#and i feel like i am supposed to be living for both of us and instead I'm just wasting two lives at once!

[elkian]

Viewing environment considerations are definitely important; thinking of video games that open with alerting the player that a dark room, headphones, and/or a controller are optimal play elements (I play horror games in a well-lit room because I am a scaredy cat, not because I think they look best that way lmao). Both the artist and the audience need to be aware of that and make adjustments on each others' parts.

Speaking of video games, there's a balance in art between "using limited tools in creative ways" and "sticking with a limited method because it's classic". When people lean too hard into the latter, it makes a game that at best, is awkward to play, where every negative element feels deliberately included (I think about this particular Awkward Zombie comic a lot). At worst, it makes the game genuinely impossible to enjoy.

Pixel and low-poly artstyles can make for an incredible experience, if applied thoughtfully. Limited save files, scores, and limited player lives can make for an incredible experience, if applied thoughtfully. There are gifs on this very site that use more memory than the original Pokemon cartridges could, and those games had an incredible impact.

Anyways, my point is that in any art form, cynical or thoughtless application of a nostalgic method can tarnish your finished piece, like how the sitcom lighting above looks completely out of place in some environments.

I don't know much about lighting in photography and cinematography myself, so this was really interesting to go through; I know GoT's finale got blasted and there's I think a Halloween remake that was criticized for being way, way too well-lit and balanced to convey the creeping dread it's supposed to. It's kind of like learning the language of the piece so I can better appreciate how well (or not so well) it's made.

In this scene, they are in the middle of the woods under a canopy of trees. They show the sky and there is no moon.

The light has absolutely no motivation.

Motivated lighting is a philosophy where all of the light sources on screen have a logical source. The light from a smartphone on someone's face. A lamp next to the couch. Sterile overhead office lights.

Often filmmakers will still use their own custom light sources, but they will simulate these things to give the impression the light has motivation.

Compare this to when all they really had were bright spotlights and insensitive film. An indoor scene just couldn't have this warm and cozy feel. And the light was just blasted in from everywhere.

Black and white helped a lot. You could still get dramatic effect despite things needing to be overlit. Or you could play with contrast ratios and shadow.

All the stuff you need to see was very bright and exposed well onto film and all the stuff you didn't was very dark.

But there was no graduation in between. It was hard to be subtle.

And when television and movies went color, this black and white contrast advantage was lost.

You can see EVERYTHING. And look at those sharp shadows. Everyone is just being blasted in the face with lights.

This sitcom lighting persisted long past when it was necessary. It became part of the sitcom language.

I think M*A*S*H was one of the first shows to subvert the overlit sitcom aesthetic. They began to play with lighting that had more motivation.

But aesthetic standards are hard to kill. And despite the heavy influence of M*A*S*H, sitcoms persisted all the way into the Friends era.

Her lamp isn't even on. Everything is just lit by God.

I don't think you will see a living room or kitchen scene lit like this very much from here on out.

People are getting used to lighting making more logical sense.

With the advent of LED lighting that can be any size, shape, and brightness, as well as cameras that can interpret very dark images, modern shows can now use bright and dark as narrative tools.

I think Severance does this well, and still keeps everything properly motivated.

But this newfound flexibility has created new problems. If you can film dark things, how dark is too dark? And how do you make sure the audience can see all of the important visual information?

The two worst examples of unmotivated lighting are always space helmets and cars.

It's a conceit. You gotta see the faces so these things are usually forgiven.

But the biggest debate in the realm of unmotivated lighting is night scenes. People have lots of opinions on how best to use light in the dark.

This is because following a motivated lighting philosophy can be especially tricky. Particularly if your setting is a secluded area without any artificial light sources.

Many cinematographers will try to give some sense of moonlight. But moonlight is very hard to replicate, so the effect usually ends up looking pretty fake.

This scene during a blackout in Die Hard 4 looks like they took the brightest light they had, mounted it as high as possible and said, "Fuck it, that's moon-ish."

If the DP is hardcore into motivated lighting, they just make the screen really really dark, like the Long Night battle in Game of Thrones.

The really really dark option bugs a lot of people.

Froggie Tangent about Dark Scenes:

I originally thought people needed to adjust their display settings. But then I realized not everyone watches content in a darkened room like a vampire. But if you find a show or movie is too dark, turning off any room lights will help a lot. Watching it in HDR will also help. And watching it on an OLED will help even more.

Scenes this dark are mostly a fad. DPs are experimenting with the possibilities of new technology. But sometimes they forget not everyone has that technology yet. And they forget some people watch stuff on their phones in a room full of sunlight.

Eventually the fad will fade, we will all adopt better screens, and the darkness will land somehwere between "I can't see shit" and "it would never be that bright in real life."

[End of tangent]

In the olden days, since film wasn't sensitive enough to do scenes in the dark, almost everything needed to have unmotivated lighting just to make sure their film wasn't a grainy mess. And as a culture, we sort of got used to that style. They'd mess with the contrast ratios to give the feeling of night, but if you think about where the light is coming from too hard, it won't make any sense. They took a Broadway theater approach to lighting and so a lot of movies felt like they were on a soundstage.

The 1961 West Side Story is a good example.

They've got a spot light hitting them, but not the building behind them. I guess that could be an overhead street light. But street lights are meant to flood the area like an ever expanding donut of light. A spotlight is like a directly projected cone of light. It is perfectly pointed at the side of their face and not coming from above.

She has some magical purple light coming from... somewhere.

And then they are in an area under a bridge, far away from any lights, but they've got soft fill light with a bright rim coming from the right.

Speilberg's version has much more motivated light.

This one is a bit of a cheat, some very bright source off in the distance. But it feels more plausible to the brain and gives a better sense of darkness. It feels like some kind of industrial lighting. Or a security light at a junkyard.

Here he straight up shows you where the light is coming from. And his preference for anamorphic lenses.

And here he uses bright train lights to create silhouettes. This is clever because it allows everything to be very dark but everyone is still legible in the scene.

I'm torn. Because I study light. And so I am very aware of how shows and movies are lighting things. And unmotivated lighting sticks out in my brain. Like when I watch someone miming playing the guitar. Or using a camera improperly. When you know too much about something, inaccurate onscreen depictions just drive you nuts.

There are some techniques being experimented with to make night scenes more legible while maintaining lighting realism. I think the most promising is the infrared day-for-night process used in Nope.

But maybe it doesn't need to be solved. Maybe DPs should just light the night even if it doesn't always make sense. Maybe general audiences just do not care and I am a big nerd who should be ignored.

[rookanis-de-riva]

Seeing you Omegaverse stuff has made me think of a snippet with an Alpha Rook attempting to convince a Beta or Omega Lucanis to please go to sleep, because him being sleep deprived and stressed out is making ROOK stressed out because their instincts are screaming at them that "Someone in your pack doesn't feel secure enough to rest. You're supposed to keep your pack safe! What are you even doing? You're bad Alpha!" and they're trying to be normal about it and not make their instincts Lucanis's problem but everytime someone offhandedly mentions what number cup of coffee Lucanis is on they feel like diving off the Lighthouse.

incredibly sexy. excellent whump material. I am putting both of these blorbos into a Miserable Situation and then I'm shaking the jar.

