi #tara carpenter #sam carpenter #tara carpenter x you #tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter x yn #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader

755 notes · View notes

tanoraqui · 14 days

Note

🔪❄️

[ask meme]

Already answered Knife.

❄️ ⇢ what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best?

I know I've said this before, but I really would like someone who has actual experience being a parent and/or having a notably messy relationship with at least one parent to write a fic about Curufin returning to life in Fourth Age Aman and trying to reconcile with Celebrimbor, and then - before he's actually done doing that - Fëanor returns as well so Curufin also has to sort out how he feels and is reacting to that.

I'd like it to be written by someone with more real-life experience in this sort of emotional tangle than I have, because I just...don't have many strong opinions about parenting. Which this story would very much be about, though not exclusively. However, it WOULD need to follow exactly my headcanons for characterization, worldbuilding, and generally the moral dynamics of the cosmology, because god knows that will also come up.

Key characters and other components include:

Curufin has, over the millennia of being dead, resignedly come around to the "less evil would have been done in the breaking of it" position on the Oath. However, he's still very proud and fucking hates apologizing to anyone. He'll do it but he hates it.

He hates it much less when it's apologizing to Celebrimbor, almost not at all. Celebrimbor, however, is very reluctant to believe his father repents of anything except getting caught.

Yantalmandë, Celebrimbor's Vanyarin wife, who is ready to support him either by kicking any unwanted family firmly out the door or by sympathetically talking him through forgiving them, for his own sake if not theirs - whichever the situation requires. One of the most notable heretics in Aman for her theory that morality and ethics can and should exist entirely independently from the dictates of Eru and the Valar but rather be derived from the nature and experience of Arda. She's mildly embarrassed whenever people bring up her philosophical infamy.

(This is, in fact, somewhat the moral of the story: that when you make a living thing, you may raise and guide and advise them, but you fundamentally lose the right to dictate their choices. Children should be independent from their parents and both should be proud of this.)

Curufinwen, their daughter, at least 1,000 years old but vibes as mid-20s, who in family tradition holds her father to be probably the greatest and definitely her favorite person in the world, and who is distinctly more correct in this than the last 3 people in her eponymous lineage. Skeptical of her newly reincarnated family, but willing to give them a chance. Also, superb metallurgist/chemist/explosives expert.

Maltrinbor, Curufin's wife and Celebrimbor's mother, about as willing to forgive Curufin as Celebrimbor is but at a different angle. I still haven't decided whether I want her to be Noldorin (and died in the stormy sea-crossing, or in Dagor Bragollach after the slow eroding of her marriage?) or Teleri (and died at Alqualondë while trying to find her idiot husband and clearly-not-safe child, after walking away from them a decade ago?). Either way, she's a preeminent artist in glass and has been living near her parents near Aulë's mountain, focusing on craft all these millennia since her return, happy to be a mother but avoiding like spiders any royal politics (which Celebrimbor can never quite do.) SO disappointed in Curufin, for not being...better. In literally any way tbh. But especially for never stepping far enough out of his father's shadow to live up to his own potential.

Finrod in the role of frustratingly wise advice-giver, not least in the area of parenting because he's now had 7 children, and, when Curufin cracks and asks him for help, earnest confidant and supporter in this reconciliation. While also playing an extended game which he calls "social rehabilitation" and Curufin and Celegorm both call "publicly humiliating psychological torment." On top of everything else Curufin has to be grateful and/or apologetic to Finrod about, when Celebrimbor returned from Mandos, Finrod immediately took him under his wing and helped him fully recover from his trauma and comfortably re-settle into Valinorian society.

Veryawendë, Finrod's 4th daughter and Celebrimbor's best friend, artistic collaborator, and ally within the family. A superb jewel-smith and -sculptor who actually studied with Nerdanel in order to master form and sense of movement and life. Very ready to bodily kick unwanted parents or uncles out the door on his behalf.

Celegorm, Curufin's usual/former closest confidant, who is very sympathetic to Curufin's plight and of course he also wants to reconcile with his beloved nephew, but he's kind of focussed on reconciling with an entire Vala of the Hunt first so could you maybe stop ranting and help him, Curvo?

Nerdanel absolutely is involved in this, but I think she's trying - maybe by wrestling with herself - to stay out of it, and oblige her children and theirs to solve their own problems which they made.

