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#long. except that i was. i am so very unsurprised.

bookshelf-in-progress · 6 months

Text

The True Story: An Epistolary Novelette

An intrusive fantasy story for @inklings-challenge

I. Christine Hendry to the proprietor of Wright and Co.

Sir or Madam:

I feel like such a fool for reaching out to you--a stranger whose business card happened to be tucked in the pages of an ancient book on my grandmother's shelf. I don't even know if your shop exists anymore; signs are against it, because I can't find so much as a phone number to contact you by. Nothing but an address and a name: Wright and Co.: Specialists in Rare, Antique, and Nonexistent Books.

That last category is the only reason I'm bothering to write at all. I'm looking for what seems to be a nonexistent book, so I may as well try writing to a shop that may or may not be real.

When I was a little girl, my grandmother read to me from a copy of Song of the Seafolk by Marjorie A. Penrose. It was an American children's fantasy from--I believe--the 1950s, all about a family getting mixed up with mermaids on a tiny Atlantic island. It had beautiful black-and-white illustrations, and language so lyrical that I still remember passages even though I haven't read it in nearly twenty years. My grandmother loved it to bits, and read it to me a dozen times after I came to live with her. I went off to college, and jobs, and travel, and I haven't much thought about that book--or, to be honest, my grandmother--since I left the house.

But now Grandma has a broken hip, and there's no one else to care for her, so I've come back. The moment I stepped back into that house, I found I wanted nothing more than to read that book. To her, if possible. I need to return the favor.

But the book is nowhere to be found. I've searched through all her bookshelves (extensive), closets (messy), and storage boxes (many and varied), to no avail. I resigned myself to the necessity of buying a new copy, but there are no new copies for sale. Or any old copies. None in any library. Not even a hint of its existence online. All my inquiries to cashiers and librarians have been met with blank stares. It seems like no one in the world has even heard of that book except my grandmother and me.

So I write to you from sheer desperation. A cry into the void. If your shop does exist, and you are a real person, is there any chance in the world that you have the book I want? Knowing now how rare the book apparently is, I shudder to think of the price you'd charge, but as long as I don't have to sell any limbs to pay for it, I find myself willing to pay almost any price. Of course, that's assuming you're a real person reading this, and you by some miracle have the book, and you haven't thrown this letter away while sneering at the lunatic who wrote it.

If all those things somehow manage to be true, please write back to me at this address, and I assume we'll be able to arrange some method of payment.

Yours, in desperation,

Christine Hendry

II. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

I am pleased to inform you that Wright and Co. does still exist, and it maintains its specialty of supplying books that can be found nowhere else. It is unsurprising that you were unable to locate a second copy of the book, because a glance through our sales records show that the book was purchased from this very shop in 1968 (which is likely why your grandmother was in possession of our business card), and comes from our specialized stock of books that exist nowhere else in the world.

These books tend to appear on our shelves at unpredictable times, and rarely in batches of more than one or two, so I feared I would be unable to grant your request. Yet I have sometimes found that these books appear in response to a need, so I searched the shelves, and to my delight, found the book tucked into a corner of our children's section.

The books from our special selection sometimes wander back to our store's shelves when they are no longer needed by their purchasers, and it appears that this is what happened in this case, because the book I found bears signs of ownership by a Mrs. Dorothy Hendry. Since I cannot charge you for your own book, I have taken the liberty of shipping the copy of Song of the Seafolk along with this letter.

I humbly beg your forgiveness for the suffering this has caused, and I sincerely hope Wright and Co. will be able to serve you in any future literary needs.

Faithfully yours,

Benjamin Wright

III. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Mr. Wright:

I'm glad you couldn't see how red my face got when I received your response. It's one thing to send a letter when there's a miniscule chance of a reply, but getting a reply and knowing that a real, living person read your words is a very different (mortifying) thing. I would never have written that letter the way I did if I had fully comprehended that it was going to be read by a complete stranger.

My only consolation is that my letter wasn't half as strange as your reply. What do you mean, the books appear on the shelves and wander back? How on Earth did you send me a copy of my own book??

Because you're right--it's the exact copy I remember from my childhood. The same purple clothbound cover with the mermaid and lighthouse stamped into it. The same jelly stain inside the back cover. Page 54 has a torn corner, and the mermaid on page 126 has a unibrow penciled onto her face. Even if my grandmother hadn't written her name in the cover, I'd have known it for the same book. Yet she would never have donated--or even sold--Song of the Seafolk, even after I moved away. She loved it too much.

Yet somehow you sent it to me. I'm so grateful that I won't even accuse you of sending a ring of book thieves to raid my grandmother's shelves.

I read the book to my grandmother this weekend, and it was like the years fell away, and we were back in the warm glow of my childhood bedroom, completely at ease with the world. The pain medication leaves Grandma foggy sometimes, but there were several points when she smiled, closed her eyes, and recited the book along with me word for word. I'd try to repay you in some way for facilitating that, but some things are priceless.

However you got the book, it seems to prove you're able to achieve the impossible, and because of that, I'm going to bother you with another request. Grandma loves fantasy, but her true love is mystery novels. She has a whole bookshelf devoted to them, mostly Golden Age paperbacks--country house novels, a smattering of noir. I feel like there's so little joy in her life right now, but the one thing I could provide would be a new mystery. Yet, looking at her shelves, I suspect that she's read every book of this type that exists. So I'm going to ask you to live up to that Nonexistent in your name and find me a Golden-Age-esque mystery that no one--not even Grandma--has read yet. If you can achieve that, I would be grateful for whatever you can send me.

Yours with gratitude,

Christine Hendry

IV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

I am afraid I can answer very few of your questions as to the workings of this shop, at least when it comes to our specialized stock. Among the shelves of Wright and Co., there will on occasion appear a book which no employee has ordered--books with unfamiliar titles by unfamiliar authors, which have the appearance of age and wear, but cannot be found in any other shop, and have no history of publication by any firm. Yet there is always a reader--sometimes several, if the shop staff takes to reading it--who finds that it perfectly satisfies their tastes and fills some unmet need, as if the book was dreamt up just for them. These books seem to come into existence just when needed, and sometimes wander away when they're not.

We have several theories about the origins of these books, very few of them sensible. Perhaps they come from other worlds, where history went just a bit differently from ours. Perhaps they are books that authors dreamed up but never wrote. Perhaps they are spontaneously created in response to a reader's desires. I have learned not to question it. I merely accept the books as a gift--and bestow them as gifts to those in need.

To that end, I have honored your request for a mystery. Though I've no doubt there are many more ordinary books that could fulfill your desire (any seller of used books could tell you that this genre is far more extensive than most individual readers suspect), there is a book that appeared on our shelves last autumn that I feel will exactly fit your grandmother's tastes. The Wings of Hermes by Elizabeth Tern casts Oxford don Joseph Quill in the role of amateur sleuth, as he is pulled into the intrigue surrounding a piece of ancient Greek statuary. Quill is a very literary detective, in the vein of Gamadge or Wimsey, though his story has a touch of noir and more than a tinge of melancholy. I feel the book will be satisfying to a woman who has been a patron of our shop, and I hope it will fulfill its intended role of aiding in her recovery.

Yours faithfully,

Benjamin Wright

V. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Darling Benjamin,

Do you think I'm stupid? Or are you just insane? Do you expect me to swallow all that rigamarole about magic teleporting books? If it's a joke, you tell it with an alarmingly straight face, and frankly, it seems in poor taste (and poor business practice) to dump it all onto unsuspecting customers. If you don't want to explain how you got my book, fine--I'm sure it's a boring story involving mistaken donations or something--but I wish you wouldn't insult my intelligence by making up some whimsical fairy tale.

But for all that, I can't fault your taste in books. The Wings of Hermes was stupidly good. Grandma LOVED it. I stayed up until nine at night reading it with her--which is practically the middle of the night by her standards--because she was so desperate to know the culprit. It's a cut above most of the books on her shelf, and it's taken a place of pride there.

You weren't kidding about the melancholy. Grandma didn't mind--she was too wrapped up in the mystery--but I'll admit it got a bit depressing for my taste in places. The world seems dark enough right now--Grandma's hip isn't healing as well as we'd like. I'm having trouble adjusting to the move, and balancing work with Grandma's care is getting a touch overwhelming. I don't need fictional darkness on top of that.

What I need is something to lift my spirits. I've searched Grandma's shelves, and though she has plenty of comedies, there's nothing that catches my attention for more than a few pages, or elicits more than a wan smile. I don't know if there's a book in the world that could cheer me at the moment, but if any shop could supply it, I suppose yours can. Do you have anything like that? If you could, please send it my way.

At least, if you're willing to send it to a sponge. It seems you forgot to bill me for my last book, so if I have to settle the debt first, please let me know the price and I'll pay up. But please spare me the fairy tales.

Yours in respect,

Christine Hendry

VI. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

Your skepticism about the origins of our shop's unique books is understandable. Yet I told you the honest truth in response to an honest question. Any of our shop's past or present employees, and many of our long-term customers, would be able to verify the truth of my account. I do not typically disclose the story to new patrons, but your long history with Song of the Seafolk led me to believe you were already among those who would value it, and perhaps the faceless nature of letter-writing prompted more than usual candor. I apologize for your confusion, but I do not retract so much as a syllable of what I've said. I have told you only the truth as I know it. You may believe or doubt as you desire, but I would ask that you fling no further insults toward my honesty or my sanity.

In light of the struggles weighing upon you, the staff of Wright and Co. have forgiven any insulting insinuations, and are only too glad to do what we can to ease your burden. We have honored your request for a comedy, and have sent you a slightly worn copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank by E.G. Delaford. It is worn because it has been read so many times by the members of our staff. It has often been stored behind the counter for staff to read in slow moments, and many of the quotes have become bywords with our little band. We sometimes read it aloud at the Christmas party. Yet by mutual consent, we have agreed that it is exactly the book you need (working here gives one a sense for these things--another Wright and Co. oddity), and gladly send it to you. If we have need of it after you've finished, we trust it will find its way back.

The book appears to have been written in (some version of) the early 20th-century, about a gentleman who takes to high-seas adventure despite his complete lack of sailing knowledge--a Don Quixote of the sea--and the woman he rescues from a shipwreck who tries in vain to set them on a sensible course. The humor is absurd, the characters memorable, and the story--I have forgotten myself. It's best for you to discover these things for yourself.

I have enclosed an invoice detailing the price of The Wings of Hermes. The price is modest compared to the extreme rarity of the book, and you may pay it if you wish to own the book outright. However, Wright and Co. also maintains a sort of library system for those who understand the unique nature of these one-of-a-kind books. For a nominal fee that covers the cost of shipping, patrons may keep one book at a time in their homes, and send it back to Wright and Co. when they wish to request another. If you wish to experience the widest variety of our unique selection--and keep these books in circulation for other readers--I recommend enrollment in this system.

I will not send an invoice for Mercator Must Walk the Plank, because we could not sell that book at any price. You may keep it for as long as it is of use to you, without interfering with your ability to borrow other books per our normal system. We consider this loan not a business arrangement, but an act of charity in your time of need.

Yours faithfully,

Benjamin Wright

VII. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

I hope you don't mind that I slipped a note inside Mercator before Ben sent it off. We've never let the book outside the shop before, so I just had to say hello, and welcome you to our little band of Mercator fans (because I know you're going to love it). Please don't worry about sending it back too quickly. I must have half the book memorized, and I can always recite the silliest bits if Heinrich gets too grouchy.

I am so glad you're going to get to read this book, but I have to say that I'm surprised Ben agreed to it, because I could tell some of the things you said your last letter made him upset. These books mean a lot to him, and he doesn't talk about them to just anyone, so I don't think he liked being called a liar.

Not that I blame you! I'd have trouble believing the story, too, if I hadn't seen it myself. But I have! Hundreds of times! We'll be stocking the shelves or dusting, and all of a sudden we'll see a new book there--you usually just know there's something different about it. It'll have all the stuff that a normal book does--cover and endpages and copyright stuff and publisher names, and sometimes even those order forms to buy other books from the publisher. But they're all about companies that don't exist. Or by people we can't even find on the internet. There are too many books in too many styles for them to be the work of some prankster--especially since it's been happening for years and years and years.

And sometimes the books come back to us. I can count at least a dozen times that I've sold a book to someone, and then a year or two later I'll come across the very same copy on our shelves again. It's weird, but after you've worked here long enough, you get used to it, and you forget how strange it all is to people who don't know.

So anyway, I know you're going through a lot with your grandmother (I'm so sorry! I hope she's getting better!), and I'm sure you must be a really lovely person if you loved Song of the Seafolk so much (I hope you don't mind that I read it before Ben sent it back. Delightful book!) which is why I don't mind at all sending Mercator to you, even if you think we're all crazy. But we're not, really. And I hope we can be friends.

Lots of love,

Penelope Brams

(You can call me Penny!)

VIII. Heinrich Gross to Christine Hendry

Madam,

You have the only existing copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank. I must ask you to use caution when handling it. It is beloved by many in the shop. Please do not consume food or drink while reading it. Do not dog-ear any more pages. Please be gentle when turning the pages that are coming loose.

This book is a gift we do not give lightly. Do not abuse our kindness.

Respectfully,

Heinrich Gross

IX. Christine Hendry to the staff of Wright and Co.

Everyone,

I'm overwhelmed. I had no idea this book--or the story behind it--meant so much to all of you. I feel like I've been sent a priceless family heirloom--and you know me from only three letters! I don't know what I've done to deserve so much trust, but I will care for this book as though it were a priceless work of art (which, from the sound of it, it basically is).

In the name of honesty, I have to say that I don't believe the story of your shop. Frankly, it all sounds like nonsense. But as I'm reading Mercator (we're on Chapter Nine!), I'm beginning to see more than a little bit of Katherina in my objections. Maybe you're all mad, maybe you're mistaken, but I'm not sure it matters much. There are worse things in life than a little nonsense. Especially when you're all so very kind.

I hope all of you (especially Ben) can forgive me for the snide remarks in my last letter. Grandma and I thank you for all the books--wherever they came from--and would be honored to consider you friends.

Yours,

Christine Hendry

P.S. How do I get enrolled in that lending program? I've sent back The Wings of Hermes.

X. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

Have you finished the book yet? What do you think?

When you're done with Mercator, I have so so so many books I want you to read. I'm making a list. I know you probably don't have as much time to read as we do here, but I'd hate to think of you missing out on any of my favorites.

I don't want to rush you, but I've never talked to anyone outside of Wright's who had the faintest idea what I was talking about when we referenced Mercator. I've enjoyed having it as our inside joke, but it's even better to have more people in on it.

Write back soon!