I actually have almost this exactly in my longfic where Spite spends a week stuck between Lucanis and Rook, and he decides "oh these betas need an Alpha BAD"

so even though he can't remember his living life or what gender/biology he was (is?), he just decides I Am Pack Alpha Now and 90% of his job consists of trying to wrangle one or the other of them to sleep

Rook is *slightly* better at it, but only by technicality. since he's a spirit mage, I'm having fun fleshing out exactly what that means, and I say spirit mages almost always lucid dream. they just "wake up" inside of the Fade essentially, and their thoughts are a little squiggly, kind of prone to reliving memories (especially if they're experiencing a strong similar emotion in their waking life, so nightmares are still possible, they're just trauma flashbacks)

but Rook is really good at lucid dreaming and he keeps using his ""sleep"" to plan the next day's schedule, review the entire day for any important details he missed, strategize tactics against the Venatori, rough draft letters he'll write for real in the morning, etc

and Sleep is like "NO! This. is NOT. sleep!!"

Rook can only really get a good, dreamless sleep if Lucanis holds him while Spite wraps his wings around their Rook, because then when he "wakes up" in the Fade / his dream, Spite as a demon is still in there too, so he just sees darkness from being wing-cocooned

(literally how you calm down a bird by putting a hood over its head)

[musingsofheaven]

GIRLS LIKE GIRLS.

summary: she’s your best friend. she has always been around you, or you are always around her. you call it girlhood like that explains why you’re constantly touching her and sleeping in her bed and staring at her mouth mid-sentence like want to kiss it and tashi’s so fucking tired of that word like she want to erase the existence of that word.

pairings: closeted best friend!tashi duncan × afab best friend!reader

warnings: 3.2k words. emotional themes. homoerotic undertones. emotional repression. internalized homophobia. compulsory heterosexuality. unspoken wlw tension. queerness denial / closeting. blurred boundaries. read gently.

note: reposted because i hate tumblr ! i’m sorry for writing this during pride month (i am not really planning on writing about this) 😔 but i couldn’t get it out of my head. last night. i was supposed to write about artrick.. but unfortunately… i lived through the exact horrors of homoerotic friendship (and so tashi suddenly came into my mind) and couldn’t keep pretending i was fine. this piece is personal (not in a way it reflects what happened in mine, but it reflect the feelings, yes) in the way that makes you stare at the wall for a bit after writing. i hope it makes someone feel a little more seen. happy pride month, my babies. 🫶

You’ve always been like this.

Too loud when you’re excited. She can practically predict that you’ll do those mannerisms when you experience certain things that excite you. You’re too soft when you’re tired. You like sleeping, and sometimes you rest. The kind of girl who clings to people without realizing she’s doing it. You want to hold people when you’re comfortable with them. Especially their arms. When you are out and you’re getting anxious? You’ll hold the fabric of their top. When you’re happy, you will squeeze them. You are kind who says “I love you” like it’s thank you, sorry, and nothing at all. You can easily say it like a candy being handed to kids. You cry when you’re angry. Or sometimes you get quiet. You laugh when you’re nervous. The awkward laugh. Jesus, you do that to make people think you’re so brave or smug. You don’t hide anything, and Tashi’s never decided if that makes you brave or reckless.

But you picked her. Somehow. At some point.

Out of everyone in that place, you look at her and decide, “Okay, I’m going to talk to her.” You looked at her like she was safe. Like she was obvious. You held her wrist once, years ago, and said, “You’re stuck with me now,” and she didn’t even blink. You don’t even let her breathe. You look like you won’t accept no as an answer. Just nodded. Just said, “Okay.”

That’s what it’s always been with you. No hesitation. No distance. You love with your whole chest and body all at once. And you act like everyone else does, too. Like that’s normal.

It isn’t. Not really, in her eyes, it isn’t.

Tashi always loses her mind when it comes to you. The worst part is that she has never met anyone else like you. But you calm her down despite driving her insane. You call her your best friend. Say it like a title. Like a crown. She lets you. Even if some days, it feels more like a leash because you call it girlhood.

She can’t count how many times you used that words. To Tashi, that’s your word for everything. When you braid or brush her hair, when your fingers are intertwined in public, when you whisper I love you in her ear like you are telling that to your boyfriend. You say it with that dreamy little laugh of yours. Your smile will be so big, and you‘ll tilt your head. It’s like you’re both sixteen and living inside a coming-of-age playlist.

Girlhood. Yeah girlhood. Sometimes she wants to curse that word out. Or erase it from the dictionary. Or make people forget about it. Tashi doesn’t say anything when you do it. When you call the things you do to her girlhood, she’ll just shut up. Don’t say that, as always. She never does. She smiles, nods, and lets you have your softness, like she isn’t dying a little bit every time you wrap it in glitter and innocence.

You say things like, “She’s my soulmate but like, not in a gay way,” and expect her to laugh. She will look at you disgustedly as if she’s disgusted by the affection. No, he isn’t, but she appreciates the gesture. But the implication. Yeah. So sometimes she laughs at it. Sometimes she wants to take your face and ask what the hell you think this is. Or slap you.

Because what is that?

Best friends don’t look at each other like that across rooms. Not with the lingering eyes, no. They don’t get quiet or send daggers with their eyes when one of them is flirting with someone else. They don’t fall asleep on each other’s stomachs while looking up or maybe face down on the stomach and hand on thighs, or they don’t cuddle, and their hands will caress you.

And they don’t say I love you and sweet things like it means more than friendship, like you want her to take it differently.

But you do.

You say it all the time. Sometimes casually, when you feel emotional, or about it, constantly. You don’t even hear yourself anymore.

Sometimes Tashi wonders if you know. If you think that actions might be beyond friendship already, or you’re just that dumb. Not on the surface, maybe. Not in a way you’d admit out loud. But deep down, where it sits quietly and stays on your mind, it will whisper to you about it and warm your stomach. Maybe a part of you knows exactly what you’re doing. That‘s what you do. That speak and say, “girl, shut the fuck up that’s not so platonic.” That leans in too close. That holds on too long.

Maybe that part of you is in love with her. Not love that you can give to everybody. Not in a way that you feel with your boyfriend, who never stays long. Not in a way that you are supposed to love your best friend.

And maybe that’s the part you keep drowning with lip gloss and throwaway phrases like girlhood. You probably hide behind those little phrases because you don’t know how to justify them.

Because how can you even get jealous like it’s her fault? No, she’s not talking about the jealousy towards her. It’s the jealousy you’ll feel about others. You might not notice it, but it’s always the same. The minute Tashi mentions another girl, maybe someone from the university, someone she got drinks with once, someone she plays tennis with, someone who complimented her, someone who texted her late, you change.

Not obviously. Not dramatically. Not in a way people in relationships do. Well, maybe it’s the same, but you go quiet. Mouth shut. How can you even shut it when you always seem to say something when you’re with her? You blink a little too long. You find something to fuss or distract yourself with. She noticed it. You do it with your sleeve, cup, and shirt hem; you get touchy with things and say something soft and stupid like, “Oh… cool.”

Then, a few minutes later, you lean into her. So fucking close that you might want to eat her space. To get her in your system. Your hands can’t even calm down. You’ll touch her arm. Rest your chin on her shoulder like you’re trying to remind her where she belongs. Sometimes you’ll rest your forehead instead and stay like that.

You never say it’s jealousy. You say it’s best friend stuff. Fuck that. best friend stuff. Yeah, best friend. You say, “I don’t like people trying to steal you.” You say, “You’re my person. You’re my best friend. You’re my soulmate. You’re not allowed to replace me.”

