#and I mourn Tangled with Bastion

[thatscarletflycatcher]

"Greta Gerw*g captures so well the Experience of WomanhoodTM" and "we made Flynn Ryder tailored to the type of man women dream about" are the top two things capable of sending me in a rage spiral back to all the bullying I received in my school years for not conforming to bullshit standards of femininity and I think that says so much about me actually.

[broodwolf221]

happy fridayyyy i am eyeballing solas/bull/dorian (or any combo thereof) for 'anemoia - nostalgia for a time you’ve never known'

okay this one gave me so many ideassss it was hard to choose a specific direction but it was so much fun ty ty uwu @dadrunkwriting 605 words cws: slavery mentions

Although it was beyond foolish to do so, they had grown closer. Early on there had been a spark of… something between him and Dorian, something he knew better than to pursue, although he did appreciate the man’s honed wit and clever way with magic. They pushed at each other because it was easier for both of them, and when Dorian had eventually been pursued by Bull, Solas had breathed a sigh of relief. That he regretted the missed opportunity did not mean it would have been wise to follow through on.

When they both began to pursue him, when they found excuses to enter the rotunda together, when they were unnecessarily intimate around Solas while they met his eyes… he was very surprised. Then he was uncomfortable for a while. And eventually, he was intrigued.

One night he had fallen in with them. Permitted the pursuit to become a capture, thinking that this would be the end of it. Surely he was nothing more than an interesting diversion to them. A curiosity. But they bid him stay in bed with them overnight. And when he woke he was treated to gentle, undemanding intimacy. It was puzzling, but he could not deny a certain interest.

Now it had been ongoing for some time, their strange little trio. They paid him as much attention as they paid each other. He was no simple diversion but an entire part of this arrangement. However, over time he noticed that Dorian’s gaze began to have something strange in it. At first he thought the other man was tiring of him, or that he was jealous—he tried to retreat, to pull away, but he was always pulled back into their mutual gravity.

Eventually he realized what the something was, and he thought he might have preferred disinterest.

Dorian was guilty.

Eventually he had pressed for an answer. They were all three of them together, tangled limbs in a bed that should have been too small for them, and Solas pressed his questions against the soft skin of Dorian’s shoulder. Bull was silent while Dorian stiffened between them, until eventually he sighed and his tension fled. He answered with none of his usual blithe grace, the depth of his feeling clear in the dimly lit room and the press of flesh, and when he was done explaining Solas slowly traced patterns against his chest.

Dorian Pavus was from Tevinter. Tevinter, where elves were enslaved as a matter of course. Tevinter, which history told had conquered Arlathan. Tevinter, the villain of modern history. And Dorian felt horribly guilty for laying with him, feeling the burden of his ancestry—and above all, mourning that Tevinter had supposedly destroyed the magnificence of Arlathan.

“You forget,” Solas said at last, voice muted in the shared space. “That I have seen much of Arlathan in my journeys. It was no bastion of progress, no perfect world. It was as flawed as your Tevinter, in its time. I have seen no nation so vast as these that was without its sins, and Arlathan was no different. You are not to be held to account for the loss of… my people’s magic, or our supposed immortality. It is in the past. This is the present.”

A strange speech to give, each word feeling thick and pitifully ironic in his mouth. Part of him was wary to even speak this, overly conscious of Bull’s eye on him, of his profound training… wary that he was giving something away. But it had to be said. Dorian had to be soothed, for Solas could not tolerate the lingering guilt in his gaze.

[princess-of-the-worlds]

😭😍

😭 angst or sad WIP snippet

the only angst or sad WIP snippet i currently have to offer is star wars, so i hope that's okay ahaha

“—gundarks!” Luke cries in a near-hysterical sob. “Ben had the opportunity to ramble on about gundarks, but he never bothered to warn me that my father was—”

Another sob bubbles up in his chest, bursting from his lungs, and something ugly twists inside him. He throws his hands up, briefly losing control of the Force, and Ben’s journals launch against the opposite wall of the cabin, falling into a heap on the grimy floor. 

“Did you think me a fool, Ben,” Luke calls to the ceiling, “telling me that Vader killed my father?” He wants Ben to appear so that he can shout at the Jedi Master, because that would feel better than the choked desolation he feels, like someone has reached deep inside his chest and cut him open, flaying his heart out. The love, the hero worship, the awe and yearning he carried for his father for all of his twenty-two short years — it’s all burned away, out of reach. All that’s left is this emptiness, this grief and horror so potent he could drown in it.

i don't know why the indents ended up so weird, but enjoy some luke angst!

😍 published lines or a section of a fic that you loved writing?

ahhhh, that's so hard, but for now, i'll go with this:

What remains pulses — neurons mourning the loss of the copious space they one had to grow and spiral in.  They can feel those spaces, those missing body parts. The memories of them linger, like ghosts, like phantoms haunting the space left behind. The brain remembers what the body forgets. When one part of the body dissipates away, its responding part of the brain still lingers, and its plants may have died but the soil is still fertile, so the vines of the connections of the brain overgrow there — thus, Jack’s fingers are felt on his elbow and his legs in his chest.

That forgotten part of his brain has grown a new jungle, all the tactile senses and perceptions tangled, a reminder of what once was there and now is gone — like seeing a mall, a former bastion of civilization and capitalism, reclaimed by nature. 

