#/ OH MAN THIS HURT TO WRITE

[starry-bi-sky]

Unpleasant Revelations - DPxDC Ficlet Idea for the Stillborn Au

"Have you met my youngest, Damian, Mr. Masters?"

Its only from twenty years of long, hard experience and practice that Vlad doesn't increase the room temperature from 'borderline uncomfortably cool' to 'unbearably hot' the moment Bruce Wayne pulls his youngest and "only" biological son out in front of him.

He puts only in quotations because twelve year old Damian Wayne looks scarily, uncannily like one Daniel Brown. Jack and Maddie's foster son, second victim of their foolishness, and only other halfa in existence. Second only to him.

It's nauseating how similar they look. From the scowl and terrible glare on the young boy's face, to his brown skin -- which was only a few shades lighter than Daniel's, the shape of his nose, and even the strange winged edge of his eyebrow. Something that Vlad has long since come to find endearing on the child he considered a son of his own. The only difference was that Damian had dark, sharp green eyes.

Daniel's eyes were blue. The same glacier shade as his father's, who stood behind Damian with a proud, oafish smile on his visage.

It was infuriating how similar they look. Vlad might not have rapidly swung the room temperature from one extreme to the other, but he can't stop himself from letting the fury burning within his core from slipping out and raising the temperature up a few degrees.

Because it really only meant one thing.

Damian Wayne and Daniel Brown were related.

Damian Wayne and Daniel Brown were brothers.

Standing in front of him, it was clear as day. He can already picture a phantom image of Daniel standing beside Damian, the same scowl written on his face, the same glare carved into his eyes. The only difference being the dark, exhausted circles beneath them that seemed to be permanently painted onto his skin. The only thing missing being the permanent loneliness and vigilance permeating his being like a scar.

This, if revealed, would be enough to ruin Bruce Wayne's reputation. Or, at the very least, darken it quite a bit. The great philanthropist Bruce Wayne with another secret blood child? One related to his youngest? One that had been put into foster care? Seemingly thrown away?

It would be a firestorm.

One that Vlad is not keen on starting.

It would ruin Bruce Wayne's reputation, yes. But it would hurt Daniel in the process -- the harassment he would face alone might just be enough to break that fragile child completely. That was just not something he could allow. Or, even worse, bring him into his biological father's care and custody -- something Vlad was even less willing to allow.

It's not out of kindness to Wayne that Vlad will keep mum about this.

His grip on his champagne flute tightens, just a bit. He's still aware enough of the world around him to not let it shatter in his hands. His plastered, pleasant smile tightens around the corners, and he forces his focus to slide from Damian to Wayne.

"The resemblance is uncanny, Mister Wayne." He says, slanting his smile to the side slyly. Although he's not talking about the resemblance between Wayne and his son. Rage simmers beneath his skin, burning coal and embers in the core of his chest, nestled between his lungs, as he meets the man's eyes.

Wayne swaggles his head proudly, his ditzy smile widening as he squeezes his son's shoulder affectionately. Bastard, Vlad wants to spit.

He breathes in through his nose, and exhales out through his mouth. The champagne in his hand cools, and stops its unusual bubbling.

The Damian boy scoffs under his breath, his mouth still coiled upward into a scowl. With the revelation of his blood relation to Daniel evident, Vlad's not sure if he should find it endearing or not.

He is not Daniel, so he decides that it's just simply irritating. He decides to ignore it.

"And you said he was your only biological son?" He asks, voice lilting and head tilting. He knows its a suspicious question at worst, insulting at best. But considering Wayne's past proclivities, he can hardly call it an unexpected question.

Damian puffs in great offense, face twisting angrily. It reminds him of Daniel when Vlad insisted that he was wrong about something or other, and for a moment his heart swells, fond.

But this is not his child, and so the feeling quickly crashes and burns, simmering back into rage. This was not Daniel -- this was his replacement. A replacement that Wayne was free to keep.

Wayne chuckles, idiotically, as if he'd said some funny joke. Vlad's other hand, the one gripping his cane -- something he's required ever since he was dispatched from the hospital all those lonely years ago -- tightens instead. He grinds his teeth -- him and Jack Fenton would get along like a house on fire, he hates it.

"I can understand why you'd ask that, Mister Masters," Wayne says, squeezing Damian's shoulder again, "but yes, Damian is my only biological son. Although that doesn't mean I don't love my other children any less."

Bastard.

For all his posturing and flouncing about caring for his city and his children, Vlad never would have thought the Prince of Gotham capable of abandoning one of them.

But, well.

They all have their dark secrets.

And what one man throws away, another man picks up. If Bruce Wayne didn't want the treasure child that was Daniel Brown, then Vlad Masters was more than happy to take him instead.

"I see."

[fun-esta]

[beatcroc]

there's no way the bathroom at peppino's pizza is actually that big but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ . hey ummm anyway.... i care them...... anyway there's a lil ramble on my take on fake pep's like psyche or whatever in tags on the og post if ur into that kinda thing :y

hey! it's a series! fake peppino world tour: [noise] [noisette] [peppino]<- u are here [gustavo] [gerome] [noisette again]

[happi-dreams]

emmyyy doodles aaaaa

[bebx]

Relationship: Hwang Inho | Front Man/Seong Gihun 

Summary:

"Come on," Thanos — Player 230 — said, "I see the way you look at him and the way he looks at you. A blind person could see you've been yearning for each other. Don't look at me like that, I'm just doing you both a favor here."