And Tashi, who has spent her whole life trying not to look at you the way she does, laughs. Plays along. Because what can she do? Complain? No. She’s not dumb. She won’t do anything that will keep you away from her. So she’ll brush your hair back from your face and says, “As if I could.” No, she really can’t replace you. Maybe she can. But you’ll always haunt her. You’ll always be behind her mind, whispers the what-ifs.

Tashi doesn’t ask what you mean by it. Your words. Doesn’t call you out when your mood shifts for the rest of the night. When you cling too tightly. As if she’s someone you need to hold on to. When you look at her like she’s slipping through your fingers, you don’t know why that bothers you.

You’re not gay. She’s heard you say it. Sometimes she got disgusted with it. How proud you are. Or how you deny doing things that can be considered queer in other people’s eyes. You need to assure people about it. You say it with so much certainty that it almost sounds true.

But then you pull her a little closer. So close that it might suffocate you. You squeeze her hand tighter while you steal glances at her. You ask who texted her at midnight, as if it’s small talk. You ask things like you’re just curious, not because you are bothered and want to pry about it. And you act like this is normal. Like this is what girls do.

Tashi doesn’t correct you. Just smiles. Just nods. Just squeezes your hand back. She lets you have it. Whatever this is. You do everything together.

People don’t think twice about things until they see how you touch her because you are best friends and are so proud. The way you sit is too close. The way people won’t question it because “they are just friends, get used to it.” Your eyes follow her mouth when she talks, like you’re unaware.

You call it “just us stuff.” Meaning the stuff you only do to each other. You can’t do stuff with other people because it’s your thing. Sometimes you paint her nails while straddling her thigh on the couch. You even pick a color for her, and she always lets you. That made you so giggly because Tashi is not hard to paint nails for; she’s still watching your face while you do it because you’re so focused, and you won’t even notice how she looks at you. You do her makeup while your fingers linger too long under her chin, smiling and telling her she looks so pretty. You lie across her lap when you’re tired and ask her to scratch your back, whining when she pauses like she owes you her hands.

Once, she tucked your hair behind your ear, and your breath hitched. You rolled your eyes, and you laughed. Said, “God, this is so gay. Good thing I’m not.” She almost laughed, too. Almost. But she doesn’t because she wanted to stab herself after hearing that.

You share things. Share drinks. Especially food. You’ll try whatever she’s having, tell her “I want to see what you got,” while pouting. Share beds. You kiss her cheek when you’re proud of her. You’ll even scrunch your nose after that and giggle before giving her more praise. You grip her waist when you’re drunk, whisper “you’re so pretty it’s disgusting,” when she’s getting ready for a party she didn’t even invite you to.

You bite her shoulder when you’re laughing too hard. You tuck your face into her neck like it’s nothing. You say she’s so comfortable and soft, you‘re always in her space.

You tell her things no one else knows. The stuff you get embarrassed about. Your weird things that she can only understand. Your fears will haunt you. Your dreams that you’re so eager to get in the grip of your hands. The intrusive thoughts that don’t make sense or are too disturbing until she nods and says, “I get it.”

You once took a photo of her while she was sleeping. You sent it to her and told her she looked peaceful. Beautiful. You always take candid photos of her as if you are taking pictures of her through the lenses of your eyes. Or in the way you see her.

You don’t think it means anything. You’re just close. That’s all. You’re her best friend.

And that’s the word you always use when she makes you feel something you don’t want to name. You say that when you’re too sweet to her. “I love you, you know that? I couldn’t pick another best friend than you.”

You also talk about boys as if they don‘t matter. It’s never about how they made you feel. It’s always what they didn’t do. They didn’t text the right way. They didn’t listen. They don’t compliment you. They wear too much cologne. They don’t match outfits with you. They don’t carry your purses. They don’t get goofy with you. They didn’t remember the little things. They didn’t get you.

Tashi hears it every time. The silent comparison. “He was nice,” you say one night, your head resting on her thigh as you scroll through your phone. “But not funny. Not like you.” What the fuck that supposed to mean?

Tashi hums, barely. Of course she does. Of course, she’ll validate the comparison. It made the boys you date look like nothing when she stood beside them. Her fingers hover above your hair, aching to touch you, but she doesn’t move.

“He ordered for me without asking,” you add, tossing your phone aside. “Who does that?” your voice irritated before you look at her.

She gives a soft laugh. “And you didn’t leave right then?” she asks. Always asks if you leave immediately, or don’t let people do the bare minimum.

“I should have. I don’t know.” You sigh. “It’s always something. They talk too much. They don’t care enough. They try hard to impress me and still get it all wrong.” You shift a little, pressing closer like you always do when frustrated. You have that face when you’re annoyed. Tashi lets you.

“I just want someone who gets me,” you murmur. “Someone who knows what I mean even when I don’t say it. Someone I can… exist with.”

You don’t even look at her. You don’t have to. The weight of your words lands all the same. Tashi doesn’t say a thing. She wants to choke herself while hearing your words.

And then- God, then- you laugh. Bright and thoughtless. “I swear,” you say, nudging her knee with yours, “If you were a guy, I’d be so in love with you.” Classic. It guts her. Instantly. Who said that? Who said you can say that? Who allowed you? You grin like you haven’t just knocked the air out of her.

“I mean, think about it. We already do everything together. You know me better than anyone. You’re smart, you’re hot, you listen- like, what else could I ask for?” Tashi smiles because that’s what she’s supposed to do. Because that’s all she can do. She cannot say, “Yeah, I would date you right now.” But something behind her ribs is aching. And you don’t even notice.

You don’t always notice. You touch her like it means nothing after you said that. Or in daily occurrences, you’ll feel like it’s automatic. Like she belongs to you.

You drag her into dressing rooms under the excuse of “just help me pick,” and then make her stand there while you change in front of her, shirt off, bra on, asking if the color washes you out. Ask those questions that are in her little overthinking mind, like you need her approval for your clothes. You’ll twirl, look over your shoulder, ask if it makes your ass look flat. And then laugh when you catch her staring. “Don’t look at me like that, perv.”

She never is. Not the way you think. She’s just admiring you. In a way like… “You’re so pretty, I want to kiss you,” but she doesn’t say that. Not openly. Not in a way that would give her away. But you don’t know that. You don’t know anything.

Sometimes, your hand lingers at her waist for too long. You’ll grip it absentmindedly at parties, in lines, when you’re trying to get her attention. You’ll lean in close, murmur against her ear, and then stay there, breath warm, smile soft.

You slap her ass when she walks past you in a crop top and call her a whore- joking, always joking- and follow it with “I’m so jealous of your body. It’s unfair.”

You once cupped her tits in a pool and claimed it was because “your bikini looks so good.”

Tashi didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She just laughed- because what else could she do? Thank fuck you guys in the water that time so her blushing cheeks are not that obvious.

You’ve asked her to shower with you more than once. You’ll say, “I don’t want to be late.” Yeah. Or when there’s an emergency, like there’s only one shower. “You’ve seen me naked like a thousand times, who cares?” You say it all so easily. So convincingly. Like you mean nothing by it. And maybe you don’t. Perhaps it’s just friendship to you. Girlhood. Closeness.

But to her, It’s torture. Every casual brush of your fingers, every thoughtless press of your body to hers, every moment you strip down without flinching- it all adds up. A hundred quiet wounds with your name on them.