Penny

XI. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Penny,

Grandma and I finished Mercator Must Walk the Plank last night--and started it again this morning. I can see why you all love it so much. What a wonderfully absurd book. Exactly the type of comedy I was looking for. Your instincts were correct: it was just what we both needed to cheer us up. It's removed enough from our world both in time and plausibility to take our minds away from ordinary things, and there's nothing mean-spirited about any of the humor. So many good characters among that crew. And the plot! High comedy! It's been almost a week since I read Chapter 14, and I'm still giggling over the fishing scene.

I would be overjoyed to read anything else you might recommend. If any of them are half as good as Mercator, they're sure to become my favorites, too.

Yours,

Christine Hendry

P.S. Grandma's hip is doing much better. Still a long road to recovery, but maybe the reread will help. Laughter being the best medicine and all.

XII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

I've enclosed the forms for enrollment in Wright and Co.'s specialized lending program. If you will fill in the required information (though we obviously already have your address) and submit the proper payment, we will be able to begin sending books. The catalogue is yours to keep. I'm afraid the selection is rather outdated, and the summaries less than ideal at conveying the merits of each book. It was assembled by my predecessor, and I'm afraid that my uncle's genius for books did not translate to marketing skill. Amid the cares of business, I have not found the time to put together a modernized version, especially as I find that bespoke recommendations from our staff are far more likely to result in successful pairings of book and reader.

You will note there is a section on the third page where you can request a book. If I can offer a recommendation, I believe that the Alfred Quicke mystery series by Glorya M. Hayers, with its blend of comedy and mystery, would perfectly fit the tastes of your household. The mysteries solved by idle-rich amateur detective Alfred Quicke are always intriguing, but the cast of comedic types--and the farcical situations that arise in the course of the investigation--keep the stories lighthearted. The best way I can describe it is as if Wodehouse wrote a mystery series. The setting is much like that of his most famous stories, though with curious details that suggest it is set in an intriguing alternate world. With seventeen books in the series, you would find enough material to keep your grandmother in mysteries for a long time--though I suggest starting with the fourth book, The Counterfeit Candlestick, as the point where the series finds its voice.

I appreciate the handsome apology in your last letter and accept it wholeheartedly. However, I admit I had hoped for more than agnosticism toward our story. Despite your assertions, the truth does matter, whether we can discover it or not. Though the strange behavior of these books is outside our usual experience, it does not mean it is impossible (you will find a similar truth expressed by most of the great fictional detectives), and I had hoped your respect for us would open you to the possibility that there is more to this world than what we can understand. Perhaps it was too much to expect under the circumstances. But I hope we have garnered enough goodwill that you will not take offense at this expression of my honest opinion. If you do, I apologize, and will attempt to keep future letters focused purely on business.

Respectfully yours,

Benjamin Wright

XIII. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Mr. Wright,

I respect your opinion, though naturally I don't agree. I don't doubt you're sincere in believing what you do, but I can think of a dozen more mundane explanations of how these books mysteriously appear and disappear on your shelves (most of them involving poor record-keeping and less-than-stellar search engine skills). I suggest we drop the subject in the future, as neither of us is likely to convince the other, and my lack of belief about the mystical origin of these books doesn't keep me from fully enjoying the experience of reading them.

I hope you won't think it rude that I filled out your forms twice. Grandma and I do count as separate households, and if I'm going to keep Grandma in mysteries and experience some of the other books, I'm going to need two separate streams of supply. For now, though, I think books 3 and 4 of Alfred Quicke will suit our needs nicely.

Many thanks,

Christine Hendry

XIV. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine!!!

I'm so so glad you loved Mercator! I just knew you would, but it's always a little bit horrible when someone else reads one of your favorite books, because if they hate it, it crushes a piece of your heart, and I don't have that many pieces to spare.

But when they love it! Oh! I can love a book twice as much when I know someone else who loves it! I wouldn't think it was possible I could love Mercator more, but thinking of you and your Grandma laughing over it in her sickbed makes me so--this is going to sound strange, but I'm proud of it. As if we sent out a friend to do a good work, and he succeeded in working miracles. I hope you read it as many times as you want. Trust me, it gets better every time.

But I hope you'll find time to read some other books, too! I'm glad you got your own account along with your Grandma's. Alfred Quicke is lovely (I love his books almost as much as Mercator--please let me know what you think of Bright Folly when you read it), but one cannot live on mysteries alone. There are so many genres, so many moods, so many eras of literature to explore, and Wright's has wonderful examples of so many of them, so I'm so glad we'll get to send them to you.

I know Ben sent you that horrible little catalogue. Ignore it. It makes so many of the very best books sound so dull, and half my favorites aren't even in it. I can do a much better job of telling you what books to read. I've got pages and pages written up about the best ones, but I don't want to overwhelm you right away, so I'll just tell you about a few of the very best at a time. I've included a list of some of the ones I think you'll like best.

You can read what you like, of course, but I can't help thinking you should read The Autumn Queen's Promise by Rose Rennow just as soon as you possibly can. If you loved Song of the Seafolk, I'm sure you'll love this. It's another children's fantasy (a newer one--'90s, maybe?), with the same type of atmospheric historical setting, though this time, it's the most vivid autumnal woods you've ever read about in your life, which makes it perfect for this time of year.

The story's all about this fairy queen who stumbles into this little village in colonial America and can't get home. And she hates them all at first, of course--she's this horrible arrogant thing--but she comes to care for them and it's just lovely to read about. A little slow, but no slower than Seafolk. A nice, relaxing kind of slow. I'm sure you'll love it.

Whatever you pick next, I hope you'll keep me posted with reading updates. I so love talking with you about these books. It's so nice to have a pen pal!

Lots of love,

Penny

XV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

Your account has been opened and the requested books have been shipped. We at Wright and Co. are pleased to count you as one of our trusted patrons.

I am afraid I will find it difficult to honor your request to drop the subject of the origin of our specialized books. Perhaps it is a fault, but I have never been able to bring myself to "agree to disagree". It has always seemed to me the coward's way out of engaging with the search for truth. However, you are correct that endlessly rehashing the subject is unlikely to assist either of us in continuing that search, so I will refrain from mentioning it unless there is further evidence to discuss. If you would be so kind as to patronize our shop in person, I would be happy to offer you further proof of the phenomena that I describe, but further discussion via these letters is likely to remain futile.

Faithfully yours,

Benjamin Wright

XVI. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Mr. Wright:

My offer to "agree to disagree" was a courtesy to you. I'm sure you don't want to lose a customer over the issue, so I was giving you the chance to let it slide so it wouldn't interfere with our working relationship. You think that makes me a coward? How can you say I'm "refusing to engage with the search for truth" when you've admitted that you don't know what the truth is? You said yourself (I still have those first letters) that you don't know where the books come from. Just because you can find no record of them doesn't mean they just appeared out of thin air. And these supposed "returns" of books could come from donations or poor record-keeping. You say you have evidence, but from my point-of-view, you could just be a quirky small press that prints old-fashioned books and tells whimsical stories to draw in customers. With all the stress surrounding Grandma's health, there's no way on Earth that I could make a cross-state trip to see your supposed "proof" for myself.

Frankly, if it weren't for Grandma, I'd consider canceling my accounts with you. But she's been tearing through Alfred Quicke so fast and enjoying it so much that I don't dare to cut off her source of supply. And the books you've sent are wonderful--you've been so kind about Mercator, and you gave me back Song of the Seafolk, and The Autumn Queen's Promise is turning into a lovely story I wouldn't have been able to find anywhere else.

I can't wrap my head around you people. Every time I give you the chance to back away from this weird story, you double down, and frankly, it's freaking me out. Penny's so bubbly that it's easy to see how she could get caught up in it, but you write with such a serious professional voice, and you seem (in your bland professional way) personally offended at my refusal to just go along with your story of mysterious magical books. Why does this matter so much to you? Why can't the books just be wonderful, obscure stories instead of mystical teleporting tomes that respond to feelings or whatever? I can't understand you.

Maybe you'll burn this letter and cancel my accounts, but if you dare to engage, I would like to know what you have to say for yourself.

Yours,

Christine Hendry

XVII. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

What did you say to Ben? He's usually so nice and sensible and kind and ordinary--really a great boss--but every once in a while, he broods. And he's been brooding ever since he got your last letter. It's like he's walking around with this big old cloud over his head. He keeps wandering the shelves and then going into his office and glaring at his computer and staring at the wall.

It's got me worried. Is your Grandma okay? I guess he'd tell me if she wasn't. Or you would. I hope.

Are you dying? Maybe that would explain why you haven't written in so long.

Please don't die on me. I couldn't bear it.

Write back soon.

Penny

XVIII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Dear Penny,

No one's dying. Grandma gets more mobile every day, and I'm in as good of health as you can have when you're running mostly on caffeine and a couple of hours of sleep a night. I've just been so busy between work and Grandma's care and insurance (so many stupid phone calls) and trying to figure out our finances, and trying to find senior housing for Grandma (her house has way too many stairs), that I barely have time to eat, much less write you back. I'm sorry if I worried you.

As for Ben, well, long story short, I majorly overreacted to some minor thing he said, and wrote a sleep-deprived response that I never should have sent. I really don't want to get into it with you, because you'd probably side with him, and I'd like to keep our friendship intact, at least.

I did manage to read The Autumn Queen's Promise a few pages at a time, and it was just as lovely as you promised it would be. Exquisite fall reading. I almost hate to send it back--that lovely cover alone, with its painting of that beautiful queen in that autumnal woods, added so much atmosphere to the house just by being here. It'll never replace Song of the Seafolk in my heart, but it came closer than almost any other book to recapturing what it felt like to experience it for the first time. I send it back with warm thanks for the recommendation.

I'm also sending back your beloved copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank. I've held onto it far longer than I deserved to. You were so gracious to send it to me, and I can't take advantage of your kindness. (You can tell Heinrich that I haven't added a single scuff to the cover).

Since Ben seems to be in no mood for letters from me, can I send my book requests through you? Grandma would like Books 8 and 9 of Alfred Quicke (she can use my account for the second, because I don't have much time for reading at the moment.)

Thank you,

Christine

XIX. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

You say that you find us at Wright and Co. difficult to understand, but I find you equally baffling. In a single letter, you will thank us profusely for our friendship and the books we provide, while at the same time attacking that very thing which we hold most dear. In expressing my difficulty with the phrase "agree to disagree", I was not attacking your morals. You will note I was more than willing to honor your request to drop the subject. Yet in misconstruing my words, you have sounded the horn of war, and honor and duty--and, to be honest, personal inclination--demand that I engage.

You ask me why these books--and the phenomena surrounding their existence--matter so much to me. I can answer only by biography. Wright and Co. is a small, cluttered, dim, obscure shop--you could find a thousand used book stores like it anywhere in the world--but from a young age (the shop was owned by my uncle then) it seemed a place of unique enchantment. I would spend summer days racing among the stacks and losing myself in books. I grew more jaded and cynical as I aged--most teenagers do--but whenever I was in danger of becoming a disaffected youth, there was something about the shop that made me feel there was something more than the meaninglessness of everyday life.

Learning about the miracle of the books felt like getting the answer to a question I hadn't realized I was asking. Here was proof there was something beyond the mundane and predictable. Something too wonderful for the human mind to understand. Some wondrous power cared enough about the patrons of this shop to help them get the right story in their hands at the right time--even if that story had never been written. Other books have authors and publishers, but these books seemed like a gift from the author of imagination itself.

When I took over the shop, I became a steward of that gift. Caring for these books and matching them with readers makes the running of this shop, not just a banal business arrangement, but a calling. Stories have the power to shape our imagination, our outlook, our relationships with others--and these stories, coming as they do unwritten, unbought and unlooked for, seem to have more power than most. Caring for that power is a great responsibility, one that I take very seriously. I have seen its good effect again and again. You cannot deny you have experienced it yourself.

You are correct when you say that I do not know the exact origin of these books. But I am not intellectually lazy just because I am content with no answer. Making peace with mystery--knowing that some things are ever unknowable--is not the same as refusing to believe the truth that comes before your eyes.

You have closed yourself to even the possibility of an explanation that goes beyond the reality you can comprehend. I have spoken of evidence that proves there is no rational explanation for these books, and you call me an unreliable witness. You have seen hints of the wondrous that you dismissed out of hand. I understand that you do not have the same evidence that I have, and I have not been as gracious as I should have been in making allowance for that. But saying that my refusal to seek an exact explanation makes me intellectually lazy is inaccurate in the extreme.

I may not know how these books come into my shop, but I know from whom. I may not know the exact mechanisms of the miracle, but I firmly believe there is an author of all that has allowed my shop to be a source of minor--and yes, rather whimsical--wonders. I need not know more than that to do my duty well.

Perhaps that explanation will help you to understand my position. More likely you will think me crazier than ever. But since I have explained my inner self, perhaps I have some right to ask for an explanation in return.

Ever since your response to that first letter, when I hinted at the miracle surrounding these books, I detected not only disbelief from you, but disdain. I was troubled to see such disgust toward the concept, especially from one who has proven herself an enthusiastic fan of fantasy. Why do you seek wonders in your stories, but resist it so fiercely in your own existence? Would it be so terrible for these books to have a supernatural origin? Is there not some appeal in letting the wondrous into your life?

You need not respond to such prying questions if it makes you uncomfortable. But I ask that at least, if you do respond, that you deal gently with one who has made his inner self so vulnerable to your scrutiny.

Yours faithfully,

Benjamin Wright

XX. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Ben,

Wow.

When I asked for an explanation, I didn't expect that.

I don't know how I can possibly respond.

I definitely understand why it matters so much to you, but somehow, this conversation has shifted from magic to theology, and I'm even less equipped to engage in a conversation about that. Not to get into too much detail, but that's part of the reason I haven't seen my grandmother in so many years. Grandma's comfortable with that stuff. I prefer my fantasy to remain safely in stories.

If what you say is true, if there's some grand wonderful power--call it magic, call it God--that does things we can't understand, then we're completely powerless against it. Which is fine if the power is good, but if the good things are real, then the bad things can be, too. There are too many ordinary problems for me to want to live in a world where there's some grand plan I can mess up by doing the wrong thing, and greater powers are waging in a war for my soul.

Fantasy is great. I love stories of mermaids and magic and the wonders of life. But it's not reality. I learned that young, and every year I live only proves it more. I'm content to live in the ordinary world with its ordinary problems, and get my escape through literature--where none of the monsters on the page can hurt me.

I'm glad--I really, truly am--that you've been able to make yourself believe in some grander purpose behind these silly little stories we've been reading. But I can't believe in that. I've seen no proof to make me believe it. Maybe you have, but most people can barely trust their own eyes, so how can I trust yours? It's not that I think you're crazy or stupid. Your personality and experiences make you want to believe. Mine make me happy to doubt. It's nobody's fault, and neither of us can change it, and it's fine. I'll stop calling you a crackpot if you stop calling me a coward, and we'll leave it at that.