"What did you just say?" Gi-hun asked.

"You heard me. Fuck 001. Or die."

In a Truth or Dare game, Gi-hun landed himself with the most absurd dare. In-ho realized the price of his undercover mission may be higher than he thought when he was getting fucked at his own game. Figuratively and literally.

[gooperts-gunk]

im so crazy over the tragedy of everything q!bbh does being under a demon pretense even though he's a fallen angel.

do u think he just accepts the demon label because it's easier. do u think he believes it too, and catches himself in his thoughts with "oh, right. im not exactly that". and maybe he believes that he did this to himself? do u think what he did was to protect himself or someone? no matter the fall, he still has so much kindness to give and his brain just isn't wired the way a natural-born demon would be, he can't hold back instincts when time demands it, maybe that's why he fell in the first place.

and when he's finally bad, not good, it's treated like the end of the world, without empathy on why he would act out. do you think this keeps happening? the same scenario, multiple times, every timeline? he has to be used to it. so he has to take it in stride. he's good until he lashes out under extreme pressure, and suddenly he's called demon. and once again he's what heaven made him out to be. what he made himself to be, his brain would ruthlessly provide...

i don't think he wants to be that, though he hides secrets behind secrets of which neither identity is a home... but i don't think he wants to have to change, either. and i don't think that's wrong of him.

...you collapse atlantis ONE TIME and all of a sudden YOU'RE the bad guy and SURE it was FUN but REALLY now,--

[jamandjazz]

“If you’re tough like me you don’t get hurt. You watch out for yourself and nothing— nothing can touch you.” What if I sob?

[kotakunnn]

Gals that will probably never see the light of day. ever maybe.

hello and goodnight, Penacony / Gallagher.

[whumpspicelatte]

A Mouth Filled With Blood: Terry in "King's Counsel"

Set about four days(?) after Two Steps Back

Juno belongs to @echo-goes-aaa / @echo-goes-mmm

Warnings: Depression, suicidal ideation, implied past dubcon/noncon, implied past abuse, fear of future noncon, mild accidental self injury (twice), fear of becoming like past whumpers?

Time passed. The week ended. Juno healed enough to return to his crate that he still preferred to sleep in when not in their now-shared bed in his eight-months-new king’s room. Terrance finally, finally got to take off the gloves. The court was even finally beginning to cool down a bit from their thwarted feeding frenzy. 

Juno watched Terrance like he was going to tear his throat out with his teeth, and that wary gaze had banished Terrance from his own rooms like he had four ravenous, white-faced ghosts nipping at his heels. 

What had he done to earn that? What had he done to make Juno fear him? 

….had Juno seen what he’d done to his advisors? Had he scared his boy? Was that why Juno seemed to think Terrance was going to hurt him? Why Juno was looking at him the way Terrance might have once looked at-

No. No. He wasn’t his mother, he wasn’t his father, he wasn’t his older brother. 

He wasn’t. He wasn’t. 

…was he? 

Terrance rested his head in his hands, elbows braced against his desk. Nothing felt quite real since he’d settled Juno back into his rooms. As if he were walking through pearly white mist and everything he touched were made of solid smoke. 

He should be happy, shouldn’t he? Juno was alright. He didn’t have to deal with his advisors anymore. The ensuing ripples through court had finally begun to calm down. For the first time in years, he didn’t have fresh bruising to layer upon the yellowing and purpling flesh hidden under his robes. He no longer had to wear silks and fabrics which could fall off his body with just the tug of a hidden ribbon. 

Nobody touched him. Nobody hurt him. 

…nobody touched him, not since he’d emerged from the council room with Juno half-dead in his arms. Nobody. 

Nobody at all. 

He closed his eyes, trying his best to banish the burning threatening to make him tear up. The inner lining of his throat began to swell. 

What was wrong with him? Something had to be wrong with him. Nobody else seemed to struggle with just getting up in the morning. Nobody else seemed to spend hours in the bathtub, trying to even gather the resolve to get up and dry themself off. Nobody else had to spend an entire day unable to get out of bed not out of pain, but simply from the mental exhaustion of doing his duty the rest of the week. Not that he knew of. 

Something was wrong with him. So very, very wrong. But what was it? 

Did anyone else ever fantasize of going under the bathwater and never coming back up? Of a punishment having gone too far, having dug too deep, having hit something vital, of bleeding out on wood and stone? Of one day falling asleep and never having to wake up? 

He shouldn’t be entertaining these thoughts. If he died, with no viable candidate to inherit the curse and the kingdom, Rhodantheia would implode at the breaking of the curse. Not quite literally, but with the resulting wave of cataclysms…

Terrance couldn’t be a second King Raphael II, no matter if the vile man were his namesake. He couldn’t let himself be the last of his line. 

Even if it eventually meant marrying, now that it was unlikely to end in his death. 

He… he should get on with that, shouldn’t he? Finding a bride. A mother to his children who could raise them well. Who was…was fertile. Willing. Capable. Who would… would use him…

Terrance choked down bile, hands cupping his mouth. 