Still, she never stops you. She never will because she’d rather have too much of you, in all the wrong ways, than not have you at all. She wants you, and she’ll take anything you can give her. Anything she’ll eat that up like a goddamn dog.

And you… You can’t just stop. You keep dating men. It‘s like it’s a habit you can’t quite break. Some of them are sweet. Some of them are forgettable. None of them lasts long. And every time one slips away, you come back to her. Like you always do. Because you need her, you need your best friend. You show up at her door with a tired laugh and something cheap in a paper bag, claiming you’re over it, that it was nothing, that he was never that deep in your life anyway. But you always talk about him just a little too long. You always make her sit through it and be forced to listen. You always sigh like there’s something stuck in your chest that you don’t have the words for.

Tashi listens. She always listens. She holds your wine and your weight and your moods. She lets you get drunk. She gets drunk with you, too. She enables you to lean into her like it’s your right. She lets you hold her because you need comfort. She tells you you’re fine and’ll find someone better, even though you’re not asking. You never ask. Not directly.

But you still watch her face when you talk about new boys. God. God. God. Why is there always a new guy? She’s not even over about the last guy you dated, as if she’s the one moving on.

You still say things like, “You’ll like him, he kind of reminds me of you,” or “We have your kind of banter,” or “I think this might be different, but I want to see what you think.”

You bring them up like you’re waiting for her reaction. You told her first about which guy you are talking like you need her approval, who you’ll date. You try to make her laugh with your texts. You compare how they hug you, how they listen, how they don’t.

And after every breakup, like it always does, you come back again. You end up in her bed, curled around a pillow like it means nothing. You curl into her space like it’s yours. You don’t say much. You don’t have to. But sometimes you mutter, half-asleep, that you don’t know why nothing ever works.

Tashi doesn’t tell you why. She listens. Let you stay. She brushes your hair out of your face and holds you in silence, eyes on the ceiling, and your heart somewhere far from sleep.

Outside, the world keeps moving.

Inside, she wonders how long she can keep being almost everything.

And whether almost will ever be enough.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[serensama]

A Word with Friends: Of Houses, Hearts and Hidden things

Ahhh finally, this thing has a name.

Thank you @hedwigoprah you wondrous creature, I am a fan of this amazing game and this week's word. I may not use it as often as I should but gee when I read it in something, I do enjoy it quite a lot hahah. My thanks to @woundedsoul12 and @jenn2d2 who tagged me in their awesome work too <3 This week got away from me (yes, again, I have a problem) at 3.1k so yeah- LONG POST.

Read on Ao3

Avarice

1. Excessive or inordinatedesire of gain; greed for wealth 2. Inordinate desire for some supposed good.

---

Enduring the Fifth Talon’s cane was nothing; the man was barely putting half of his strength into his hits. He had almost taunted Viago by saying that Caterina could still hit harder than him, but thought better of it; it wasn’t as if he wanted the man to hurt him more. 

Illario had been prepared for his reaction, knowing what would happen when they were found out; it was a certainty that someone would notice them. It wasn’t even cloudy when Lilya led him by the hand through the front door of her shared home with Viago. He knew the moment he agreed to follow what was to come. It was only a matter of time.  

“What were you thinking?!” the older man hissed, striking him again out of fury. “Don’t! You can’t talk yourself out of this one, Dellamorte. You knew I tolerated this idiocy because it made her happy. If you’re deluded enough to think I wasn’t aware of you sniffing around her since the Antiva City mission, you’re more of a fool than I thought. I let this happen because some part of you makes her light up, and I am not yet completely without mercy. But to protect what is mine, I will be. Do not force my hand, Illario. This ends, now. And for Maker’s sake, put on your underwear man, and get out of my House.”

Illario knew that things would be set in motion, and he would either have to accept and live with them, or be incited to rally against them - and he knew which he intended to do. He was well aware of what people thought about him. That he was capricious. That he was materialistic, callous, shallow, and only liked to gamble, duel and fuck. They were not wrong. Those things were all true to a degree, he was as they said- but he was also more. And it was times like these that he was grateful for people continuously underestimating him. 

He put on his underwear and picked up his leathers, reaching into the pouch to pull out a velvet drawstring bag, about to throw it to Viago, but the Talon squinted at him with distrust and shook his head. “Open it, and put whatever is inside on her dresser,” he ordered, not foolish enough to catch something thrown at him by another assassin. 

The younger man sighed and pulled at the strings, then tugged at the fabric to show Viago a small, glass bottle. Even from across the room, Illario could see the way recognition fell upon his face, his eyes glued to the crystal atomiser. He knew what it was. He knew the effort it took to get one, the time and the expense. What people in his position meant by giving someone a bottle of bespoke perfume. 

“Do you even know if she feels the same way about you? Are you so sure in your affections that you would doom two Houses to bloodshed? Do you want to see Lilya hurt?” he asked, still staring at the bottle.  “There are only three certainties in my life, Fifth Talon,” Illario replied, pulling his pants on one leg at a time. “That I will become the First Talon, that I will one day die, and that I will do both with Lilya by my side.” Viago said nothing or deigned even to give the other man another look, moving past him to pick up the bottle before he left the room. 

Illario jumped out of Lilya’s bedroom window, easily hopping down from the second-floor drop. He hoped she liked her perfume and understood the meaning behind such a gift. Viago certainly had. Effortlessly, the Crow bounded over the rooftops and made his way to the building where all the chatty little fledglings congregated, smirking to himself. He didn’t care if he forced Viago’s hand or Caterina’s- he would suffer every blow for both he and Lilya, and then he’d return the favour to them tenfold.  ---

He had never wanted for anything. He’d been a happy enough child- except during his time with Caterina. Even then, he couldn't claim he had it harder than any other Crow. The hollowed out Villa was miserable, Caterina even worse, but he would never insult his brethren like that. Not after he’d borne witness to the training facilities in their capital. 

When he became a full Crow and was deemed worthy to be treated as an actual member of his house again, he gained access to luxuries that would make even the most decadent nobles burn with envy. In a life where everything lay at his fingertips, he regularly indulged in new and exciting pleasures: the finest wines, custom-made livery, and exclusive experiences that could only be afforded by those with the right connections and obscene amounts of coin. And for a time, it worked- a patch over the gaping wound in his chest that never seemed to close, no matter what he did.

He knew there was more to life, even if others thought he cared only for his superficial diversions and his relentless desire to succeed Caterina. But his true avarice did not lie in ambition alone. It ran deeper. It was a hunger to be seen, to be wanted, to be accepted. Perhaps even loved… if he dared admit it.

So imagine his surprise when, after years of searching, he found something that made the ache subside. He still remembered the first time he saw her; he had taken a contract in Antiva City when he happened upon someone who made him stop dead in his tracks. She stood quietly in the corner, stoic, more focused on the children in front of her than on the senior Crow who had entered the training yard. Curious, he stopped one of the trainers from his House and asked about her.  “Hey, Gianni, who is that?” 

“Who?” 

“That one over there, with the black hair past her waist,” he grinned, unable to tear his eyes off of her for more than a couple of seconds. Gianni scanned the yard and scoffed, rolling his eyes at Illario and laughing, thinking the Master Assassin was merely joking. When Illario did not join in and continued to stare at the woman, Gianni sobered and gawked at him, completely baffled. 

“Are you being serious?” 

