#and i’m not writing it out . i refuse to let this thing go past concept art stage

[bi-shop]

my favorite jd from that one musical where high school teenagers die and their ghosts sing . you know the one

inspired by the unholy reblog tags from this post .

[fanaticsnail]

I shared this w/ deerling before she’d deactivated. I’m sososo happy for her! she will always be loved n missed! But, I never got to hear her thoughts! And I thought you might humor it too!

I’m not sure if you’re familiar w/ the song Imitadora by Romeo Santos? A week or so ago I was hyper-fixated on it n it made me think about law. Growing up when the Donquixote pirates would have galas and such celebrations, would he watch Rosi dance w/ partners and just praying on his downfall? He needed something, some type of material to tease & embarrass Rosi w/ to get his lick back. But honestly? the only thing he picked up from observing Rosi dance was the way he danced.

I’m not very familiar w/ the correct type of dance that should be associated w/ this song, and anyone please feel free to correct me if I’m wrong! But the most common one I’d found was bachata, which originated in the Dominican Republic. I know you’d already written something in your series for Bachata, but just hear me out!

Law, after watching Rosi dance during celebrations when he was younger, would have to had learn something and picked up the basics at the very least. Now, I raise you this food for thought. Would Law be a good partner? Would he be rusty? Or maybe just outright refuse and dismiss it? Would he be embarrassed? Or would nostalgia wash over him when you offer, take him by the hand and pull him towards the floor? A bit more willing w/ alcohol in his system. Hand on the small of your back, one knee slotted between your thighs your palm falling to the nape of his neck n fingers threaded through the soft wisps of baby hair a bit before his nape n finally falling into the music. Now! Would he experiment w/ all of the fancy dips and twirls he’d remember Rosi do? I like to think he’s more seasoned n cocky even going as far as trying something on the fly!

Sorry for the ramble! I love your writing andhope to see your thoughts if you humor this!!

-🪼

Hello my love! I have so many thoughts and fics written and coming up for this particular concept. I love the thoughts, 🪼 Anon!

1. Donquixote Rosinante can dance.

This man can absolutely dance. He dances Flamenco, Tango, Salsa, Bachata, Conga, Rumba, Cha Cha: anything that involves hips swinging, feathers flying, legs intertwining, and passion igniting. This is the only time he is absolutely not clumsy. He was also taught the marines waltz while in basic. Donquixote Doflamingo, however, can not. He thought it was a waste of time.

2. Imitadora Romeo Santos

I am not familiar with the song, but now that I've listened to it on repeat a few times, Rosinante dances Bachata to this song. Hips flush against yours, one hand on your lower back while the other is expanded to the side in the hopes you'd take it to spin. Always with a smile on his face, twirling between the rapid brush of drums on the snare, tapping his feet while dragging his toes. He loves it, and makes it known my whispering the lyrics without vocalising them.

3. Bachata

I love Bachata. When my host-sister came back to my country for a visit, she took us all out dancing Bachata on the beach - something that I would love to take up on the regular. It's sultry, romantic, playful, everything you want wrapped in one dance. I see Luffy, Ace and Sabo dancing Bachata - and Rosinante also excels at it.

4. Law and Dancing

Growing up in Flevance, Law's cultural dances would be something similar to the folk dances in Austria and Germany. There is no way he wouldn't grow up learning these dances with Lami. Watching his parents engage in social events, letting loose with their colleagues, some of his happier memories would be watching them in the warmth of each other's embrace and slowly swaying to a waltz. Hearing a 3/4 rhythm beat on the den-den shoots him back to that moment: his parents love for one another swelling his heart and having him yearn for a fragment of the past.

5. Rosinante and Law Dancing

Law would gruffly pout in the corner at these social events, far before Rosinante had bothered to pay him any mind. He hated the events, especially when Doflamingo ordered him to dance with Baby 5 as "an aspect of his training". Once they opened up to one another, baring Corazon's secret mission with the marines, Law paid far more attention to his guardian protector. Watching in earnest as he demonstrated his skills by engaging with partners.

6. Law past the time skip

This man wants to dance. He would never admit it to anyone, but he wants the opportunity to keep a part of his heritage alive and pass on the knowledge of his cultural dances to anyone willing to listen. After Dressrosa, he is far less pent up and full of wrath, and wants to express it through dance. He is so rusty, he forgets a few of the steps, and will need reminding.

7. Law and Sanji

Sanji knows some of these cultural dances. When the Supanova trio catch up and engage in social drinking, firstly: the Victoria Punk crew demonstrate some of their highland jigs, and teach them to Luffy. Luffy, in turn, teaches Killer how to Bachata. Given how large he is in comparison to Luffy - he would opt to teach "Traffy" in response. Law knows these dances, has seen these dances with Corazon, and actually enjoys relearning how to do this dance.

And to repay Luffy, he would offer to teach him a dance from Flevance.

Given how long it's been, he forgets a few steps and slips up with the spins: finding the follow position rather than the lead. With how poorly he seems to remember the steps, Sanji lets out a huff of exasperated cigarettes and opts to "cut in" for Luffy: immediately takes the lead position, and guides Law through the steps flawlessly. Law would become extremely overwhelmed and quite emotional afterwards, having to excuse himself as he takes a moment to remember what was lost to him. After paying his respects to his parents, Lami, and Corazon's memory - he would return and witness Franky attempting to impress Robin with a dance fit for the Cossacks.

8. Dancing with you

After the event with Sanji, you would go and ask the foreign captain if he was feeling alright. You, being the councilor and negotiator for the Straw Hats. Waving away your worries with a flick of his tattooed hand, the music would change into a reminder of the Bachata earlier. Offering to pay you back for checking in on him, he would lead you into a dance immigrating Luffy's earlier twirls and sways.

Demonstrating a particular motion Luffy didn't teach, a twirl that had your back to his chest, hips pressed flush against your ass, and knee slotted between your thighs in the same way Rosinante would catches your breath in your throat.

Feeling a little more bold with his control, he wouldn't let you leave the floor until he was completely satisfied with the way you moved with him. Having cheers from Luffy, and taunts from Kid, would spur him on to keep you in his arms and hum to the music. He remembers his friend, he remembers his parents, he remembers his sister, and he remembers his past through dance.

He also remembers how to flirt. And he enjoys making you blush while he's so close to you. Eyes half-lidded, lips spurring soft praise, speaking his native tongue with a combination of Corazon's to have you squeak out a "thank you" with a hot flush igniting your face.

9. Further notes

I am incredibly grateful you shared these thoughts with deerling. She was such a joy to this fandom and I'm so glad she found her happiness. I have no idea how long this has been in my ask box, considering it had been not working properly for quite a while. Thank you for blessing me with some dance headcanons for the favorites. I love the thoughts, and I hope you enjoy my take on them!

10. I know this isn't a fic, but I thought I'd tag you just in case you wanted to see.

@mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory

[idsb]

I’m just thinking about how like. As I was growing up Peter Pan was a vehicle used in songs to glamorize the concept of never growing up (“Stay Awake” by All Time Low, “Young Volcanoes” by Fall Out Boy, others I cant remember off the top of my head) because like. At its surface that’s what it is. A charming tale glorifying the youth of boys. And now as an adult there are so many songs from women talking about how fucked up it is emotionally to have to leave behind a boy who refuses to grow into a man because he will not let go of his youth (“Wendy” by Maisie, “Peter” by Taylor), because that’s REALLY what it is when you look past the surface level. And like yes it’s a children’s story but it’s been referenced in art for decades on end and now as an adult woman it’s actually genuinely insane to me and says a lot about the boys who wrote about the glorification of that attitude. The “I’ll save you a seat and then you say you want to stand” of it all but there’s boys who write songs about (therefore infinite other boys who think about) relishing in that, as if it’s the best thing in the world, and they don’t know or care about the havoc it wreaks on the hearts of the women who love them and that could actually drive me insane

[tigtree]

hello!!! *offers you this fic i’m writing in exchange for your trc goldfinch au please* (whenever you have the time <3)

- @you-know-i-get-itt

hello!! yes!! i’m so sorry this has taken me so long, life’s been a bitch LMAO 😭 and THANK YOU FOR THE FIC!!!!! i just read it and you have such an incredible writing style, i always devour your fics! if you ever end up writing more for it, please lmk!!

okay, buckle your seatbelt because this AU is so scuffed and still remains unfinished (though i’ve been working on bits and pieces over the last couple of weeks) so i’m not sure how much sense this is about to make? apologies in advance LMAO

okay, so the snippet shared beneath read more is from the very beginning of the story… or the end, depending on how you view it. either way, it’s the beginning of the fic i’m working (slowly) on for this AU.

an important note about this AU is that the concept of dreamers/dreams is completely thrown out, because i was struggling to make it fit, and so instead of the Barns being full of fantastical wonders, it’s art. (which i’d argue is a fantastical wonder anyway, but like. not magical in a fantasy sense)

There’s an underground secret market for artists here, and Niall happens to be a pretty prominent figure. The Barns are full of sculptures and paintings and all kinds of artwork, though many of these fellow artists aren’t happy with Niall- he gets himself into some trouble over stealing art and reselling for a whole lot more money than it should have been. He does all of this under a pseudonym, manages to keep his dirty work anonymous, until they figure him out.