Later. Yes, later. He could do that- later. 

Plenty of paperwork he still had to do now. The prospect of marriage could wait for another day. 

He groped around for pen and paper and threw himself into his paperwork in the hopes it would help him flee from his own thoughts. Deaden his mind. Allow him to be useful. To be worth something beyond his blood and bones and flesh and-

And- 

His fingers shook too hard for him to properly scrawl his signature, forcing him to set the inkwell pen down and press his open hands against the wood of his desk. 

Enough. He was fine. He was fine. 

Maybe, if he repeated it enough times, he would begin to believe it. 

He was safe. Juno was safe. Everyone was safe. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his head back against his seat. His hands clutched the edge of his desk, knuckles white. And yet still tremors ran up his hands. At any moment, someone was going to come through those doors. Antoine or Ser Beauchene or Elodie or Wethoras or- or one of the others. Someone was going to slip inside, see his state, grab him by the shoulder, twist him over their lap and- 

What was wrong with him? 

They were gone. They were gone, and they weren’t coming back. None of them were going to hurt Terrance again. None of them were going to get even a chance at hurting Juno again. 

Juno…

…Juno, who feared him, now. 

It took a moment for him to realize that the blood filing his mouth behind his thinly pressed limbs leaked out from his tongue instead of another person’s flesh, that the ache in his teeth was from him grinding them together instead of his canines and molars breaking another person’s bones. 

It took a moment after that for the sting to hit his senses. 

Ow. 

He breathed in, breathed out. Inhaled, exhaled. In, and out. In, and out. 

Shaky fingers pried themselves off varnished wood to knead at silk-covered knees instead. Terrance lowered his chin to protect his barred neck. Focused on the air whistling in and out of his nose.

He pried his eyes open to stare down at ink printed over paper. 

Right. Work. 

He…he had to work. 

Terrance picked up the pen, set it to paper, and did his best not to cry. 

His mother would be so very angry with him to know how much he had cried these past few years, after all her work to yank such an undignified habit out of his skull like a loose tooth. 

She would have never let things get so bad with the council. 

The council had respected her. In a way they never had him. In a way that they might never respect him. Especially now. 

The door creaked open, and Terrance couldn’t help but flinch, sending a sharp jagged scrawl across the paper he was signing. Damn it all. Why had he done that? Why did he keep on ruining whatever he touched-

A soft, wrinkled hand glinting with rings laid itself on his fist, and only then did he notice the sharp sting of his nail digging into his palm. When he set his hand flat on the table, he spotted blood under his nails. 

Damn it. 

His gaze drifted up to meet the Duchess’s own eyes, lined with subtle makeup to hide the tired shadows beneath. Dread pooled in his gut. The wetness along his lashes felt like the first symptoms of poison in an empty cup. 

A king does not cry. A king does not let others know that he had cried-

Delphine Valentin’s hand cupped his cheek, and Terrance couldn’t help but flinch at the graze of her soft skin, skin prickling for the sting of a slap. But all she did was let his head rest in her hold. Let his thoughts fizzle in his head, empty out of his skull. Let him melt. 

Quiet. 

Finally, finally quiet. 

Her thumb ran beneath his eye and drew away wet. Distantly, he recognized the heat trickling down his cheeks. But all he could focus on was touch. 

It had been a little over a week since anyone had touched him. Anyone at all. Nobody had touched him since he’d brought Juno for healing. His hand hadn’t brushed against another’s skin since Juno had first woken up. 

He’d gotten spoiled, having his boy press into his side to sleep every night, having Juno’s calloused hands wrap his fingers around a warm mug on the daily. 

Gods, he missed it. 

And he didn’t know if he’d ever get that back. 

If he’d ever get back the one person in over a year to touch him without ill intent-

His vision blurred, a rough sob leaving his throat mangled and bruised. Soft lips pressed against his forehead. The Duchess’s voice rippled through the air like water, but he couldn’t make the slightest sense of it, burned out by the warmth of her hand bleeding into his skin. 

His eyes fluttered shut as he was hauled up into someone’s side, glove slipped off for a gentle, wrinkled hand to take its place. Leading him somewhere. He didn’t know where. He just knew he was being touched. 

He didn’t know when would be the next time he’d get to be touched. 

[recitedemise]

𝗠𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗚𝗮𝗹𝗲'𝘀 𝘃𝘂𝗹𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗽 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘂𝗺𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀, 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗠𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗽𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿. This lengthy headcanon will refer to canon dialogue from mostly Gale, sometimes others. Reader's discretion is advised. There will be in depth explorations into grooming, emotional abuse, heavy manipulation, and suicide.

First, let it be said that Gale, a mortal man, will always be the powerless one in his dynamic with Mystra. Of course, nearing forty years of age, he remains entirely responsible for his own actions, his own blunders and every hurt he'll cause, but it's important to remember who formed much of who he is: his goddess, his deity, and egregiously, his lover.

Mystra is power. Mystra is possibility. She knows what sway she holds over her Ioyal, vulnerable, and entirely mortal followers. In all ways that matter, they are but lambs she can steer and herd as she sees fit. She knows they can't deny her and knows they'll never want to. Gale's sheer servitude and complete devotion. Mystra, knowing that, used him to filth.

