#cow parsely
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please, o wise tumblr cool artist, teach me what you see in mcgucket. i need to see what you see in him. show me your ways -🎭
young mcgucket's rampant unchecked ocd, half casual-genius half mad-inventor streak, and southern appalachia swag captivate me
unless you meant design-wise, then his everything captivates me
this guy is a perfect specimen
#the tiny glasses#the weak chin#the billy hatcher hair#the open hippie shirt#what a guy#ask stuff#plus he drinks abandoned buckets of alien cow milk found in a field#what more could u want#is that what your question was asking though? i cant help but feel like ive parsed it wrong lol
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To become an EMT was fairly intense training. The class only lasted a semester, but it was eight hours of class per week with nearly two thousand page textbooks, hours upon hours of clinicals, and the overarching dread that people would be relying on you for life and death situations when you passed.
To become a paramedic was even harder. A two year program heavy in pharmacology and cardiac rhythm interpretation, with so many new skills piled on that it was overwhelming most of the time.
To Hyrule it was all an adventure and an honor, though, one he readily accepted.
He hadn't been expecting to use such esteemed training to be combing a cow pasture in the middle of the night, though.
"This is your fault, by the way," Aurora grumbled. "I'm never holding over for a shift with you again."
"How is this my fault?" Hyrule questioned before yelping and jumping out of the way of what could have been a disastrous footstep into a pile of unsavoriness.
"Yesterday was a calm shift," Aurora pointed out as she also jumped around some cow chips. "Eleven calls in twenty-four hours. Nobody was dying and nobody was obnoxious. Today, we ran twenty-one calls, of which two were codes, one was a drunk person cussing everyone out except for the one person he thought was an angel, a person who was convinced their banana was possessed, and this."
"Somebody drove off the road and crashed through a wooden fence into the pasture and it's my fault?" Hyrule parsed out, jumping slightly when he walked unwittingly into a wet nose. The cow stared at him unblinkingly, munching aimlessly on whatever she'd grazed. "Excuse me," he huffed, ducking around her.
"The patient has to be long gone," Aurora sighed. "I'm willing to bet they were drunk and ran as soon as this happened. They wouldn't want a run-in with PD."
"Nobody wants a run-in with Impa," Hyrule snickered.
Despite tearing through a wooden fence, the car actually hadn't sustained too much. It was likely as Aurora suspected, though - a drunk driver who was uninjured enough to recognize Impa would chew them out and arrest them, and therefore opted for fleeing the scene.
"At least the cows weren't hurt," Aurora muttered, watching one stare at her. "We're definitely attracting a crowd, though."
As his partner chuckled, Hyrule noticed that they had, in fact, attracted quite the crowd. It seemed like the entire herd had gathered at this point, all staring pointedly at the paramedics while the police continued to sweep the area.
"Uh... hi," Hyrule waved awkwardly, and Aurora burst out laughing.
Turning, Hyrule watched his step carefully, avoiding both holes and manure, before he rammed unceremoniously into something, gasping and falling backwards into his partner.
"Rulie!" Aurora yelped as she caught him. "Are you okay?"
Hyrule grumbled, regaining his balance, his heart racing from embarrassment, and then he stared at what he'd crashed into.
The fence. He'd just... walked head first into the broken fence.
Hyrule snorted. Then he fell into hysterics, his gut aching from laughing so hard. Aurora stared at him a moment and then joined in.
"Keep this up and you'll be the patient," Aurora snorted, gasping for air. She turned to Impa. "Impa, I'm taking my partner home before he kills himself!"
Their serious friend shot them a look, taking in the sight of Hyrule, who was now sporting a small cut on his forehead from the splintered wood, though it clearly wasn't bothering him as he was wheezing and bent over.
"I don't even want to know," she sighed heavily. "The driver's long since fled the scene. You two can go in service."
Hyrule let Aurora guide him as both stumbled on to the road, still laughing loudly.
Two years of training for life-and-death emergencies only for Hyrule to create his own emergencies while aimlessly wandering a cow pasture. He supposed his instructors had been right when they'd mentioned one couldn't make up half the stuff they dealt with at work.
#writing#lu in healthcare#just some silliness#when I tell you I was dying of laughter when this happened to me XD#this was within twenty-four hours of a plate shattering in my hands and cutting me so badly I could barely most my hand too#my partner was convinced I was gonna kill myself by accident that night XD#anyway Hyrule and Aurora deserve to have fun together#Aurora's a lot feistier than her sweet partner#girl stood her ground against her own family in canon so she has to be stubborn at least#I choose to make her spicy#lu hyrule#lu aurora#the votes were tied so I picked this scenario over Time finding out
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Unbound | Chapter 2, "A Strange Sort of Bard"
Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.
Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.
For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.
Summary: Lae’zel joins the group and expresses her belief that their only salvation is a githyanki crèche. Shadowheart expresses her concerns about the newest member of their troop to Áine. The group settles down to camp for the night and mingle and misstep around each other as only new companions can. Astarion begins to formulate how he can best secure some form of protection while he outruns his past.
Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC
Warnings: Lightly proofread; vague mentions of Cazador's past treatment of Astarion (content, possible spoilers); brief suggestive dialogue
Word Count: 5.1k
Listening to: Vampire Smile - Kyla La Grange
“Chk, you presume to rest while these worms in our heads will do no such thing? While they writhe and squirm until they peel our skin back to reveal new ghaik?”
Áine sighed and tried not to let Lae’zel’s charming way with words get to her more than it needed to. There was little she could do. Not only was she exhausted, she’d seen the others begin to drag as well by the time they’d gotten the githyanki warrior down from the hunter’s snare and away from the tieflings preparing to kill her.
Or try to, anyway. Áine had a feeling they wouldn’t have been the victors of that fight based solely on what she’d seen on the Nautiloid and felt in her mind’s eye when Lae’zel had connected their parasites earlier on. White-hot rage that burned even more brightly than her own.
“Yes, Lae’zel,” she sighed again, “I presume to rest. We’re useless if we’re exhausted.”
“A weakling’s rationale,” she snipped in disapproval. “Fine. We will make camp, but I will be taking the first watch. Should I see a single tentacle split your skull, I will not hesitate to end you.”
“Good,” Áine said. “I wouldn’t want you to hesitate if I’m that progressed. I swear to you I’m not interested in becoming a mind flayer.”
Lae’zel was as satisfied as she could be by that, even respected Áine’s response somewhat. Most would do anything to dodge death’s downsweeping ax, even hide their condition at the expense of their allies. Lae’zel saw that as a coward’s response and was starting to consider that, despite her insistence upon sleep, perhaps this Áine was no coward.
Still her plans of action bothered Lae’zel and if she were to travel with the group in good conscience, she had one more thing to assert.
When she crouched down near Áine, who was hunched over some tinder and striking a fire, Áine looked up at her. She met the gith’s eyes and, on contact, they bore into hers in a way Áine thought was perhaps meant to cow her. It wouldn’t work if so, but it was equally possible that this was how intense Lae’zel was all the time. Either way, she didn’t take it personally. “Yes?” she asked encouragingly.