“What?” he asked, still watching the girl as she corrected her sparring partner’s grip on their dagger. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Have you been living under a rock back there in Treviso? That’s Viago’s girl.”  Illario finally tore his eyes away from her and back to his stricken acquaintance, who appeared to be afraid on his behalf. Typical Gianni, how he had managed to survive as a Crow for so long was anyone’s guess. “What, like Viago’s girl or Viago’s fledgling who just so happens to be a girl?”

“Yes.” Gianni sighed and shook his head, utter disbelief plastered on his tattooed face. “She’s the most promising one of the bunch, escorted here by Viago himself about five years ago. Used to come up here every few months to check in with the instructors, but now she’s close to becoming a full Crow, he’s been coming up much more often to check in and mentor her personally.”  Illario whistled and nodded appreciatively. He had never heard of Viago purposely taking time to directly manage any of his House’s fledglings, either he really did have a special interest in her or he was already making moves to be considered for the next Fifth Talon. 

“So, for once, be smart, Illario-” “I am always smart, Gianni-”  “Yeah, a smartass. Viago isn’t someone you cross, he’s actually eerily similar to your grand-”

Illario pinned the trainer with a sharp glare that made the man swallow his words, coughing nervously as he excused himself. And whilst he didn’t pay any heed to Gianni’s words, he did not approach her for years, until they were chosen to take part in the same contract. 

A member from each House had been handpicked by their Talons and sent to Antiva City for a reconnaissance and assassination contract arranged by the royal family. So, everyone was concerned when Viago had his little paramour stand for House de Riva in place of one of the other Master Assassins under his command. They all wondered if it added credence to the rumour that the Fifth Talon was finally tired of the pretty young thing now that Teia Cantori was in the picture. They all looked at her with a mixture of derision and pity- stupid, little girl- a Talon and bastard son of the King was never going to be her means to a happy ending. What truly impressed Illario was that she didn’t let their not-so-subtle snickers or whispers affect her at all; the youngest of their team acting the most mature. It was laughable. 

They had to form two-man cells to complete their missions, and he raised his hand immediately to be paired with de Riva. There was no contention; they all saw her inexperience as a liability rather than the potential for excitement she might bring. Their comrades rolled their eyes at him and sent knowing smirks his way, assuming he was only after one thing- and happily let him chase after her. She had been quick to voice her displeasure at being paired with him. The first words out of her mouth after leaving the meeting were that Viago would kill her for getting partnered with him, and he laughed, flattered, not at all offended that the Fifth Talon had even thought to warn her about him. He found it absolutely hilarious. “Really? Pray tell, please tell me what Viago de Riva had to say about me.”   Lilya eyed him warily but relented, seeing no harm in his knowing. “He told me to keep my wits about you. That there was more to you than what most people saw.”  Well, well, well. Perhaps he had been too harsh on the man. As much as he kept to himself, he certainly did know how to read people.“He also said that when you tried something, and that you would, I had his permission to kill you.” 

Yes, he really was a great judge of character.  

“Oh really, Baby Crow, you think you’d be able to kill me?” he asked, genuinely entertained by the confidence the little chit had. If he weren’t already intrigued by her, it would have been the beginning of his fascination. Lilya shook her head and smiled up at him, her posture relaxed as she stood before him at a polite distance.  “No, of course not, Master Crow,” she said plainly, both maintaining eye contact for long enough for him to realise her eyes were the exact same shade as his mother’s favourite emerald ring. She stepped forward and invaded his personal space, an audacious thing she was, her hands locked behind her back to show that she was no threat, even leaving her front open, practically welcoming him to try to attack her underhandedly. “I know I can kill you.” 

Lilya smirked up at him. The vixen. He didn’t know why, but he believed her, and he knew it said something about himself that it somehow made her more alluring. Illario wasn’t afraid of her threats, no, he was much more concerned with the fact that this small thing had managed to captivate him by doing so little. It was not just because she was stunning, but she, too, had more bubbling under the surface, and he was ever so curious to find out what. 

Illario tapped her on the nose, Lilya crinkling it slightly which amused him to no end- he almost wanted to ask her to do it again. What in Maferath’s bloody balls was happening to him?  

“I look forward to seeing all you can do, de Riva,” his voice huskier than he intended as his eyes roamed down her form.   

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” she replied wickedly, “but I’ll make sure you don’t.”   

A challenge. That’s all she was. Just a tantalising challenge wrapped in leather and smelling like the flowers his father would give to his mother whenever he’d return from a contract... What were those flowers again? 

She was about to turn and walk away from him, but she thought better of it and locked eyes with him again. He opened his mouth to say something undoubtedly witty when she returned the favour, and tapped him softly on his nose, stunning him. She grinned and wished him a good night and walked away with a sway he wasn’t sure could be taught. Even by the Crows.

Oh, he was going to have so much fun with her, for however long it lasted between them. 

---

But it didn’t end. 

He had waited for the illusion to fade, for her veneer to dull. Waited for his desire to be sated, for the thrill of the chase to slow down into banal routine, for the smile she drew from him to lose its warmth and become just the practised curling of his lips. But it never happened. Each time he returned, he wanted more. She shone brighter, each touch and taste of her sweeter than the last. Everything- both familiar and new- remained vibrant, intoxicating, and effervescent. His smile for her never faltered, not once.

It was enough to drive him mad, if he weren’t already half-mad from whatever spell Lilya had cast over him.

She cut through all his bullshit, had seen him more bare than anyone and still wanted to be around him. It was unheard of, unthinkable, unbelievable. Yet there she was. She tried to convince him (her, it was always her that needed convincing) that it was just for fun, just good sex, that she enjoyed spending time with him, and it really wasn’t serious. That they were able to walk away at any time, no strings attached. Like good little Crows.

And there they were, four years later, more entwined than ever. Neither knew where to begin cutting away at their attachment without tearing into themselves, only to find pieces of the other still clinging, impossible to remove, without leaving something important behind. There was no clean break for them, only the painful truth that moving on would mean losing parts of themselves they could not bear to part with (each other, they did not want to lose each other).

Illario didn’t know how to go back to the time before she became part of his life. To return to the dull and the dreary- the contracts, the mindless games of craps at the Diamond, and the endless waiting. Always waiting, for Caterina to make up her mind.

How was he supposed to go from sipping cappuccinos at Café Pietre in the mornings, as they sat back-to-back, both of them reading the latest serials from Tevinter... to nothing? From cuddling on a random rooftop, far from prying eyes, watching the skyline of Treviso shift and shimmer as the city changed. From those days when he came back from a contract feeling tainted, scrubbing himself raw, only for the noise in his head to quiet at the gentle brush of her hand through his hair. The sound of her humming, steady and soft, easing a pain he hadn’t even known he carried.

How could he lose all of that?

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t. 

The sound of a carriage drew near, his ears picking up on the horses’ hooves on the street just in time to start moving, his introspection almost causing him to miss her after waiting for her for the last four hours at the least-travelled passage to get to Antiva City. He thanked his gut for knowing the overly paranoid bastard would send his right-hand through there in case there was to be a confrontation, and Lilya was forced to reveal where her real talents lay; there would be little risk of witnesses. 

He threw caution to the wind and leapt between the buildings to descend from his perch, losing his footing when one particularly loose tile slid down the roof, causing the assassin to fall short of his intended landing and almost swearing loudly enough for the carriage driver to hear. Illario crouched low to the ground, pressing himself into the shadows so the man wouldn’t see him as the carriage rolled by. He grabbed onto the railing just behind the driver’s box, and Illario could feel his ire grow at the old man who still hadn’t noticed anything amiss. If the man had been in charge of her safety, Illario would have slit his throat to save the driver from the embarrassment of doing such a poor job.