Gale: I was just... practising an incantation. Player Character: No, there's more to it than that. I know devotion when I see it. Gale: What can I say? She's—she's Mystra. I can't describe it, the need I sometimes feel to see her - to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence... Mystra is all magic. And as far as I'm concerned, she is all creation. Player Character: I didn't realize the depth of your devotion. Gale: Magic is... my life. I've been touched with the Weave for as long as I can remember. There's nothing like it.

Gale, orb in his chest, doomed to be eaten by the very thing he loves the most, still speaks so reverently of the goddess, of his lover that has left him to die. He conjures images of her memory—and she is all the while forgetting about his.

Minsc: Gale reminds me of vremyonni of my homeland. The man-mages of Rasheman. While the girl-folk go on to rule as wychlaran, Weave-touched boys were hidden away. Trained to work their craft in silence and secrecy. It is an old custom, not well-observed. In truth, I thought it born of caution after some catastrophe of wizardly men-folk of old. Now, I wonder if it was not done to hide them from Mystra, and the snares she sets for young and prideful boys, hm?

Tales of Mystra's treachery spreads far, leaving those familiar waters surrounding Gale's tower in Waterdeep. They whisper her name, afraid to utter it one time too many, suspecting, perhaps, that she'll show in their mirror like some Faerûnian Bloody Mary.

Talent rouses Mystra. She can see who uses the gift of the Weave and feel them, sampling whatever delight sings their veins as they pull from her domain. Not unlike a spider, she'll follows every tremor that strikes her as just a sliver more profound; and Gale, a prodigy, plucked the Weave's web to so garner her focus. And like some black widow scurrying, she surged down that ripple to prey on a boy. There, Gale, so impressionable, was just a mite older than twelve whole summers. He sat so stunned, beholding Mystra as she lured him into the cradle of her Astral domain. Bathed in her magic, pleasantly coddled within that glittering cosmos, Gale felt blessed in a way he'll struggle always to recount, no word, no language, fit to describe it. He felt chosen. He felt seen. And potently, to a child, he felt loved. Now, imagine a child experiencing something like that. Imagine what they'd think, how brilliant they must be when stood beside the rest. She told him he was gifted, made his heart swell not unlike a child's appetite for praise. She knew what she was doing by offering these morsels, by preying on a child's most delicate mind, and Gale, child prodigy, was already so awash in the idea that his value was in magic. Unfortunately, Gale, susceptible, had no way of squirming out of his goddess' grasp.

Reality: She's laid down the seeds to creep into his heart. When he's just old enough—seventeen's sufficient, she thinks—she stakes her claim and makes him hers.

Gale: My virtuosic talent once caught the eye of the goddess of magic herself, Mystra, who named me her chosen and her lover.

Gale is stunned when she takes him to bed the first time. (Is this really happening?) Mystra claims his mouth in a kiss, taking everything she knows he offers so willingly. Mystra, of course, is not so stunned.

Dream Visitor: An elder brain... one of the cruelest and most powerful creatures in existence, enslaved by mere mortals. Gale, tasked with Mystra's missive to sacrifice himself: This is it... I must do as Mystra commands.

Gale has worryingly low self-esteem beyond his magic. As already explored, his entire worth as a man hinged on and was built entirely off his talent as a wizard. He fought tooth and nail for any crumb of affection Mystra would offer his way, something she only gave him at all seeing his gift as a child. He wants her forgiveness. He desires it genuinely. He believes so firmly that he has wronged his goddess, buying into the idea that sacrificing himself will right his wrong. She holds such dominion over him, making him reduce his confidence in himself into a mere, trifling pittance; after all, she wasn't just his lover, but the patron deity he prays to. And regardless, Gale is a people pleaser, his initial acceptance of her missive coming as no surprise.

After all, Gale, at times, goes to incredible lengths to appease his audience. This habit, compulsion, impulse, whatever you want to call it, is a quality that was relentlessly exacerbated in his relationship with his immortal paramour. He wanted to content her, felt all he did was never enough, for as a matter of principle, he was oceans, leagues, and entire galaxies beneath her. Gale figures: well, how can a short-lived dalliance satisfy a god? He had to make her happy. Indeed, he'd done everything she'd ask. He'd bedded her how she liked, kissed her how she wanted, and of course, even said those words she'd said tasted best. She was his lover, a lover that never tended to his own needs and pleasures, and he fooled himself into thinking that's enough. He won't bend backwards for everyone, mind you, but if you're of the ones he would, he would stop at nothing to make you happy. After all, people pleasing is a way to keep oneself safe, a trauma response to sidestep discomfort, and though it achieves only a direly tentative peace, when that is all you've been fed, you will pursue it.

Gale did not want to lose Mystra; he couldn't bare the sting of it. And so, when Elminster visited him, Mystra's call for his death offered oh so callously, Gale, heartbroken, felt that part of him kick up. He couldn't endure the guilt, was so hungry for a chance to let his weighty heart breathe, even if it meant dying in the process.

At least this way, he'll finally do something right. At least this way, Mystra will forgive him, and all his friends will survive.

Gale: After I was afflicted with my condition, I locked myself in my tower for an entire year. I was inconsolable, wallowing in my self-inflicted tragedy. I'd given up on myself.