Wherever the books come from, we all agree that they're wonderful, and if you don't mind dealing with a dirty nonbeliever, I'd be honored if you'd let me continue doing business with you.

Yours,

Christine Hendry

XXI. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

Where is Mercator? We got your letter, and The Autumn Queen's Promise, and your most recent Alfred Quicke, but no sign is there of Mercator Must Walk the Plank.

Oh! Oh no! What if it got lost in the mail? Could we survive such a tragedy? Silly old John Quackenbush and fiery Katherina, and grumpy little Pegs and that whole lovable crew--gone forever! If the U.S. Postal Service is responsible for their destruction, I'll...we'll...we'll make them pay! This is a murder and there must be justice!

Don't worry, I don't blame you. But the next mailman to cross my path better watch out. We'll find that book if we have to tear through every mail box and bag and truck in the country!

I'll keep you posted about the search if I can find the time to write.

Frantically,

Penny

XXII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Dear Penny,

I'm so extremely sorry. When I sent you that last letter, I truly thought I had packaged and mailed Mercator Must Walk the Plank, but after receiving your reply, I discovered that the book was still on its usual shelf in my grandmother's house. I've been so sleep-deprived lately that I overlook things, but I didn't think I could possibly have overlooked something that.

Don't worry. I'll be sending it out as soon as I get another box to ship it in. And this time, I'll make 100% sure it's inside before I ship it.

Please forgive me.

Christine

XXIII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Dear Christine,

You've asked me not to call you a coward, but your wording leaves me almost no choice. Denying yourself the good and wondrous out of fear of evil and danger is the definition of cowardice. Staying within the narrow world of rationality makes for a bleak and colorless life--and you're none the safer for your denial. Good and evil exist whether you acknowledge them or not. Closing your eyes to them only makes you vulnerable to ambush should they come upon you unaware.

Can you not open yourself to the possibility that the good can overcome the evil? That it can offer strength to face the dangers? Great stories can do that by showing us how to act in such situations, to give us examples of victory over darkness, to open our minds to possibilities that we might not accept in our ordinary lives. You've experienced such stories. Is it so strange to think they might reflect the reality we live in? Is it so strange to think there might be some greater power offering us those stories to sustain us?

To you, I'm sure it seems impossible. But you know there are those who think otherwise. I only ask you to consider the implications of the choice.

Respectfully yours,

Ben

XXIV. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Ben,

I don't think you can call my position a choice. You're acting like I'm picking between favorite foods or something--picking one position because I don't like the other one. But as far as I can tell, my position is the only choice. I have no reason to believe any other option exists.

It would be wonderful if I could believe the way you do. It seems to have brought you a lot of peace. But I'm not built that way and I'll just have to struggle along. Your concern is touching, but I've been doing just fine so far.

If I ever see proof, I'd have reason to reconsider, but as it is, I have enough trouble in the world I can see to worry too much about one that I can't.

Respectfully,

Christine

XXV. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

Still no sign of Mercator. Did you forget to send it again, or do I have to lay siege to the post office?

Penny

P.S. Have you been reading any more of the books?

XXVI. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Penny,

I have tried to send off that package no fewer than three times, and every time the book somehow makes its way back to my shelf. Maybe I'm just so used to seeing it there that I keep putting it back. I am so sorry for the delay.

It makes me feel guilty that I'm still profiting by reading your other books. Now that winter is upon us, Grandma and I have started reading aloud from the longest of your fantasy suggestions--The Queens of Wintermoon. You're right that it's an odd book--Russian-flavored science fantasy, with all those complicated family ties and political intrigues--but it's just what we need right now. Grandma is unfortunately dealing with a bout of pneumonia at the moment, which means I'm spending a lot of time at the hospital, but a big, thick, lush and lyrical literary book with a huge cast of vividly-drawn characters is just what we need to take us away from the sterile white walls and the scent of disinfectant.

It's great to sink into that snowy world with its royal glamour and underground orchards and mystical machines. Grandma and I spend ages talking about the four sisters and their royal husbands--all their flaws and heartaches and complicated relationships. I'm most attached to Vitalia and her political intrigue plot, while Grandma most loves the storyline of Inessa and her mysterious woodcutter husband. I have my suspicions about both their secrets, but I'm more than willing to wait the 800-or-so pages they'll need to resolve everything. It's nice to have something to take my mind off of other worries.

But I will keep worrying about Mercator. I promise somehow or another, it will make its way back to you.

Yours,

Christine

XXVII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Penny,

I don't understand it. This is the fifth time I've tried to send Mercator Must Walk the Plank back to you. This time I waited until I'd had a decent night of sleep so my mind was clear. I put it in the packaging (extra padding). I took a picture of it inside the box. I took a picture of the sealed and addressed box. I took a picture of the box when I took it to the post office and left it at the counter. And then I returned home to find the book sitting on the same shelf where I'd put it this morning.

Are the darn things breeding? Did you send me extra copies? There is no other explanation for what happened.

It's got my head spinning, and until I've got it figured out, unfortunately Mercator is going to stay right where it is.

Sorry!

Christine

XXVIII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Christine,

Penny has made me aware of your difficulties with Mercator Must Walk the Plank. It's clear to me (as I'm sure it will be to you) what has happened. If you wished for proof, you now have it. The Powers-That-Be have determined that you have more need of the book than we do.

Please don't distress yourself by (or waste postage upon) any further attempts to send the book back. We have plenty of other books to read, and if we ever have need of Mercator, I trust that the same powers will ensure it makes its way back to us.

Yours,

Ben

XXIX. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Ben,

It's the middle of the night and I can't sleep. I'm trying not to think of that book and I can't. It just doesn't make sense.

This can't be happening. But it is. And if this part of your story is true, then that means the other part of the story is true, which means your theories

This doesn't mean you've won. I'm sure there's some rational explanation that I've overlooked. I shouldn't even write to you because you'll just try to convince me that this is proof we live in a world of angels and fairies who bother themselves about the books we read. But it's not like there's anyone else I can talk to about this.

If you have nothing to say but, "I told you so," don't bother writing back at all. But if you've anything useful to say I'm all ears (or eyes, I guess--weird that I've never actually spoken to you. I don't even know what you look like. How old are you?)

I should sleep. But I'm going to go off and mail this letter like a moron because it's the closest I can come to a conversation.

Good night.

Christine

XXX. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Christine,

This is me not saying I told you so.

That doesn't leave me much else to say.

I'm 39.

Picture the word "man" in the dictionary. Imagine there's an illustration there. That's pretty close to what I look like.

If you want to hear my voice, you'll have to come to the shop and talk to me in person. Or I suppose we could call each other. We do live in the 21st century. But I admit I've enjoyed this 19th-century correspondence we've been keeping up.

I wish I had something more useful to say, but I doubt I can say any of it in a way you want to hear.

I hope you've been sleeping better.

Ben

XXXI. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine

CHRISTINE!!

I know you didn't order another book, but I was wandering through the shelves the other day when this book just about jumped out at me. It's like it had your name written in it. Like how your grandmother wrote in Song of the Seafolk.

Your name's not in it. I checked. But something about it still made it seem like yours. Like we were keeping it from you. Ben agreed (he's got a good sense for these things), so I started preparing the box to ship it. But I read a bit of the first chapter before I packaged the book, just to get an idea of what I was sending you. I didn't move from that spot until I'd read the whole thing. Ben just about locked me in the shop before he found me sitting in a daze in the back room.

Christine, you have to read this book. Now. It's the most beautiful...well, not fantasy. But it's not not fantasy. It's so real and yet so magical and you could maybe read it both ways. I haven't stopped thinking about it since I finished it.

But what's the book? If you've opened the package by now, I'm sure you know it's called Cardinal's Map by someone named Dorothy Cannes. It's from the eighties, it looks like, but it feels older. And newer. Does that make it timeless? I suppose all of the books in our "special" selection feel that way. Anyway, it's about this girl named Miranda, and she's this terrible grouch, and she goes to work for this old guy named Cardinal (that's where the title comes from) who needs help writing his book. And he's got the most beautiful map of all the countries in world of his fantasy book. Except the countries might be real? And just....ack, I don't have words! The book has a lot of them. Read those instead.

And then write to me because I need to know what you think about the ending!!

Lots of love,

Penny

XXXII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Penny,

You were right.

Thank you.

Christine

XXXIII. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Ben,

It's been three hours since I finished Cardinal's Map, and I haven't moved from my chair. Everything you said about the power of story is true. It's like this book reached into my soul and rearranged the furniture. Cleared out the clutter. And it did it by sweeping me along with the characters and the story and the beautiful prose so I didn't even know what was happening until it was already done.

Everything we've been fighting about for the last few weeks was in this book. It talked about all the things you were trying to tell me, but instead of just telling me, it showed me and made me think and feel and helped me make sense of it all. And I never felt like it was preaching. I'm not even sure it was trying to preach. It's just...a story, so I let my guard down and it got under my skin. Just like Cardinal's map got to Miranda.

I don't know if you've read the book or not, but the premise is that John Cardinal is writing this extensive fantasy work and Miranda's this jaded college kid hired as a secretary to help him arrange all his notes. And she's fascinated by the fictional map and gets swept up in the book, until she realizes that Cardinal is telling the story of his life. That this character who traveled to this other fantasy world is supposed to be him. And she's got to figure out if he's using this as a metaphor, or if he's crazy, or if this other world really is a real place.

And by the end of the book, we don't know. You could read it both ways--the world in the map is either a metaphor or a real country that he’s been to. But it doesn't really matter which one is true, because the bigger truth is that Miranda knows there's something beyond the rational world that we can see. And it's not terrifying. It's wonderful. It's not this place full of monsters waiting to pounce--it's this exciting, dangerous, beautiful place to explore.

If Penny wants to know what I think of the ending, I believe that Cardinal's world is real. And I believe your story is true. I've seen evidence. That terrified me, because that means the world no longer makes sense. But the truth doesn't have to be a terrifying destruction of the reality I know; it can be an expansion of it. I don't understand why any of this happens, or how, but maybe I don't have to know how. I just need to be thankful that it did.

You said that Mercator stayed with me because I needed it more than you guys did. Maybe what I needed was evidence of the miracles you told me about. Then I wondered why Song of the Seafolk wandered away, because I very much needed it here when it was at your shop. But maybe what I needed was to write to you. The correspondence we've shared, the books you've sent me, they've strengthened me through a lot of difficult weeks. They've given me and Grandma a lot of joy, brought us back together after so many year's apart. And they've helped me straighten out a lot of questions I didn't know I was wrestling with.

There was someone's hand in all this--an author arranging all the pieces of the story in a way I'd never have been able to achieve on my own. Maybe before that'd make me feel helpless, but now, I don’t know, I guess I feel cared for. Like someone’s watching out for me.

I feel like I should thank you, and I don't know how. This is too deep for words. Thank you for writing, even when I was horrible to you. Thank you for the books. Thanks for being a part of my story.

Grandma's doing better now. If she's up for it, I think it's time for a road trip.

If you're ever going to see Mercator or Cardinal's Map again, I might have to hand them to you in person.

Love to all of you,

Christine Hendry

XXXIV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Christine,

You may not believe me, but I did not read Cardinal's Map before sending it to you. I simply had the notion that it would be the ideal book for your circumstances--and I was as surprised as you were to find just how true that was. Another gift, I suppose.

I look forward to reading it, if you can ever spare it (I look upon the book as belonging to you now). I also greatly anticipate the opportunity to see and speak to you here in the shop. I hope you will not wait long to make good on your promise.

Yours faithfully,

Ben

XXXV. Christine Hendry to the staff at Wright and Co.

Everyone,

I can't say how wonderful it was to see you all in person. You all looked just like I pictured you. Your shop is too wonderful for words. I could have moved in. But alas, Grandma and I don't have the resources for a move right now.

We'll have to continue the friendship long-distance. Now that I have the shop's phone number (funny I never thought to request it before), and your personal numbers, I suppose we can call whenever we like. But if you don't mind, I'm going to keep corresponding by letter, too.

Love to you all,

Christine

#inklingschallenge #team chesterton #genre: intrusive fantasy #theme: visit the sick #story: complete #remind me to tell you the behind the scenes stuff sometimes #maybe it wouldn't be interesting to you but it was a wild ride

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komotionlessqueenmm · 1 year

Note

What is the relationship between magni and modi’s children and their family?

Man you really took me up on my offer huh? Awesome! Let's get to it!

Headcanon/Preference # 14

Picture NOT mine.

*I took a unique approach to this one for the hell of it, you'll see what I mean in just a moment.

• Haha dear reader we are now cousins! Remind me, which one is your father again? And which one is mine? Hell even they can't tell us apart at times!

• We are often mistaken by strangers as being siblings rather than cousins, because of how close we are.

• Thick as thieves! Damn dear attached at the hip! At least now we are.

• We resented eachother when we were little, often getting into fights that escalated very quickly.

• And according to Sif our fathers fought all the time as well when they were still little.

• But we've both grown since then, and no one or anything can come between us now!

• Oh yeah let me circle back real quick on one little subject.

• It's not that they are bad fathers, and that's why they can't seem to remember who's kid is who's. It's because since we were 10 we've been literally inseparable.

• And they're also super close, so we all just kinda live like one big family, and we have for so freaking long.

• Over time they just started claiming us both as their kid, and we just started calling them both our father.

• And after a few hundred winters, we kinda just forgot who was actually who's.

• Well everyone except for you it seems, you always claimed that you remember.

• But me being the playful jerk-face that I am, I always make you second guess yourself on that one.

• (Are we sure Loki isn't my father!?)

• But I am honestly very curious after all this time.

• So I promise on grandpa Thor's beard that I won't tease you, and make you second guess yourself.

• So please remind us all, who is your blood father, and who is mine?

• Regardless we are close, and we are close with our fathers. And surprisingly we are close with our grandfather Thor, and his brother Baldur.

• Baldur never really got along with our father's all that well, but we just kinda clicked with him.

• Don't get me wrong he gets annoyed when we cause mischief, but he wouldn't start a fight with us like he would with just about everyone else, he'll just ignore us until we start acting right. (and apologies for annoying him!)

• We were close with Sif, but were not as close with her as we used to be. We're just a little to rowdy at times.

• You think she'd be used to that being Thor's wife, and raising our fathers. But I guess not.

• Odin can be tender at times, but the older we get the colder he gets. An unsurprising thing, but a little disappointing nonetheless.

• Now our fathers never got along with Mímir, while we on the other hand really enjoyed his company.

• And we often sneak off to Midgard to visit him, listening very intently to his stories.

• He was a bit rude the first time we went to see him, but when he realized how caring we are compared to so many others, he couldn't help but find friendship in us.