One thing leads to another, and Niall Lynch is found dead in the driveway by his middle son.

Aurora has been sick for a while, and the stress of her husband’s death contributes to the rapid decline of her health, meaning Declan has to step in to care for his brothers while their mother is in hospital. Declan had been helping his father for years with the scam- though he’d been morally against it in many ways- and knows that ‘the bad people’ will be back to claim all of the artwork from the house. He therefore packs it all away, and sets it on the drive with a note begging them to just take it, and please leave his family out of this.

Ronan views Declan’s hurry to get rid of their Dad’s stuff as an attack, a dismissal of not just his grief but of their father’s life. He secretly takes a painting from one of the bags- The Goldfinch- and stashes it behind his bookshelf.

I’m really aware that I’ve typed so much so I’ll be brief with the rest Aurora dies, and the freaking art mafia people realise there’s a painting missing- The Goldfinch- and Declan decides they’re moving to DC to get away. Ronan refuses, and ends up staying with Gansey for a while. Through Gansey he meets Blue, Adam and Noah, and things feel okay- until he returns briefly to the Barns and finds a letter containing both Gansey’s address, and Declan and Matthew’s address. He panics, makes his way to DC, confides in Declan about it, finds out they’ve been having ominous happenings relating to the art. Declan decides they’re selling the Barns and townhouse to move further, Ronan isn’t happy with this. More stuff happens, he ends up trading the painting with the agreement that Declan and Matthew will not be bothered again.

While all of this is happening, Ronan and Gansey lowkey have something homoerotic going on, and Ronan is tits-over-toes in love with Adam.

i’ll shut up now, but the gist of it is that The Goldfinch is a sort of physical manifestation of Ronan’s grief- he’s unable to let go of his father, of the past, but eventually has built himself enough of a support system to finally let go of his father and properly grieve. there’s also a focus placed on the small choices that build up, over time, into something more- the Butterfly Effect, and all that.

——————

It’s cold, this time of year.

Ronan’s hands shake as he fumbles through the junk drawer, his fingers numbly brushing over various wires, receipts and plastic soldiers as he hunts for a lighter. He knows there will be one in here- the centerpiece candle on the dining table was lit on what must have amounted to hundreds of occasions over the years. Aurora would send one of the children to this drawer to dig out the Zippo lighter they kept handy for Sunday dinners and Easter lunches, and would allow the chosen child- for she kept the names on a rota- to light the candle.

The lightbulb in the kitchen has stubbornly refused to emit any light tonight, and so Ronan’s not sure what he catches his hand on. He retracts it from the drawer with a hissed Fuck, presses the cut to his mouth and unceremoniously kicks the counter. His entire soul feels disregulated, like it’s jittering around within the confines of his skin, pushing and pulling and desperately attempting to claw its way out.

It’s like the painting had been fused to his very existence, and- with it gone- he’s missing a vital organ.

He braves the drawer again, this time proving successful as his fingers tighten around the cold metal casing. The weight is familiar in his palm as he hurries back to the sitting room, dropping to his knees in front of the wood burner and flipping open the silver cap. When he reaches through the door, twisting his arm until he can catch the kindling with the flame, he catches a glimpse of his reflection on the dark glass.

He can’t quite believe it’s himself. He’s grown since he was last in this spot, learning to light the fire with his father at his side, and something inside of him lurches at the bags under his eyes and the hard lines of his face.

He breathes.

Pulls his hand from the catching flames.

Shuts the metal door.

Doesn’t think about punching the glass hard enough that it’ll shatter, take his mind off of the painting, send his brothers calling, let them all live under this one roof again and pretend nothing bad has ever happened to them. Let them pretend they’re kids, watching over one another while holding down the fort until their parents return from another business trip.

He doesn’t think about the painting.

Which is to say that he definitely does think about the painting.

It’s a parasite- or maybe Ronan is the parasite. Hungry. Unable to survive outside of its host, feeding off of the thrill and the regret and the addictive nausea that overwhelmed him whenever he pulled back the plastic wrapping and caught even the briefest glimpse of canvas.

The little bird had taunted him. Begged him to set it free. Unchain it from its perch and let it go.

Ronan’s phone buzzes somewhere behind him, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull his eyes away from the flames.

It’s probably Gansey. Insomniac Gansey, unaware that Ronan has just ripped his heart from his chest and sold it for his brothers. Gansey, looking for someplace to ramble about kings or someone to hang out with or someone to tell him that he’s alive. Ronan had never understood Gansey’s occasional panic over whether he’s really here or not- if a person is capable of worrying that they might he dead, they probably aren’t.

Ronan kind of gets it now.

Still, he ignores the phone. He lets the heat settle on his face, draw out the dead chill from his bones, and thinks about what he’ll do tomorrow.

[goddesspharo]

For the Fanfiction Writing Asks: 35, 36, 40, 46, 56, and 75. A lot, but you’re a fave and I’m so curious!

[fic writing asks!]

Thanks for asking!

35. What's your favorite fic you've posted?

Definitely can't fake what you can't break up with, which I will finish soon. (I think I'm so slow about writing-not writing the last chapter because there's a part of me that doesn't want it to end because it has been so much fun to write! It's been a ton of fun to take a very trope-y soapy concept (drunk married in Vegas, continued marriage For Reasons) and spin it out into all the things. It's also ridiculously long so this year when NaNoWriMo rolls around and I say that I can't do it because I can't possibly meet that type of word count in a month, it'll be a bold-faced lie.

36. What fic are you proudest of?

Probably not every conversation is a new grenade, a post-The Batman fic that was, up until then, the longest fic I'd ever written at like 16k (I wish I could keep things that short these days!) after like a five year gap of not writing any fic. There would be a point during the writing process in the past when I'd just get tired of writing a thing and finish it while leaving a bunch of things I wanted to incorporate on the cutting room floor, but I really saw this one through. I'd only watched The Batman once (maybe twice?) before sitting down to write this - it was pretty early into the theatrical release so WB hadn't kicked it onto Max yet - so I'm particularly pleased with how on point the voices were. I also love nearly every iteration of Bruce/Selina and therefore don't write them as much (it's the old Austenian "If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more") because I cannot be objective about how they should just be together, why won't you just let them be together, DC so probably the biggest accomplishment of all is that I even wrote this. It was also just a blast to do and gave me an excuse to bust out the 90s grunge playlist at the very beginning and then just listen to so much BANKS that I could not stop for weeks afterwards.

40. What is your favorite world that you've created for a fic?

The Bear as a band AU in put in in a zip-lock bag. Interestingly, a very natural stretch to transplant people from a chaotic kitchen setting to a chaotic, dysfunctional band setting. Mikey as a Kurt Cobain figure practically writes itself. Years of Behind the Music made this possible! I loved the experience of writing that fic and I loved that world! Everyone could be quietly devastated without burning down the kitchen (no promises about the Lollapalooza stage though).

46. If you could only write one type of AU for the rest of your life, what would it be?

I was going to say Enemies-to-Lovers, hands down, but that's not an AU, I guess. It would be boring to write one type of AU forever, but if I had to choose I'd go with the tried and true spy AU. (...she says as she still has her current spy!AU remains in WIP hell.) As Sydney Bristow has taught us, Spy!Barbie can be anything so you could theoretically have an AU within your one AU and game the system. Also spies are the best! All popped collars and dead drops and so much guilt about the things they've done and the people they've let down. God, we need Alias back and by that I mean put the original show on streaming with the original music since every replacement track they used because they couldn't get licensing for streaming is terrible.

56. Are there any fics that you would change or rewrite if given the chance?

That is one spiral I refuse to go down! Once it's out there, it is what it is. I've never wanted to go back and change any fics in a big way (I have gone back and fixed a grammatical error here and there that escaped notice during the editing process) because I wouldn't post it if I wasn't happy with it at the time. There are fics that I wish I had maybe finished before posting (ah, TGM!spy!AU, why are you so elusive?) because now they are albatrosses that I want to finish, know exactly how to finish, and yet can't finish.

75. Is there a particular fic that readers gravitated towards that you didn't expect?

I never know how anything will be received so I don't even try to guess. I operate on a "don't time the market" philosophy except about fic - it is beyond my control so why perseverate over it? I guess I was surprised by how much traction deflect and absorb got. I don't know why, but I think we were all riding the high of a new Jurassic Park movie after like fifteen years (longer if you ignore Jurassic Park III) and had yet to experience "The Worst Chris" burnout (ugh, he really is the worst though) when Jurassic World came out. It was definitely my big dumb blockbuster that summer! In 2015, it wasn't automatically guaranteed that everything would get a handful of shitty sequels so you could live in the space of just enjoying a movie for what it was without thinking about how they were going to mess it up by stretching it out past the expiration date.

