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Ardbert kisses Staria like he’ll never see her again. It’s overwhelming and needy: the warmth of his newfound body, all height and fat and muscle against her much smaller frame. She gasps when her back hits the wall, surprised, and whimpers when he licks into her mouth. Staria can’t help tilting her head to the side, letting Ardbert in deeper as he moans in satisfaction. When he finally pulls away, Ardbert rests his hands on the small of Deepstaria’s back, his breathing heavy and mouth a mess of her pink-purple  lipstick. Staria figures her own face is much the same. 

She barely registers how flush his cheeks are when he shoves his face into her neck and makes a noise of embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, nuzzling into her skin, “I don’t know what came over me… I just wanted to- I missed you, and—“

Staria giggles, and puts a hand in his hair, scratching gentle patterns into his scalp.

 “Don’t apologize,” she tells him, smiling. “It’s been a long day.”

Ardbert presses a gentle kiss on her shoulder, the scruff on his chin tickling her collarbone, and takes a deep breath before — reluctantly — pulling away. 

“And it’ll be longer still,” Ardbert says, solemn for just a moment. “But I’ll be seeing you later?”

His eyes twinkle when Staria looks back at him, his hands coming to sit at her hips, squeezing gently.

Ardbert kisses Staria like he’ll never see her again. It’s overwhelming and needy: the warmth of his newfound body, all height and fat and muscle against her much smaller frame. She gasps when her back hits the wall, surprised, and whimpers when he licks into her mouth. Staria can’t help tilting her head to the side, letting Ardbert in deeper as he moans in satisfaction. When he finally pulls away, Ardbert rests his hands on the small of Deepstaria’s back, his breathing heavy and mouth a mess of her pink-purple lipstick. Staria figures her own face is much the same. She barely registers how flush his cheeks are when he shoves his face into her neck and makes a noise of embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, nuzzling into her skin, “I don’t know what came over me… I just wanted to- I missed you, and—“ Staria giggles, and puts a hand in his hair, scratching gentle patterns into his scalp. “Don’t apologize,” she tells him, smiling. “It’s been a long day.” Ardbert presses a gentle kiss on her shoulder, the scruff on his chin tickling her collarbone, and takes a deep breath before — reluctantly — pulling away. “And it’ll be longer still,” Ardbert says, solemn for just a moment. “But I’ll be seeing you later?” His eyes twinkle when Staria looks back at him, his hands coming to sit at her hips, squeezing gently.

Ardbert, she figured, had always been a physically affectionate person. He’d clung to her that first night he’d gotten his body back, in awe of being able to touch and feel her against him. To finally be solid after years… they were not the same circumstances, but Staria understood how he felt. Even now, long after he’d been returned to a tangible form, he held the fear that it would all slip away from him. They were long past the nights when Ardbert would struggle to sleep, waking in a panicked daze, but still — some days were harder than others. Deepstaria was proud of how far they’ve come, but they had a long way to go, and she would be with Ardbert to help ground him every step of the way.

She caresses his stubbled chin and playfully rubs at the smeared lipstick with a thumb. He leans into the touch with a sigh, and Staria grins wider. 

“Of course you will,” she says “but you ought to clean this off. The crew will be scandalized.”

Ardbert scoffs. “Don’t know about that, Starlight. Gale and his little voidsent partner have done worse.” He moves closer, his mouth next to one of her horns. “And after all. I thought you liked when I was covered in your—“

There’s a cough from…somewhere, and Ardbert backs off just when Staria’s eyes widen, arm raised to push him away. Her face grows hot when she sees Lima down the hall with his hands on his hips, face full of amusement. 

“L-Lima!” Staria stammers. “What are you..?”

“Was going to ask if you wanted to come with Jor and I to the markets but,” Lima looks from Staria to Ardbert and doesn’t even try to hide his smirk. “It looks like you’re busy! I suppose we can just go on our own! Have fun, you two!”

He turns on his heel

Staria stares at him, mouth agape, before finally snapping out of it and chasing after him, calling his name and begging him not to tease her. Ardbert watches her go, chuckling to himself. 