He was close enough to the door to hear Lilya swearing and cursing his name, and he almost barked with laughter. There he was, dangling like an idiot to see her- and he was probably the last person she wanted to see, especially after he was the reason she’d been sent off on a useless contract. Illario tapped on the driver’s arm; the man jumped at the sudden contact, pulling the carriage to a harsh stop. The Crow flashed his knife at the shaking man and mouthed for him to stay. The driver nodded frantically and dropped the reins to his feet. Illario smiled and tipped an imaginary hat to him.  

“You called for me, Paloma?” he chuckled, opening the door to one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen- Lilya, staring at him with her mouth slightly open and eyes so full of hope that he knew, without doubt, he had made the right choice that day. Following her to her house, risking what could become another Crow civil war, he would do it all again. He would follow her into the Void itself and call it the Maker’s side, so long as she stood by him.

Caterina might never name him as Talon, but he’d be damned if he let her take the one good thing he had left, the one thing he knew was his. She could choke on her pride and the archaic rules that were written in the blood of others; he wasn't giving her up. Not now. Not ever. 

He left Lilya, knowing that she could take care of herself without him or Viago bothering her and hovering on the sidelines. He had to hold up his end and begin his preparations. He didn’t know if six months was enough time for everything he had to do, but he’d do the impossible for her homecoming- oh, it was going to be one hell of a party. 

Softly tagging: @rookamell @mythals-whore @talkmagically @selennes @serstolas @davrinsleftpectoral @thedissonantverses @himluv @hightowerqueen and anyone else who wants to play- im super late this week so I don't know who has been tagged or not TT__TT

[lucianachen]

Prologue - What Happened?

sʏᴘɴᴏsɪs:

𝐀𝐬𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐧.

𝐀 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐨𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞/𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫?

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 : 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗴𝗼𝗿𝗲, 𝗦𝗙𝗪, 𝗗𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗰𝘁 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿, 𝗲𝘁𝗰.

𝘈/𝘯 - 𝘐 𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺, 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴! 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

Before we start the story, let me introduce myself first.

Hi! The name's Asphodel Chen, yes if you're wondering I was named after the Fields of Asphodel, you can thank my dear old dad for that.

I was 18 years old....wait 'was'?

Let me explain, so yeah I'm dead:D

You might be asking "Hold up Asphodel, what do you mean 'Dead'?" I mean that I'm dead, like gone, in the underworld dead.... or am I?

Yeah that's what's confusing me too, being a demigod you would think that once you died you'd be in Elysium by now, but nooooo fate decided that my journey is far from done after the two wars I was a part of.

What? back up a sec wars? Yes wars, the 1st one happened when I was 17, also known as The Battle of Manhattan or in which my boyfriend Percy Jackson (son of Poseidon btw) happens to be in the center of a certain great prophecy.

I won't bore you with the details, just know that we defeated kronos and saved the world yada yada yada, now you might be wondering "what about the other war?" Yes yes I'm getting to that part.

You see, dear old mother earth decided to wake up from her sleep and is that bad? Yes terribly so. So fate decided once again to give us demigods one more great prophecy to deal with a few hours after the 1st war happened, something about 8 demigods traveling to defeat said earth and save the world again, you know the usual.

Now here I was battling with a bunch of Giants after both Greek and Roman camps came together to defeat the foe, but somehow fate decided to mess with me.. AGAIN LIKE WTF DUDE SERIOUSLY?!?!?!

Anyways, yep here I am actively bleeding to death while Percy holds me tight...

"Ash...?" He said as he holds me tighter in his arms

"Hey seaweed brain..." I smiled at him, I can feel my life force slipping away, being the daughter of [REDACTED] does have its advantage when you're actively dying.

"Don't talk pretty girl, j-just hold on tight please.... I can't lose you" Oh percy.... As much as I would love to, I can't baby, I'm sorry...

"Percy... It's ok, it's going t-to be ok you hear me?" I gazed up at him eyes full of love and assurance, I knew I wouldn't make it out of this alive, I mean who would when your body has a large hole in the middle of it and some organs are missing.

"Live your life to the fullest for me would you? I love you seaweed bra..in....." I breathe in a final breath as I said my final words to him, the last face I ever saw as I closed my eyes for good this time.

I died yes, but what the hell am I doing here in this void type place? I was supposed to be in the underworld by now, just like all my fellow demigods who have died before me, Castor, Lee, Silena, and Luke.

But no, right now I'm face to face with the Fates...

"Asphodel Chen

Daughter of [REDACTED]

Hero of Olympus

And Lady of the Fields of Asphodel"

"Uhhh hi? What am I doing here? If you don't mind me asking" I quickly backtrack my sentence into something more polite, because you don't and I mean don't want to get on the Fates bad side. Because like hello??? They're the Fates themselves, they see your past, present, and future. They themselves can decide whether or not to cut your cord right now if they want to if you show even an ounce of disrespect to them.

"Your journey is far from over young hero" Clotho said. "Wait what? But I'm dead aren't I?" I replied back.

"Indeed you are young hero, but not all journeys ends once the hero is dead, is that not right?" Lachesis replied to my question, "I mean I guess so? What's going to happen now?" I asked.

"You will be reincarnated, to a time where greek mythology is nothing more than just names written in a history book" Atropos, the last of the fates said.

"You young hero will save this world again, but you will not be alone, you will have companions to be with you as you journey through this new life of yours" Lachesis said once more. "But be warned, for your knowledge of this world can either be it's downfall or it's greatess ascension to what other can only perceived as impossible to attain." Clotho said.

"Hold on what? Knowledge? How can I know what's going to happen if it's from the future???" I asked bewildered by the new information the Fates just gave me. "And what about my friends here? What about Percy?" I asked again more panicked this time.

"That young hero can only be answered in due time, now off you go" Atropos waved her hand, and suddenly I felt the void shake and feel myself get dizzy before everything faded to black once more.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 850 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

Taglist: @leftpoetrymoon @animelover18 @animegamerfox

[multi-fandom-imagine]

➷Cleαɴ Breαĸ || Rory Peтerѕ ||

A/n: He wanted to get clean and see his mom :/

Anyway, AU where no one dies

Rory didn’t believe in fate anymore.

Not after everything that happened on Route 23. Not after Evan Lewis’s freak accident. Not after the near-death domino effect that followed. But when Kimberly sacrificed herself and somehow came back, breaking the cycle—it felt like the universe hit the brakes for the first time in a long time.

He was alive.

So now what?

For Rory, that meant checking into Harborview Rehab Center—not because someone told him to, but because he wanted to. Wanted to be better. He’d flirted with death enough times to realize how easy it was to fall back into the bottle or the high. This time, he wanted control.

That’s where you came in.

You weren’t expecting a patient like Rory Peters.

Cocky. Chatty. A little too charming for his own good.

“Hey, Nurse Sunshine,” he greeted on day one, leaning in the doorway of the rec room in pajama pants and a sarcastic smirk. “You always look this cute, or is it just ’cause I almost died?”

You didn’t flinch,didn't even look up. “Try not to flirt with your nurse. It’s in the handbook.”

He smirked, undeterred. “Guess I missed the fine print.”

But as the weeks passed, something shifted.