“You think the Grove our best course of action for the removal of these ghaik tadpoles,” Lae’zel stated, one of her hands mirroring her pointed cadence with sharp, quick gestures. It was both fascinating and a little unnerving. “Our best hope of purification is a crèche. Each day we waste without seeking the aid of my people is another day we lose to the worm.”
Áine offered her a small smile and said, “Understood. The Grove is closer for now, so it makes sense to me to go there first. While we’re there, we can ask Zorru about where he saw more githyanki. If the Grove’s healer is able to get rid of our parasites, then fantastic, but if not we can work on our other lead for the crèche.” Her voice was gentle but firm. Over Lae’zel’s shoulder, Áine spotted Shadowheart glaring in their direction. Camp politics… Definitely didn’t miss this, she thought, swallowing a sigh.
“Chk, fine…,” Lae’zel grumbled, straightening up. “Your intentions carry logic. Just remember that ceremorphosis will not. And it can begin its onslaught at any moment.”
“Understood,” Áine said again, and that was enough for Lae’zel to finally leave her to getting a fire going, the petite, wiry githyanki stalking over to where one of the extra tents they’d scavenged the previous day lay waiting.
She felt eyes on her still and kept her own eyes glued to the flint in her hands as a result, not inviting further conversation until she had a few things done. She needed to set up a tent for herself, or at least pop a bedroll down by the fireside if a tent felt like too much work. Her energy was waning and she was on nearly three nights with little to no sleep, so this rest was much needed as long as she actually rested during it.
Áine had a feeling she wasn’t the only one having a bit of a sleepless streak. Gale had been a veritable grump toward the last leg of their journey before they stopped again. Shadowheart had seemed weary but overall in fine spirits until they’d come across Lae’zel again. Astarion was uncharacteristically quiet come sundown, which was when she’d finally taken stock of the party’s overall mood and suggested they make camp.
A spark flew from her next strike of the flint and finally caught on a bit of the tinder she’d collected, and she guarded the tiny flame against the nightly wind until it grew large enough to sustain itself, eventually engulfing the woodpile.
Áine sat back and ran her hands over her face, eventually just pinching the bridge of her nose and closing her eyes. Her head hurt and it didn’t feel like it had much at all to do with the tadpole so much as the stress of carrying it. And perhaps carrying the others’ expectations on her shoulders too. She hadn’t signed up to be the leader of their growing troop, but a leader she was and she felt that pressure like a boot heel resting on her neck.
“Are you alright?” It would seem Áine was having sighs for a meal today as she swallowed another one and opened her eyes to look up at Gale now standing near the fire. “Aside from the obvious, of course?”
Áine dropped her hands into her lap and gave a lift of her shoulders. “Sure. Are you?”
“I’d like to think so,” he said, the concern lingering on his face. At least he seemed in a slightly better mood now that they’d stopped. “I can handle dinner if you’d like to go rest or check on the others or whatever you’d like to do. You could even see about fixing up that lyre we found.”
Áine smiled, appreciating that he was trying to be helpful. “Thank you, Gale. Just shout if you need any assistance, yeah?”
“Will do,” he chuckled. “I do enjoy cooking though, so it’s my pleasure to take charge of that for as long as we journey together.”
“I’ll leave you to it then,” she said, standing and brushing off her trousers as she left the fireside to find her pack and decide how she was going to handle her sleeping arrangements.
Nearby, over the edge of a book he’d plucked from a decrepit wagon in their day’s travels, Astarion eyed their leader’s conversation with Gale and her retreat to set up her tent, he imagined. There was a chance that they would be “relieved” of their tadpoles on the morrow, which on the front of the ceremorphosis threat was a good thing. However he was less and less sure that he wanted his own parasite gone just yet.
Thus far, it had proven to hold more pros for him than cons—the ugly little thing was changing the rules of his existence for the better and after 200 years of torture and blood-based fetch quests for a sire he abhorred. Where no one had answered his prayers for help in those two excruciating centuries of pain and rot, the mind flayer ship had set him free. He’d be a fool not to try to capitalize on this as much as he possibly could.
Keeping the parasite was one option, the better one as far as he was concerned, even if it did threaten to turn him into a tentacled monster at any given moment. He had more autonomy this way, something he’d not felt a breath of for as long as he could remember. However, if he was relieved of the parasite and had to return to the shadows, he would be even more at a loss for what he could do to remain out of Cazador’s clutches. Regardless, he’d need some measure of protection and would remain firmly unsettled until he got it.
Careful crimson eyes roved across the campsite, calculating the usefulness of his new travel companions. He knew what he had to trade—arguably the only thing he was good at. The question was which one of them would crumble most easily? He already had a sense of that, but opted to weigh his options in full, even just for fun.
Gale was tragically heterosexual as far as he could tell. He had a feeling he could have pretty easily manipulated the man otherwise with a simple stroke of the ego. Astarion’s presumed skill set required more than that though—to feel at ease, he needed whomever he got his hooks into to feel locked in. It was the only way to guarantee him some form of protection. Not only that, but Gale was already all but ogling each female member of their party sans the githyanki, who would happily flay him with minimal encouragement. Thus, Gale was out.
Next was Lae’zel. He’d had the least amount of time to try learning to read her so far, but he felt he could at least mostly take what he saw of her at face value. She didn’t keep her cards close to her chest. In fact, she took the whole proverbial deck of cards and threw them on the floor whenever she didn’t like the game. He could respect that, but he doubted he could manipulate that and make it out in one piece, which was kind of the point. Bloodthirsty and fun as she seemed, she was too dangerous a gamble.
Shadowheart had crossed his mind. She had secrets to uncover and when seduction and sex alone weren’t enough to hold someone in place, knowing their secrets could be an invaluable asset. If he was any good at gauging age as well, she was young by their kind’s standards, even as a half-elf. In fact, she was around the age he’d been when he died the first time, only to be brought back up through a clawed path of congealed blood and dirt to surface at Cazador’s feet. Reflecting on how naïve he’d been even then, even after spending nearly 40 years out in the world—or at least in the pocket of the world that Baldur’s Gate occupied—even after working his way through his schooling to gain his position as magistrate. She seemed to hold some of that naïveté, but she also seemed hellbent on whatever mission was taking her back to the city. She was already on guard for anything to sway her from her destination. And while her healing abilities were strong and had already proven extremely useful in just the short time they’d all banded together, he lacked confidence in her ability to actually fight out of formation, something he might very well need on his side.