[meraki24601]

Whumptober 2023 Masterlist

I successfully completed Whumptober! Woohoo!!!

I never thought I would actually make it to the end between work, making my Halloween costume, and prepping for NaNoWriMo, but here we are! Here is a list of all my posts for the challenge with short descriptions of each.

All of my posts have OCs. Please don't use or repost any of my writing, but you're welcome to use the prompts as inspiration. If you do, I would be grateful for a short shoutout. I'd love to see your work!

Fast List:

Not Sick (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8)

Prompts (Dialogue, Concept)

Accidentally Triggered

Pulling Punches

You're a Liar

Dawn (Part 2 and Part 3 written after the event)

Cliff (Part 1, Part 2)

First Mission

Quotes

New Collar

Taken Away

Not Tonight

Thief (Version 1, Version 2) (Part 2 of Version 2 written after the event)

Just a Fever: Part 3 (Part 1 and Part 2 written previously)

A New Pet: Part 3 ( Part 1 and Part 2 written previously)

You Look Awful

Don't Look at Me

Scented Candle

Held

Empty

Day 1- Not Sick: Part 1

Prompt: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.”

Content: sickfic, refusing medical care, collapse

Whumpee is sick, dizzy, and completely in denial. Could they ask Caretaker for help? Yes. Are they going to hold out until Caretaker finds out on their own? Also yes.

Day 2- Not Sick: Part 2

Prompt: thermometer

Content: Sickfic, fever, touch starved, touch aversion, weak whumpee

A continuation of part 1, Caretaker is taking care of a very sick Whumpee. They'd never seen Caretaker so kind. It was kind of nice.

Day 3- Accidentally Triggered

Prompt: "Make it stop."

Content: Panic Attacks, learning triggers

Whumpee was just trying to research the symptoms of a panic attack. They didn't expect it to trigger their own. It's a good thing Caretaker was there to help them through it.

Day 4- Not Sick: Part 3

Prompt: "You in there?"

Content: Sickfic, fever, hiding, weak whumpee, found, protective whumpee

A continuation where Whumper comes to bring Whumpee back. If they weren't sick, maybe they could have done something to make sure Whumper could never find them or Caretaker.

Day 5- Pulling Punches

Prompt: Pinned down

Content: Hiding injuries, nongraphic blood, passing out, protective Villain

Hero has to fight Villain with injuries from another enemy. Of course, Villain doesn't know this. They can't let Villain know. Villain would kill them in a heartbeat, wouldn't they?

Day 6- Not Sick: Part 4

Prompt: Made To Watch

Content: Sickfic, fever, vomiting, implied self-harm, non-graphic torture

A continuation where Whumpee makes a deal with Whumper. If that deal happens to involve watching as Whumper hurts their friend, well, they don't really have a choice, do they?

Day 7- Not Sick: Part 5

Prompt: “Can you hear me?”

Content: Sickfic, fever, blood, mentioned blades, past torture, passing out, restrained

A continuation where Whumpee and Caretaker deal with the immediate aftermath of Whumper's visit.

Day 8- Dialogue Prompt

Prompt: Outnumbered

Content: Dialogue only, impossible situation

A few lines with two characters discussing the future.

Day 9- You're a Liar

Prompt: “You're a liar.”

Content: traitor, confrontation

Sidekick has betrayed Hero and given Villain their plans. Hero needs to gather proof before Sidekick realizes they know.

Day 10- Not Sick: Part 6

Prompt: broken phone

Content: Sickfic, fever, touch aversion, weak whumpee, injured, checking for injuries, refusing medical care

A continuation where Whumpee and Caretaker attempt to help each other recover now they both have a bit of their strength back.

Day 11- Dawn

Prompt: “All the lights going dark and my hope’s destroyed.” and animal trap

Content: Vampire Whumpee, trapped, left for dead

Whumpee is caught in a bear trap. Will their only hope (a human hunter) save them, or leave them there to die in the morning sun?

Day 12- Not Sick: Part 7

Prompt: “I haven't slept in days, but who's counting?”

Content: Sickfic, fever, blood, insomnia, injuries, ptsd, weak whumpee

A continuation where Whumpee and Caretaker are finally able to rest. Whumpee fully intends to do so, but they have to do something first. They can't rest until their job is done.

Day 13- Not Sick: Part 8

Prompt: “I don’t feel so good.”

Content: Sickfic, fever, weak whumpee, falling asleep, talking about mental health

The end of Not Sick. In this, Whumpee and Caretaker talk about what happened. Maybe if they're honest with each other, they'll both make it out alright.

Day 14- Cliff

Prompt: water inhalation

Content: drowning, falling, knocked out, passing out, rescue

Villain threatens to kill Civilian by dropping them off a cliff. Can Hero save them, or will they die trying?

Day 15- First Mission

Prompt: “I’m fine.”

Content: injured, worried, getting advice

Mentor is worried about Hero. Hero is worried about Sidekick. Can they talk it out or is there a reason for greater concern?

Day 16- Quotes

Prompt: “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

Content: Hospital, LOTR quotes, hurt/comfort

Whumpee is a nerd. Their love of quotes means more when they're dying.

Day 17- New Collar

Prompt: Collar

Content: pet whump

Whumper is buying their pet a new collar. A friendly sales associate stops to help them find the perfect one. It amuses Whumper to know they don't know the collar is for a human, not an animal.

Day 18- Taken Away

Prompt: Blindfold

Content: Kidnapped, chloroform, knocked out, betrayal

Whumpee is terrified as they're taken from their own home. The heartbreak of being betrayed by the ones closest to them only makes it worse.

Day 19- Not Tonight

Prompt: “I’ll take one final step, all you have to do is make me.”

Content: Suicidal ideation, mind control, protective villain

Villain is ready to fight, but Hero is ready to die. When Villain realizes this, what will they do? Will they take advantage of the situation or force Hero to fight to survive?

Day 20- Whump Prompts

Prompt: Blanket

Content: Whump scenarios

Whumpy situations to put your favorite Whumpee in.

Day 21- Cliff: Part 2

Prompt: “Don't move.”

Content: Drowning, secondary drowning, waking up, rescue

Civilian and Hero survived the fall, but can they make it back to safety before anything else goes wrong?

Day 22- Thief Version 1

Prompt: “Watch out!”

Content: homeless, stealing, hiding injuries, framed, protective villain

Villain catches Hero stealing from their store. What happened to their rival? Is this the end for Hero, or do they deserve to be saved?

Day 23- Just a Fever: Part 3

Prompt: Stalking

Content: Sickfic, stalking, weak hero, kidnapped

A continuation of a series started before Whumptober where Hero finds themselves at the mercy of Villain. Taken from their home, can Hero even stand or will they anger Villain?

Day 24- Thief Version 2

Prompt: neglect

Content: homeless, stealing, hiding injuries, framed, protective villain

A second version of the story where Villain catches Hero stealing from their store. What happened to their rival? How is Hero even still alive? What will Villain do about it?

Day 25- A New Pet: Part 3

Prompt: Storm

Content: Pet whump, related caretaker and whumpee, injured, blood, training, kidnapped, previous torture

Caretaker has been reunited with Whumpee. Now, they just have to get Whumpee away from Whumper before they're killed.

Day 26- You Look Awful

Prompt: "You look awful."

Content: Sickfic

Whumpee is sick. Caretaker is ready for dinner.

Day 27- Don't Look at Me

Prompt: Scars

Content: Scars, Hero x Villain, panic attack

Hero is weak. They're not strong enough to be worthy of their enemy. Not in battle, not as a lover, not at all. Unsurprisingly, Villain disagrees.

Day 28- Don't Pass Out

Prompt: “We might not make it to the morning, so go on and tell me now.”

Content: Stranded, non-graphic blood, injury, trapped, rescue

Hero and Villain are both stranded in the middle of nowhere. Will Hero follow their new orders regarding their enemy?

Day 29- Scented Candle

Prompt: Scented Candle

Content: Panic attack, flashback, triggered, hurt/comfort

Whumpee is triggered during their birthday party. Caretaker helps.

Day 30- Held

Prompt: Bridal Carry

Content: Injured, waking up, carried

Whumpee wakes up in Whumper's arms.

Day 31- Empty

Prompt: Empty

Content: Depression, ptsd, dissociation, threatened

Whumpee is scared, and the only way to deal with that is by making sure they're numb any time they're around Caretaker. Unfortunately, Caretaker isn't a fan of that plan.