Rory wasn’t just trying to get clean—he was trying, period. You saw it in the way he clenched his jaw during withdrawal, the way he stared at the ceiling in group therapy, the way he tapped his fingers when silence got too loud.

And somehow, between daily vitals and late-night walks through the garden, he stopped being just your patient.

He told you about his past. The drugs. The accident. The guilt.

“I should’ve died,” he murmured once, voice raw. “Hell, I was going to die. But Kimberly… she saved us all. So now I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.”

You looked at him, really looked at him.

“Maybe you’re supposed to be someone who lives.”

It started with a brush of fingers when you handed him his medication.

Then shared jokes over shitty rehab coffee.

Then long, lingering looks when no one else was watching.

He never crossed the line—but the way he looked at you made your skin hum. The way he called you “Nurse Sunshine” started to feel less like a joke and more like a nickname laced with meaning.

One rainy night, you found him sitting alone, soaked through, cigarette clenched between his teeth but unlit.

“You okay?”

“I will be,” he said quietly. “If I can just… stay this time.”

You took the cigarette, tossing it aside, then pressed a hand to his cheek.

“I think you already are.”

That night, your lips met for the first time—tentative, stolen, warm despite the rain.

It wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about living.

And with you, Rory finally believed he could.

Six weeks. Forty-two days. One thousand little victories.

Rory Peters stood at the top of the Harborview steps with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a worn sobriety chip clutched in his hand. He was clean. For the first time in years, he could say that without flinching.

And yet—he was nervous.

Because while beating addiction had been a war, this? This was uncharted territory. Vulnerability without the excuse of drugs or trauma.

He scanned the lot until he saw you exiting the building, your scrubs traded for jeans and a hoodie, hair swept up, that same soft smile on your face that had somehow undone him day after day.

You didn’t notice him at first—not until he cleared his throat.

You stopped. Smiled wider. “Hey, stranger.”

“Hey, Sunshine.” His voice was low, a little shaky. “Didn’t think I’d get the honor of seeing you off duty.”

You stepped closer. “I figured you’d be long gone. You okay?”

“I am,” he nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Actually, I was… kinda hoping to talk to you." The kiss you both shared still fresh in his mind, he kissed you but yet he was nervous in asking you out.

Your brow lifted. “Everything alright?”

He took a breath—steadying himself like he had in group therapy.

“Look, I know I was your patient. And I know there were lines. And I know how this should go, which is probably me walking off into the sunset and writing sad poetry in a journal or something.”

You laughed softly. “Do you write poetry now?”

“Only the broody kind,” he grinned, then grew serious again. “But I can’t walk away without asking. You helped me get through the worst version of myself. You saw me at my lowest, and you never looked away. And if there’s even a small chance that I could take you out—on a real date, not just a hallway flirtation—I’d really like to try.”

There it was. Hope, raw and exposed in his eyes.

You studied him for a moment—how clear his eyes were, how firm his stance was. This wasn’t the shaky, smart-mouthed addict from day one. This was a man who clawed his way back from death, from addiction, from despair.

And he was asking you for something real.

You smiled slowly. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his relief almost comical.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “But only if you’re picking the place. I’ve seen your snack drawer, and I need to know you’ve improved your standards.”

He grinned, boyish and bright. “No more Funyuns for dinner. Got it.”

You reached for his hand, letting your fingers intertwine with his. “So where to, Rory Peters?”

“Somewhere with decent food. A table. Real napkins.” He paused. “And you. Across from me. Laughing at my jokes even when they suck.”

“I already do that.”

“Well then,” he said, squeezing your hand, “I think we’re gonna be just fine.”

[polyhexian]

Episode 5 of murderbot: inchresting. We are going off plot I see. That shot of mb at the end jerking sideways makes me think next episode it will have done the thing from the end of the book where it uses its own body to shield her. I hope we get the "this unit has been damaged" line from its buffer then. It's a good one. New girl is both suspicious and also we are very clearly supposed to dislike her. Christ the penis joke from the trailer got so fucking much worse in the show. I could have forgiven it if at Least someone from the presaux team had called her on how inappropriate and fucked up it was. Ugh. Tho that kiss and the performance drop was funny. That one can stay because again it's clearly meant to be a fucked up thing she does. Also heyyyy gunports! Finally. Also I'm utterly fascinated by their location in its upper forearms. I've never seen that before. It looks good, at least in live action. Pretty creative. "Seccy" tjeyehbtjwijdf. Episode 4 was such a fucking blast that episode 5 is a bit of a letdown, especially because the wakeup reveal is one of the best scenes, and the episode I feel largely... Neutral about. Other than the sex jokes I don't really have any problem with it but also nothing was super exciting. Mensah should have gathered by now it doesn't like being looked at and Stopped Looking At It by now tho. I don't see how she could become it's favourite human like this when she hasn't told ppl to stop looking at it, she's rambling about her family despite the fact it's clearly not interested- she should be intuiting what it's comfortable with much better by now. But it's... Fine. I am not mad like I was after episode 3. And thank u bharadwaj

[growinguparo]

So I dated this guy for like 2 years starting at the end of 8th grade and then we broke up last year because I started feeling repulsed that I was in a relationship, I didn’t want to break up with him and I didn’t understand why I felt like that but it was terrible and I had to stop talking to him for a while. Fast forward to now, I’m pretty sure I’m aroflux and he still loves me. I think I still love him, but it’s difficult because sometimes I like, get this terrible feeling in my chest like I’m weighed down by rocks at the thought of being in a relationship and it’s hard for me to even define what love is, like what if I’m just overthinking and I don’t actually love him? But I feel extra bad because even though he knows I’m aroflux he still loves me and is just with me not being able to love him romantically all the time but he deserves to be loved like that all the time, and I feel like I just can’t love him right. Sorry if that’s a lot, I just don’t know what to do about all of this.

hey. i am also aroflux and i relate to what you're saying, i've definitely felt weighed down by rocks at the thought of being in a relationship before!

you said you don't know why you felt repulsed. my advice is to break the feeling down into parts. what elements of "being in a relationship" appeal to you, and what parts are repulsive? get specific! when you notice yourself feeling repulsed, what just happened to trigger it? why? what would you prefer to have gone differently? if you could construct an ideal relationship, completely disregarding all societal expectations of what a relationship is supposed to look like, what would it look like? how would it differ from what you are currently doing?

no self-judging anything you think of!! no "but that's stupid, who would accept to be in a relationship like that", no "but i SHOULD want that", not even "if i'm like this i won't be good enough". even if you think it's true! we'll get to that later. first we want to just identify what you like and what freaks you out by using your feelings as a compass. don't worry about what love "is", just think about what you like/want and what you don't like/want.

here's some examples of things i've identified as repulsion triggers for myself. if my partner expects romance all the time but i can't do that cuz of aroflux, i feel like i have to force it, and that makes me feel trapped. pda makes me feel unsafe. i don't want to be perceived by others as "dating". if i don't have enough time by myself, i feel trapped. i don't want to live with my partner or share money or even share meals.

next. communication. the goal is to have an honest dialogue about what each of you wants and needs out of the relationship.

the things you identify as repulsion triggers, tell him what they are and explain what you think might need to be different for you to not feel that way. ask him how he feels about that. tell him you're still trying to figure this all out, but you'll let him know what you figure out as you go.

you said he deserves to be loved romantically all the time. in order to know if this is true, you have to know if it's actually important to him to be loved romantically all the time, or if he's fine with flux (genuinely fine, not secretly disappointed). it may take some work from him to figure this out. if he's not fine with flux, maybe there's something you could do during the flux that would make him feel more secure without making you feel uncomfortable. if you're both honest about what you want and need, you can figure it out together.