Which left…
Astarion’s borderline predatory eyes slid back toward Áine, bent over her bag and rummaging through its contents. The braid Shadowheart had put in her hair that morning had become a bit mussed throughout their day, but it became her, he decided. Wisps of pearly strands flying free from their binds, a few even dropping to frame her face. He was far from admitting it, but had his decision been purely on the criteria of looks, she would’ve been his first choice. Despite his earlier assessment of her that included in his own words “eyes the color of dirt,” he would’ve had to have been blind to not think she was lovely to look upon. More than that, however, he’d seen her fight. She could handle herself better than all of them, except perhaps Lae’zel, who he had yet to see in combat. And yet there was something soft about her that Astarion could see becoming easily malleable beneath his practiced, plying fingers.
No, protecting her flank in the occasional fight wasn’t enough. He needed to endear her to him.
Decision made, Astarion’s gaze flickered back down to his book. Across the way, Áine finally found what she was rummaging for—the little tin in which she kept her mint leaves. She popped the lid and inhaled deeply, pulling the spicy scent deep into her sinuses to try and stave off the throb in her head. It helped one blessed increment, and she slipped a sprig past her lips to bite down on as she replaced the tin and stood up, turning straight into Shadowheart standing next to her.
“Oh my goodness,” Áine startled, her gasp becoming an embarrassed chuckle. “I didn’t even see you there. Everything alright?”
“You tell me,” Shadowheart said, and Áine was surprised to hear a peeved edge to her voice. When Áine cocked a brow at her, Shadowheart elaborated in a lowered tone, “What were you two talking about?”
Áine frowned, glancing over Shadowheart’s head toward Lae’zel and Gale separately before she returned her attention to Shadowheart. “...Me and who?”
“You and Lae’zel,” she said, seeming to think she’d caught Áine in some sort of deception. “You should tread lightly on who you confide in… Especially her. She seems to take your kindness for weakness.”
Áine’s eyes narrowed and she said, “I haven’t ‘confided’ in anyone. She was expressing her opinions about finding a crèche being our best option and I was listening and expressing my own in return.”
“It eludes me why you’re being so…so good-natured towards her,” the cleric said, her tone harsh despite the anxiety Áine saw in her eyes.
On seeing that worry, Áine forced her shoulders to relax their tension, reminding herself that most of their negative reactions to things at the moment came from a place of fear, hers included. If she was going to be the diplomatic center of the group, she had to keep herself in check when the others couldn’t. “Because,” Áine said, her voice barely above a whisper, “she’s just scared. We’re all just scared. Her way of showing it is different from ours, your way is different from mine, and so on. She thinks she’s doing what’s best when she tries to strongarm me into a different route.”
“Is that what you think,” Shadowheart half-laughed, floored by Áine’s logic. Her jaw worked for a moment until she finally felt her own hackles slack as well. “Fine. Just be on your guard. With everyone, but especially her. Fair?”
“Fair,” Áine said. “Besides, we may only have one more night of this if this healer at the Grove can help us out with our little problems. One step at a time.”
Shadowheart nodded, loath to admit Áine was right even though she knew she was. “Indeed.”
Out of curiosity, Áine asked, “What will you do? If we end up cured tomorrow?”
Shadowheart’s brows rose. “Why do you ask?”
Áine laughed. “Just making conversation. Trying to get to know the people around me, even if I might never see them again after tomorrow.”
“What’s important about getting to know me?” Shadowheart asked, guarded.
Áine smiled and shook her head. “Nevermind. I can take a hint, and you don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
It was the cleric’s turn to smile, but it held a faint sneering edge. “I appreciate your discretion. All things with time, no? Although I do hope we run out of time for that tomorrow, only for the hope that we can get these awful things out of our heads.”
“I can’t disagree,” Áine said, leaning down and hooking her fingers through the handle of her newfound, but near-busted lyre. “I’m feeling hopeful.”
Shadowheart nodded. “I am as well, hinging on cautious optimism as always.”
They parted ways when Áine meandered back toward the fireside, setting the lyre in her lap and setting to “fixing” it as much as she could, never having held a lyre before. Experimentally, she plucked the strings, adjusting their tension whenever she found one too lax or too tight. The others’ footsteps and voices faded into the background, and she vaguely heard Gale announce that the stew he’d been working on was done, which was when the ambient camp sounds coalesced more closely around her.
Shadowheart sat down near her by the fire, thanking Gale when she was handed a bowl of stew and immediately beginning to refuel her famished body. Lae’zel accepted Gale’s offering of dinner, but took it back to her tent where she was running a whetstone along the edge of her longsword, something Áine gathered already was an evening ritual for her.
Astarion was better prepared this time when he was offered a meal, barely looking up from his book when Gale called over to him and holding up a half-”eaten” apple in response that he’d really just taken chunks out of with his dagger before flicking them into the brush. If he was going to manage his little plan past its early stages, he needed to keep certain things under wraps for as long as he could. After all, no one took well to a vampire.
He kept an eye on the party near the fire, his eyes honing in on what was surely an intentional brush of hands on Gale’s part when he handed Áine her dinner. Astarion measured Áine’s response to the casual touch, but if it bothered or delighted her, he couldn’t tell. She simply thanked the unsubtle wizard and went back to her tinkering. Interesting.
Decisively, Astarion tossed the remnants of his prop apple into the brush nearby, his other hand snapping his book shut and setting it near his bedroll as he rose to his feet and made his way to the group at the fire. He dropped down into a seat beside Áine, not too close for her to be startled but for her to know in no uncertain terms if she gave it any thought that he’d chosen to sit beside her. The game was on and he was its star player.
“Nice of you to join us,” Áine teased him, her tone gentle and unoffending.
“Change your mind about something to eat?” Shadowheart asked.
“Just the fruit for me tonight,” he said, although he noticed his senses instinctively tuning in to the rhythmic pulse of the bard beside him. Another problem. I’ll need to hunt one night soon, he thought, the consideration a bit daunting. He and his siblings had been limited to bugs and rats by their oh-so-generous master, so the idea of feeding from something more substantial was both thrilling and daunting. Could he even hunt?
The worry almost steered him in the direction of trying some of Gale’s concoction, even though he knew just from an earlier nibble of the apple he’d prepared that nothing but blood would sate him now. The crisp, white flesh of the fruit held a sweet memory far, far back in his mind, but it had tasted like ash in his mouth. Useless to his dark, twisted biology.
He was brought back to the present by some absent plucking of the strings beside him, quiet and uncertain. Astarion’s gaze shifted down to Áine’s delicate, nimble hands, just as careful and hesitant as the sounds she was producing from the shabby little lyre in her lap. It seemed that it was a new instrument for her. Either that or she was positively terrified of breaking the thing, but it did seem like her “playing” fell more into the realm of experimental plucking. Her features were taut with focus, comfortably in her own little world—it was almost charming.
Astarion was saved from buying into his own charade any further by a surprisingly flippant comment from Shadowheart. “What a strange sort of bard you are to not know how to play a lyre properly,” she said with a smug smile to Áine that faltered when the bard in question blushed with chagrin. Clearly Shadowheart had expected Áine to laugh or even start strumming the instrument with unveiled expertise at her goading. The result was instead awkward and worthy of a record scratch.