[stinmybubs]

“Jewelry Box.” FANTASY AU Pt.2

AN: I love this concept too much I need to write more.

Summary: Fighting to succeed to the throne, you do everything in your power to become the next ruler of the Caataeta Empire. Even if meant cursing yourself with a power that secures your throne. You wish for no lover, just people you can help you chip away the curse that's killing you, and to secure your empire. You need husbands, wives. A Jewelry Box.

AFAB! Reader x a series of characters.

Pt.1

You’ve never been more livid in your life. You didn’t want to be married off to a kingdom you’ve never been to! You wanted to rule over the nations. You wanted to call the shots.

Your anger clouded your judgement. “Momo…I’m going to the dungeons. Make sure no one follows.” You hiss, glaring at the innocent black haired girl. Worry was painted all over her face as she opened her mouth ti pro protest but you simply hurried past her.

Oh (Y/n)…please don’t do anything rash. Momo thought, looking at your figure with dismay.

You knew exactly how to secure yourself the thrown. You needs a higher power, you needed to be stronger then the men that are thing you down.

You needed magic. Magicians a rarely ever turned away from empires or kingdoms, they can always do how they please having their own tower all to themselves. You, only held little magic, but you knew an old ancient rule of the imperial family.

You were able to connect yourself with a greater curse, then you could secure yourself the thrown. I must. I have to. No matter the cost I must secure the throne. You slammed the dungeon door open, looking around the damp, and dark stairs.

Momo simply handed you the torch, you refused to let her come down with you. She waved you off with much worry, watching your figure disappear down the spiral stairs.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs you approach the cell rooms, simply glancing in each room before you settle before the giant gate door beneath the castle walls. This is where the imperial family magicians are trained, and this is where you’ll summon the tortured souls of the imperial magicians.

You grabbed a dagger off the weopnary walls, hovering it over your hand thinking of where to cut. You didn’t want to kill yourself, simply sacrifice an amount of your blood. So you cut into your arm.

Watching the blood drizzle out your arm, a faint feeling coming over you. But you stand there strong, watching the Stoney floor cracks be filled with blood and it slowly flow throughout the floor.

“Bring me the damned souls of the imperial family! I give you blood! I give you my life!” You cry, trying your best to stand tall.

There was a flicker, then another. Then whirling, screaming souls of the damned family, reaching out for you. You felt no fear, for your desire for the throne was greater than no other.

“Give me your curse! Give me the power of the throne!” You shout at the screaming whirl of smoke and boney-hands reaching for you. The only thing that scared you was the familiar voice.

Your mother.

“Do you understand what accepting the imperial curse will do?” A tear. A singular tear sheds from your eyes as the voice cancels out any noise. You saw her hand, her golden hand teacher for you. Your mother peaked from the middle of the smoke, she was like a golden spirit trying to stop you.

“You will no longer feel pain. You will no longer feel love. You will no longer feel regret. You will be the vessel of the damned.”

You could feel the warmth of your mothers hand on your cheek. Listening to her words carefully.

“Yes mother! I’ve worked so hard! I’ve done so much, I’ve SACRIFICED so much. I deserve the throne. I am the rightful crown of the Caataeta Empire!” You let all your pain out, you grieve in your mothers hand, sharing all that has wronged you.

“My poor daughter…go change this world. Change you destiny.” Your mother was sucked away from you. Tears streaming down your face. In a blink of an eye the smoke flew out you. But you felt…normal?

It only lasted a minute until your body started to pulsate in pain. Your through starting to clog with blood and vomit. Your eyes began to itch and sting. You I’m Iida tell drop to your knees scratching at the floor trying to embrace the pain.

You tried screaming, you tried making any noise. You reach for the door. Am I dying..? You think, a flash of Momo’s face coming into your mind, your heart began to race. I can’t. You let the mixture of blood and vomit spill from your mouth onto the floor.

Your noticed all your blood for the summoning had already gone. Could you really handle the curse? Your frail body..? Are you really this….weak.

You hold your throat, feeling your eyes begin to tire. No. You can’t faint. You can’t die. You must do as your mother said. You must save yourself, change this world.

Slowly, you began to pick yourself back up. Your desire taking over the pain as you walked yourself out the imperial magician room. You didn’t even look back. The pain was fading, as you walked up the stairs you felt lighter. Relieved?

As you open the dungeon doors Momo greater you with a smile. But soon it was replaced with a look of horror and worry. “(Y-y/n)! Your dress! Your eyes! What happened?” She quickly came to your aid wrapping your arm around her shoulders.

“I’m fine. No need to worry Momo.” This was weird. You didn’t feel anything when you saw her, not like you normally do, youve always felt at ease and at home with Momo. But now…

You felt nothing.

A couple of days has passed and you hadn’t left your room, simply staring at the wall. You’ve noticed a change in your appearance, that being your eyes. A giant red x had painted over your eyes, but you could see perfectly fine.

“Strange…” you murmur, lifting yourself off your bed and to your vanity. You felt nothing, no beauty, no confidence. Nothing.

“Mother was right…as always.” You stare at yourself for a brief moment, just sitting in silence staring at your room door.

The door finally opened revealing Momo with a tray of tasty treats. But you still felt nothing. You were usually excited for tasty treats such as these. “(Y/n)…are you doing well?” She worriedly placed the tray on your tea table. “You haven’t told me to help you get ready…you haven’t left your room…and…” she looked like she was about to cry?

“I’m fine Momo…”you really were. But you just didn’t know what to do, or how to feel anymore.

Why did I do this again…? You question yourself, it was lying staring into the abyss your mind was blank. Ah…yes…I remember. The throne. You didn’t feel the anger anymore, but you still wished for this power.

“Momo, you can stop worrying. Help me get dressed for an audience with the king.” You give her a gentle smile to ease her worries. Momo was happy to help you get ready. You could see her smile, which you always thought was beautiful. But you can’t feel it anymore.

“(Y/n)!? What have you done daughter !” The imperial father shouted, his look of horror upon seeing his daughter.

“What father? Never seen the imperial curse before?” You smirk crosses your face, you loved seeing his horrified face. A sense of satisfaction writhed over you. You finally felt something after days. You felt the sweet taste of victory.

“You look like a demon! No la-“ you quickly approach him. Faster than you thought because you were gone from your spot in a instant.

“This secures the throne…as in the imperial records and law.” You state, looking down on your own father. “I expect my coronation tomorrow, and my imperial brother thrown in prison. Or even killed.” You smirk seeing your fathers face contort in fear.

“You cannot do this! I am the-“ you cut him off, your red x glowing brighter as he started choking. How satisfying. You think letting the man breath after a moment.

“Announce it. Good day father I shall excuse myself.” You curtsy, and make your way back to Momo, in which she nodded to you and followed behind you.

“You still must meet with the Todoroki prince! (Y/n) one last request from your father!” He yelled across the room, holding his neck.

“I supposed I should…let’s host a ball then!” You clap your hands enthusiastically. Of course you felt nothing about it. You need to put on an act of emotion!

“Is this tight enough princess?” Momo questioned, tightening your corset has always been a hassle, you used to hate the pain of not being able to breath in it.

“It’s fine Momo.” You smile gently at her, at least you could no longer feel the pain of corsets.

The ball was dull. Nothing interesting caught your eye, until the announcement of prince Todoroki of course, he to your surprise was quiet young and handsome. Maybe even the same age as you.

You lift yourself up from your throne, your father had an ugly smile on his face sitting in your soon to be throne. Watching as the red and white haired boy approached you, kneeling to kiss your hand.

“Care for a dance..?” His face was stoic, almost no emotion. You simply nod and let him lead.

“How do you feel about this engagement prince Todoroki?” You ask, knowing he probably wouldn’t want this either since he might have a lover. “I don’t mind it…I think it would be a great alliance.” He states matter of factly. Boring, but cute. You think as you two continue to dance.

“How do you feel about this arrangement your imperial highness?” His question seems to be more curious and genuine. “I don’t wish for it of course. But I’ll consider it once I am empress.” You state.

“Empress? Oh yes I heard you were now crown princess, my apologies.” The silence on Todoroki’s end was awkward, but for you it was nothing.

The silence continued until you two had ended the dance, bowing to one another. You made your way to the balcony to feel the cool air. This usually would’ve made you more relaxed but you still felt nothing. “Ah…would I have been happy…? To wed such a young man and join his court?” You stare at the stars. Wondering if you had done the right thing.

“You never know…” the familiar stoic voice of prince Shouto wouldve startled you normally. “No one is ever happy with arranged marriages. Especially my parents…but none of us can change it.” He stated plainly, taking his place next to you on there balcony.

“You are a very beautiful women, you could get any suitor you want especially in your position.” He was very correct, you had everything. Looks, smarts. But what was it all for if you couldn’t succeed the throne?