And of course Fëanor, who comes out of Mandos regretting a great deal...but who is still too prideful to let himself be much diminished by this guilt, and so with all his vigor sets about trying to Fix What He Broke, which sometimes means the world's most undeniable earnest repentant apologies and sometimes means unthinkingly steamrolling everyone and everything in his path.

(Fëanor who never wanted his children to be consumed by his own fire - his own will, his own grief and rages - like kindling for the flame, but who probably didn't always communicate that in word or deed even before the Oath. Fëanor who, accustomed to Bonding Through Craft, tries to connect with his grandson by offering to teach him some techniques which have clearly been lost, and instead only sets off Celebrimbor's latent Annatar-related alarm bells. Fëanor who is overall struggling with many of the same things that Curufin is, and in most ways he's ahead [typical, natural, bitterly surprising] but in some ways he's behind [mind-boggling, earth-shaking, weirdly satisfying in an uncomfortably vengeful way.])

(Vs Curufin who is so angry at and so so so disappointed and betrayed by his father but who has never consciously, and rarely unconsciously, experienced those feelings in that direction before [while alive to remember it] and doesn't really know how to do so, much less how to express it [the answer is 'sobbing while shouting', at least at first]. He's pretty accustomed to feeling them toward himself, though, except he's also very accustomed to ignoring that and/or blaming other people for it and feeling like a victim instead. He never felt it toward his son, not truly; it was just easier for a few years toward the end to include Celebrimbor in the list of people he blamed - but only in his very darkest moments, and it always set off a vicious circle of feeling even worse.)

Oh yeah Finwë definitely needs to be involved in this whole tangle of generations of fatherhood as well. But I have no idea how he fits in, just that he's among the people who all need to be put into a giant hamster ball together and gently shaken until they're all a little healed.

Btw corrollary to the above "you have to be okay with your children doing things you neither plan nor approve of" is "you have to be okay with things you make being viewed and used in ways you neither planned nor approved of." It's not always your right (@Fëanor) and it's not always your responsibility (@Celebrimbor - he's mostly learned the lesson but it still hurts. The recent end of the Third Age brought back how it hurts).

Additional Supporting Cast:

Maedhros: running around playing catch-up on the 3D chess game of Noldorin and Eldarin politics and public perception. (Note: I'm ambivalent as to whether this fic has to take place in a Celechwes-inclusive timeline, but if it is, she gets pregnant shortly before Fëanor's return and that's very thematically relevant.)

Maglor: hasn't entirely recovered from 6,000 years of self-induced Song-filled isolation, has apparently sworn some sort of fealty to Earendil?? No help.

Caranthir: busy trailing after his wife like a repentant puppy until she decided to let him back into her heart. No help.

Ambarussa: one of them, probably Amrod, took up weaving while drifting between Mandos's Halls and Vairë's, and is continuing that apprenticeship while alive again, so they're spending a lot of time with the grandparents.

Mahtan, who is quite near the top of the list of people whom Curufin doesn't want to look in the eye.

The Silmaril which is right over there on the far edge of the continent, he can feel it sometimes...and that's okay. It's where it neds to be, it's in the care of a (distant) (barely counts) kinsman, and more important Maglor is keeping some sort of eye on it. So it's fine. There's nothing he can practically do anyway, not without restarting a war; and that's not an option anymore than charging Angband was.

Huan, best boy. Has also been looking after Celebrimbor since he returned to life, because he's the best uncle in this family.

A wide assortment of OCs, including people who died in Himlad, people who followed Curufin to Doriath and died there, people who followed him to Doriath and survived beyond that, people who stayed with Celebrimbor in Nargothrond, people who were in Eregion and died, people who were in Eregion and survived...

I really want the whole line of Curufinwës to make something together, like, the very first scene is Curufin approaching Celebrimbor not for the first time, but for like the third time and this time he's suggesting a long-term project of some sort, which would give them the opportunity to spend time together in an activity they both enjoy and (used to) both enjoy and are accustomed to doing together. Then that spans the whole story. Idk what it is, though - I do want them to make Maedhros a hand that shoots lasers like Iron Man's glove, but that's not what The Project should be.

CURUFIN HAS TO GET AN EPESSË IN THE END, ONE WHICH HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH FËANOR WHATSOEVER.

#ask meme #my fic #aman ever after #curufin #celebrimbor #feanor

20 notes · View notes