“I should have stayed at my tent,” Astarion mumbled, rolling his eyes up to regard the stars as he rested his chin against his hand.
“I’m sorry, Áine,” Shadowheart said, a second-hand flush staining her cheeks as she grew increasingly embarrassed at her own comment. “It was meant to be a joke and my delivery was…well, it wasn’t there at all, was it.”
Áine gave Shadowheart a kind smile and waved off her apology. “It’s fine. And it’s fair as well,” she said, her hands having stilled on the lyre strings. “I really only know my way around a flute. And can hold a cheery tune, of course, but neither do much for trying a stringed instrument for the first time.”
“Well, we’ll simply have to keep a weather eye out for any new instruments in our looting escapades henceforth,” Gale suggested. “I’m hopeful we have our wriggler problem solved tomorrow in the Grove, but if not then we’ll have plenty of downtime in which you can branch out and learn. If you want to, of course.”
A sweet, appreciative smile curved Áine’s lips and she awarded that smile to Gale as she said, “That sounds like a lovely idea.”
Astarion kicked himself for not arriving at the idea before Gale had the chance to speak it aloud.
“Then it’s settled,” Gale said, smiling back at her. Astarion bristled. “Right, I’ll get started on the cleanup.”
“I can do it tonight, Gale,” Shadowheart said, still looking a little uncomfortable. “Take it as my apology for killing the suppertime mood a little.”
“It really is okay, Shadowheart, you didn’t hurt my feelings,” Áine assured her, “Takes a little more than that.”
Shadowheart smiled. “You’re much too gracious. Still, I’d like something productive to do for the group tonight. And then Gale can have a chance to set up his tent and get settled.”
“You’re under no obligation, of course, but I do appreciate it,” Gale said, standing and leaving the fire after Shadowheart gave him a nod to go ahead. Shadowheart collected the bowls and the pot from the fireside, scraped clean from first and second helpings, and made her way down to the shoreline nearby to scrub them clean and give herself some time to decompress.
Áine was glad that Gale liked cooking as much as he did because now that he had enough ingredients and the few spices they’d found to work with, his creations were quite tasty. It made settling down for the night, even with their affliction, seem a little cozier. She couldn’t help but worry a bit about Shadowheart though—she was being awfully hard on herself, but maybe that meant that she honored the growing friendship between them if she felt sorry for possibly hurting Áine’s feelings.
And the truth was that it had hurt, just a quick twinge. More than anything it had reminded her how new to this calling, this way of life she was. How much she still had to learn. An exhilarating and frightening feeling all at once.
Áine noted that Lae’zel had been left with her dirtied bowl by her tent and something bordering irritation stirred in her at that, but she squashed it. It was highly possible in her embarrassment, Shadowheart had simply forgotten their newest companion. Although she couldn’t convince herself that even if she had remembered, that she’d have extended that kindness tonight.
She was pondering Shadowheart’s earlier tone when speaking to her of Lae’zel when her eyes shifted sideways and she remembered Astarion was next to her still. And…well, seeming quite comfortable, she supposed.
Áine had seen him stretch out before, usually when he was taking in the sun’s first morning rays wherever they landed, but that was much like a cat. The way he held himself now, relaxed but poised, felt more panther-ish. Predatory.
Her eyes shifted up to meet his and confirmed he was already staring at her almost-staring at him. A self-assured smile curved his lips. The cat—no, still panther—that ate the canary. “Erm… Hi?” she said, suddenly very aware that it was just them left at the fire.
“Well, hello,” he greeted her in kind. Alarm bells went off in the back of her mind. Charming as he was, this was an unnerving switch from the moods she’d seen from him thus far. Then again, he’d shown quite an array. Maybe he was delirious from a lack of sleep as well. “And what can I do for you?”
Áine laughed a little. She should be asking him that with the way he was looking at her, but she was wary of offering an inch at the moment lest he take a mile. “Let’s go with a general update. How are things?” she suggested.
“How are ‘things’?” he repeated, suddenly less certain.
“Yes, how are you feeling? How are you adjusting?” Áine elaborated as she slowly started to fiddle with her lyre again. “Feeling at all tentacley or craving a post-apple brain?”
Astarion snorted, relaxing back into his lounging posture. So she wanted to small-talk—he could do that. And look like a veritable god doing it if he held himself just so and at this particular angle by the firelight…
While his body settled seamlessly into old practices, he answered her questions. “As well as I could be, considering our…predicament. No tentacles to be seen and no inclination to suck on a skull,” he reported. A neck though…
He was sorely reminded yet again that he needed to hunt. Perhaps not tonight, but soon.
Áine, none the wiser to his actual cravings, smiled beside him, amused by his wording. “Well, that’s good,” she said, looking up briefly as Shadowheart returned with their cleaned bowls and cooking pot, setting them back near the rest of their neutral cargo before she made her way to her tent. Her gaze flicked back to Astarion, who seemed deep in thought. “Something else on your mind then?”
He hid his startle well at being read. But internally it unnerved him how much she could already see. He tried to reframe that in his mind as something else to use to his advantage. At that moment, he decided to test her a little, get an early read on how much work he had yet to do.
Astarion’s pale lips curved into the most charming, sensual smile Áine had ever seen, or at least had ever been the target of. She was surprised that she didn’t see yellow feathers between his pearly teeth when he flashed them her way.
He heard her pulse drum ever-so slightly faster and took the cue. “This whole night—the stars, the night air, the firelight—got me thinking what tomorrow might bring… When we meet this healer tomorrow that the tieflings spoke of so highly, will this little adventure of ours be over?”
Áine frowned, but it was thoughtful. “I mean I suppose so,” she said, uncertain of what he was getting at. Teasingly, she suggested, “Why, would you miss me?”
“Well, why not?” Astarion tossed back. “You’re stronger than I gave you credit for—traversing Avernus, surviving the crash, fighting your way through the dangers we’ve faced thus far, and talking your way out of more earlier today. Those are all monumental feats.”
Áine cocked her head. “You did all those things too, you know. So did the others. I’m just trying to survive. Like you.”
He scoffed with little more than a fleeting glance spared for the others, all retired to their tents in some form or another. “I suppose. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t find very many people impressive,” he said, snaring her gaze in his again with one flick of his shocking red eyes. “But you’ve impressed me.”
Áine gave him a long, considerate look, and he could almost hear the wheels of her mind spinning a yarn. Just as he’d started to settle into some satisfaction that he’d rendered her speechless, she asked, “Right, what’s going on?”
Astarion’s eyes widened, but blinked innocently. Nothing innocent about him, she decided then. “I daresay I don’t know what you mean, darling,” he drawled, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smirk. “Can’t a man lavish his striking companion with her due admiration?”
Áine snorted softly and simply responded with a smirk of her own, “Watch yourself, Astarion.”
“Oh, alright,” he groused, and Áine laughed at how immediately his little façade broke. “But my name does sound so good on your lips, my dear.” Maybe the façade wasn’t quite as broken as she thought.