“I guess you could be right…but why wed someone for position? Especially you shouldn’t want this…since your parents seem so unhappy.” You state back, putting arm under your chin.

“I shouldn’t…especially when my father drove my mother so crazy…she poured boiling hot water onto my face.” He covered the scar that covered a part of his face. “No one would marry something like this…” he looked back at the stars.

“Well I think scars are beautiful…it shows how strong someone can be…it shows the battles someone has been through…mentally and physically.” You look at the boy, making slight eye contact with him.

“And a scar doesn’t define who you are.” You turn on your heel and walk back into the full ballroom.

Leaving that handsome boy a bit dumbfounded.

AN: TEEHEE!!! Two in one day!! This story has me in a chokehold.

[captivatingmushrooms]

Yes I’m breaking ‘Don’t talk about twt’ taboo. Sorry not sorry. And I don’t even main Philza but it’s. Actually insane to me that some fans would go out of their way to insist that their team was cursed to the point that they essentially put some blame on Philza for how Purgatory ended. Some basically saying that Philza made the admins scrabble to retcon the cursed team and therefore rewrite the now unsatisfying ending. Just because he didn’t bend to Tubbo’s every whim and didn't say ‘your logic that Blue is cursed is 100% sound and definitely doesn’t have holes that would make trusting your logic risky when it comes to the safety of the eggs, we’ll just let Blue win which therefore makes all of our struggles these past two weeks in absolute vain, no further discussion on any evidence we may have, nope.’ Yeah, no, because he didn’t do this, the cursed team thing and part of what made Purgatory's ending unsatisfying is his fault, guys.

(and no you can't even try to excuse this as a character thing or say it's about the character. Given that Phil himself said that the way Bolas acted in Purgatory had some sense of genuine reactions from the cc’s, the choices they made were strongly based on the content creators’ feelings/actions. That, and talking about someone’s choices making the admins ‘retcon’ the cursed team is meta discussion, because that's talking about something a content creator does with his character that would make admins change the narrative. So surprise, you can only use the ‘/rp no hate to the creator’ so much before it starts to feel like total bullshit)

It’s the most conspiracy sorta thinking I have ever heard in this fandom, which is saying something. Because perhaps the blame should be more solely focused on the fucking people who constructed the narrative of purgatory in the first place. Looking back, given what we've learned behind the scenes, you're really telling me that the qsmp team decided at the last minute to do a whole entire rewrite of the ending because of the actions of a content creator?? Given the fact that the players' choices in past events have hardly ever actually made a severe impact for these events in the long run (i.e. the prison event), yeah, I very much doubt that (if an admin comes out and tells us otherwise, I am totally okay with being wrong, but that's not what I have seen as of yet). Some fans refuse to accept the concept that the higher up admins absolutely only had one narrative ending in mind that could not be changed or effected by any regular player choices, that the players' choices, as usual, did not matter. That there was never a cursed team because the ending was always going to be what it was no matter what team won. A single outcome, regardless of what happens? Is that so ludicrous to believe?

But no let’s blame a single cc for how this event turned out just because he didn’t do what you guys wanted. Let’s imply a cc made the admins work even more than usual just to write/work on a new ending because of a retcon. Let’s imply a cc did something wrong when it comes to how he played Purgatory, which Quackity himself, when players were receiving massive hate, said is fucking bullshit because Purgatory is about doing whatever you can to win and that there is no wrong way to go about it (nothing about teaming up or finding out the cursed team, it’s almost like this is an event that is meant to be actually played with one team winning in mind and that the cursed team thing was meant as a diversion/a way to sew discord hmmmmm).

Absolutely insane behavior like PLEASE, can we not blame the content creators for the qsmp's narrative changes, god, I hate twitter so much.

[insertsickusername13]

as a prompt: a richjake roadtrip after senior year

this took me so long.who knew road trips were so hard to write? wtf. like it's such a classic it should've been easy, but i started this weeks ago and only managed to finish it now bc i just refused to close the tab until i finished. and on that note i've been writing for the past hour and my brain has lost all ability to process the english language so i didn't edit it. if there's grammar mistakes or certain sentences are total nonsense then i'm very very sorry

uh, warnings? mentions of sex. mentions of drugs and alcohol.

word count: 5,437 (yes, it's longer than I wanted. its a roadtrip. how am i supposed to write that in a thousand words?)

On the second day, Rich told Jake he liked him. They were up in Maine, planning on getting all of New England before heading west. Jake had the passenger seat pushed back as far as it could go, eyes closed and legs almost straightened. It was early—7? Maybe 8?

When Jake had insisted they go on a road trip together, Rich had imagined late mornings in hotel rooms and late nights in clubs. (He also imagined Jake realizing just how terrible this would be for his legs within the first three hours, but it was hour eight and he still seemed determined.) Instead, he got a rigid schedule and a pre-made playlist. No bars or underground concerts—just Mount Rushmore and Chicago and art museums. Aquariums where there were ones, beaches when they could. 

They’d only been through Massachusetts and Connecticut by the time Rich gave in. They were alone for the first time in ages—and not in their house, not with the promise of going to school and seeing their friends the next day. They were practically in the middle-of-no-where-New-Hampshire and Rich could pull over, stand on the roof of the car, and scream, “I love Jake Dillinger!!” and the only person who would hear would be the object of his affections. The urge to confess flurried within and around the car like an unshakable snowstorm. 

 He didn’t mean to say it. In all honesty, it was a misinterpreted phrase, a result of Rich’s excessive talking as Jake hummed from the passenger seat, half-asleep.

 “But Interstellar just had more,” he said, only half paying attention to the empty highway, “Like yeah, okay, Tenet was weird as fuck and probably had a cooler concept if I was smart enough to figure it the fuck out, but the main character’s name was fucking protagonist. Who becomes emotionally attached to a dude named protagonist? It lacked the depth Interstellar had. Plus, Interstellar felt attainable. Like fuck yeah, I wanna go to space.”

 “Mhm.”

 “I’d take you with me. Maybe Michael, but I’m not sure how ventilation works on a spacecraft and his weed might stink up the whole thing.”

 “Probably.”

 “You’d be a menace, you can barely handle gas station food, let alone space food. You’d have a heart attack at not being able to have your weekly caviar.”

 “You’d just throw me out in space,” Jake mumbled, not even bothering to deny the caviar jab. 

 “Nah, I like you too much,” Rich teased, poking at Jake’s exposed stomach. He expected a squawk, at least for Jake to shove him away, but there was only silence. Rich took his eyes off the road for just a split second, interest piqued, only to be met with Jake’s wide, terrified expression. 

He’d said it a million times before and never overthought it, but maybe there was something different about this time. Maybe it was because they were alone rather than surrounded by friends, maybe it was because now they’d planned a life together—college, in Boston, Jake at Harvard and Rich at Emerson, still roommates. Maybe it was accursed Maine and all its forests, or the way Rich emphasized like. Love was a common word between them, said every sleepless night since the fire, but like meant so much more. Like implied a hesitance only present where romance was seeping into every word. 

 “No, you don’t," Jake seethed.

 Rich scoffed. A restless apprehension crept its way up his spine and settled in his fingertips, which tapped against the steering wheel. 

 “Pretty sure I do, buddy. You’re—”

 “I’m your best friend and you don’t like me.”

 Oh. Oh fuck. Jake meant like that. He knew, he—fuck. Rich had to consciously stop himself from accidentally sending the car tumbling into the forest. 

 “Okay,” Rich forced out, “Okay. I don’t like you.”

 Jake’s sigh of relief was similar to a comet colliding with Rich’s home. He squeezed the steering wheel and kept his mouth clamped shut, terrified that one wrong move would send them spiraling off the edge of the Earth. 

 As it turned out, though, Jake didn’t mind Rich’s confession. He didn’t directly acknowledge It afterward, glad to pretend he was still blissfully unaware of every icy undercurrent running under their feet. 

 Rich thought an explicit rejection would hurt. He’d imagined how it would go a million times over, a passive version of self-destruction. He lay awake next to Jake’s sleeping body and thought of every word he’d say, how he’d say it, the way he’d look away with guilt. Rich had all his responses planned, all his apologies already written. He was prepared for an, ‘I’m so sorry, I just don’t think of you that way—’

 He was not prepared for Jake’s arm slung over his shoulder, lips close to his ear, and that quiet, breathy laugh Jake only let slip out around Rich. 

 They were in some local museum meant to educate passing tourists about some half-abandoned small town Stephen King would write about. It was reasonably entertaining, mostly a distraction from the storm of heartbreak he was trying to disassemble in his chest. Just one night—he needed one night alone in a hotel room to sob out every sorrow, then he’d bounce back. Just one night.