• Training with our fathers is rough! But as time goes on we get better and better. And one day we shall be a truly formidable team.

• We convinced Baldur to train with us once... Bad idea... He really kicked our asses, and he was going easy on us!

• Thor never trained with us, but he enjoys watching us train when he has the time. And if you are alert enough you might be able to catch a glimpse of his proud grin.

• We both had mortal mothers, and we never knew them. Our fathers said they had died giving birth to us, which could definitely be true.

• I mean giving birth to a god isn't easy, especially if you're mortal, their frail little bodies just can't handle it and they often die.

• But knowing them they could have very well just took us from our mother's and abandoned them gods only know where.

• In summary our family is dysfunctional as can be, but we are like siblings, and we shall always be each other's greatest allies.

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jackiesarch · 8 months

Text

— UQUIZ DOUBLE FEATURE

tagged by @corvosattano to run some awful children through these uquizes. my favorite nightmares, on display for you here, macy.

tagging @unholymilf @adelaidedrubman @shallow-gravy @chuckhansen @leviiackrman @queennymeria @risingsh0t @loriane-elmuerto @confidentandgood @roofgeese @shellibisshe @nightbloodbix @florbelles @indorilnerevarine and anyone else who wants to play!

— THE SUPPORTER

oh gentle comrade, you know what it takes to make others shine. you live your life assisting others to reach their goals, but many say you are lackluster and unnecessary. but alas, do we need the stars any less for their dim light helps the moon glow brighter! you are warm inside and out, perhaps made of sunshine one might ask? but I can see you are as weary and worn as the hero you so desperately cling to. your purpose is to serve? Is it not? it's those moments of undying loyalty that make your bones ring true with honor. "I am right beside you," you whisper, for unlike the ones who lie through their teeth you will be with your ally through joy, through heart ache, through death. it is a difficult thing to gain your trust back if one has shattered it though, you are forgiving yes? you give many chances, but alas, one can only look away from a wrong doing so long. you can't exactly turn your other cheek as once wrings a blade through your middle. you are made of a steadfast heartbeat and a tired, knowing smile. you bring solace to the aching, and comfort to the wronged. but what happens when your protagonist loses? what happens when your valiant heroes fail you? will you pick up a sword and vanquish their enemy or will you wait patiently for yet another savior to appear and save the day? one must live long enough to see their heroes die. but are you brave enough to take their place? the only strings that bind you to your oaths of subservience are your own doubts. "am I good enough?" they whisper in your ears. you answer that yourself love. for the only difference between the paladin and the stable boy are mettle. it is not the question of can you be a hero. it is simply, will you be?

THE LATE NIGHT TALK

Oh. you figure it out when you realize just how vulnerable they are willing to be with you. it isn't everybody who could or would stay up talking into the night with you, not with such affection or easy familiarity. it isn't everybody who is so understanding of you. it isn't everybody who could bare their soul to you in return. that kind of intimacy... it means deep foundations. it means comfort. it means trust. maybe it's a secret, maybe it's a story, maybe it's something you just never thought of before -- but they say something, late at night, and you realize all at once how remarkable they are, and how special it is to exist in the same time and space as them. "oh" indeed.

— THE RISING UNDERDOG

why hello again dearie, I see you managed to help those frogs those children were kicking, hm? oh how much I can emphasize we are but the ghosts of our childhood passions. and, unsurprising enough, the hero to the trodden little creatures of the earth is now a rising golden savior to the masses. oh love, I said you'd go far, didn't I. for the good always prevail in the end, somehow, they do. you lived a difficult life, I know, but you never let that get you down. you took beatings with a grin, and dished back kindness in return. inequality and injustice made you outaged, and you strove to assist the hurting and abused. oh shining dragon, you are bathed in golden light. please keep being true. you have tasted blood and death, but you refused to force it down the throats of others. and that alone proves there is inchor in your veins, demigod. you will be struggling until the very end, battling for your comrades, your people, and yourself. never lose sight of your goal my dear. sometimes you needn't have one, except see the good, and protect it. that is all my advice can tell you. I implore, protect the goodness in yourself with everything you have, but never refuse to share it also. young hero, you are growing. you are destined for wonders even I may not live long enough to encounter. keep up the good work, and keep your head held high. you are bound to do the impossible, all because you see the truth. there is good in the world, and it deserves to be found.

— THE KISS

you typically wait until the last second to believe the truth--because it would destroy you to believe it, and then find out it was a lie. you are someone who has never wanted to want, but has rarely been able to do anything else. the idea that you might have to break down your walls for the sake of someone else, someone who could easily decide they don't like what is on the other side, is harrowing. why let people get close enough to be rejected? you are enough for yourself. and you tell yourself that every time you catch yourself staring at their mouth, smirking at their joke, finding a reason to flick their shoulder. until the kiss. that's when the flood of want, want, want bowls over you and you realize that you are torn between two ways of living. Oh, you think. because despite how complicated you have made it, the moment you kiss, somehow, things seem incredibly simple. they won't be once you start thinking again, but for now, for this moment, you live in the quiet peace of revelation. Oh.

— THE ANTIHERO

ah yes, hello edge lord. it is lovely to see you again. you my dear, are the incarnation of duality, and you might think of claws and venom mixed with grace but alas, nothing near as poetic. you my friend, are mixture of what is seen as right, and what is questioned. you follow the path of your own two feet, you know the twists and turns of life's forests quite well if I do say so myself. and you can meander along them wonderfully. you strive to stay true to a certain sense of principles you might call your code, but whereas in reality, those would be your morals. people tend to see you as strange. sharp edged and glinting you hide behind a cloak of chain mail but really you just prefer to show off your imperfections first. unlike many who scramble to make it as if their flaws never existed, you proudly raise yours up. saying, "this is me, this is the worst of me, now you know what to expect." and might I say, it is quite an intriguing mindset, for truth be told, the ones that love your spikes and craters are the ones who appreciate your softness the most. you wish not to be loved as something lovable, but as a monster. for aren't we all just beasts in human skin? you are brave, but you are lonely. you know quite well how to scare off most, making even the heroes with the boldest bravado creep away with their tails between their legs. you are not a villian, sometimes you play the part a bit too well. but nevertheless you are no hero either. you put yourself first, but if one wins your trust then may the gods have mercy on those who might wrong them. you long to be a poetic mess of sorts, and well, if the ink sets in long enough you might just become that sooner or later. but for one who is so dead set on truth you sure do hide a lot don't you? please, step out of the shadows, there is a difference to not making your flaws visible and to simply acting as if you're the most despicable person in all the realms. it's because you're afraid of attachment is it not? well let me tell you a little secret, everyone is. you say you wish to be left alone for eternity but than why are you craving connection. you wish to be known and understood truly, but you snarl and push the ones that might be trying away. please little wolf, accept you are lovable. you are not some ravenous beast that terrifies the multitudes, sure, you are not for the faint of heart but that does not make you an inkling less perfect as you are. young antihero, step into the sun. you would do better actually reaching for the things you want rather than pining for them in the darkness.

— THE MISSED OPPORTUNITY

this one comes with a pang. it is the wrinkled brow of something unpleasant sinking in. they've left to find some new adventure. or they've met someone else. and you have only just begun to understand their true importance to you. you watch them drift toward a future without you, and in that stark numbness of their absence, it hits you. Oh. oh, you want them close. you hopelessly, selfishly want them all to yourself. you'll support them no matter what, but you don't want them to want a future that doesn't involve you. you want them to read the near-invisible signs of your love and decide to take a chance on you. you never want to say that you *used* to know each other. so what are you going to do?

—THE FALLEN PRODIGY

hello old friend, it's been a while hasn't it? I remember when you were just a child, gape-smiled and beaming like the sun. where have you laid your youth to rest my love? is it buried beside your heart perhaps? I know how deeply life has wounded you, it took away everything, didn't it? oh poor soul, you held onto happiness with bloody, shaking hands but still fate ripped even that away from you. your past lovers are dead or did some betray you? turning away in fear of what they once admired. your comrades have been slain, or their priorities shifted. I've heard you too have changed your way of thought. the people fear you know, do they normally cower at the sound of your name? ah don't fret, that makes two of us. the masses tend to despise the things they do not have the will to comprehend. the villian finds sympathy for you don't they, well I could have seen that from a mile away. you two are the oldest friends, you made a deal with them correct? to save your late love, they tried to hold their end of the bargain, really, but I fear you are cursed to forever be despondent. oh what a sad and miserable life without love. is that why you chase loneliness? for is it truly a life of sorrow if you yourself has chosen it? but don't become bitter from the pain. trust when I say I have seen wounds unfold a man, turning the gentlest spirits into seething beasts. please, keep seeking love, even if it seems you are forbidden from it. you are the master of your own fate, I see how tired you are. the scars never healed, they twist and wrap around your entire person. your eyes are dark and lifeless, rest. but keep fighting, not with the sword you have forsaken so long ago, but with your heart. I'll be rooting for you my friend.

— THE EMERGENCY

something goes wrong. there's urgency. everything gets turned upside down, and you have to grab for the things that matter most-- Oh. suddenly, there's perspective, and at the worst possible moment, the moment when there is so much else going on, you realize that you have been breathless with want for so, so long. you want everyone to be safe, but please, please, you want them to be safe. you want everything to be okay so that you can have another chance to get things right. a chance to start over. and everything will be okay, of course, because you've made it through bad moments before, and that foundation of trust is there, even if you've never quite acknowledged it to its full potential. you trust them. you need them. Oh.

#olly. yeah.#sorry to drag you kiddo.#oc: oliver sinclair #oc: ryan carr #oc: isabel maretti #oc: jackson shay

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inafieldofdaisies · 9 months

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2 in 1 uquizzes

#1: What is your OCs true role in the story?

#2: The "Oh" uquiz

the rising underdog: why hello again dearie, I see you managed to help those frogs those children were kicking, hm? oh how much I can emphasize we are but the ghosts of our childhood passions. and, unsurprising enough, the hero to the trodden little creatures of the earth is now a rising golden savior to the masses. oh love, I said you'd go far, didn't I. for the good always prevail in the end, somehow, they do. you lived a difficult life, I know, but you never let that get you down. you took beatings with a grin, and dished back kindness in return. inequality and injustice made you outaged, and you strove to assist the hurting and abused. oh shining dragon, you are bathed in golden light. please keep being true. you have tasted blood and death, but you refused to force it down the throats of others. and that alone proves there is inchor in your veins, demigod. you will be struggling until the very end, battling for your comrades, your people, and yourself. never lose sight of your goal my dear. sometimes you needn't have one, except see the good, and protect it. that is all my advice can tell you. I implore, protect the goodness in yourself with everything you have, but never refuse to share it also. young hero, you are growing. you are destined for wonders even I may not live long enough to encounter. keep up the good work, and keep your head held high. you are bound to do the impossible, all because you see the truth. there is good in the world, and it deserves to be found.

the kiss: you typically wait until the last second to believe the truth--because it would destroy you to believe it, and then find out it was a lie. you are someone who has never wanted to want, but has rarely been able to do anything else. the idea that you might have to break down your walls for the sake of someone else, someone who could easily decide they don't like what is on the other side, is harrowing. why let people get close enough to be rejected? you are enough for yourself. and you will tell yourself that every time you catch yourself staring at their mouth, smirking at their joke, finding a reason to flick their shoulder. until the kiss. that's when the flood of want, want, want bowls over you and you realize that you are torn between two ways of living. Oh, you think. because despite how complicated you have made it, the moment you kiss, somehow, things seem incredibly simple. they won't be once you start thinking again, but for now, for this moment, you live in the quiet peace of revelation. Oh.

the way both fit her so well... ooof ❤️

the one at the crossroads: questioning yourself again? well it's a hard choice is it not. you always decide you've made your mind but you seem to nevertheless return to this state of uncertainty. are you good or evil? dark or light alas? alas, I am not fit for such details in morality. In my slightly skewed sight of it, neither truly exist. they are but a mindset, but mindset or not, they still give you quite the anxieties hm? you are one who has lived in fear, your heart is hidden, and you don't know who to trust. you doubt you can even trust yourself. the caustic words of poisonous people have corroded into your skull. "you are evil. you are a monster. you are bad." well that is indeed a bunch of poppycock, mind my language, for the only one who may decide that is you. my dear, you are torn between never allowing others to hurt the ways you hurt, and from running away from all who might harm you again, with gnashing teeth. you are a cornered animal who has been kicked by the ones it trusted. you do not know whether to trust again, for your mind is screaming, don't. but if I may, you can be both. it is not the question of whether you are good or evil, it is the question, what do I deserve and how might I reach that? you do not deserve pain, correct? so never chase that, instead kindly decline and flee from those like your past assailants, but trust the ones who you know are good. sometimes you will find people to be a messy combination of both pain and love, but so are you and I. my advice is to simply be kind, but be willing to question. always question, always wonder. do not give away your heart on a silver platter my dear, it is worth far more than the sun himself, but don't fail to allow healing. you deserve good things in life. so as you stand between two roads, walk between the third you just now have noticed. life seems to be made of entirely preposterous choices, but if you look close enough, you'll reveal the right ones that are normally hidden from sight. breathe my dear, things will be well. trust yourself, and carve your own path.

the emergency: something goes wrong. there's urgency. everything gets turned upside down, and you have to grab for the things that matter most-- Oh. suddenly, there's perspective, and at the worst possible moment, the moment when there is so much else going on, you realize that you have been breathless with want for so, so long. you want everyone to be safe, but please, please, you want *them* to be safe. you want everything to be okay so that you can have another chance to get things right. a chance to start over. and everything will be okay, of course, because you've made it through bad moments before, and that foundation of trust is there, even if you've never quite acknowledged it to its full potential. you trust them. you need them. *Oh.*

Fitting as hell, but that "emergency" result gave me chills 💔

the supporter: oh gentle comrade, you know what it takes to make others shine. you live your life assisting others to reach their goals, but many say you are lackluster and unnecessary. but alas, do we need the stars any less for their dim light helps the moon glow brighter! you are warm inside and out, perhaps made of sunshine one might ask? but I can see you are as weary and worn as the hero you so desperately cling to. your purpose is to serve? Is it not? it's those moments of undying loyalty that make your bones ring true with honor. "I am right beside you," you whisper, for unlike the ones who lie through their teeth you will be with your ally through joy, through heart ache, through death. it is a difficult thing to gain your trust back if one has shattered it though, you are forgiving yes? you give many chances, but alas, one can only look away from a wrong doing so long. you can't exactly turn your other cheek as once wrings a blade through your middle. you are made of a steadfast heartbeat and a tired, knowing smile. you bring solace to the aching, and comfort to the wronged. but what happens when your protagonist loses? what happens when your valiant heroes fail you? will you pick up a sword and vanquish their enemy or will you wait patiently for yet another savior to appear and save the day? one must live long enough to see their heroes die. but are you brave enough to take their place? the only strings that bind you to your oaths of subservience are your own doubts. "am I good enough?" they whisper in your ears. you answer that yourself love. for the only difference between the paladin and the stable boy are mettle. it is not the question of can you be a hero. it is simply, will you be?

the late-night talk: Oh. you figure it out when you realize just how vulnerable they are willing to be with you. it isn't everybody who could or would stay up talking into the night with you, not with such affection or easy familiarity. it isn't everybody who is so understanding of you. it isn't everybody who could bare their soul to you in return. that kind of intimacy... it means deep foundations. it means comfort. it means trust. maybe it's a secret, maybe it's a story, maybe it's something you just never thought of before -- but they say something, late at night, and you realize all at once how remarkable they are, and how special it is to exist in the same time and space as them. "oh" indeed.