Áine rolled her eyes, but the expression was good-natured as ever. “Don’t you have a reverie to sink into?”
“I have other things I’d rather sink into if it’s all the same,” Astarion purred.
“It’s not, in fact, all the same,” Áine rallied back, firm but patient.
The smile still lingered on her lips, he noticed and he found himself restrategizing accordingly. So she would be tougher to crack than he’d wagered, but even without encouraging his advances, she seemed to find some enjoyment in this itself as a sort of game. And, in all honesty, he was having a bit of fun, too. This, he could work with.
“Well, in that case, I’m afraid reverie or sleep are out of my grasp tonight,” he admitted and his honesty recaptured her attention. “This is all still…very new to me. The sounds around us, the quiet in comparison to the bustle I’m used to from the city. It’s nice, but it’s something to adjust to.”
Áine nodded. “I understand what you mean. Sleep has been tough for me to come by as well.
Astarion turned another smile on her, this one with only half the earlier smolder. “Then you’d best get some rest, ‘fearless leader’,” he said, his voice soft.
“Well, I would, but I didn’t set up a tent for myself and you’re sat on the bedroll I was planning to use,” Áine pointed out, mirroring his honeyed tone almost perfectly.
That earned a low chuckle from the pale elf beside her, the way his gaze dropped to the bedroll he was indeed sitting upon and the sheepish half-smile that followed a wordless “touché” to her claims. He lifted his head and nodded past her. “Go on and take mine. I’ll be of more use on watch tonight with Lae’zel, or instead of her if she opts for some rest in the night,” he said.
Áine’s brow creased, surprised at his generosity even if it was a small gesture. “Are you sure?”
“I mean, if you’d prefer, we could both entangle ourselves in this one—”
“Nevermind, point taken,” she swiftly said, her words on the edge of an exasperated laugh as she rose to her feet, taking her lyre with her. “Thank you. And goodnight, Astarion.”
Astarion watched her go, eyes a little more tender the moment her back was turned, a detail unbeknownst to them both. “Sweet dreams, darling.”
Next chapter: Chapter 3, "Swan Songs"
#angst with a happy ending#astarion x oc#astarion x female oc#astarion fanfic#astarion fluff#bg3#bg3 fanfic#bg3 fanfiction#bg3 astarion#astarion bg3#astarion ancunin#astarion#baldurs gate 3#baldurs gate#tav#astarion acunin#astarion x tav#tav x astarion#astarion romance#baldur's gate 3#baldurs gate 3 astarion#baldur's gate iii#baldurs gate astarion#baldurs gate tav#baldur's gate#baldurs gate iii#bg3 tav#tavstarion#unbound fic#soft astarion
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rainy evening & cow parsely
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As someone who spends half their life on Prince Edward Island, I have a LOT of thoughts about Anne of green gables. I have a lot of thoughts about the story itself, which I love, and I have a lot of thoughts about the legacy of the books, how it transformed the island into a tourist trap, how the island depends so much on tourism that it’s almost head to head with the agriculture, how the island becomes bleak and empty every winter, and how that all ties into the fantastical elements of how L.M. Montgomery wrote it.
Also I waaaaanna watch Anne with an E but I can tell that the landscape is fucking Ontario just by one glance and i think they did a disservice to that story by using landscapes that aren’t PEI, only because the land itself is a character in the Green Gables series and using what is so obviously Ontario just made me feel like they didn’t realize that. Obviously a lot of changes they made were interesting and I am about it, but when I see Ontario Tm being sold to me as PEI I’m like “bruh” jdjdjdjd
Idk it’s just hard for me to parse sometimes. It’s the New York problem. people will have these aesthetic expectations of a place that really exists and is really someone’s home. I just start laughing when I see people talking about the “”””cottage core””” stuff in reference to PEI because when I think of PEI I think my uncle’s 1990 Suzuki sidekick with one good working break, 1 year out of registration, parked next to the cow field and the homemade antenna on his roof he made himself out of coat hangers so he could catch the leafs game, but down the road five minutes, there ARE those red shores that everyone loves and which are so beautiful. So the reality and the fantasy are mixed, and the fantasy is sold as a commodity or whatever.
Idk I guess the moral of the story is that tourism as a major source of income fucks a place up
#this is just rambling#anne of green gables#idk ignore this#it’s just bonkers to be in a place and to be sold the fantastical reimagining of that place
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[twt] sukuita + incest + bp!yuuji
ask anyone in the neighborhood about the itadori twins and they will tell you the same thing: sukuna and yuuji are close. it is a common knowledge that when you see one of the itadori boys, then the other is not far behind.
the younger of the two, yuuji, seems especially affectionate. he'd cling to his brother's arm, kiss him sweetly on the cheek, feed him from his own plate. and sukuna, in turn, is fiercely protective of his baby brother. once, he pummeled his own friend within an inch of his life, all because that friend made yuuji cry.
everyone chalks it up as some by-product of being orphaned so young—sukuna had been sixteen and yuuji, two. since then, they only had each other to rely on. sukuna took on odd jobs to support them both, and as soon as yuuji was old enough, he took on managing their humble home.
so no one could really fault the brothers for being so entwined—it is probably one of the learned comforts they had growing up.
until one day, 15 year old yuuji's blissfully ignorant world is rattled by a question: "your brother is not normal about you, is he?"
he looks up from his bento, to see fushiguro watching him intently. kugisaki choke-laughs into her sandwich, muttering, real subtle there, megumi.
—
yuuji does not understand, his chopsticks still suspended mid-air. "w-what do you mean, fushiguro?"
"exactly what i said, itadori. he's..." fushiguro says, "...he's a bit intense when it comes to you."
kugisaki elbows fushiguro and fushiguro frowns at her. for a moment, it's like they are holding a conversation yuuji is not privy to. it makes him squirm.
"is this about jogo, fushiguro?" yuuji's face heats up with shame, remembering jogo's breath, his fingers gripping yuuji's jaw.
"it's not just about jogo," kugisaki finally says, breaking eye contact with fushiguro, "it's just, we noticed that he's very possessive of you, okay? it's unnerving. and the way he looks at you sometimes..."
fushiguro looks contemplative, eyes conveying something yuuji cannot quite parse. it makes something in yuuji curl with tension, like he's being cornered. like he's being accused of something.
"there's nothing weird about it! suku-nii beat up jogo because he was a creep, a-and he looks at me normally! whatever you're saying, it's not weird. he's just really like that."
if sukuna is not normal about him, then does that apply to yuuji too? the chopsticks creak in his hand. fushiguro looks cowed, because he's always been soft on yuuji. a pale hand reaches out to touch his knuckles, but yuuji pulls away.
he packs up his uneaten bento, hands shaking, refusing to meet fushiguro and kugisaki's eyes.
he avoids them for the rest of the day.