 If only Jake would stop trying to kill him. Rich was satisfied reading about boats or whales or something (he’d forgotten, too busy thinking about Jake’s fingers clutching Rich’s t-shirt to keep his balance) with Jake a good two feet away, examining a painting. But Rich’s beautiful demolitionist decided his next target was Rich. He appeared to the right of him and practically draped himself over him, impossibly energetic for being in a place that reeked of desolation and dust.

 “Fuckin’ Maine and their lobsters,” Jake grumbled into Rich’s ear, resting his chin in the crook of his shoulder.

 Every possible witty response died before Rich even had the chance to think them up. His brain was too muddled with Jake and Jake knowing and Jake being so close. Where there would usually be a confession on the tip of Rich’s tongue, unspoken but overwhelming, there was only the bitter aftertaste of hope.

 “Yeah,” Rich stated, simple and short. Jake’s cane knocked against Rich’s knee. It wasn’t even on the ground anymore, having been replaced by Rich. 

 Jake made a small sound of confusion before nuzzling a bit closer and said, “Do we wanna drive to Vermont for lunch? Or are we staying here?”

 “It’s like a four-hour drive.”

 “So we’re staying here?”

 “If you want.”

 Jake shifted away slightly, just far enough that Rich began reteaching himself how to breathe. 

 “You’re all red,” Jake stated, soft and oblivious. 

 Okay, so no breathing. Rich writhed in Jake’s hold until he was free and standing three feet away, face even redder than before, an instinctive reaction to Jake’s intense, unwavering gaze. Picking through the flood of panic in his mind, Rich only barely managed to get out, “Sorry.”

 “Why would you be s—oh. No, that’s—I didn’t mean to—like, we’re—”

 Rich was going to cry. In front of the boy he was in love with, he was going to cry. Jake sounded so panicked and apologetic that Rich could almost feel it gathering like snowflakes in his hair, coating the floor in pure white dust.

 “Jake, stop. It’s fine.”

 “Are you su—”

 “Let’s just go to lunch. I saw a diner on the way here.”

 Jake nodded rapidly, almost desperately, as he stormed from the room—almost as if he could escape Rich’s feelings merely by leaving this goddamn museum behind.

 He almost succeeded. It took an awkward lunch and two hours of driving on an empty highway, but eventually, Rich’s one-word answers slipped back into enthusiastic ramblings and Jake learned not to flinch away whenever Rich’s hand got too close.

 Rich still cried when they got to the hotel. It was his turn to pay and, despite repeatedly telling Jake that he was going to save as much money as possible, he bought two separate rooms for them. Jake didn’t so much as blink. Still, the next night they were in a shared room with separate beds, far enough that if Rich reached out he’d be met with only empty air, but close enough he could still hear Jake’s breathing.

 It wasn’t until Illinois that Rich was once again faced with the consequences of his stupid, unintentional confession. Once again in different hotel rooms, Jake had to knock on Rich’s door at 2 am to get his attention.

 Rich was half asleep, his phone in his hand still open to Michael’s text messages. At first, he was convinced Jake was a figment of the SQUIP—the knocks would get louder until Rich was on the floor, rocking back and forth with his hands over his ears waiting for the noises to stop. 

 But then he heard, “Richie?” and his panic evaporated as if it was never there. 

 “What the fuck?” he said, answering the door with a fabricated scowl. At Jake’s nighttime smile, it melted into reluctant contentment.

 Jake held up a towel and a pair of swim trunks. “Hot tub? I saw they had one.”

 “Well, it’s most definitely closed by now.”

 Jake ducked his head with a bashful grin on his face and shrugged. Rich knew by now that Jake only followed the rules when adults were there to praise him for his obedience, and Jake knew Rich knew, but he always acted like a scolded child when he suggested something even vaguely rebellious. 

 “Could be fun,” he whispered, blushing at the floor. 

 “Oh my god, gimme those and stop acting like a five-year-old.”

 Jake positively beamed, sunshine incarnated. Rich almost had a heart attack as he ripped the swim trunks from Jake’s grasp as quickly as he could, doing everything in his power to avoid brushing Jake’s hands against his own as he slammed the door shut to get changed.

 By the time they got to the hot tub, Rich was sure he was going to die. He didn’t know he had a thing for boys picking locks, but seeing Jake on his knees in front of the glass door, his credit card in the slit between the door and the wall had done something to Rich.

 And Jake, skin red from the hot water, eyes glazed over from the third beer he’d had (that someone Rich hadn’t noticed was in his hand)? Yeah. That was something else entirely. He was frozen despite the heat, paralyzed by Jake’s hands on his hips, tracing stars with his thumb. 

 “You’re so pretty like this,” Jake whispered, voice almost lost in the foggy steam filling the room. He wasn’t making eye contact, instead staring at the point of contact between them like he could see the pearly gates of heaven reflected in the water.

 “Yep,” Rich squeaked. He didn’t want to say no, he would do anything to be able to enjoy it for what it was, but… but fuck. This was survival for him. He couldn’t wake up tomorrow in Jake’s hotel room and continue as if nothing had happened—it wasn’t a wouldn’t. There was no choice in this. Rich could not have sex with Jake and be forced to be friends with him afterward. He couldn’t have his feelings manipulated and abused, no matter how much he loved Jake. 

 Oblivious to Rich’s internal musings, Jake leaned down until he was so close Rich was almost convinced they were kissing. 

 “You want this?” he said. Just those three words, not the ones Rich was aching, breaking, longing to hear, were enough for their lips to brush together. Less than a second, barely a moment, and Rich thought he felt the moon shatter. 

 Rich would’ve responded if he could get air in his lungs, but Jake was so close he inhaled all the oxygen that would’ve been Rich’s. All he could do in the haze, the fire, the fear, was shake his head ‘no.’ Not when Jake was drunk. Not when he was looking at Rich like he used to look at Chloe.

 Jake jerked back an inch, then two, brows furrowed with confusion. 

 “I thought—”

 “I don’t like you, remember?” 

 Jake blinked. Rich could tell he was being too slow, his intelligence impacted by the alcohol. It shouldn't take this long for him to figure out what Rich was trying to say—usually, he’d be able to predict Rich’s next words before he even thought them up. 

 This time, though, Jake just whispered, so small his words could fit in the space between every molecule of air between them, “What?”

 “I don’t like you. You told me I don’t like you.”

 Another second passed, stretched far beyond what should have been physically possible. Only then did Jake’s eyes flash with recognition. 

 “Right,” he said, then smiled, “Right, but that was just—I was freaked out, but I’ve thought about it, so much Rich, it’s all I can fucking think about, and you’re—”

 “You’re drunk.”

 “I’m buzzed at best, Rich, listen to me—” he got closer again, eyes alight, and for a split second, the same amount of time it took for someone to realize they were about to die, Rich felt a flicker of hope. Innocent, buttercup hope. Jake in his arms. Waking up to Jake’s face pressed into his hair. Jake kissing him lovingly. 

 Rich’s face contorted to hide the blissful fantasy from Jake’s prying eyes. 

 Jake jerked back again, this time so far that he fell back into the water (gracefully, because everything Jake did was graceful), expression a crater of ash and fire. 

 “Do you… I don’t…”

 “You’re hurting me, Jake.”

 Jake scrambled farther away, fumbling through the water to the edge of the hot tub as if it was made of glass shards. His mouth was open, words spilling out in a desperate, violent waterfall. 

 “No, no, you’re not listening to me, Rich, I want you—”

 “Yeah, when you’ve got me half naked.”

 “What?! No, stop, I’m telling you I want you, all of you, not sex, or—”

 “Jacob I can see your boner from here. Don’t try this. It hurts. You can’t—”

 “I’m not trying to!”

 Jake’s voice was getting loud, his face redder than before. His wet hair went from sexy to frazzled and threatening. His hands were pulling at the roots, tangling in the knots. Rich recognized the mosaic his fear created and could almost see Jake tumbling off cliffs of insanity and desperation. He knew Jake through the months he spent alone in that empty mansion after his parents left, either drunk on expensive liquor or high on the pills his mother left behind, he knew just how dangerous a desperate Jake could be. Not violent, but so goddamn broken it was impossible not to cut himself on the pieces as he gathered him up and reconstructed him back into a man.

 “Then stop it!” Rich screamed, “You don’t fucking know, Jake. You’re fucking—the only relationships you’ve been in have been about sex and, and popularity, and you don’t understand this feeling.”

 It was as easy as that. Rich knew he’d twisted the knife, knew that maybe he’d taken it a step too far, but he didn’t deserve this. After years of pining, Jake didn’t get to reject him and then try to bed him. That wasn’t allowed. 

 When Jake spoke again, it was emotionless. Monotonous. Devoid of all humanity. Words on a page, scripted and controlled. Rich had lost all access to Jake. 

 “What happened with Chloe doesn’t define me. You know that, I know you know that, so don’t even fucking try me. I don’t know what it’s like to hide and lie about my feelings for years, but you don’t know what it’s like to watch the only person you’ve ever loved—”

 “Don’t say that.”