My boy getting the "supporter", ah, man. But also, the late-night talk result is so fitting for his ship.

the first meeting: life is normal. it's scripted. it's functional. then one day, you meet them, and... Oh. you fix your posture, you're a little nervous, and it's totally possible you're just projecting -- but this could be something. and the only thing that makes this different from the hundreds of other times you had that exact same thought only to be disappointed is... this is the time that counts. things change. you were looking for someone whose very existence re-contextualized yours. which is not to say that you were incomplete, but... aren't we all? isn't that the essence of being a being who changes? and what completes us if not the love of something or someone beyond us? sure it's still new, and anything could happen from here, but there's something in your shared brain chemistry that makes it feel like good things are in motion. how exciting!

Les is nothing if a supporter :D The first meeting? Hmmm. 👀

Tagging, @socially-awkward-skeleton @jillvalentinesday @direwombat @josephseedismyfather @corvosattano @chazz-anova @josephslittledeputy @g0dspeeed @cassietrn @nightbloodbix @madparadoxum @aceghosts @theelderhazelnut @voidika @strangefable @adelaidedrubman @clicheantagonist @purplehairsecretlair @poisonedtruth @henbased @florbelles and anyone that would like to do the tag ❤️

#the results of these are so fitting; esp how the second one matches the ships dynamics... ❤️❤️❤️#uquiz #oc: sabrina donovan #oc: calahan hartley #oc: mercedes “mercy” sibley #oc: leslie parish #fc5 ocs #far cry 5 deputy #uquiz results #oc character #fc5 deputy #character reference #character inspiration #oc game #oc uquiz #tag games #far cry 5 oc

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rosaren2498 · 1 year

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Encouragement From Unsurprising Places

This is a sequel to my story ‘Nightmare or Memory’ and I have two others written already; they will be posted soon, likely later today (it’s almost 1 in the morning where I am.)

I made 4 posts that started with what I wanted out of a Dark!Dream x Reader fic that pretty much just became what I wanted out of a Dream x Reader fic so... here it is. There will be some minor differences but this and the others are what I want. It’s self-indulgent as fuck and if you don’t like it, don’t read it.

This is also on my Ao3, as will be the other two, in case you prefer Ao3 (like I do)

Warnings: Reader has Anxiety, Mentioned Trauma?

---

You absentmindedly wiped down the bar, gaze blank in that spaced-out sort of way. You couldn't stop thinking about the coat that was hanging in your closet, couldn't stop thinking about twin stars in place of eyes. You jumped when a hand tapped lightly on the bar, head jerking up and eyes wide. You relaxed when you saw Hob.

"Alright, what's going on with you? You've been distracted all week and you've been wiping down the same spot for almost twenty minutes."

You couldn't help the warmth you felt in your chest at seeing his concern, even as your face lightly flushed in embarrassment; you'd never had a better friend than Hob Gadling. "Something happened a few days ago, something kind of strange, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."

Hob's eyebrows raised and he leaned against the bar, giving you that look that never failed to make you spill every secret; how does he do that?

Your eyes darted around, but The New Inn was mostly empty now and no one was going to overhear you; it was almost closing time. Your eyes flicked back to Hob and you sighed softly, tossing the towel you'd been using onto the bartop. You placed your hands down, spread apart, leaning against the bar like Hob.

"I had a nightmare, that one I've been having since I got out?" Hob gives a brief nod, expression twisting slightly at the reminder of your trauma. "Well... it didn't end like it always does. It got to the point where Dr. Maxwell was about to, rather eagerly, defile me and I closed my eyes, but then... I heard this voice. It was unlike anything I'd ever heard before, like a rolling storm, like black velvet; deep and soothing even as it sounded angry. When I opened my eyes, Dr. Maxwell was gone, but someone else was standing there. He was... the most beautiful being I've ever seen in my entire life, and given how long I've lived, that's saying something."

You gave a slight huff of laughter that quickly trailed off as you stared down at the bar again, expression puzzled. "He undid my restraints and gave me his coat to cover myself, seeing as I had no clothes on. He showed... concern, I think? It was a little difficult to tell; he seemed pretty stoic, except for the little smile he got on his face when I talked about you. I swear, it changed his entire face, made him light up like the stars in his eyes; it was breathtaking, really. He asked about the nightmare, and I explained that it wasn't really a nightmare, more of a memory." You blinked and shook your head, looking back at Hob, who had a curious expression on his face.

"He tell you who he was?" He paused for a moment, then gave a confused smile. "Why'd you talk about me?"

You bit your bottom lip before sighing. "He's the younger brother of this woman I know, the one I told you about, Teleute? When he told me who he was, I nearly panicked. Teleute and her family are very old and very powerful beings, instrumental to the continued existence of the very universe, in fact. I've met a couple of her siblings, some I could go the rest of eternity without ever having to see or interact with ever again,

"But there are, or were, three I'd never met: her brothers. One is missing, or rather, he left their family several hundred years ago, and hasn't been heard from since; they don't talk about him. The second is the eldest of the family, and I don't particularly want to meet him; I'm a little too worried I'd get myself in a lot of trouble by punching him in his stupid, hooded face. The third... well, he's Teleute's oldest, younger brother, and the second most powerful of their family. I talked to him about you because he was surprised that I knew about him when he told me who he was. I mentioned that, while I did know some of his siblings, we also shared a common friend," you casually pointed a finger at Hob, "you."

Hob frowned, clearly confused, and opened his mouth. "I don't-"

You cut him off by waving your hand. "You might know him as Morpheus, or... Dream? About 5'10", wild hair that's dark as a raven's feather, pale as a corpse? Never smiles except with tiny little micro-expressions?" You didn't mention the rosebud color of his lips, or how utterly ethereal he looked; they weren't normal details to mention.

Hob blinked, startled. "You know Dream?"

You huffed another brief laugh. "As I said, I only met him a week ago. Anyways, he said that particular nightmare wouldn't bother me and then, before I could even respond, did this thing that made his voice echo in the room and in my head, and I woke up... wearing the coat he lent me."

Hob looked even more surprised- if that was possible- and more intrigued. "You woke up wearing his coat?"

You nodded. "It's still sitting in my closet. I... as tempted as I am to wear it- it's really comfortable- it feels kind of wrong? I'd like to return it to him and thank him again, but I don't know how to reach out to him. I'm not even sure I want to. Knowing his family hasn't really done me much good, beyond my friendship with his elder sister." You don't mention how Dream's scent is still on the coat, nor how you can't help but react to it; you can't really explain it anyways.

"I can let him know you want to talk to him when I see him next. We aren't just meeting every century anymore, which is great. Usually, it's at least bi-weekly, but sometimes he gets a little too busy with his function and it's once a month."

You paused, giving the offer, genuine that it was, its due thought. Part of you wanted to accept; you wanted to return the Dream Lord's coat and see him again. However, part of you wanted to refuse; you wanted to hold onto the coat as long as possible and now have him come looking for it.

"I'm... not sure that's a good idea. I don't actually know if he intentionally left the coat with him or if I somehow took it with me when I woke. One would actually be... really sweet, and the other would be very bad."

Hob eyed you before giving a small shrug and a smile. "If you say so. Just let me know if you change your mind."

---

The only reason finding Teleute wasn't difficult was because she tended to know when someone wanted (or needed) to speak with her. So, when you were approached by a dark-haired, dark-eyed, and dark-skinned woman with a beautiful smile and an ankh necklace, you weren't bothered, nor surprised.

"How are you, Teleute? How's your family?"

"I'm good. The family is... mostly the same. Del misses you."

You laughed lightly. "I miss her too. It's been a while since I've seen her."

You were both quiet for a moment as you stepped into a building, unseen. You stood back as Teleute performed her function, and then you were off again. You chewed on your bottom lip as you tried to figure out how to bring up what you wished to discuss; you were so busy staring at the ground that you missed how her smile faltered at your pensive expression.

"You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

You lifted your blank gaze from the sidewalk, giving her a small smile. "I know. I guess I'm just trying to figure out how to word it... You're aware of what happened to me a couple of centuries ago?"

Teleute's smile dimmed, but she nodded

"Well, ever since I escaped, I've had horrid nightmares. They've never really left me alone, ya know? That is... until bout a week and a half ago. I was in one of the nightmares that tend to reoccur the most frequently, and it was interrupted... by your little brother, Dream."

She seemed startled, but neither of you could speak for a moment as she collected and guided another soul to her realm. When she was done, you didn't give her much of a chance to actually respond, barreling through just to get it all out.

"He stopped the nightmare in its tracks even going so far as to undo the restraints and lending me his coat to cover up with. Here's what gets me though: after he introduced himself- and I provided a bit of information about myself since I recognized who he was by name- he promised that that particular nightmare wouldn't trouble me anymore and then ended it. But here's the real kicker; I woke up wearing his coat."

It was clear that Teleute was stunned, as she remained silent for a few minutes, likely thinking things over. "Has he bothered you about the coat?"

You shook your head. "I haven't heard from him since."

Teleute smiled. "Well, then it's more than likely you didn't drag it with you into the Waking; he meant for you to still have it on."

Your shoulders relaxed minutely at her assurance, but your eyebrows furrowed. "Why though?"

She waited until after guiding another soul to her realm before she answered, a teasing smile on her lips. "Maybe, he wants to see you again? Dream rarely enjoys interacting with others, but I wouldn't exactly be surprised if leaving his coat behind was simply an excuse to see you again."

You frowned slightly as you thought it over; everything Hob and Teleute had told you about the Dream Lord made the idea sound... accurate; you almost laughed, but it felt like you were missing something important. "So I should tell Hob to let him know I'd like to see him?"

She smiled wider. "If that's what you want. You don't have to seek him out, you know."

"I feel like if I don't seek him out, he'll seek me out. And... maybe I want to see him again too. Even if I would like to keep the coat; as I told Hob, it's very comfortable."

Teleute laughed and you smiled in return, continuing to walk with her for a little while longer, before splitting from her. When you were far enough away, you pulled out your phone and texted Hob, letting him know it was okay to tell the Dream Lord that you wanted to meet up.

A few days later, Hob finally texted you back with a time and a place- four o'clock at a park not far from your flat- to meet up with the Dream Lord. You bit your lip as you debated with yourself, staring into your closet. Something in you said to wear the coat to the meeting spot; you could always exchange it for something else when he showed up.

Mind made up after a few more minutes of internal debate, you slipped the dark coat over your navy blue blouse; you enjoyed how it was long enough to fall to your feet, covering your jean-covered legs as well. You didn't button it, but you did drape another coat- one of your own- over your arm. You did your best to tame your hair, which really wasn't all that difficult, and left your flat.

Upon arriving at the park, you noticed it was mostly empty; normally, this would unnerve or unsettle you, but not today. You started to stroll around the park as you waited for him to show, taking deep breaths of the cold air; polluted or not, it was better than stale air that tasted of blood.

Abruptly, you could feel eyes on you and you stopped, dropping the coat that had been in your arms. There was a presence at your back, causing the hair on the back of your neck to stand at attention; it was powerful and would usually be terrifying, but you could recognize it. Then you heard his voice again.

"You accept my claim, then."

A shiver rolled down your spine at his voice, even as you frowned in confusion; what claim? Before you could respond, sand was whirling around you, blocking your vision. When you could see again, the Dream Lord was standing in front of you, unfathomably dark eyes staring into yours; you knew, without a doubt, that you weren't in the Waking anymore.

#hob gadling #death of the endless #mentioned dream of the endless #mentioned trauma #reader has anxiety #good friend hob gadling #good friend death of the endless #morpheus x reader #morpheus x you #dream of the endless x you #dream of the endless x reader

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asukaskerian · 2 years

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you know the fusion dance in dbz and steven universe, except it’s a naruto founders fic

been a while since i barfed out a weird concept oneshot, huh. i think i read a very good BNHA fic with this topic at some point but it was like last year and... handwave handwave it’s written now, deal with it.

3k, gen, tobirama&hashirama&izuna&madara.

... someone give me a tiiiiiiiitle T^T

"And as a mark of new alliance and the forging of bonds of brotherhood, let us now become one in truth."

Tobirama has been braced for this for weeks. Has worked on his feelings and his convictions and his memories, meditating and reframing and just, reminding himself. He is as calm and accepting as he can possibly be in the situation.

Which isn't very, but hopefully, it will suffice.

Nobody can reasonably expect him and Izuna to grin and clasp a hand to their opposite number's wrist and give barely a quick swing around their new anchor point, their new center of gravity, and just like that be a single being. Not like them.

"Ah! This is a fantastic day to be born in." The person his brother and Madara have become has longer hair than Mito and Madara combined, falling in smooth ebony sheets and trailing to the ground; he beams like Hashirama but toothy like Madara, a second pair of arms branches out of his back like wings, and when he turns with all four hands on his hips to stare at Tobirama and Izuna in turn his eyes are narrow and -- very strange.

Not that Tobirama has any time to look at them.

"Auspicious, my lord, very auspicious," one of the Senju elders says, looking half-displeased and half-resigned. "May we have your name, to record this momentous occasion properly?"

"I," the fusion says self-importantly, "am Buchikotoji."

He chose the kanji of Hashirama's name that didn't have any trace of Senju tradition, of course. Unsurprising.

"Do you think they had secret meetings to name him in the last week, or?" Izuna mutters from the corner of his mouth to one of his clansmen, pretending to smile. "He came up with it so fast."

Tobirama isn't meant to overhear and he knows it, but he can't help but snort and mutter back, "If you think this is the first time they fuse, I have a bridge to sell you."

He's pretty sure their first time was when they were still kids. There were several years during their early adolescence in which Hashirama didn't fuse with Tobirama at all. Back then he thought it was grief from knowing they would never be Juuhigebanma with Kawarama and Itama again, but it might have become a convenient excuse not to let it slip at some point.

He takes a deeper breath. Alright. After the show their brothers just put on, he can't be seen to balk. "Our turn, then."