—
later that night as he prepares their dinner, he's still thinking about it. the thoughts cloud his head like miasma that he doesn't notice the angle of his knife is off. the blade slices unto his finger, blood blooming red and painful.
yuuji hisses, sucking on the wound, bouncing on his heels.
sukuna must have heard because walks into the kitchen, and immediately zeroes in on the finger in yuuji's mouth.
"cut yourself?"
yuuji nods, suctioning harder.
"let me see," sukuna moves closer, crimson eyes still on yuuji's finger (or is it his mouth?). the cut throbs, it must have been deep to hurt this much. yuuji relinquishes his finger to his brother.
sukuna hums, his hand obscenely large as he cradles yuuji's. "it looks deep."
that word sends a frisson of something down yuuji's gut. he doesn't have the time to process whatever it is, because blood is already welling up from his finger again and there is that look in sukuna's eyes.
yuuji recognizes that look. he's seen that look on sukuna when he's about to eat his favorite dish. he's seen that look on jogo's face when he cornered yuuji and put his fingers in his mouth.
yuuji jolts when sukuna pulls at his hand, watching with wide eyes as his brother puts his finger in his mouth. and sucks. his older brother's mouth is hot, wet, his tongue big—everything about sukuna is big—as it presses on the cut.
sukuna meets his eyes then, the crimson almost black. yuuji wants to pull away, yuuji wants his brother's teeth to scrape his skin.
sukuna looks hungry.
"today at school," yuuji croaks, staring at where they are still joined: finger, mouth. "fushiguro and kugisaki said something..."
his brother hums—the vibration travelling all the way down to yuuji's—to yuuji's—
"they said you're not normal...about me."
"what did they say?" his brother asks, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to yuuji's finger.
"that you're possessive of me, suku-nii."
sukuna pulls away, his face unreadable. cleans and disinfects the cut; for a long while he doesn't speak. yuuji feels like he's done something wrong, sullied something pure.
when sukuna's washing the bloodied knife, his back turned to him, yuuji braves the silence with a tentative, "suku-nii?"
"i am," sukuna says, his voice soft. dangerous. "they're right. i am possessive of you, yuuji."
when his older brother stalks toward him, there is that look again. sukuna grabs him by the straps of his apron, pulling yuuji to him. yuuji is one the biggest and tallest in his class but like this, head barely reaching up to his brother's shoulder, sukuna's width enough to cover him, he feels small.
"you're my brother," a hand cups his cheek, the same hand that put jogo in the hospital; something gentle, something terrible. "what's not normal about this?"
sukuna crowds him against the kitchen table, bending down to press his nose to the side of yuuji's neck. his arms wrap around yuuji tightly, pressing their chests so tightly that yuuji can feel the thumping of sukuna's heartbeat.
"or this?"
ah there's the scrape of teeth.
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There's an eight-day span of Northern Reaches travel that takes place in an abandoned monastery. The short of it is, there's a blizzard. This is when they encounter the terror-feeder.
Because my brain cannot work without all the data, I went looking for ancient monastery floor plans so I can make my own. Enter the Plan of St. Gall, which did not depict St. Gall but was found at St. Gall.
I guess this bad boy dates from like the 13th century and is the only example we have an architectural drawing at this scale from this time period. It may have survived because somebody was like OOOO PAPER and it got a new life as a saint biography. But don't quote me on any of that. I'm more interested in what it says than how it came to be.
What I do know is this thing is absurdly difficult to parse. Latin is not a language I know well, and I'm really just flying blind.
Some things I've found that just cannot be right:
A room labeled "aliud" which just means... "something else"??
"Domur bubulcorum" -- so cow bedroom? Which makes sense as this was a fully-functional monastery, but then right beside it is "conclave aprecularum", which is the "priests' chamber", or the "concalve appecularum" (depending on if I can read the handwriting), which is the "room of glasses"??? (S/o to @im-a-luxury--few-can-afford for pointing out it's probably milk jars.)
A space at the top of the sanctuary that describes being gently squeezed through the crypt -- "per crypta strycta mite bynt".
Above the crypt on the opposite side, we've got "Hic paul(y), magni breemur/bremur/bramur/brumur", which is "Here's Paul," and then either "loud noise", "future big breaking", or "we are very proud".
It seems like they're doing that thing where the S sound is sometimes written as f, and also maybe the German ß is involved but the handwriting may just be that bad.
All of this is to say, someone else had better have translated this, because good gracious I cannot. I've tried. It's not happening.
#shoutout to where they stitched the little rips with actual thread#this thing is amazing#fantasy writing#monastery#plan of st. gall#architecture#historical architecture#history#latin#latin language#translation#translation fail#architectural drawing
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cow parsely by the cycle path
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hdksldodhd i know it’s just the spots on her head that my brain is parsing as eyebrows but the little cow in your modern outfit jaskier art looks so!! concerned!!! “jaskier where did u get that. jaskier are u ok? jaskier are ur magic time clothes safe??? 🥺🥺🥺🥺” i’m love
moooooo prism power, make up!!
(I just remembered that Geralt can actually sacrifice a cow named Strawberry to Dagon - yes, him - in the first witcher game...)
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Whats your favorite kind of flower?
Ok!!!! It is it is ermm err . Of the wild carrot family. (I dont know what its caleddd erm its like erm cow rabbit or something i stg. It looks like hemlock so you have to be careful. Its on like roadsides everywhere here
Cow parsley!!!!! Its so pretty! BUT BEWARES
in that picture do you see the yellowish parts at the bottom? Thats hogweed. Its really poisonous and fucks you up on touch it burns tou but you only really get it down south (its like invasive takes over the cow parsley and wild carrot and hasnt spread too far)
Cow parsely apparently(i dont have a sense of smell) smells really nice like carrots and do you want a guess? (Clue? Parsley!!)
Another of the wild carrot famiky, it looks similar to hemlock, my favourite poison. Hemlock is more sparse and the white bits are more transparent, and is also quite rare and doesnt smell of anything apparenlty. Its my favourite posion becaise its basically fine until you are exposed to ultraviolet (unless its infrared i dont rememeber) light from the sun. Youre safe if you stay inside if you touch it by accident.
It says that 'hemlock collected in dsrkest night' or soemthing in macbeth and i wrote a paragraph about that in my gcse
Erm err so i actually i dont really have a favourite fkower, more so a family containing some of englands most posionous flora!
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11 p. m. – What he desires is to absorb as many lives as he can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. He first swallowed several flies (at the time, I could not parse his motivation, and feared it might lead to his death.) He then swallowed a spider, presumably to catch and consume the flies (I still could not tell you wherefore he ate the flies). To date, he has swallowed a cow (i am unsure of his method), a dog, a cat, a bird, a spider (for which he gave much complaint of “wriggling” and “tiggling”), and several flies. I think I can now diagnose the purpose to this bizarre consumption.