He wipes the lipstick off with his sleeve eventually—but doesn’t bother trying to hide the pink-purple stain

Ardbert, she figured, had always been a physically affectionate person. He’d clung to her that first night he’d gotten his body back, in awe of being able to touch and feel her against him. To finally be solid after years… they were not the same circumstances, but Staria understood how he felt. Even now, long after he’d been returned to a tangible form, he held the fear that it would all slip away from him. They were long past the nights when Ardbert would struggle to sleep, waking in a panicked daze, but still — some days were harder than others. Deepstaria was proud of how far they’ve come, but they had a long way to go, and she would be with Ardbert to help ground him every step of the way. She caresses his stubbled chin and playfully rubs at the smeared lipstick with a thumb. He leans into the touch with a sigh, and Staria grins wider. “Of course you will,” she says “but you ought to clean this off. The crew will be scandalized.” Ardbert scoffs. “Don’t know about that, Starlight. Gale and his little voidsent partner have done worse.” He moves closer, his mouth next to one of her horns. “And after all. I thought you liked when I was covered in your—“ There’s a cough from…somewhere, and Ardbert backs off just when Staria’s eyes widen, arm raised to push him away. Her face grows hot when she sees Lima down the hall with his hands on his hips, face full of amusement. “L-Lima!” Staria stammers. “What are you..?” “Was going to ask if you wanted to come with Jor and I to the markets but,” Lima looks from Staria to Ardbert and doesn’t even try to hide his smirk. “It looks like you’re busy! I suppose we can just go on our own! Have fun, you two!” He turns on his heel Staria stares at him, mouth agape, before finally snapping out of it and chasing after him, calling his name and begging him not to tease her. Ardbert watches her go, chuckling to himself. He wipes the lipstick off with his sleeve eventually—but doesn’t bother trying to hide the pink-purple stain

ok fine u get starbert writing im actually proud of (:

#starbert #jellydaughter #vergilwrites

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#vergilwrites finally posting these YIPPEE!!

1. repose #dayirura

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“This is embarrassing,” Lucanis says from beyond the partition, amidst the shuffling of fabrics and ambiguous clattering of belts. Isagani can hear Teia giggling and a quick “ow—!” from Lucanis as something is pulled tight. He can’t help his own laugh.

“Do you hear that?” Viago shouts from Isagani’s left, a smirk on his face as he fiddles with a jewelry box, adjusting various false gems and baubles filled with their own special poisons. “Your man finds this whole thing funny too!”

Isagani hears Lucanis groan in embarrassment, and he has to stifle another chuckle. He tries his best to peer over the partition, but despite his height, he can’t even catch a glimpse before Teia says, “Oh, no you don’t! This is supposed to be a surprise!”

“Shouldn’t he know what I’m going to wear so he can be prepared for—ack!” Something — Lucanis — hits the partition. “Stop poking me with that when I talk!”

“This is embarrassing,” Lucanis says from beyond the partition, amidst the shuffling of fabrics and ambiguous clattering of belts. Isagani can hear Teia giggling and a quick “ow—!” from Lucanis as something is pulled tight. He can’t help his own laugh. “Do you hear that?” Viago shouts from Isagani’s left, a smirk on his face as he fiddles with a jewelry box, adjusting various false gems and baubles filled with their own special poisons. “Your man finds this whole thing funny too!” Isagani hears Lucanis groan in embarrassment, and he has to stifle another chuckle. He tries his best to peer over the partition, but despite his height, he can’t even catch a glimpse before Teia says, “Oh, no you don’t! This is supposed to be a surprise!” “Shouldn’t he know what I’m going to wear so he can be prepared for—ack!” Something — Lucanis — hits the partition. “Stop poking me with that when I talk!”

writing dragon age fanfic like its 2017 again ….

#wip #vergilwrites #isaganiingellvar #lucanis #lucagani

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01. 
the roof of my lola leoning’s house is leaking. 
leftover raindrops drip into buckets and cans set out to catch them.
i can see the hand of God reaching through the holes.
i’m left to hope she felt His warmth when He caught her.

01. the roof of my lola leoning’s house is leaking. leftover raindrops drip into buckets and cans set out to catch them. i can see the hand of God reaching through the holes. i’m left to hope she felt His warmth when He caught her.