As a byproduct of people pleasing, Gale, too, is all too quick to accept all guilt. He self-deprecates, gaslights himself to a venomous degree, and twists his reality in so cruel a way as to make him the villain Mystra'd led him to believe. He self-flagellates himself, the first one in the world who will throw Gale of Waterdeep a mental punishment. Mystra's a goddess, after all, seen as utterly faultless, and twined so tightly with a being so mighty in esteem, Gale slipped into the role of the guilty often. When tied with anyone with grandeur like this, so immeasurable in their own self worth, it's important to keep in mind this: you are nothing but a prop in which to fulfill their ego. Gale was not Mystra's, not by a long shot. Rather, Gale was a tool, simply her mortal extension.

And he took every blow meant for her... a common and terrible habit for many people in imbalanced, ego-fueled relationships.

Gale's life beyond her wasn't something that interested her. She took most of Gale's devotion, manipulated his life to be her sole mantle of attention, for Mystra is not a goddess that shares very happily.

Indeed, long before his self-imposed isolation, this jealous deity did well at keeping him isolated.

Player Character: Picture kissing him. With tenderness. Then, with passion. Gale: I... I didn't think— Narrator: You perceive quick-fire embarrassment, trepidation, and finally... elation.

And so, cheated out of love, so reduced in his value as a man and lover both, suffice to say, Gale's slow to believe he can ever be loved. That's what happens when you're with someone so cold, consistent only in their infinite lack of respect. Gale looks at fondness, and he feels—confounded, to be sure. He thinks, is this truly mine to have? He doesn't know what to do, is nearly forty in game, and despite having lived decades devoted to one relationship, he feels, at the same time, entirely out of depth. To be frank, he greets it with embarrassment, like he's been caught red handed with something not his at all. He's like a child caught rummaging with his hand in a cookie jar, all this isn't mine to enjoy, not mine to indulge in, but he thinks, startled, but god, do I want. He wars with disbelief, uncertainty, and need, and in so many ways feeling utterly starved, with just a glimmer of affection, he falls fast into love.

Scenario: (And if properly romanced, it changes his world.)

Gale: In her (Mystra's) likeness, I used to read a thousand stories. She was beauty, wisdom, elegance, power... she contained universes. But now... it is hard to see any redeeming qualities in a lover who condemned you to death. I'd much rather gaze into your eyes than hers. Yours are capable of tenderness and feeling... No god could ever compare.

He says it with sincerity. There is such wonder, such love, and such awe in his eyes. He makes the act of kissing him feel like you've just reached into the trenches to but pluck him soundly from his ruin and despair. You think, Gale Dekarios, how unloved have you been all this time?

Gale: To know you love me for the man I am, and not the magic I command… none have loved me so purely before.

The answer is: entirely.

For so long, Gale thought love was simply being chosen. He knew nothing of being favored for the quality of his character, to be cherished and accepted even in those ways he fumbles and lacks. Again, his needs were seldom met, often treated with utter indifference by Mystra herself, and to meet someone so eager to treasure him, dote on him in a way his heart, his body is somberly new to, raptures his spirit and captures his soul. He's seen for who he is. He's... loved, desired for his silly quips, his easy smiles, and his growing affections. He bares himself to them, and in turn, they cradle his heart like something entirely precious. Gale thinks this has to be dream. He says, at times, you are more than I deserve.

Scenario: (But sometimes, he hopes too strongly and loves too greatly. As it always does, then, like he's once more wanted too much, he watches something beautiful slip right through his fingers. Of course, Gale Dekarios. Of course it does.)

Player Character: I didn't know you felt so strongly, Gale. Gale: Perhaps I should have done more. Been more charming, more flattering, harder to reach... but I was only myself, and sometimes that isn't enough.

They don't love him anymore. It breaks his heart. He hurts so much, so profoundly and deeply, and he doesn't realize that he breaks their heart in turn.

Unable to ever voice his feelings with Mystra in any way that amounted to much, Gale's a tendency to wallow, expressions coming off as potentially 'guilt-tripping' and even, on occasion, passive aggressive. Firstly: Gale NEVER means to manipulate emotions, and he's no intention of twisting anyone's arm, either. Fact is, Gale, never taken seriously when he'd bared his vulnerabilities to the Mother of the Weave, can end up saying just a little too much. He feels very deeply, and for most his life, seldom had an outlet for these weeping sentiments. He sometimes lets slip raw words and oftentimes heart-wrenching expressions; all the same, it's not so pitiful as to shepherd an outcome, but rather, is a gesture taken by a man so desperate to be heard. It may feel like scheming, but the truth is far, far greyer: feeling as though he's no right to share the depth of his heart, Gale simply lets it geyser out in a way he can't cork up. In ways he doesn't realize, he's adapted to this ache, passively reacting so his feelings can at least be seen and recognized—no matter how pitifully unwhole. With someone who values so little his thoughts... well, when he slips into these moods, one can hardly feign shock.

Situation: (And if no one shows him trust and tenderness, any true care in his character or worth, Gale gets swallowed up by how wronged he was.

He thinks: Let me be a god. Let no one hurt like me anymore.)