#dracula daily#im sorry but its all i can think of#also anyone else always include the extra spider line#cause wikipedia doesnt#but even in the later verses we ALWAYS sang the 'wriggled and wiggled and tiggled inside her!' line#anyway i considered doing the whole song but i was too lazy#so u only get the first and last verse#this is definitely one of the stupider things ive posted
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Asks pt4: pre-finale
Oh my god, yeah, holy cow. I mean, at first he’d just be like “uh... no? you got the wrong guy??” and the Collector would think it was so funny.
Thank you!! I couldn’t parse it at all but now that I’ve been told what the line is I can kinda hear it. Very cute! I love that “Hexolios” caught on, at least among Luz’s friends.
Gawd, yeah. That was... really something.
Oh gee, did you think I was against Boscha, or hated her? Absolutely not-- she’s been through some shit, same as everyone else, and that got processed as anger and controlling behaviour because of how she’s been raised. It totally makes sense she would react that way! Also, it did actively cause damage to the people around her! She’s not acting well right now-- or, I should say, wasn’t acting well as of FtF-- and I think we can acknowledge that, and that she’s not being a good person right then, without assuming she’s a bad person at heart or hating her.
#owl house#the owl house#owl house liveblog#owlblog#pdaliceblogs#owl 303#asks#anonymous#martinkhall#sananaryon
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first lines /last lines
Hello my dears! The wonderful @stahlop tagged me in the last lines ask and then the lovely @wistfulcynic did the same for the first lines ask and so here we are. (All fics are complete except for the first one.)
Rules: Post the (first and) final line of your 10 most recently published fics. (Or as many as you have published.) You can either omit multi-chapter WIPs or include the last line of the most recent chapter (or several chapters). Up to you!
despite all my rage (almost-finished WIP /stucky /MC)
first: They are going to kill him.
last (so far 🤣): And then all five of them burst out laughing.
.
Burn To Shine (stucky /oneshot)
first: In hindsight it was simply a series of truly unfortunate events which started the whole mess.
last: The shower stall stays small.
(...how is this a weirdly accurate snapshot of this fic?)
.
Nearly Lost You (stucky /oneshot)
first: “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
last: 95%.
.
Truth Or Consequences, New Mexico (stucky /oneshot)
first: The day Marshal Steven Grant Rogers rides into Truth Or Consequences in the New Mexico Territory, the town is still called Fortune Gulch – a rather grand and prosperous name for a small western town whose gulch, a tributary trickle of the Rio Grande, has never made anyone a fortune.
last: The way they are going to, for the rest of their lives.
.
a handful of dust (stucky /MC)
first: All he ever does is look.
last: “Yeah sweetheart,” he says. “This’ll do.”
.
we build our lives out of chaos and hope (dramione /MC)
first: It starts – as so many things do – with guilt.
last: Judging from the looks she gets from every last person in the room, she doesn’t succeed.
.
everybody knows (Captain Swan /MC)
first: “I’ve got your next mark.”
last: Together.
.
if you live by the word, you die by the pen (Captain Swan /MC)
first: Down past the detritus of broken lives and misspent fortunes; far south of the meaning of good and evil, of truth and lie; past the boneyards of selfishness and decency and broken hearts, and beneath the stripped-down remains of social grace by paint-thinner whisky, lies the soul of a man.
last: “Let me show you,” she whispers, and flips them around.
.
there is a crack in everything (Captain Swan /oneshot)
first: It’s not that he doesn’t understand.
last: And she knows there is so much damage between them - loss and pain and heartbreak and grief - but she also knows that above all else one thing is true, and so she answers, “I love you, too.”
.
the last run (Captain Swan /oneshot)
first: She is so tired.
last: Not anymore.
.
This was so much fun! Also - totally confusing for anyone trying to parse the content /mood /genre or even trope of any given fic. And holy cow - if this wasn't the deepest deep dive down my fandom history. Awesome.
Absolutely no pressure tags: @mwritesff @crisis-froggo @mxaether @cable-knit-sweater @angelicalslayer @kimmycup @hanitrash @voylitscope and everyone else who would like to have a go! 💕💕💕💕
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Sketches of a Persian Ironwood, and Spring in Cambridge
Spring has sprung in Cambridge, and so I'm once again venturing out into the gardens and fields that surround me, equipped (as ever) with iNaturalist, my handy identification app. It is the season for Common Brimstone, an uncommonly pretty butterfly that is lime green, but looks neon yellow as it catches the sun – I had not thought the name appropriate until I saw a few of them flitting outside my window at midday, brighter than anything else in the sky.
Cambridge, though not far removed from Hertfordshire in distance, sports an entirely different blanket of spring flowers; snowdrops and winter aconite as the cold first breaks, then daffodils and crocuses and squills forming blue carpets ringing old trees, and now as spring settles in, and the days grow longer and hotter, anemones and starflowers dot the grasses and dance as they catch the breeze. It is a floral scene against the twiggy umbellifers of Hertfordshire, younger fields to older woodland; no bluebells, nor cow parsely, nor forget-me-nots that occur in nettled margins besides the paths; only flowers, and ivy with its smooth, shiny leaves.
I'm going to see my favourite tree today in the botanical gardens - it is a Persian Ironwood, which I first came across in a tour of the gardens with my PhD cohort. This ironwood is a sprawling tree with a densely woven canopy, a latticework of forking, looping branches that is disorientating to follow with the eyes, for the tree is a self-grafting one; separate branches will meet and rejoin, from the same tree and from different trees (at which point they are called 'gemels', as in gemini ‐ paired or twinned trees). A quick sketch before I leave - and a post to break the months long silence I have held on here!
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Here is a compilation of all of the bible verses from John, in order of appearance, using the Douay-Rheims Bible. This is a translation Muir directly quotes from throughout the series (thank you @a-big-apple for the annotated locked tomb doc, which has the link to the online bible and lots of other interesting resources and discussions!).
There is some added commentary from me as well, either to put quotes into context or share some notes I took while reading Nona the Ninth. Obviously, spoilers abound below the cut!
John 20:8:
“Then that other disciple also went in, who came first to the sepulchre: and he saw, and believed.”
’The other disciple’ is John, known both as the ‘Disciple of Love’ and ‘Jesus’ Most Beloved Disciple.’ In this part of the Bible, Mary Magdalene discovers that the Tomb has been opened.
John 5:20:
“For the Father loveth the Son, and sheweth him all things which himself doth: and greater works than these will he shew him, that you may wonder.”
Interestingly enough, the line immediately after this one is: “For as the Father raiseth up the dead, and giveth life: so the Son also giveth life to whom he will.”
John 15:23:
“He that hateth me, hateth my Father also.”
John 15 is a continuation of a discourse from Jesus to his disciples. Earlier in the text he tells them, “I am the vine: you the branches: he that abideth in me, and I in him, the same beareth much fruit: for without me you can do nothing.” In this chapter John Gaius performs his second miracle of reanimating the bodies of Ulysses and Titania, who he calls both his children and ‘nothing more’ than extensions of himself. This is the beginning of John’s god complex, and how he begins to use his anger on behalf of Earth as justification for all future actions.