02. “Kumusta ka, anak?”
I’m scared of what my life will look like without you because you were the one that petitioned my family to come to America, so you’ve been in my life for nearly all of it. I’m scared of failing my citizenship interview in December, because if I fail, then I’ve failed you and what you’ve done for us. I’m scared of the image of my mom frantically screaming your name and sobbing when she found you dead in your house, cold and wet and alone, because your roof was leaking from the recent storms. I’m scared of the day I realize the answering machine no longer gets your calls, that I will no longer hear the familiar robotic voice ringing throughout the house saying your name. I’m scared I’ll forget your voice and how you’d laugh about how tall I’ve gotten even though your bones have shrunk with age and mine have barely grown since I was fourteen. I’m scared of forgetting how it felt when you’d hug me and kiss my cheeks and leave your hands on my forearms with reverence, like you couldn’t believe I used to be that two-year-old that just got off of the plane from the Philippines. I’m scared of going to your house because I know I’m going to feel you there, in the kitchen, on the sofa – I’ll see the knick knacks and crosses and statuettes and remember how you’d always collect them. I’m scared of looking up at the painting of the Last Supper on your wall and wishing we could have at least had that – one final meal together before it comes crashing down. I’m scared of asking if you’re going to come over for Easter or Christmas and then realizing belatedly that you can’t anymore. I’m scared of going to church again because I know I’ll think of you in the pews, devout and faithful, playing the piano every Sunday morning mass, and it won’t be the same without you there. I’m scared that those streets – the ones back in the Philippines that have our last name – won’t remember when you walked down them, that they won’t remember they’re named after you too.

02. “Kumusta ka, anak?” I’m scared of what my life will look like without you because you were the one that petitioned my family to come to America, so you’ve been in my life for nearly all of it. I’m scared of failing my citizenship interview in December, because if I fail, then I’ve failed you and what you’ve done for us. I’m scared of the image of my mom frantically screaming your name and sobbing when she found you dead in your house, cold and wet and alone, because your roof was leaking from the recent storms. I’m scared of the day I realize the answering machine no longer gets your calls, that I will no longer hear the familiar robotic voice ringing throughout the house saying your name. I’m scared I’ll forget your voice and how you’d laugh about how tall I’ve gotten even though your bones have shrunk with age and mine have barely grown since I was fourteen. I’m scared of forgetting how it felt when you’d hug me and kiss my cheeks and leave your hands on my forearms with reverence, like you couldn’t believe I used to be that two-year-old that just got off of the plane from the Philippines. I’m scared of going to your house because I know I’m going to feel you there, in the kitchen, on the sofa – I’ll see the knick knacks and crosses and statuettes and remember how you’d always collect them. I’m scared of looking up at the painting of the Last Supper on your wall and wishing we could have at least had that – one final meal together before it comes crashing down. I’m scared of asking if you’re going to come over for Easter or Christmas and then realizing belatedly that you can’t anymore. I’m scared of going to church again because I know I’ll think of you in the pews, devout and faithful, playing the piano every Sunday morning mass, and it won’t be the same without you there. I’m scared that those streets – the ones back in the Philippines that have our last name – won’t remember when you walked down them, that they won’t remember they’re named after you too.

Continuation of 02. “Kumusta ka, anak?”. 
And I’m sorry I stopped taking piano lessons from you because I was too scared of messing up in front of you and my sister and my mom and my lolo and lola and whoever else was watching. I’m sorry I didn’t come over more with my mom. I’m sorry that I keep crying even though I knew that you were old, and you’ve said time and time again you were ready to die and you were at peace with it and that you couldn’t wait for God to reach down and pluck you from us because you’ve lived a long and fulfilled life. I’m sorry I can’t make my peace with it. I’m sorry I have to be selfish. I’m sorry that I stopped going to church. I’m sorry I only now remembered the rosary you gave me for my Confirmation was in my desk, and that I was crying trying to find it because I didn’t know if I had lost it and I’m sorry I don’t remember all the words and steps because I stopped practicing Catholicism a long time ago. I’m sorry I don’t remember the Philippines much anymore, that Nueva Ecija and Cabanatuan City are so far away from me. I’m sorry that I’m probably not going to be able to go back any time soon. I’m sorry I never got to say any of this to you. I will not seek this forgiveness from God because I’m seeking forgiveness from you.