Gale: They only want us to serve them, pray to them...and ultimately, to die for them. But what if we didn't need them? What if we wielded their power instead and helped ourselves in all the ways they refuse to? I could make that happen.

Gale is not above anger, and as stated, he is not above pettiness; however, more than that, he is not above righting himself whatever wound he was struck. Gale, if not offered much by ways of affection, understanding, is made to believe that one idea that's lived growing in his mind: Gale Dekarios is far from sufficient; he has to be more. He has to be better. Gale, in such an unkind ending for himself, sips too desperately—and perhaps greedily, too, but desperately serves as a far better word—at that idea that he needs power. And so, wresting the Crown of Karsus for himself, he spites Mystra in his own way, becoming a god he feels is leagues better than she will ever be. Damn her thoroughly. Damn her ego, her power, and her endless indifference. He will serve the people, protect them, and in ways Mystra never could, better the world.

Situation: But as a god, he loses all sense of his kindness. Humanity. All who loved him leave him, and even Tara spurns the image he's become. With power, he's gained the respect he thought he always wanted... but in turn, he lost in even greater measure all the love he's known.

Endnote: But healing, knowing to forgive himself and knowing he's deserving of care simply for being Gale Dekarios will remain, always, the best path for him.

[fandomestuff]

I've seen many people shit on the live action atla ((as we should this is such a bad adaptation and honestly a mid show in itself)) but I haven't really seen people talk stuff about Sokka and Suki

And I want to point out a couple of things that I absolutely hated about what they did to them in live action.

1. The kiss

I hate that they made them kiss at the end of the episode. I hate it so much. Like yes, in the original they both clearly had feelings for each other (especially that later Suki talks about losing sb very important to her, who we know was Sokka), but they weren't rushed like that.

In the original they both grow so much between their meetings. Sokka finally gets together with a girl (not the first girl he meets that's his age, like Suki), kisses sb for the first time, travels the world, meets new people and in general matures.

We don't know much about what Suki is doing during that time, but we know she finally does sth that helps people during war, sth that she said was important to her. She can finally put her skills in leadership to greater use and she feels great about it. She also matures during that time and we know that she still thinks about Sokka and misses him.

Them kissing immediately makes their relationship so much more bland and just... flat.

2. If they make all three seasons, we will probably not get the most iconic line of the show...

Because now Sokka's first girlfriend is technically Suki...

3. The whole scene with Suki teaching Sokka

I cannot empathise enough how important Sokka's sexism is in their relationship. It's something that Suki fixes in him, something she manages to show him... by absolutely kicking his ass. In live action... the fight scene next to those melons was a joke not a fight scene if I can be honest. Idk if it's the writing or the choreography or the actors but it looks so fake and just so bad 💀 And she attacked him while he was still "stretching"??? Suki would never.

What is this 💀💀

But the most important scene, and the one I hate the most in live action, is the one where Suki teaches him a very sacred and traditional and important to Suki and to her culture way of fighting.

In the original, Suki highlights that no man should learn their art and only after Sokka begs Suki to teach him does she agree.

But not without a very important piece that was fully missing from live action which baffles me so much.

The entire armor, the dress and make up.

Not only is it incredibly important to upholding the traditions and keeping the cultural aspect important, but the beautiful, might I add, outfit gives us the depth of Kyoshi Warriors that is just missing from the live action.

"The silk thread symbolizes the brave blood that flows through our veins. The gold insignia represents the honor of the warrior's heart."

It's beautiful. It's meaningful for both of them. It's important. And it's also a way for Suki to mess with Sokka which we love and stan.

I ALSO DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY SUKI TOOK OFF HER MAKE UP FOR THE ALMOST KISS AND THE KISS. It's not like being a Kyoshi Warrior is sth that's bothering her. NO. She's incredibly proud of it!! So. why. take. an. important. part. of. it. away. for. some. stupid. kiss.

WHY NOT GO THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION?? Instead of her taking off her make up for the romantic scene why not just... put make up on Sokka... honestly what's more romantic than putting make up on your crush.

They could have made such a beautiful and intimate scene between these two.

Them sitting in front of each other. Suki putting on Sokka's make up, while either talking about herself or about how important this whole set up is for her and her culture. I wouldn't mind it then because it would give their relationship some depth instead of "omg he's so pretty" "omg she's so pretty." *kiss*

But no. Instead they kissed right next to a group of people (including Suki's mother which just makes is so much more weird) after Suki said sth about Sokka showing her a bit of the world.

And I hate it so much.

It takes away the part where Suki teaches Sokka something very important, something that changes his personality, helps with his arc to Sokka "showing her a bit of the world". How?? With what?? It's not like he took her away from the Island itself or introduced her to his culture. No. He just... showed up and kissed her.

Great writing.

And don't get me starter on the "I'm not just a warrior. I'm a Kyoshi Warrior" line. It's a good line. It really is. But it would be better if the producers actually focused on Suki being a Kyoshi Warrior and not just a girl that has a crush on Sokka.