 “To watch the only person you’ve ever loved,” Jake repeated, more determined this time, “flinch away whenever you so much as look his way because he’s so insecure he can’t accept that maybe you want to spend the rest of your life with him.”

 Rich’s fists clenched. He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up out of the hot tub, but he was standing by the door, dripping and scowling and on the verge of tears. 

 “Fuck you.”

 “Really? That’s it? Tell me what you want. Tell me you want me and it’s that simple. Tell me you know I want you.”

 “You’re my best friend.”

 Jake flinched at his own words thrown back at him. He kept his mouth clamped shut as Rich kept talking. 

 “You’re my best friend and I don’t know what the fuck is up with you tonight, but you told me yourself that we’re friends. I’m not going to let you ruin that with sex.”

 “That’s not what—”

 “I’m not going to let some half-hearted relationship ruin us, Jacob"

 Jake stayed silent, seemingly waiting for more. Rich watched him realize there was nothing left to say, that this was the end of the conversation. His lips were trembling. Rich wished they weren’t.

 “Fine,” Jake breathed. He sagged to the floor, knees pressed against the tile, hands clasped politely in front of him. “Fine. Friends. Best friends. If—if you really think being together would ruin us, then we’re just friends.” 

 “Good,” Rich said as if he couldn’t feel each cell within him bursting and bubbling with acidic heartbreak. “Friends.”

 They stayed there for a moment, waiting for some finale to hit—some final blow to tattoo this night in black on their skin—but there was only burning silence.

 “I’m going to bed,” Rich said finally. 

 Jake only nodded, still staring at the floor. Rich slipped from the room and screamed out sobs into his pillow until the sun forced light back into his life. 

 He stumbled through his morning routine, struggling to close his suitcase and stuff it into the trunk of their car. It wasn’t until he saw Jake, his smile bright but eyes tired, sitting alone in the dining room that the haze lifted just enough for him to realize friends ate breakfast together. 

 He sat down across from Jake without a word, and only once Jake looked up from his half-eaten breakfast did Rich force the skeleton of a smile onto his face. Jake mimicked it with much more success. 

 “Top of the morning to ya, buddy,” he said, the word buddy spat out like it hurt, “So, I was thinking, St. Louis is like an hour and a half away, maybe we stop there around noon, see the arch thingy, the move on. There’s a zoo like thirty minutes from there that we can stop at for a while. We can end the night in Wisconsin, see I don’t know, some small town, then tomorrow we can go to Minnesota?”

 Rich nodded. He wasn’t sure if he could speak yet. 

 “Great! I’ve still gotta pack up, so just let me do that, then we can hit the road.”

 Rich nodded again. Jake’s gaze lingered too long, flitting across his face, from his bloodshot eyes to his lips, before he finally looked away, his smile faltering. He cleared his throat. 

 “I’ll see ya in a bit, then.”

 “Yeah! Can’t wait.”

 Rich wished he could think of more to say, but the day seemed to be coated in an unbreakable silence. The car ride was awkward—Jake kept the radio off, choosing instead to prompt Rich with question after question as if they were kids meeting for the first time. Rich offered up every answer he had. He didn’t have many. 

 They stopped for ice cream sometime in the late afternoon, after a tense trip to the St. Louis arch during which Jake elbowed Rich after making a joke and Rich almost hyperventilated. 

 “What should I get?” Jake asked, surveying the menu. 

 “Whatever you want.”

 “I want you.”

 Rich whipped around to face him, every muscle in his body clenched and ready to fight. 

 “What?”

 “Raspberry looks good.”

 Rich didn’t push it., but the words echoed in his ribs until his lungs were bruised. 

 It happened again a week later. An art museum in Washington. 

 “It’s beautiful,” Rich said, staring in wonder at a painting of the ocean during a storm. 

 “So are you.”

 Rich didn’t turn to look at him. He scrutinized the painting, looking at every color and brushstroke until three minutes later, Jake had to go to the bathroom. 

 In California: An aquarium gift shop. 

 “Do you like it?” Jake asked, watching Rich hold a penguin stuffed animal against his chest.

 “I love it,” Rich said, his voice muffled by the fabric. He was hiding his face behind the wings so Jake wouldn’t see his eyes watering at the fact the cashier had called Jake such a good boyfriend for buying him the penguin.

 “I love y—”

 He had the decency to cut himself off. 

 “I’m glad you like it,” he amended, and it was left at that.

 Until Texas. A hotel twenty minutes from the Space Center Houston only had one room. Of course. 

 It had two beds. Rich sat upright in one, phone in hand, Michael on the other end. Michael didn’t know what had happened between Rich and Jake, but he did know Jake was on the other side of the room, headphones on as he stared at his computer doing one thing or another. Rich watched him, still helplessly in love despite the repeated heartbreak he experienced every time they did so much as make eye contact.

 “Las Vegas was so overhyped,” Rich complained, “Probably because Jake and I can’t legally gamble, but the hotel was so fucking cool. There was this giant fountain and so many lights. Almost had a panic attack because of the noise, but once I got over that it was sick.”

 “Las Vegas or San Fransisco?”

 “San Fransisco 100% buddy, not even a question. Food was great. I was a little scared we were gonna get devoured by a wildfire, but we ended up fine. East Coast is so much better, though. I can’t wait to get back. Jake said we can stop in the Everglades.”

 “You want to got to the Everglades?!”

 “Yes!! Snakes, Michael! I need to see a Burmese python and alligator fight to the death!”

 “You’re crazy.”

 “I’m well aware, but this is a childhood dream of mine that must be fulfilled before death takes me.”

 Michael laughed. Jake made a strangled sound from across the room. 

 Rich froze up and instinctively forced an awkward smile on his face, tense and unsure of what exactly had prompted Jake’s reaction. He glanced at his pretty sunflower out of the corner of his eye—his hunched shoulders, a posture that was so unlike him, his face illuminated by the computer screen. Rich cleared his throat to rip himself from admiring him. 

 “Yeah, yeah, I’m hilarious,” he choked out, “Okay, it’s—it’s late, I better get going now.”

 “It’s like 9—”

 “Night!”

 Rich hung up but stayed staring at his phone for far too long, terrified to do anything but. 

 “Are you okay?” Jake whispered. His computer was closed now and he was facing Rich, crisscrossed on his bed. Rich straightened and nodded. 

 “Yeah, yeah, just tired. Sorry.”

 “Have you been tired for the last three weeks?“ 

 Rich blinked at him, too focused on the blue of his eyes to comprehend his words. 

 “What?” he finally said. Jake just shook his head and turned off the lamp, deciding darkness was the best course of action. 

 Rich thought it would be him who’d be unable to sleep, haunted by blues and I love yous, but it was Jake who tossed and turned and writhed in his sheets, wrestling with some invisible enemy long after Rich fell asleep. 

 When Rich awoke the next morning, it was to Jake packing his suitcase. He stayed still for a moment, admiring Jake as he carefully folded each shirt, hands gentle and sure of themselves. Since Illinois, every look he’d given Rich was coated in a layer of lies Rich hadn’t been on the receiving end of since sophomore year. 

He didn’t know Rich was watching him now. He looked sad, irrevocably so. The tip of his nose was red, the first sign of sadness. Then it was the parted lips—he was a snotty crier. Rich learned that after watching Bambi with him. He’d been crying, and now he couldn’t breathe through his nose. His chest was moving up and down in stuttery, unsure movements, and after every piece of folded laundry, he had to pause to press the heel of his hand against his mouth to stifle a sob. 

 “What’s wrong?” Rich rushed out, the usual sluggishness of his mornings completely eradicated by Jake—Jake crying. 

 Jake jumped at the sound of Rich’s voice and regained his composure within a split second. There was suddenly a smile, open body language, and eyes that remained just as dead as before. 

 “You’re awake! I have something for you.”

 “I don’t care, what’s—”

 “No, no, trust me, you’ll care, hold on.”

 Still smiling beautifully, he turned to the desk and grabbed two pieces of paper. Then, movements peppy and face alight, he sat down in front of Rich and handed them to him. 

 “Okay…?” Rich said, looking down at the pieces of paper with little interest—Jake. Crying. Jake. Crying. That was all he was worried about. 

 Until he realized the papers were printed out plane tickets. One to Florida, the flight set to leave eight hours from then. Another three days later, from Florida to New Jersey. He reread the words. Then reread them. And again. And again. 

 All he could get out was, “What the fuck?”

 “You can see the Everglades!” Jake said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

 “Well—well yeah, but… we’re driving there? Together?”

 Jake shook his head. “No, yeah, we were, but—I mean, after Illinois…”

 He paused to clear his throat and look away. Rich was on the verge of screaming, but that could wait until Jake had finished whatever shitty explanation he was about to offer. The longer the silence lasted, the more Jake’s sunny demeanor faded out.