What remains of Jack echoes in his lingering neurons. Is that what a ghost is? The last thought of a dying or dead neuron caught in a never-ending loop of memory, trauma, thought, consciousness? And is a haunting just people caught up in the devastating gravity of a ghost?

from the @ultraviolet-eucatastrophe inspired body horror fic when does a monster become one

this just tickles my brain and i cannot explain why

send me an emoji ask about my wip and published fics

[hagstones-and-howling-hills]

It is my writing... enjoy :-)

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And the rain bore down with vengeance and stained the dusty windows with streaks of pale light. It assaulted the glass and hammered the frames into place. It stripped the white from their ashen bones and threw each flake of it to the churning black earth. Cold seeped through the single glaze and clenched its icy fingers around our hearth where history went up in flames.

Week-old weak tea sat in chipped china cups congealing on the stone. Ash glazed the surface of each one and sunk slowly to the bottom. Flakes spun dancingly, dizzyingly about the room picking partners in dust motes and continuing their waltzes and gavottes on the cracked leather seats. The flames from which they flew croaked and crackled along to the rickety warble of the wobbling record spinning on the gramophone. With each tear of bow against strings Sebastian tore a fresh page. He fed them into the flames and they reached greedily for red fleshed fingertips.

The sturdy study shelves were half bare. A growing mountain of leather covers, red, green, brown, lay abandoned, violated by the piano. We hadn’t touched her yet.

“The atlas.”

He cast the corpse of Advanced Mathematics aside. The leather wings flapped once, uselessly, and the book lay still on the faded turkish carpet. I took the heavy book from the shelf. Gold lettering glinted in the quiet January sun tangling into the study. A moment’s collection to mourn the beautiful prints contained within and the sacrifice exchanged hands. At the crescendo of the piece a map of normandy found itself engulfed in gold. Ink and paper shrivelled and screamed out smoke, curling and turning and curling and turning before falling apart. Normandy crumbled to ash.

He thrust a flame darkened poker into the ever growing pile of ash and what remained of normandy tumbled across and over the stone of the hearth and drowned our twin china cups. The record skipped, skipped, skipped and stuttered, caught on a lilting tilting verse. I crossed the old turkish carpet and snatched the needle from the scratch. The gaping silence left was filled only by the cracking of the rain and the pattering of the fire.

I sat in one of a pair of cracked brown leather armchairs studded with copper like bullets along the arms and back. The leather creaked and groaned. Paris burned and it was all I could do to watch with my teeth knocking like death and my feet forgotten in the bedroom. The fire stayed quiet, steadfastly refusing to roar. It silently devoured each arrondissement and graced us with not a belch. We had starved it for days. Drowned it in damp kindling and moulding mahogany. The study had been our last bastion, our corner waiting silently in the east wing, ready to be backed into. The library had been lost when the dampness of December crept into our beds and found its home in our bones, lungs, muscles, shaking our cores. We had pulled volumes upon volumes from the shelves, cracked the ribs of sliding ladders to feed the blaze and keep our fire alive. Now the tiled floor lay blackened and cold and we had moved on.

Calais collapsed in on itself.

The walls were growing bare. The flames would soon rise to swallow the piano, bite down upon the instrument and drown the cracking hunger in a cacophony of screaming strings. We’d burned the paintings. We’d burned the harpsichord and the bedframes and the tables and the chairs. We were a fogged breath away from burning the brick buried timber. And where would we be?

The January rain tore at the brick outside. If we hurried we could get to the building's bones before the damp crawled in and settled down to rot. We could rip her apart from the inside until the slates rained down and pierced our skin, until our corpses lay covered in brick dust, red and rusting.

But before then we would destroy the centuries lining the shelves. Before then the leather would crackle in the flames like flaying skin. Before then the piano would go.

[asteriixa]

Sora 

A starter for @valorxdrive​

The old stone of the dried fountain cracked and fractured. The foundation tangled with weeds and stubborn grass peeked through the grates. Xion stood on the basin wall, balanced on the thin, faded marble. One foot-in-front of the other, heel-to-toe, and toe-to-heel. Her weight swayed and her arm lifted to compensate. She pivoted on her toe, turning to face the courtyard. A dismal, overcast sky darkened above the city. Her eyes scanned the patched roofs of Hallow Bastion, the boarded windows, and the unhinged doors. Wildflowers overgrew the garden beds and clashed with asteria vines that strangled the pitiful, barren oak trees. Xion hooked her hand behind her back, eyes settling on the boy that approached from down the street. 

He wore black and red, loose, casual clothes, infused with magic. A new outfit, it wasn’t what he wore when he wandered-out of the mansion in Twilight Town. The wizard must have given the change of wardrobe to him. Xion scrutinized his unkempt, brown hair, his features, the blue of his eyes. A displeasure pursed her lips. He stood off ten or fifteen feet, she met his gaze. Xion tilted her chin, and then the corner of her mouth lifted. 

“You’ve been asleep for a long time,” Xion said. Her gaze softened and there was something mournful in her tone. “But you don’t remember anything, do you?”

Xion scoffed, and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. On the fountain edge her stance broadened and she pulled her shoulders back. Her hand extended, reaching for him, in a beckoning gesture. A cocky bring-it-on, smirking and self-confident. She’d been looking forward to this for a very long time. 

“I want to see what you’re capable of, show me.”