And while it's compared to "I'm a warrior. But I'm a girl too"... gods I... ughhhhhhh

So yeah. I hated it. I hated the show. All I have to say is:

They ruined my favourite couple. They ruined many great characters. They completely missed the point of the original story.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

you wrote a real banger of a line for riz! Additionally, I love how his line about how Pok died because he was alone is followed by adaine and gorgug behind him. Pok was isolated but Riz isn’t. Friendship beam.

exactly u get it!! thank u a lot of bard!riz's arc is about the fear of death and loss and the search for a way to keep it from happening to him again. he will never find a conclusive solution because not everything is caused by a villain to defeat or a deity to appease but with kalina specifically I do always find it so perfect and symmetrical that she orchestrated pok's death and then can't keep riz down. in canon there's a comparison drawn between riz and his dad - they're of the same make, riz looks up to his dad immensely - they're similar enough that you notice their biggest difference is at his back riz has his party while pok had, well, kalina.

I keep rotating this in my mind about sophomore year bard!riz actually, that ever since he learned that his dad was pursuing justice and that the universe is not merely chaotically cruel and to be appeased he's come to the realization that 1/he loves his dad and thinks he's a hero and 2/he has, under the power of his fears, distanced himself from the version of himself that could be like pok at all. he thinks himself a coward, and he doesn't like being a coward, and now being a coward isn't really an option anymore, but there's no proof it didn't keep him safe until high school! and kalina would be actively pushing him towards returning to that perceived safety. I think "friends keep you from dying" is half of it, with the other half being the evolution of the freshman year realization (cruelty thrives in compliance and inaction) that is "cruelty will actively encourage compliance and inaction because it needs those things to spread". the realization that kalina's heart-to-heart is insincere is important in getting riz to where he's like wait a minute I don't have to listen to you just because you agree with my perception of myself lol. for the moment it doesn't matter that he's a coward or a hero, it matters that kalina is trying to manipulate him and his friends to let her resurrect her destructive god. and also that if he dies his friends will tear the realm open to bring him back

[s0fter-sin]

i’ve been watching yannis marshall choreography for like 15 minutes and i’m back thinking about my dancer au

gaz suggests a pole dancing segment for the music video for price and ghost shuts it down hard, saying he doesn’t do pole. gaz calls him selfish, that he’s just saying no to spite him but ghost holds firm; not even listening to soap as he tries to reason with him and reach a compromise

soap gets to practice early like he always does, just to see ghost blasting another life by motionless in white and doing a flawless pole routine. he’s as mesmerised by him as he always is, such beautiful movements contrasted by the seemingly harsh music, and waits for him to break before teasing, “i thought you said you couldn’t do pole dancin’.”

ghost just wipes the sweat off his face with a towel. he knew he was there

he always knows when soap’s there

“i said i didn’t do pole; not that i couldn’t.”

“what’s stoppin’ you?” soap asks, genuine and innocently curious and it’s the only reason ghost doesn’t completely shut him down

“what ‘bout you?” he asks instead. “ever done pole?”

he shrugs and sets his bag down. “enough to get in a twirl or two. ‘sides, gaz’s better suited to that kinda delicate work.”

“now, that i know is bullshit,” ghost scoffs and soap tenses, expecting him to go off on another rant about his best mate (just like he waits through gaz going off on ghost) but- “i’ve seen your competition tapes; you’re plenty strong enough to work a pole.”

soap stares at him. “how have you-?”

“price,” he answers simply, throwing the towel on top of his gear and all but stalks towards him. “i like knowin’ who i’m working with; he sent me your breakdancin’ comps. if you can hold a three-fingered hollowback handstand, you can bend on a pole.”

soap sputters as ghost grips his tank top and yanks him over to the pole, setting his hands in place on the body-warmed metal; bracketing his body with his own. he guides his body through the motions; teaches him how to fall and catch himself in a spin, how to gracefully climb and hold his body in midair

soap laughs as he throws himself into a spin just to bend his legs over his head, twisting his body to latch onto the pole with knee and lean perfectly horizontal with his other leg splayed out; his arm thrown above his head

he tips his head back to catch ghost’s grin and almost drops himself as he jumps up to join him; artfully climbing above him and holding his whole weight on his hip as he flips down to look at him

soap’s breath catches at the scant distance between their faces; so close he can count the near invisible freckles on ghosts skin, his fair lashes and the deep flecks of gold in his dark eyes

ghost is just as entranced; his grin slowly fading as he looks into the light sparkling in soap’s eyes. he tips his head towards the mirrors lining the studio and they slowly turn to look at themselves; fitting perfectly together

“see?” he whispers. “we don’t look all that outta place, do we?”

“no,” soap whispers back. “we don’t.”

[memento-morri-writes]

This is far from my best work, but it's 1:30am, and I needed to get this down before I slept or lost my mind. So here, take a snippet of Rook seeing Zara again for the first time in 3 years.