He takes a step forward and holds out his hand. Izuna clasps it. Nothing happens. Tobirama pulls him in a little and Izuna's mouth tightens but he steps forward, and nothing keeps happening; and Izuna snorts and sweeps his free hand up to shape a hand seal.

After a very long fraction of a second thinking it's an attack, the expected betrayal, Tobirama recognizes it as the Dog seal -- the start of a water jutsu. Snorting back, he shapes a Tiger seal; then they sweep under their still linked wrists in a knife-handed attack that misses the other man's cheek by an inch at most. With their level of precision it was never a serious attack. A threat shaped like a game, or a game shaped like a threat.

This parody of a dance is actually extremely ridiculous, and therefore funny. He snorts, then chuckles out loud, once. Oh, he's much taller now, but almost spindly. One of his arms splits at the elbow into two forearms, two left hands. He wonders if he could one-hand-seal a water bullet with it while the other two make a katon and then merge them for superheated steam; that could be devastating, especially if he can shape the steam.

"Brother...?" Buchikotoji is laughing at him.

He frowns back, lip jutting out in thwarted pique. "What? Oh. My bad, my bad, I was thinking."

Oooh, Buchikotoji is shorter than him. This is amazing.

"About?" Buchikotoji asks, as if he can't tell from his beloved little brother's conciliatory smile that he's vaguely started planning something.

"Oh, terrifying jutsu. You know how it is."

The same Senju old fart clears her throat. "My lord heir? Have you a name yet?"

... Oh, right. He's two people. Tobiizu sounds stupid and also he knows that Tobirama's kanji don't fall out like that and neither do Izuna's.

He's not Senju -- he's a little Senju -- he's half-Senju really but what side is the mother, obviously that would be Izuna as he's slenderer and prettier of face which is not a compliment, fuck you, and Tobirama is younger (by nine days!) so traditionally he's the one who should bottom and... he's about to break apart without having given out his name to be recorded and after all the bullshit they went through to get here he is damn well fucking not falling apart until their task is done. He's ambivalent about this peace -- they both are, of course he'll betray him... self? Of course there'll be problems, it's ridiculous to think there won't be, but Tobirama gave it everything he had to iron out this treaty and Izuna wants to rub it in all the Uchiha elders' faces that he can hold on, that they must follow Madara, that...

Anyway so apparently he's not going to be anything-ma either.

"Hitsuna," he says decisively. The rope tying a door closed? Hah. He's certainly stubborn enough and spiteful enough to decide on a course and keep at it, refusing all other paths. He supposes it sort of fits.

If you squint. But, hey.

It's a stupid mismatched name from two mismatched kanji because they belong to two different people, two enemies who can and will hold a truce because nobody thinks they can, but for a brief moment of spite and sadism and way too much imagination they consider staying one until it's time to choose where to go home for the night. Forcing the reluctant elders and their own brothers to deal with him -- to watch them try to pretend they like it that he loves being himself so much he does not wish to separate fills Hitsuna with wistful glee...

But they have other -- heh -- people to get into.

With a sigh, they relax out of the fusion.

It comes surprisingly smoothly, only a last little stutter as their hands come apart, like a muscle spasm; then Tobirama takes a step back out of Izuna's space.

Then they stare at each other like two cats accidentally come face to face past a corner, and give each other a stiff, formal little bow. And it's done.

It was... not as bad as it could have been. Tobirama doesn't hate the person they make. They're surprisingly similar in a lot of ways, really, and he kind of -- the willingness to tease and poke and play and get funny revenge was oddly compelling, even if he can never indulge in that. He...

"Great job, little brothers!"

He buries his elbow in Buchikotoji's solar plexus, or that's what it would be on Hashirama but Buchikotoji is about two heads taller and his arm bounces uselessly on tight stomach muscles. Growling under his breath, he submits to the side hug. Couldn't Madara have reined that in? Tobirama doesn't see him routinely molesting Izuna in public -- and, it was just a quick squeeze, already done. Huh.

... Alright, not bad either.

"Auspicious, quite auspicious," commends an Uchiha that Tobirama somehow dislikes more personally than other Uchiha elders. Even as Izuna smiles with sharp teeth, Tobirama gives a slow blink and politely nods back. (He wants to needle him.)

"Indeed. I believe Hitsuna would do particularly well on retrieval and assassination missions. Hit-and-runs and short-term infiltration, also. He is both extremely goal-oriented and highly adaptable to changing circumstances. I would not mind creating him again."

Izuna doesn't even blink, even though Tobirama knows he was surprised. "Indeed. His smarts and heightened senses would also be pretty good on a hunt. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to practice."

Tobirama isn't entirely sure what Izuna means by heightened senses. He has his chakra sensing, yes, but his other senses are baseline. His hearing is even a little off in one ear, from being too close to an explosion as a child. Hitsuna's eyes were better, true, but he figured that was the sharingan.

"Right!" Buchikotoji booms in delighted pride. His second pair of hands is raised and turned palms up to the skies like a prayer answered. "Swift and keen, of course. My brother could not be anything else."

He grins. Tobirama sighs. Of course Hashirama and Madara would make each other's ridiculousness worse.

His eyes are really odd, though. That's not quite a sharingan, but he would have thought Hashirama's brown eyes would make it darker, not lighter.

"As for me," Buchikotoji declares, "I believe--"

"You're the ultimate one-man-army, a castle wall and a divine battering ram all at once," Izuna says with false gravitas, subtly teasing them. "You could not possibly be anything else. Onii-sama."

Buchikotoji chuckles, like he got the joke on him, but still found it funny. "Cheek," he chides, amused.

Tobirama wants to shoot something back, but they're still in the middle of something official and really quite serious, and he has let them ramble on unprofessionally for too long. "Buchikotoji-san. It's time for you to separate, so that we may proceed to the last step."

He gets a quick glare for that, or maybe for not calling them brother. But Hashirama is his brother, not this new person; and this new person might be Hitsuna's brother but Hitsuna is not Tobirama either. He's just... familiar. Close.

They separate in a slow, glowing wave and not Hitsuna's crackling flash. The look on Hashirama's face is melancholic already; he smiles like an apology. Uchiha Madara stares at him for a too-long second, unreadable, before he breaks eye contact and turns to the elders and the clanspeople arrayed in front of them all to witness the momentous event.

"Our turn then, Izuna-san?" Hashirama offers with an engaging smile. Tobirama somehow doesn't tense at Izuna's measuring look; if he wanted to kill someone who's ready to fuse with him he'd have killed Tobirama. Hashirama is much more dangerous in ability but much less likely to lay waste to their whole clan to take revenge for the murder of his last brother.

It goes... fairly well. Tobirama didn't think their senses of humor would match at all but when it appears the long hair is braided in whimsical patterns and it's wearing both family crests, one on each side of the chest. Tobirama doesn't think Hitsuna was wearing any crest at all; Buchikotoji's were layered on top of each other, much too merged. This fusion -- "Kotojitsuna!" -- is still aware that the Senju and the Uchiha are two different clans; and his allegiance is balanced equally, but separately.

Then said Kotojitsuna turns his speculative, four-eyed look onto Tobirama and he thinks that maybe their senses of humor fuse in the most horrible way. This? It's a sadistic "plotting a good prank" look, he can feel it. Haa.

"Kotojitsuna-san. No."

They unfuse, laughing quietly in amused chagrin.

"Was it not stable enough, my lords?" the Senju note-taking elder enquires, a touch too hopefully.

"Oh, it was quite stable. But Kotojitsuna-kun might have some, let's say, ah, whimsical tendencies..."

So, Tobirama notes to himself, to be brought out when they need a mindfuck. Snorting quietly, he steps forward, putting a stop to the interrogation. The fusions' personalities don't need to be described in the treaty. They just need to be said to be stable and useful, or not.

"Madara-sama," he greets, eyes on Madara's chin, and he wants to reach out but he's not the higher-ranked one, so he doesn't. He waits.

Madara waits, too, staring at him, until his hand shoots forward and catches Tobirama's kimono at the shoulder to reel him in.

It is not a dance.

It is not even as much of a dance as the mock-spar with Izuna, both of them well-used to the way the other man moves and strikes by now. It's a sudden fistfight -- Tobirama has no idea what the hell that idiotic man was thinking, starting them off so violently, but it's a spinal reflex to counter the grab and strike back, and by the time he realizes, they're already three parries in. His heart is loud in his ears and they've jumped to a wider-open place so they won't trample their brothers and they both grit their teeth and punch and swipe, never stepping out of arm's reach.

Tobirama wants to step back out of range, but that would defeat the purpose, so he grits his teeth and keeps close.

It's ridiculous, it's not peaceful, not trusting, not a -- if it's a conversation then it's one through gritted teeth on opposite sides of a table. It's the last attempt to find common ground before it all breaks down, restraint keeping it this side of an actual fight instead of a spar but only just, it's wasting all the effort he made to believe in his brother, to hope, and he's -- he's surprised. At himself. It's not a relief that it's probably going to be war again.

It's not what he wanted but if it's what's offered to him, if they have to fight their way out of it then he will lead the charge, but he's so disappointed.

Was there anything he should have done differently? He can't concede more without bending over, or can he? Is it --

Is it his fault?

If it is.

Then he'll take responsibility for it. For the failure and the ruin of hope and the lives of his people that he can still salvage. If he --

If there's a hard decision to make, he will make it. He won't let his (elder/too-trusting/younger/I-told-you-so) brother shoulder the weight of his failure. He won't...

He's standing in the middle of the field, thirty paces away from the gathered watchers, his clanspeople staring tense with hands on weapons they aren't supposed to have. None have drawn yet, though some are too close. Threat levels and angles of attack flash through his mind as he takes them in.

The threats to his people are...

All of them.

All of them are threats, both sides, because they fused.

His brothers worst of all, people he loves, but that he still must/shouldn't ever kill.

They almost tear apart over this, over Hashirama's fearless care and Izuna's aggressive wariness (both threats for different reasons), almost -- but.

It can't fail now.

He can't fail his brothers now.

"Ahh... Fusion-san?"

Elder. So pleased. So hopeful.

Threat.

Smug, traitorous threat.

... but killing her off would run them right into the trap she laid, the ending she hopes for, and oh, they can do better than that.

They smile.

They have absolutely no idea why every single elder and about half of their forces take a step or five back. Mm. None at all.

"Ah... This is terrifying," Izuna drawls, a hand resting loose and heavy on the pommel of his sword. "The worst idea anybody's ever had in the entire universe!"

"There's the time Tobirama tried to figure out how to use the corpses of his enemies as self-directing meat puppets," they drawl (Tobirama didn't want it known -- his clan already suspects -- they said tried, didn't they? It'll be fine. It's fine if they fear him more.)

"He was young!" Hashirama protests, laughing, though his eyes are -- wary/worried. "He was young and had read too many ghost stories. So... How are you doing -- brother?"

Not little brother. Not friend. Just -- sibling, twice over. It aches. "Fantastic."

"The start was a little rough, though?" another elder, from the other clan, asks, and --

They smile again, taking long, ambling steps back to the group. It's funny that they have just four limbs, perfectly balanced. "We just had to figure out something to agree on. And there you have it."

Izuna makes a show of sighing, of leaning a casual elbow on Hikaku's shoulder. "Yes, yes, sadism and world domination. Have you got a name yet?"

It's not hard to come up with one. Madara's name only has one kanji and he'll be damned if they use the Bushi reading, name himself with such a cumbersome, ridiculous samurai allusion. What is he, a bumbling rampaging honorable avalanche of a man? Damned Buchikotoji...

"Hiban." Short and to the point.

He catches the meat of Izuna's cheek between index and thumb and starts twisting a little bit.

"--Ow, what the hell! Aniki what the fuck--"

... Aniki.

It's -- not niisan. It -- good, no, he wants niisan, he was niisan and never again, not with Izuna, even though -- no.

"Living up to the first part of your expectations, dearest brother."

"Ow -- ow, ow, it was a joke, you're the nicest person ever, how is your grip this strong, I'll bruise--"

Oh, so that's how healing jutsu feels. Very odd. Very... Hrrmph. But he doesn't want Izuna's cheek bruised. He -- brother -- elders watching, and he's being too familiar with -- no, to hell with them, the village is happening, it's happening right now, they cannot stop it anymore.

He taps Izuna's healed cheek with smug haughtiness, relishing the glare, the barest hint of a pout, quickly bitten back.

"Is -- is this fusion -- useful, then -- Hiban-sama?"

Hiban tilts his head, a wild lock of slate-gray hair falling to the side, considering the question.

Considering the man who asked it, all the others who didn't have the courage to ask, threats and traitor-hopefuls and righteous-but-rightfully-terrified.

The chakra crackling in their coils that he can sense and see with such a depth of color-feel-intention, elements and emotions. The starry-night scattering of tenketsu and the fear--

And his brothers, standing there, watching him with their eyebrows knit in vague, 'what will we do with you' worry.

"Oh, yes."

He smiles.

"Very useful."

He thinks, but doesn't say, 'Pray you never find out how much.'

He thinks everybody present hears it anyway.

#asuka writes #naruto #tobirama #hashirama #izuna #madara

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ao3cassandraic · 2 years

Text

So, Shax's outfit...

All we know about Shax at this point, other than that Miranda Richardson is playing her (WHICH IS A LOT, ngl), is in the one photo that has been released. Quite a bit is sewn up in her outfit. As a beginning cosplayer and longtime Richardson fan, let's look at it and send some guesses into the GOverse.

First, let's look at it. LOOK. AT. IT. That shimmery jacket fabric is absolutely stunning, and I so very look forward to seeing what lighting-that-is-not-Hell's does to it.

The jacket appears to have a shawl collar, as does Aziraphale's favorite weskit. I really think the GO costume designers do this partly to challenge and/or annoy cosplayers -- it's difficult to find shawl collars on things these days; collars are almost always notched. Look for tuxedo jackets with peplums, though; you may be able to get close.

The jacket's tight cinching and close-fit long sleeves scream "this demon is very, very tightly wound" to me, as do Shax's pointy bangs and clenched fists. Unsurprising, considering Hell, and perhaps a mirror to Crowley (even as Muriel is to Aziraphale? perhaps). The deep vee neckline with (it appears) nothing (except tape or glue, I sure hope) underneath strikes me as good-looking bravado, not unlike Crowley's.

Now. Regard the belt ornament. Looks like a cobra to me, though I am willing to be wrong! That would fit nicely with the shawl collar (roughly the shape of a cobra hood), the shimmery fabric (do an image search on cobras, if you like) and again the fang-y bangs. Set a serpent to catch a serpent!