there is a chance it won't work out. for example, if living together is a really important element of what my partner wants out of a relationship, but it's really important to me that i don't live with my partner, then we have a compatibility issue and we're probably better off not being together. it's not their fault and it's not my fault. we aren't fighting or being mean. we are facing a hard reality together. at least we can say we tried our best to make it work. they DO deserve to be with someone who can live with them, and i also deserve to be with someone who is happy living apart.

it's HARD to figure out how you feel and it's SCARY to have this kind of dialogue. it takes practice and trust and a ton of courage to be vulnerable. you are brave and cool for putting the work in 😎

[alexjcrowley]

I don't think you understand how Italian is the "Stai bene? (Are you well?)" from Lawrence and Tedesco answering "Mah, no one is ever well at our age". I'll try to explain, it's like an italian thing, especially if you're from the South. That if somebody pays you a compliment or hints at things going well for you, you downplay it because by complimenting you they're "cursing" you. It's a folkloristic thing, the kind of thing that my grandmother would say to me: beware of people complimenting you and be careful not to share the good things going on with you, because the moment you do people might "curse" you. Very difficult to put this thing into words, but Goffredo Tedesco I see you. I see you a Patriarch of Venice on the road to papacy and still believing in grandmother's (pagan) superstitions because that's how religion, especially for old people, works in Italy. Again, difficult to put into words, but I know in my heart that he is answering Lawrence's question the same way my grandmother would answer it. I see you outrunning malocchio, Cardinal Tedesco. And I respect it.

[vaguely-concerned]

powerful mental image of lucanis expounding passionately about any given one of his limited but extremely deep areas of interest (the wyvern/knives/coffee/cooking/murder continuum of lucanis dellamorte special interests if you will) while rye lounges around and Beholds him with palpable twink boutta pounce energy

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

Both my parents actually suffer from HORRID emotional dysregulation and are prone to snapping and going into rages. My sister is the same way tbh. I am now realizing this is why they are constantly baffled by the question of whether or not I am mad at them.

I don't have external meltdowns.

I could. I don't let it happen.

I keep my rage on the inside and stay pretty quiet about it. It's just as strong as theirs [physically shaking nose bleed from high blood pressure kind of bad], but like as a kid I saw how terrifying it was to be around [dad breaking dishes, mom putting our lawn chairs into walls] and I just internalized that I wasn't going to wear that anger on the outside.

So my mother genuinely cannot tell if I am just being quiet or if I am silently hearing the dial-up noises of pure rage. This has lead her to both making strong and confident statements like "You are a pacifist who would never hurt a fly U.U" but also acting like I am secretly dangerous maybe... It's because she has never seen me snap.

She knows what her temper is like [throwing chairs through walls], she knows what my father's temper is like [pick up child and toss out door], and she can tell I am being tested, but she doesn't know what happens when I snap or where that breaking point is.

Her -perhaps unhinged- solution to this, my whole life, has been to do things that should obviously enrage me or shut me down completely, like ignoring important boundaries, repeatedly, punishing me for expressing emotions or needs at all, etc... And then to constantly ask me if I am angry with her when I get too quiet [right after near directly telling me to shut up].

It has occurred to me now, they have never once seen me lose my temper, so they literally just can't tell if I am angry at them. My sister is easy, my mother fights and screams with my sister constantly, my mother understands this. My mother doesn't have any grasp of feelings or boundaries that are not screamed at her [apparently, and I fear my sister is the same way]. Her and my sister are close despite constant fucking fighting because they understand each other.

They are trying to get me to engage the same way and it is not working. I realize now that this has been hard for them.

I was so successfully taught to suppress my emotions, by being punished for any outburst, that rage quiet looks the same as any other kind of quiet from the outside. To them anyway.

I did tell her. For the record. I used my words. I did tell her very calmly that my response to rage, in order to avoid doing the things that terrified me as a child, was to simply leave [the autistic urge to GTFO]. When a situation or person causes too much of the dial-up rage noise, I simply extract myself from that situation, up to and including never speaking to a person again. I explained this calmly. I explained it calmly 100 times and I explained that I explain myself calmly as my rage response 1-5 [also pretty much every other negative emotion tbh], and I told her that what came next was me simply opting out and fucking off. I told her this. I couldn't understand why she never took me seriously, or why she never fucking understood.

I couldn't understand what made her like this.

But it's the same problem I have with everyone else multiplied by a factor of 10.

If I am explaining myself calmly, they can't understand that it's actually serious or that I am actually upset. ESPECIALLY because they read me as "female" and women "aren't that rational" so if I am not screaming and crying about something, which I never do, people assume I can't be upset and it isn't serious.

And then after having my boundaries ignored too many times despite having calmly explained how and why it's a problem [shaking inside or not]... I leave. I leave and everyone gets upset like this is unexpected behaviour, even though I told them 50 times that is how I would respond if they kept doing *the thing.*

And for neurotypical people especially, they are expecting there to be a disconnect between what someone says they need or feel and what their actually boundaries and feelings are, and they expect the latter to be demonstrated with emotions. Telling them bluntly you do not function that way somehow never helps?

My mother isn't just looking for normal yelling or a few tears to know I am serious, whether or not I do those either [I don't], she's looking for an explosion to know there's a problem at all.

Fucked if I know how she proceeds through life this way in general or if this is just her expectation of her own kids???

And I couldn't get why my mother couldn't read my emotions and didn't seem to think I have any. It's because she's testing for the rage limit to see where my 'actual' limit is instead of taking my word for it. Never the fuck mind that she could simply *not* test at my boundaries instead of letting me have them. Separate issue.

I couldn't figure out what made her *like this*

She's expecting me to throw a giant meltdown violent tantrum at people when I have 'actually' had enough. Maybe she got away with those being like 5'4" in another time, but I am the size of the average man, I do not get to have giant screaming rages, whether or not people perceive me consciously as a woman, and least of all because a lot of people -at least unconsciously- read me as 'masculine' or at least always "they guy" of the situation compared to all other women and some men [bigger stronger and more rational, more able to just absorb the damage and let it go so the less rational screaming/crying one doesn't have to be dealt with]. Even if it was in me to be willing to terrify people [usually never], there are such limited instances where it wouldn't just blow back on me. Potentially very dangerously.

I am going to be the quiet calm one. You are going to have to let me use my words, bitch.

So she kept ignoring my boundaries until I had to cut her out of my life, and she probably doesn't understand and probably thinks it feels sudden -after 36 long years of bullshit- abrupt and unfair.

But I told her hundreds of times.

I probably should have just screamed at her.

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

this is a tiny pet peeve but i think its kinda odd that people seem to like. forget, or maybe just neglect to take into account, that yellow, for whatever reason (whether he's an alt universe john or a fresh piece of this universe's KIY that kayne went and ripped off) has ALSO been trapped in the dark world prior to being with arthur and has exactly as many Feelings about it. this is a very load bearing character trait imo

[doverstar]

every year around this time I rewatch Julie and the Phantoms, and every year I am reminded how much heart this little tween show about grief and hope has

[depresseddepot]

really in the trenches tonight gang

[crueclown22]

not mad not sad just. uncomfortable i guess

[fairy-ganj-mother]

i hate how there were so many people i just didnt realize i loved