Trying, and failing, to keep his voice from shaking, [Rook] said “Hello, Captain.” Mouth still open in surprise, [Zara] replied “Well, hello yourself.” The reality of what she was seeing seemed to hit her as she rounded the desk. “Rook, is that really you?” He nodded. “It’s me.” Zara ran towards him, stopping just short of touching him, and said “What did she do to you?” Rook’s heart stuttered and he had to brush his fingers together to confirm Sigmar’s ring was still in place. Could she possibly see through its illusion? But then he remembered what Lanny had said. She knew where you were. His throat clenched and he choked out “Two years.” A wave of grief swept across Zara’s face as she said “I’m so, so sorry.” Rook shook his head vigorously. “It’s not your fault.” Zara ignored him. “It is my fault. I failed you. As your captain, it’s my responsibility to keep you safe, and I failed you.” Rook wanted to say something, to reassure her, but she pushed on. “She sent me letters, told me all the terrible things she was doing to you. I… I let you down.” Those words hit Rook with the force of a dozen cannonballs. Lanny had said that Zara knew Wolf had him, but knowing that Zara had been aware of what Wolf was doing to him… somehow that was more painful than any wound Wolf had ever inflicted. He barely managed to force his next words out around the lump in his throat. “Where were you?” And why didn’t you come? “She said she’d kill you if I came to get you. Or if I hired anyone to get you. You’re standing here because I stopped sailing.” 

(honorary one-time tag for @space-writes bc I remember you enjoyed my other bits about Rook and Zara.)

[diazsdimples]

Several Sentence Sunday!

Not even pretending this is 7 sentences bc it just isn't. This is the final part from Shannon's death that I'm gonna post! I hope it doesn't hurt too bad!! (I'm lying)

Tagged by @thewolvesof1998 @theotherbuckley and @daffi-990 (and inspiration saturday by @disasterbuckdiaz) thank you my dears!!

From where they are now, they can both see Christopher and Carrie through the glass doors that lead out to the patio.

They’re sitting side by side, Christopher’s crutches placed delicately next to him, and Carrie has her arm around Christopher’s shoulders. She’s pointing to something in the backyard as she murmurs quietly in Christopher’s ear, and Buck follows her finger to the large beech tree planted in the middle of the backyard, surrounded by a beautiful rock garden with pieces of sea glass and marbles that glint in the sunlight.

Buck swallows hard, fighting down his own grief, as he pushes himself out of the chair and makes his way, quietly, to the open door, trying to hear what they’re saying.

“ – And Dad got us to plant that tree in memory of Momma so we’d always have something big that we could hug,” Carrie says, her voice quiet but insistent. “Sometimes I like to sit in front of it and tell her about school or dance lessons and it makes me feel better cause Dad says she can always hear me.”

Buck watches as Christopher’s shoulders shake and its with a jolt that he realises the boy is crying. He’s about to move to comfort him when Carrie rubs his arm and rests her head on his shoulder, her blonde curls cascading down his back. Christopher leans his head against hers and sniffs loudly.

“I just wanna hear her voice again. I miss her voice, and her laugh.”

There’s a creak in the floorboards and Buck looks up to see Eddie standing next to him, eyes shining with tears. Lily’s standing between them, looking a little confused, but when she sees Chirstopher’s back heave as he sobs, she scampers out and plops herself down next to him, wrapping her arms around his middle and squeezing him tight.

“Dad says sometimes that when the wind whistles through the leaves, it’s Momma talking to us. Maybe your Dad can plant you a tree at your house. A pine tree, cause your Momma liked Christmas so much” Carrie suggests and Lily nods emphatically on Christopher’s other side.

“Get a tree that you can climb in, Chris!” she suggests excitedly. “Then you can pretend that you’re in your Momma’s arms again!”

Eddie makes a wounded noise next to Buck and grips Buck’s forearm hard. Buck’s got a lump in his throat the size of Texas right now and can’t do much more than pull Eddie close, wrapping him up in his arms and holding him while he shakes.

He doesn’t care that his shirt is getting wet from Eddie’s tears. He just holds him until Eddie breaks away and looks back out at the three kids on the patio, leaning together with their arms tangled up in one another.

“Jesus Christ, Buck, your kids know how to hurt a man don’t they” Eddie croaks as he wipes his face.

Buck laughs, a choked and strained noise. “Yeah well, they’re good girls. They want to make their friends feel better.” He turns to Eddie, locking eyes with him, and places a hand on his shoulder. “Stay as long as you need, okay? Days, weeks, months, I don’t care. We’re here for you.”

Eddie swallows hard and nods, a fresh wave of tears cascading down his cheeks. “Thanks man,” he finally croaks. “You have no idea –“

“ – I do.”

No pressure tagging @hippolotamus @callmenewbie @watchyourbuck @spagheddiediaz @cal-daisies-and-briars @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @spotsandsocks @jesuisici33 @rainbow-nerdss @fruitandbubbles @eddie---diaz @bucksbackwardcap @housewifebuck @transboybuckley @nmcggg @aspecbuddie @fortheloveofbuddie @buckbuckgoose @wildlife4life @wikiangela @fionaswhvre @steadfastsaturnsrings @smilingbuckley

[synonymroll648]

from a vibes perspective, i totally understand why so many people look at keefe and go ‘this guy would be the male equivalent of a wine aunt when he’s older’. 

but. but. 

taking lore into consideration, in my heart, he’s terrified of alcohol (even if he tries really hard to hide it). because. like. his first exposure is almost guaranteed to be through cassius, and cassius canonically threw a glass extremely close to him at least once when he was, like, 8. maybe cassius wasn’t always extra nasty when he was drunk, but there’s gotta be a correlation in keefe’s brain between risking getting seriously hurt (emotionally or physically) and alcohol consumption that’s really hard for him to shake.