John 5:18:
“Hereupon therefore they sought the more to kill him, because he did not only break the sabbath, but also said God was his Father, making himself equal to God.”
In this chapter, after A-- and M-- test John’s abilities, they decide to go public and livestream the resurrection.
John 8:1:
“And Jesus went unto mount Olivet.”
A short one! In John 8, Jesus is being given a test to parse his identity. In NtN, this is where John and the others start attracting attention--and the infamous cow shield.
Interestingly, when answering questions, Jesus writes them out in the dirt with his finger, reminiscent of a later John chapter where he writes J + E + A + H in a heart on the beach.
John 19:18:
“Where they crucified him, and with him two others, one on each side, and Jesus in the midst.”
John explains that they finally found out where the money for the cryo project went, and that they realized the trillionaires were just jumping ship and leaving everyone else behind to rot. This chapter focuses a lot on John, and A--, and M--. They were John’s first disciples, and would later die by his side during the siege of the facility.
John 5:1:
“After these things was a festival day of the [Jewish people], and Jesus went up to Jerusalem.”
In the dream, John explains how they were made an offer by a foreign government and how A-- and M-- were able to negotiate a nuke as payment. P-- also makes the comment in this chapter that “If they want to make you into a bad wizard, be a bad wizard...they’re not going to listen because we talk nicely, they’re going to listen because we scare the shit out of them.”
John 5 is primarily concerned with Jesus being denied by his community leaders as Christ and trying to bring in his disciples to testify/negotiate on his behalf, eventually getting frustrated when he realizes nothing will change their minds.
John 3:20:
“For every one that doth evil hateth the light, and cometh not to the light, that his works may not be reproved.”
John and the others attempt to prove the FTL project is a scam and are not believed.
John 3 is also where the well known verse “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son” comes from, which Muir later quotes in chapter 32: “For she so loved the world that she had given them John.”
Also absolutely reading too much into this but--
In John 3, Nicodemus asks Jesus how someone can be ‘born again,’ joking that it’s impossible to re-enter your mother’s womb. In the dream, John talks about how they were all scared of the suitcase nuke so they hid it under the floor, only to be used as a last resort, as blackmail. At the end of HtN, Wake tells John that she called baby Gideon ‘the Bomb’ throughout her pregnancy. The Ninth House Project was also Mercy and Augustine’s plan-of-last-resort to bring down John. And then the Ninth House tried to bury Gideon...and when that failed they spent the next 18 years terrified of her. Hmm hmm. Much to think about.
John 9:22:
“These things his parents said, because they feared the [Jewish leaders]: for they had already agreed among themselves, that if any man should confess him to be Christ, he should be put out of the synagogue.”
In John 9, authorities come looking for Jesus but his followers cover for him at risk of their own safety.
I believe my note here was “John Gaius is a rat bastard.”
John 1:20:
“And he confessed, and did not deny: and he confessed: I am not the Christ.”
In context, this is John the Baptist denying he is Christ. Instead he tells them “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, make straight the way of the Lord...”
Meta textually this is meant to signal to us (and Harrow)--John is not the messiah he claims to be. He was chosen by the soul of Earth--Alecto--to be her voice, to save her, and he failed, terribly.
John 5:4:
“And an angel of the Lord descended at certain times into the pond; and the water was moved. And he that went down first into the pond after the motion of the water, was made whole, of whatsoever infirmity he lay under.”
Jesus encourages a disabled man to enter the pool and be healed, directing him to ‘pick up his mat and walk.’
Harrow rejects John as God and wades into the River, eventually to be reunited with Alecto in the Tomb. The chapter ends with “And she stepped into the River. She took another step, and she walked, and she walked.”
#i can't believe this series is making me do fucking BIBLE STUDY!!!!!!!!!!#also note: as this translation is from the late 1500s/early 1600s there is anti-semitic language used throughout but esp john 5#i did amend some of the language#the locked tomb#nona the ninth#nona the ninth spoilers#tlt#please feel free to add any thoughts you have. please. so i know i am not alone in this insanity.
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Sometimes I feel I’m in a fever dream. Like, there’s this whole ass man that was a stranger to me nearly three years ago but here he is, in the house slippers I bought him, muttering and bitching as he cleans the litter box. A wild & weird thing to make a home with a stranger, still-knowing ourselves and each other, at the same time, the miracle of this reduced in the burden of everyday tasks.
A miracle, too, that in this economy nobody’s snowballing, yet a 60 cent stamp sent attached to a sealed letter reveals the father in law I met at my best-friends wedding is dead, after taking a fall on Christmas eve & laying bedridden in the month’s since. He was, of course, the brightest light at the wedding: his age hidden in face and spirit that read decades younger. J tells me they tagged him before they even go to say goodbye--
I’m pondering what it means to have been her friend for nearly two decades and to feel, in spite of these confessions and penned experiences, the death of our friendship. I can’t parse if she knows, or cares, is in denial, or doesn’t have time to worry about such things. For upwards of two years I’ve been trying, and giving, excuses. I guess it’s over, though, and I’m not sure what to do with this loss.
*
I’m tryna trace my family history, tryna parse together meaning and answers. Read Tupelo Hassman’s Girlchild, finishing its pages in my favorite coffee shop & having to had my crying behind it’s chapters. Wanted to howl at the deep-felt connections of shared experiences: how girl children, particularly our bodies, serve as spaces to act out all manner of violence and abuse when men have no other outlet: how the most obvious prey is the easiest pray, how the similarity of these experiences healed me but troubled me: namely, in that I felt more anger at the mother (my mother) for leaving me with him, than I did for him having committed the act. Another wound reopened, calling to be attended to.
Anyways. In trying to trace the history, I contact Cousin Sam for the first time in over two decades and try to peace together a conversation with her. She’s so eager to contact & recount old memories that I can’t help but wonder what it is she’s trying to heal. I call uncle Ronnie. The first time, he reveals too much, namely about my mother’s death. I take two months to call him back, and when I do, he pauses for half a second before settling in to a conversation about family dramas and family hopes in which I ask questions, redirect, try to learn more. We’re to meet next month, for the first time in two decades. I feel at once hopeful and exhausted and scared. I have questions I’m hoping he might answer.
--
In meantime. We took a trip to Arkansas, a state only on our places to visit because of its proximity. It surprised us with its expansive beauty: the Ozark mountains demanding in their beauty, nestled between miles of farmland: cows taken to soupy green water to cool themselves in the summer heat. We’re nearly three years into our marriage and truths needed telling: I’m trying to parse if these are worries I can, and am willing, to address and accommodate. *
In meantime, I’ve taken to the local park at sunset when the birds gather to sound and sway in tandem, making their way to the tops of leaves to convene and converse. It’s no small miracle to watch their gathering every few days: its music and timing predictable and exacting, reminding me of my small place in this ever-expansive world, try as I might to mark myself and make myself out here. Try as I might.
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