Earrings and bracelet are fairly minimalist, but I see some Large Rings that I'd enjoy a closer look at. (I can't imagine that Shax will wear Madame Tracy's poison ring -- yes, Madame Tracy sure does wear a poison ring, look carefully at her right hand -- but gosh, it would fit with the theme here.) Another possibility is that they are a decorative analogue to brass knuckles.

I'm not entirely sure when in GO time this outfit is set. It'd work fine in modern-day, but I'll eat my Madame Tracy wig if that skirt's not calf-length or longer -- it almost has to be, just to balance the jacket -- so it could go earlier as well. (The jacket silhouette is rather 1940s; try searches on "satin peplum jacket" or similar.) I'm also not totally sure what's going on at her sides under the obvious peplum, but it appears that the peplum is longer in back and inventively pleated.

I have to say, I think Shax would make a meal of Muriel... one way or another... But it's an astounding costume. Pretty sure I can't match it -- the skirt is no problem, but I'm betting that jacket is one-of-a-kind -- but the GO cosplayverse is inventive, so let's wait and see.

Last thought: We know that Muriel is (well, was) a scrivener. Taking into consideration that Hell is substantially predicated on paper-shuffling, how important is it that Shax is standing in front of a card catalog and a lot of files? Has she been working for Dagon all this time?

#good omens #gos2 #spoilers #shax #good omens season 2 #costumes #cosplay

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lifesteal-headcanons · 2 years

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Something Small (Part 5)

Except it’s 11:12 PM and I’ve given myself permission to go nuts and elaborate on the “incident w/ Clown” that I mentioned in like, my second ask/part 2. Anyways, let’s start before I end up leaving this ask in the back of my mind. Again.

So there’s this ‘little’ thing with hybrid in which their own instincts can somewhat cause other hybrids (especially those of the same type) to have their own instincts come to the front, if that makes sense. To give an example, if two Avians hybrids are preening one another; while the other is completely out of it and riding an instinctual wave(from being preened), the other might be making more vocal “bird noises” and more (to a lot) more inclined to participating in hybrid behaviors like nesting and such. If say the other avian, for whatever reason, didn’t want to let the other into their nest, it wouldn’t be unsurprising -nor uncalled for- the other avian to make a nest next or nearby to the other avian. Though, like most things in life, the amount hybrids will be affected by things such as their instinct and this ‘instinct’ ride is very much varied. Some people within the MC universe should take well with a lesson of it.

Now just pair a Vulture hybrid who tends to get widely overwhelmed by their hybrid instincts and a shapeshifter who is easily affected by others instincts, and you’ll have yourself a ClownPierce and a Branzy.

Something that Branzy did learn after accepting the “oh I’m a shapeshifter” thing is that while they very much struggle to shift on command, they do shift to match a hybrid type when someone is having a day/moment where their hybrid instincts are either more prevalent or more in control. They actually “cheat” the system so to speak, when they want to transform back into a shark hybrid, they’ll go spend time with Midmysticx because normally her instincts will flair up when hanging around other people. Either way, Branzy is a whitetip reef shark and Mid’s a blacktip reef shark, I am not taking questions at this time (/j). Back on track though.

Now something that Clown pretty much kept under lock and key was the fact that it is a Cinereous Vulture hybrid. Parrot knew because Parrot had to as server admin, and whoever was acting doctor on the server would know if a situation ever would arise for them to need to know, however no one knew. Minus one other person of course, who is the reason why Clown hid its wings for as long as it did. That person, is Vort3xDragon (and I’m apologizing now if this is ooc! I have only watched maybe 1 of his videos. But my brain picked Vortex for this and is not letting go.)

Now preening for some Avian hybrids can be seen as a way to bond, being used as way to either build or mend a relationship. There still has to be some trust involved, but seeing as not every Avian hybrid is going to have access to their flock 24/7, some will use the opportunity to try and build a closer friendship with people by giving them the chance to preen their wings. It’s basic self-care and showing people you trust them, win-win right? That aside, when Clown came to Parrot asking if either he or someone he recommended could preen them (as they weren’t fully ready to let MOB do it), Parrot kinda jumped at the opportunity. Clown and Vortex, while friends, were constantly bickering and bantering with each other to the point of “this doesn’t seem all that friendly anymore” and was kinda edging on the point of arguments, so Parrot suggested it and Clown tentatively agreed to letting Vortex preen him.

The inter moment started rocky as well, with the atmosphere being tense af. Clown was very much riding a stress and anxiety high and wasn’t really responding well to any of Vortex’s attempts to break the tension and it only got worse when the preening actually started. See, Vortex (being at the time human) never got the memo on “not every hybrid reacts the same way to things as those of the same hybrid type/species would” and made a pretty damn big mistake. See while Parrot would just lie down content while being preened and chirp an coo on occasion an just take everything in, Clown gets overwhelmed by its instincts and emotions very quickly when being preened. And that tends to lead to Clown crying, hard.

(Parrot would much much later, after learning about what happened, theorize that it had something to do with the fact that Clowns wings normally are just more sensitive than most Avian Hybrids and that being paired with its anxiety/stress from everything and the fact it was it’s first time being preened from somebody outside it’s flock and they didn’t trust Vortex as much as they thought they did, made their instincts and emotions go a lot more haywire than normal. Clown’s flock says “it normally cries while being preened, and that’s okay! Fuck you if you say otherwise!”)

Now Vortex, not even halfway through Clown’s first wing yet and realizing that Clown is very crying, makes just about the worse decision he could’ve. No matter how light teases were originally meant to be, they still came out with overwhelmingly harshness and kept coming for much too long. Clown pretty much ended up shutting down for the remainder of the preening session and only moved from where they were on the floor awhile after Vortex left to curl up in their nest.

(Vortex would very much be kicking himself later on for not catching onto the fact he fucked up immediately while the session was happening. The signs were there, Clown very much wasn’t making noise anymore. Not to mention there was times it was like it’s wing would flinch or try to pull away from his hands as he was working through. He ended up apologizing multiple times to Clown, though Clown is still trying to work it out in their head whether or not they 100% forgive him or not. The inter situation was somewhat traumatizing for them and it’s a lot to process even still.)

After the session, Clown was pretty much convinced that it’s wings (and by extension, it’s hybridness) was a weakness and would only lead to it getting hurt and it overall being seen as weak because (it’s a shitshow, and I can’t figure out how to word it, but crying and macho toxic masculinity ideals is involved here. Clown was viewing emotions like crying as a weakness to a big extent) It constantly kept its wings bound underneath its clothing and didn’t tell anyone about the wings after that. It also didn’t fucking preen themselves! Like at all! It was so worried about the extremely off chance of someone finding it’s base and that even letting themselves process certain emotions and letting itself cry was a bad thing! Needless to say, it’s mental health was a shitshow throughout seasons 2 and 3 because of it. If Branzy hadn’t accidentally have managed to find out about it’s wings, it probably wouldn’t have told them despite them being in a serious relationship and Clown considering Branzy apart of its flock by that point.

Needless to say, Branzy was quick to gently (but serious and firmly) get onto Clown’s case about it and Clown ended up letting Branzy preen them. It was still a very overwhelming experience overall for Clown and still lead to them breaking down very bad during the process. Except this time an overall positive experience and lead to Clown’s hybrid instinct addled brain very much happily cuddling Branzy after it all (and unknowingly) preening Branzy back after Branzy finished its wings. Branzy ended up learning the hard way that Clown tends to head butt while being preened, and that you should either have it take its mask off or wear a fabric one if your preening them.

Either way, Clown was very fucking confused to wake up the morning after being preened to find it’s Shark Boyfriend very much no longer a shark and very much a bird like itself.

Also, something fucking stupid but I’m refusing to not mention it, Ivory and Rasplin were Clowns only flock before LifeSteal and they pretty much had a system down when it came to Clown’s preening time. One of them would lay down with clown, holding them up for the person who would actually be going through the feathers. Rasplin was normally held up Clown because Ivory had an easier time getting stuff (like gravel) out of Clown’s wings without accidentally yanking or bumping into clowns overly sensitive feathers though.

Either way, it’s uh 3:23 AM. My phone has gone from 97% to 49%. And my face hurts. I am sorry if there’s any typos or such cuz I think I’m going to cry if I keep going for much longer. Which also, sorry for essentially kinda just dumping a hysterically long ask in your ask box again,,, uh anyway, have a nice night/morning??

That’s it, that’s the ask!!

#waogh. so many words #ask #headcanon #lifesteal smp #fics

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2lim3rz · 1 year

Note

Honestly I would love to see headcanons of your OCs, I also don't mind hearing about the imperial knights or any other factions, as long as you would like to write about them, personally, I'm bad at thinking of characters to request and your OCs sound interesting!

I AM EXCITEDLY LATE TO HEAR YOUR INTEREST IN MY KNIGHTS

my woefully unheard of k ni ghts

VALMIR WESTER THE THIRD

The third some of his family (and the most pretentious since he was chosen to become a knight)

Has a fancy mustache

At one point, after seeing worlds outside of his own home, he decided "Defending my own home is fucking BORING" and decided to steal borrow his father's cash money trades to go off and conquer explore the galaxy in the Emperor's name

He canonically dies to poisoning by a jealous freeblade

Rordin Marchena

The youngest of the Marchena kids, and named after Rogal Dorn. He pilots the Herald of Honor, rumored to have seen the days of the Heresy and Rogal Dorn himself during the Crusades when he took back his planet. Later to be betrayed by his siblings Vridel and Arlina when they realized he wouldn't be swayed to chaos

He also started balding early so he just constantly shaves but makes up for it with a giant mustache

Vridel Marchena

The middle child of the Marchena family, and the token CONSTANTLY PISSED OFF ANGRY BOY of the Everlasting Conqueror, it's unsurprising he fell to Khorne with that name

Has a patent for melee only Imperial Knight fighting

No I won't elaborate except to say nowhere is safe if a giant Imperial Knight is stomping on the battlefield like a person with ants in their pants and nothing to lose

Arlina Marchena

The eldest child! Pilots the Majesty's Most Cunning and is THE MOST PRETENTIOUS BITCH

Imagine those like.. fake gemstone glammer like.. y'know those early 2000s diy kits with the gemstones n you'd bedazzle things with it? Those. But an Imperial Knight

Everything is shiny

Also considering her planet's society was that men were generally only Imperial Knights, she kinda brute forced and loopholed her way into being an Imperial Knight

It didn't help that the Majesty's Most Cunning was also VERY PICKY nad the machine spirit refused to part without her

Seriously

While Vridel merged with his in time, she.. it's..She and the MMC are kinda the SAME vERY QUICKLY

#2lim3rz chats to anonymous #OC #imperial knight #warhammer 40k

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swiftstigmata · 2 years

Note

ok wait what’s your hot take on r*ta o*a being good for him! i have heard ppl say she’s hella problematic but i don’t know specifically why ?? hit us w ur thoughts pls

I'm putting this under a readmore because I absolutely refuse to force people to read r*ta o*a discourse against their will. but the tl;dr version of this is: yes, she's an insufferable person. yes, I think he's happy with her. yes, I have recently become very parasocial. yes, this is embarrassing.

Firstly tbh I think 'problematic' is a rough term, but in short, yeah, rita (we're on a first name basis now apparently) has a long history of career success based on blackfishing. She also broke lockdown rules in Nov 2020 by paying a restaurant £5k not to report her so she could have her 30th birthday (lol. except it's not funny is it it's serious). People also find her general career annoying but honestly I don't think there's anything wrong with doing whatever you can to be in front of the camera because, like, that's her job, so let's set that aside.

I unfortunately was susceptible to the Rita Ora propaganda when this interview came out in the Independent and started to kinda...like her. In the way you like your friend's messy cousin whose drama brings joy into your life. It helps that I am obsessed with her sister Elena, who seems to be her manager, handler, PR, publicist, and best friend all wrapped into one and is literally doing that better than like...the entirety of the Marvel team. "Why is Rita Ora here what is she even famous for" IT WAS ELENA. I would also bet money it was Elena who organised the damage control Independent interview and honestly, props. Excellent mopping up after the Covid fiasco. I want to study her in a lab etc.

It really confused people when Taika and Rita started dating (late Feb 2021, if you want to know the timeline so you don't have to be crazy like me and investigate it), but my hot take is actually that this is totally unsurprising and makes sense wrt what we know about both of them & their personal lives. Now THIS is when it gets really parasocial. You asked.

They have a similar group of friends - they were friends for 4 years before "complicating things" (absolutely deranged way of putting it, Taika, thank you) - and a lot of overlapping circles. They're both loud and ambitious with a tendency to overcompensate for nerves by just getting louder and more annoying, they're both party people who drink and dance and [redacted redacted]. Taika had just gone through his (now officially self-confessed! everyone say thank you Lie Detector video) 2018-2020 mid-life crisis and was filming Love & Thunder. CRUCIALLY, they had similar childhood experiences based around culture shock and forced assimilation - if you're reading this you probs know about Taika's experiences, but the tldr of the Oras is that they fled Former Yugoslavia just before the war and moved to London. Both Elena and Rita (first name basis here is killing meeee btw) have talked about the difficulty they had in adjusting (though Rita was just a baby). The Ora management team and inner circle still to this day consists mostly of the children of fellow refugees who moved to London at the same time and are childhood friends of the sisters. Elena stepped into the management role at 18 because their parents didn't have a good enough grasp of English to keep Rita safe in the industry. SO: broadly familiar childhood experiences on both sides, plus a tendency to keep close to friends and people you trust, etc etc.

In terms of them being good together - I literally don't know these people, obviously, I've just been obsessed for two months so I have a disturbing amount of knowledge in terms of what they choose to show us. In short: they seem happy. They seem to want to do similar things - go to shows, be papped, go to parties, get shit-faced, travel, and be domestic. There's this recent picture from the Dior show where she looks so happy it made me physically recoil from the screen.

Rita also talks in the Elena Propaganda Coup interview about how she has been in consistent therapy since she was fifteen because of crippling anxiety and panic attacks, and Taika recently mentioned in the Wired Autocomplete interview that he's now in therapy ("Who is Taika Waititi? Ask my therapist, that's what we're trying to figure out." [everyone who has watched Boy 2010 breathes a sigh of relief]).

FINALLY FINALLY the recent hyperspecific leak to the Mail and the Sun (not linking because I refuse to give them clicks but..) about their probable engagement and low-key wedding reads very much to me like a strategic planting - either because they knew the story was about to leak and wanted to get ahead of the story, or because they were throwing the press a bone in the hopes that they'd be left alone for the actual wedding. ELENA STRIKES AGAIN. The fact that the Mail keeps referring to Taika as "Rita Ora's fiance" (scream....so funny on so many levels) without either team issuing a denial is half a confirmation. Taika did fully dodge the question on This Morning which made me yell bc fuck Philip Schofield but is also NOT A DENIAL. Either way the idea that they're having a tiny wedding at some point in the near future without wanting it on social media spells happiness to me (not that having a big wedding means you aren't in love. then again this is a post about rita ora I'm cancelled already). Rita obviously wants kids and a big family and everything that entails so this was a fairly predictable move for them (predictable if you are me and Zoe @wolfhalls who seem to be psychic when it comes to Rita/Taika moves. What a useless skill). I just think it's cute I guess.