Continuation of 02. “Kumusta ka, anak?”. And I’m sorry I stopped taking piano lessons from you because I was too scared of messing up in front of you and my sister and my mom and my lolo and lola and whoever else was watching. I’m sorry I didn’t come over more with my mom. I’m sorry that I keep crying even though I knew that you were old, and you’ve said time and time again you were ready to die and you were at peace with it and that you couldn’t wait for God to reach down and pluck you from us because you’ve lived a long and fulfilled life. I’m sorry I can’t make my peace with it. I’m sorry I have to be selfish. I’m sorry that I stopped going to church. I’m sorry I only now remembered the rosary you gave me for my Confirmation was in my desk, and that I was crying trying to find it because I didn’t know if I had lost it and I’m sorry I don’t remember all the words and steps because I stopped practicing Catholicism a long time ago. I’m sorry I don’t remember the Philippines much anymore, that Nueva Ecija and Cabanatuan City are so far away from me. I’m sorry that I’m probably not going to be able to go back any time soon. I’m sorry I never got to say any of this to you. I will not seek this forgiveness from God because I’m seeking forgiveness from you.

03.
Isn’t it fucked up that you can just die and then I still have to go to school? That I still had to finish an essay the day we found out you died? That I was just writing about Tita Loving, who died in November last year, only for you to die in November this year? I feel like my classes are all talking so much about death and grief and mourning, and it’s coincidental but I can’t help but look back at everything we’re learning and reading, and feel an ache in my chest. The superstitious part of me feels like it’s a sign – I need these things to process what’s happened, happening, going to happen. Do you think if I play “Winter Bear” on the AUX cord in the car that my mom or my ate will realize why I’m playing it? Do you think Diana Khoi Nguyen knew that when she wrote about her brother that I’d read her poetry over and over again until it was seared into my brain because I keep repeating “please let this not be the end let me stop your end let me stop” and “I will never give you up I will never give up I will never” into eternity? The tears won’t stop, the words won’t end. Reference upon reference, again and again and again until I feel less alone, until it feels less raw. “In Heaven” and “This House” by Japanese Breakfast, “Fourth of July” by Sufjan Stevens, Reshma Memon Yaqub’s essay about the bathing of the dead. Final Fantasy XIV, Dragon Age, Disco Elysium, What Remains of Edith Finch. Loss and losing and living. Francoise Dastur’s “Mourning as the Origin of Humanity” tells us that funerary rites are meant to help the living rethink their relationships with the dead – is this what this is then? Is this what my funerary rights are? The searching for a connection, to have other people’s grief touch my own? To feel that outpouring of love and honor and find how I should love and honor you too? I’m trying. I’m trying. Is this enough? Please tell me if it is, because I don’t know if it ever will be.

03. Isn’t it fucked up that you can just die and then I still have to go to school? That I still had to finish an essay the day we found out you died? That I was just writing about Tita Loving, who died in November last year, only for you to die in November this year? I feel like my classes are all talking so much about death and grief and mourning, and it’s coincidental but I can’t help but look back at everything we’re learning and reading, and feel an ache in my chest. The superstitious part of me feels like it’s a sign – I need these things to process what’s happened, happening, going to happen. Do you think if I play “Winter Bear” on the AUX cord in the car that my mom or my ate will realize why I’m playing it? Do you think Diana Khoi Nguyen knew that when she wrote about her brother that I’d read her poetry over and over again until it was seared into my brain because I keep repeating “please let this not be the end let me stop your end let me stop” and “I will never give you up I will never give up I will never” into eternity? The tears won’t stop, the words won’t end. Reference upon reference, again and again and again until I feel less alone, until it feels less raw. “In Heaven” and “This House” by Japanese Breakfast, “Fourth of July” by Sufjan Stevens, Reshma Memon Yaqub’s essay about the bathing of the dead. Final Fantasy XIV, Dragon Age, Disco Elysium, What Remains of Edith Finch. Loss and losing and living. Francoise Dastur’s “Mourning as the Origin of Humanity” tells us that funerary rites are meant to help the living rethink their relationships with the dead – is this what this is then? Is this what my funerary rights are? The searching for a connection, to have other people’s grief touch my own? To feel that outpouring of love and honor and find how I should love and honor you too? I’m trying. I’m trying. Is this enough? Please tell me if it is, because I don’t know if it ever will be.

poems for my lola leoning.

#vergilwrites

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