BUT TO SUM UP. Yes she is insufferable. Yes she's definitely privileged and ignorant. Yes the COVID thing was absolutely stupid and feels like a hugely coked up impulsive move to me. But also yes I think the hate she gets online is totally disproportionate and mostly driven by neckbeard men on reddit and whoever the fuck it is who comments on Deuxmoi, and I also think Taika is an insufferable person too so they match! Kidding I luv him. but also. Tune in next time for the great 2016-2018 PA Scandal Timeline. (KIDDING. I will not be doing that. But you get the point). The Rita that exists in my head is my best pal the girls who get it get it the girls who gornt...gornt. Thanks for reading.

#.txt #this is literally embarrassing.#but you did ask #rita ora for all the sensible people who have her filtered on here. as you should. wish i was you #asked

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pyresrpgear · 1 year

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7, 24, 32

7. Post a snippet from a wip.

Now this is the one that is gonna take a bit. Because I have so damn many to pick from.

Since I am in a bit of a Halloween mood since I just posted a Halloween fic I am going with a different Halloween wip.

“Oh shut up. We aren't in a scary moOH MY GOD WHAT IT THAT?” Chloe shrieked as a bolt of lightning illuminated a hooded figure approaching the door. She scrambled backwards and tumbled over a couch rolling to the floor.

Another bolt of lightning revealed the figure had reached the door. The rest of the girls started screaming and clamoring over furniture for cover. With the exception of Flo and Lily. Flo sat as if she was completely unsurprised that she was about to die. And Lily seemed to simply be observing the entire scene unfold, as if she could at any moment vanish into thin air, or could if she wanted to be much more of a threat to whatever was trying to get in that it was to her. Either option was entirely plausible in Emily's mind from what she had experienced so far. Emily heard the doorknob start to rattle and she nearly leapt into Beca's lap.

“It's trying to get in!” Emily screamed.

As if in response the figure started pounding on the door to another round of screams.

24. How do you choose whose POV to write in?

I don't think I had ever really put it into words before, but I think I probably tend to pick the character asking the questions I want the reader to be asking. Or at least the character who does not have the information I want to keep from the reader at the time.

Unless of course I am writing an unreliable narrator. Then all bets are off as to what is true at any point.

32. Do you take fic requests? Why or why not?

Yes I do take requests/prompts. (I prefer them to be sent to my @pyrewrites page to keep things organized and easy to find since that is just for my writing stuff) But I make absolutely no promises on how quickly they will get done. Off the top of my head I know I have at least 2 fics on my ao3 that were submitted prompts.

As for why. It's fun seeing what ideas other people come up with and what I can do with them. I have at least a handful of wips based on prompts or ideas I've seen online. And a few of my posted works are spawned from other peoples ideas. Stacie's Mom and Is That Mistletoe? are both based on posts here on tumblr I came across and inspiration struck.

Sorry this took so long. My laptop is very old and grouchy about being online, but it's where all my writing is so I had to be able to copy paste from here.

#someofusarequeer #another asky thingamabob

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automaton-otto · 1 year

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What is your True Role in the Story?

Your Result: The Rising Underdog.

“An Underdog? Golly...ain’t that the story of my life?”

why hello again dearie, I see you managed to help those frogs those children were kicking, Hm? oh how much I can emphasize we are but the ghosts of our childhood passions. and, unsurprising enough, the hero to the trodden little creatures of the earth is now a rising golden savior to the masses. oh love, I said you'd go far, didn't I. for the good always prevail in the end, somehow, they do. you lived a difficult life, I know, but you never let that get you down. you took beatings with a grin, and dished back kindness in return. inequality and injustice made you outraged, and you strove to assist the hurting and abused. oh shining dragon, you are bathed in golden light. please keep being true. you have tasted blood and death, but you refused to force it down the throats of others. and that alone proves there is ichor in your veins, demigod. you will be struggling until the very end, battling for your comrades, your people, and yourself. never lose sight of your goal my dear. sometimes you needn't have one, except see the good, and protect it. that is all my advice can tell you. I implore, protect the goodness in yourself with everything you have, but never refuse to share it also. young hero, you are growing. you are destined for wonders even I may not live long enough to encounter. keep up the good work, and keep your head held high. you are bound to do the impossible, all because you see the truth. there is good in the world, and it deserves to be found.

-------

Your Result: The One At The Crossroads.

“The crossroads? Sheesh, it’s never that simple huh? Why do I always end up in the middle?”

questioning yourself again? well it's a hard choice is it not. you always decide you've made your mind but you seem to nevertheless return to this state of uncertainty. are you good or evil? dark or light alas? alas, I am not fit for such details in morality. In my slightly skewed sight of it, neither truly exist. they are but a mindset, but mindset or not, they still give you quite the anxieties hm? you are one who has lived in fear, your heart is hidden, and you don't know who to trust. you doubt you can even trust yourself. the caustic words of poisonous people have corroded into your skull. "you are evil. you are a monster. you are bad." well that is indeed a bunch of poppycock, mind my language, for the only one who may decide that is you. my dear, you are torn between never allowing others to hurt the ways you hurt, and from running away from all who might harm you again, with gnashing teeth. you are a cornered animal who has been kicked by the ones it trusted. you do not know whether to trust again, for your mind is screaming, don't. but if I may, you can be both. it is not the question of whether you are good or evil, it is the question, what do I deserve and how might I reach that? you do not deserve pain, correct? so never chase that, instead kindly decline and flee from those like your past assailants, but trust the ones who you know are good. sometimes you will find people to be a messy combination of both pain and love, but so are you and I. my advice is to simply be kind, but be willing to question. always question, always wonder. do not give away your heart on a silver platter my dear, it is worth far more than the sun himself, but don't fail to allow healing. you deserve good things in life. so as you stand between two roads, walk between the third you just now have noticed. life seems to be made of entirely preposterous choices, but if you look close enough, you'll reveal the right ones that are normally hidden from sight. breathe my dear, things will be well. trust yourself, and carve your own path.

Tagged by: @thelittlestdemon @onlyheartaches

Tagging: The person who just read this!

#life's little games (tagged)

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kamreadsandrecs · 1 year

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This was the most recent book I finished: The Sacrifice by Rin Chupeco. Perfect for spooky season (I read this over the long Undas weekend!), it features a Hollywood film crew going to a tropical island to film a documentary about the island’s curse. Nothing could possibly go wrong, they think - except then everything goes spectacularly, horrifically wrong. Spoiler-free review: Overall a very fun read, quite spooky in lots of places - I will never look at makahiya the same way again, and this just upped the balete spook factor significantly. Would make an amazing movie imo, given the visuals. Twists were pretty good for the most part, sometimes predictable but mostly not, and that ending was not a bad way to cap the entire story. Most importantly though, every single jerk in this story got their comeuppance, and I am so happy they did. Rating: Four Mumu and One Duwende (4 1/2) Buy here: https://read.sourcebooks.com/young-adult/9781728255910-the-sacrifice-tp.html More comprehensive rambling take under the Read More for spoilers and language.

From the moment this book started I knew whose side I was on: the mumu’s (or the Diwata’s, to give it its proper name). It’s so clear that the white people are disrespectful, and are someplace where they really shouldn’t be, that they’ve paved their way by paying bribes and by just outright ignoring what other people have told them. This is a running theme throughout the book that’s established very early on, and every time it happens I find myself wanting the Diwata to kill every single puting dayuhan that disrespects them. Eventually it’s clear that they don’t all deserve to die, but it takes a while to figure out which ones don’t and which ones do, and generally speaking the ones who do really deserve to get killed. Actually this whole book is a send-up of all the stupid things white people do when they’re abroad: disrespecting local traditions and people, taking things that don’t belong to them, and looking down on things they think are “primitive” or “beneath them” just because it’s unfamiliar or they don’t understand how something works. Also utterly unsurprised that most of the shit is perpetrated by a Hollywood film crew: a microcosm of all the things that are terrible about Americans abroad (and even in their own country, as the novel will show). I don’t want to get into specifics because spoilers, but honestly, read this book and you will be cheering the Diwata on just like I was, especially if you’re from a country that’s a former colony or, y’know, are intimately familiar with a certain type of tourist (who are not always white, it must be noted, but have privilege regardless). Speaking of the Diwata: for all that I was cheering them on, they are legitimately terrifying. There were moments throughout this novel that had me thinking that this would make for a very good movie, because damn me if I didn’t visualize certain parts in my head the same way I would a scene in a show or a movie, and spook myself out something fierce. The use of balete and makahiya as key visual components just ups the spooky factor incredibly. Now, I know balete are spooky enough on their own, but the use of makahiya was new and interesting and very very spooky. (I was also watching Guillermo del Toro’s Cabinet of Curiosities in between reading this, so my imagination was working very well indeed - especially after Episode 6.) On a more serious note, and going back to white people and colonialism: some of my friends, who read the ARC version of this novel, mentioned they weren’t quite sold on the inclusion of Cortes, a fictional Spanish soldier who traveled to the Philippines with Magellan and who’s involved in the history of the island and the Diwata. While I can see how that character can feel extraneous to everything that’s going on, I tend to think of them as a reflection of the Hemslock character in the present of the novel - something which I think works, given how Hemslock is obsessed with Cortes’ journal and the information within it, which supposedly tells him how to control the Diwata on the island. There were also some concerns about how Lapulapu was made out to be the villain in Cortes’ journal for supposedly participating in sacrifices that allowed him to “control” the Diwata and therefore helped him win against the Spanish. To my mind, though, I don’t think that’s the case, since that information comes solely from Cortes, who I consider unreliable as fuck because he’s an invader and a white man looking down his nose at anyone who doesn’t Look Like Him, so of course he would attribute Lapulapu’s success and prowess at holding onto power to a god, and not to his own capabilities as a leader and warrior. Because surely, surely this brown savage needs the help of a higher power in order to succeed against white men with guns. This ties in with what Hemslock himself thinks and does towards the latter end of the novel, where he claims that these “brown bastards” don’t deserve the power of the Diwata, and that he does, because as a white American man with a shitton of guns, he’s “better” - which is of course utter horseshit. Things do not go as he planned, obviously - much like things did not go as planned for Cortes. (What all of this reminds me of that bullshit “ancient aliens” idea: how brown people couldn’t have created things like the Pyramids and the Nazca Lines because they were “primitive” so they had help from aliens. The surface might be different, but the thought is more or less the same: racist and paternalistic all the way down.) Now, while all of the above is anger-inducing (as it should be imo), there’s also parts that are a bit softer and more heartwarming. One of the bigger underlying themes has to do with filial love and piety. It’s not obvious at first, and is only really made clear towards almost the end of the story, but I think the way it was handled was beautiful and bittersweet. There’s also the romance between Alon, the nonbinary protagonist, and Chase, the son of one of the members of the Hollywood crew. I can see where some reviewers are coming from when they say the romance was superfluous, but I thought it was rather lovely and appropriate. I appreciate that didn’t go any further than it had to, and that while it was there as a kind of sweet undertone to all horrific things that were going on, it didn’t get in the way of the horror at all. i do admit that it was a bit jarring in some places, but that was something I was able to let slide fairly easily. One thing though that I didn’t quite agree with: the use of Tagalog in the narrative. While there’s nothing wrong with Tagalog itself, it’s just weird that this island is located in Leyte, in the Visayas, and Alon, the Diwata, and some of the other minor characters are all using Tagalog. Hell, if I’m not mistaken the term “diwata” itself is Tagalog. The thing is, Tagalog isn’t much used in Leyte: they use Waray, or a form of Bisaya. So why are these very likely Bisaya characters talking in Tagalog, of all things? Likely because that’s what Chupeco’s familiar with, but surely they could’ve, Idk, talked to someone from the region to help them with this? Surely there would’ve been a lot of Waray and/or Bisaya speakers out there who would’ve been glad to give them a hand.

#books #book review #the sacrifice #rin chupeco #filipino author #filipino literature #horror

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abracaxfuckxyou · 2 years

Text

What Is Your True Role In The Story?

the fallen prodigy

the rising underdog.

the supporter

#about Taako #about Magnus #about Merle #the overdramatic wizard || taako #the soft hearted himbo || magnus #the dendrophile cleric || merle #abraca fuck you || balance verse #please do not reblog

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aschlindartroom · 2 years

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I'll just end my friendly stalking round on your lovely page with some of these get to know me emojis if you still doing it.

🔑 📖 📝 🌐🎁 aaand 📱

🔑 Key to your heart

My love language is definitely acts of service. Cook me a great meal or fold my clothes with me and I'm officially your friend. ❤️

📖 Fave book

Literally the hardest question. I think that I have a lot of favorites, but the one that comes to mind first is Hope by Glen Duncan. He has exceptional prose, and every page has a line that takes my breath away.

It's not a very popular book so I couldn't find any good quotes online, but here's one of my favorite passages from his book The Last Werewolf.

Reader, I ate him. About three hours after resolving I wouldn’t. Throughout the dull solo feast the refrain from Tennyson’s “Mariana” repeated in the hot spaces of my gorging head: She only said My life is dreary, He cometh not, she said. She said, I am weary, weary, I would that I were dead. I would that I were— Yet here was the flesh that took my teeth in helpless succulence and the warm sour fountain of blood, the puncture moment that never gets old but stops being enough. And afterwards the swollen headache of my unsurprised self, the old exhausted cognizance of all the times I’ve vowed it was the last time and all the times it wasn’t. Don’t misunderstand me: There was no guilt. Only the cavity where guilt used to be. This and the weight of my own still-hereness slumped on me like a corpse. For a long while I lay in the recovery position, eyes closed. Total self-disgust is a kind of peace.

📝 Fave quote

Probably something from Hope, as mentioned above. Ugh, WHY DON'T I JUST CARRY THAT BOOK AROUND WITH ME? I'll reblog with a good one after work.

🌐 Languages you can speak and/or are learning. Which are you fluent in?

I am horribly uncultured and therefore speak only English. I took a few years of German in high school, but all I really remember is how to count to ten.

🎁 Best gift you ever received and why

I don't pay much attention to gifts. I mean, don't get me wrong. I feel very grateful when I receive them, but I'm more interested in intangibles, and I certainly wouldn't be able to pick a "favorite." I have some carved, red monkey figurines I got when a friend was moving and those are pretty cute?

📱 Show your phone lock screen and/or home screen

My fur baby, Milo. ❤️ Precious boy.