 “After Illinois, I mean you don’t—you aren’t happy, Rich. Not around me. Last night, like, with Michael—” Rich had never heard Jake struggle with words this much. He was stuttering, tripping over his words, raising his volume too high then lowering it to the point Rich could barely hear him. “—you were talking to him, and you won’t do that with me anymore, and I want you to talk like that because it’s—fuck, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and if you can’t do that around me anymore—because I fucked up and apparently ruined the best thing to ever happen to me—then maybe some time apart would be good for us?”

 Jake looked up at Rich hopefully. Rich wasn’t sure what he was hoping for and he didn’t have the energy to figure it out through the anger crawling inside his skin. 

 “You’re kicking me out?”

 “No! No. I just think you should have the chance to be—no, I need the chance to—I want you to be happy—”

 “I’m happy.”

 “You won’t even look at me. You won’t talk to me. I’m hurting you.”

 Rich suddenly understood why Jake had looked so heartbroken after hearing the phrase you’re my best friend. Having his words manipulated and turned against him hurt more than the flames ever had.

 “That’s—no—”

 “And I thought I could fix it by just being your friend, but we’re not even that anymore. I want us to be. So badly. I can’t lose you. I can’t go to Harvard without coming home to you every night. And I’ll do anything to save us, and right now that means you have to get away from me.”

 “Stop—”

 “So I got you tickets to go see the Everglades. I even booked you a boat tour. I’m not sure about seeing a Burmese python, but you can try. Then you can have the rest of summer in New Jersey with Michael and everyone else, and we can meet up in Boston, and everything will be okay.”

 “Jake—”

 “I can’t ruin another relationship. I know I have a bad track record, I know I can’t commit or be romantic, and you’re probably right to realize I’d destroy whatever beautiful thing we managed to create, but honestly, you’re more beautiful than anything I could ever make, and I can’t destroy that, I have to protect that, even if I’m not around to see it for a while.” 

 “No—”

 “But I can move on while we’re apart, and hopefully you can too, then we can be best friends in Boston and roommates forever and you can get married and I can pretend I’m happy for y—”

 Rich kissed him. Quick and sloppy and frantic. It was hypocritical, to say the least, self-destructive if Rich was being completely honest with himself. But the feeling of Jake falling into it, pressing closer and moving so his trembling hands could press against Rich’s waist and back, was intoxicating.

 Rich kept it short, though the feeling of just Jake’s gentleness was enough for him to want more. 

 He pulled back, Jake trailing after him until he collapsed against Rich, forehead pressed to Rich’s shoulder and lips pressed to his neck and collarbone. 

 “I don’t understand,” he said between kisses. Rich promised himself he’d memorize the feeling before it was taken from him. 

 “I’d rather be heartbroken with you than happy with anyone else,” Rich explained softly, tangling his fingers in Jake’s hair and pulling his head back to look him in the eye. Jake breathed out a sound Rich chose not to identify and tried to lean up and kiss Rich again.  

 “You’re not ruinous,” Rich got out just before Jake gifted him kiss after kiss like offerings to a god, “You’re not destructive and Chloe doesn’t define you and I’m sorry I implied she did, I shouldn’t have, and I’m terrified I’m gonna lose you and terrified this is all a prank and terrified you’re going to leave—”

 “Never,” Jake confessed, eyes closed and expression melted into pure bliss. “Never, ever, ever. It took me too long to realize how bad I want you. I can’t lose more time.”

 “I want you too.”

 “I want you to be happy.”

 “I can be once I get my head out of my ass and realize you’re even more perfect than I thought.”

 Jake laughed soundlessly and pulled Rich onto his lap. “Perfect?”

 “You’re gorgeous. You’re kind. You’d never purposefully hurt me, and I was stupid to think you would. I just—it hurt. The car. You telling me—Jake, I was still in survival mode. I didn’t mean anything I said. I swear it. Please don’t make me leave.”

 Jake shook his head. 

 “No, I won’t. I can’t. I’m sorry for what I said in the car. That wasn’t cool or okay, I just… panicked? Because I always knew—I didn’t want to say it, or think it, or acknowledge it, but I knew, and you saying it made it so real I couldn’t even pretend I could ever want anyone else and that was—I wasn’t ready for that to hit so suddenly.”

 Rich felt so warm inside he was convinced he was going to overheat and collapse in on himself like a dying star. He kissed Jake like he was made of roses until he was convinced he’d erased every terrible thought he’d placed in Jake’s mind in Illinois. 

 “So we’re going to stop being cowards now,” Rich said, clear and determined, “And I’m going to be happy because the most beautiful boy in the world decided I’m worth his time and he’s going to be happy because now I’m here to tell him he’s the most beautiful boy in the world every single morning, and that he can’t kick me to the curb even if he tries.”

 Jake laughs and nods and kisses him again. 

 “God,” he whispered, tracing stars on Rich’s hips, “I’ve never been so glad I wasted two thousand dollars in my life.”

 “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

 There was a short, weighted pause. Then, “Wait, did you say two thousand? Jake, flights to Florida should not be two thousand dollars.”

 “Well, not for economy.”

 “Econ—you were planning on giving me first-class tickets to Florida to soften the blow of practically breaking up with me?”

 Jake was too giddy to be offended. He wrapped himself around Rich and kissed him again. 

 “It seemed like a good idea at the time, shut up.”

 “No, I am not shutting up, that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. We’re going to seriously work on your spending habits in Boston, buddy—baby—you’ve got the rest of the summer to be an idiot with your money, then we’re starting a retirement fund. For fuck's sake, you’re going to be broke by the time you’re thirty.”

[faundlydreaming]

Once Loved, Twice Loathed- Bg3 Fic

Summary: Fi unknowingly has feelings for Astarion but is the queen of denial, and only believes it to be a sexual attraction. She doesn't know what to do with said attraction and wants to be more confident in being sexy and alluring. So why not go to her bestie Karlach for advice? Unfortunately for Fi, Karlach's advice comes in the form of a smut book. Astarion catches wind and shenanigans ensue.

Characters: Astarion, Fi (Tav), Karlach contents: fluff, talking of feelings/crushes, playful nonsexual teasing, romantic advice, smut book warnings: mentions and quotes from smut book word count: 2,500

author notes: This is basically my first time writing a fan fic. :D I thought it'd be cute to write some fluff between my tav, Fi, Karlach, and Astarion

The unforgiving sun beat down on the encampment. Its heat battled with the cool breeze making the weather tolerable. Distant chatting and the sound of snoring from an afternoon nap joined the piercing screams of cicadas. Thank the Gods, after the constant battle for their lives the day was forgivingly lazy.

Fi squinted at Karlach’s tent as her fists clenched at her sides.  A cold, wet nose nudged her knuckles knocking her out of her reverie. She brushed her fingers along Sasha’s muzzle giving a weak smile to the wolf in turn. With nerve-ridden steps, Fi had sought out Karlach to ask advice worthy of heated cheeks and thumping heart: how to be confident when flirting with someone. A certain someone who, at the very thought of, caused the shorter tiefling to cringe in embarrassment. Crushes were such childish things, weren’t they? The lack of any healthy romantic experiences in her past didn’t help.

“Why is your mom like this?” Fi asked the wolf. Sasha tilted her head, her long tail giving a slow wag in response to the tiefling.

“Copper for your thoughts?” 

Fi jumped, her eyes snapping onto the much taller Karlach as she sucked in a breath. “Oh gods you scared the shit out of me.”

“Scared you at my own tent? You’re jumpier than usual, what brings you here, soldier?”

“Nothing at all, I just came to say hi-AHH,” Fi nursed the nip from her hand, giving a curl of her lip to the wolf who refused to let her escape. “Ugh, I came for advice.”

“Advice? On what?” Karlach asked.

Fi grumbled, her fingers now finding one another as she stared at her flame-haired friend with narrowed eyes. 

“Advice on flirting. With people. Certain people.” The smaller tiefling played with a white lock of her hair as her crimson eyes darted away from Karlach.

“Oh?” Karlach’s face slowly lit up as she gasped into a wide smile. Fi hadn’t once met someone who’s eyebrows rose higher than at this moment. “Are you talking about Ast-“

“Karlach, do you want to give me advice or not?” 

“Do I ever. Tell me all of the details, don’t spare anything.” Karlach swung an arm around Fi’s shoulders and dragged the woman into her tent. The once-soldier plopped onto the ground cross-legged and pulled Fi down next to her. “Okay. Go.”

Trust. It was a concept that had been so battered from others in her past that the idea of explaining everything to Karlach caused her to hesitate. Karlach’s copper eyes bore into her own, innocent with anticipation. The other tiefling was the closest to a best friend Fi had ever gotten. Now, the decision was to extend that trust to her, or to push her away? She held Karlach’s gaze until her joyous expression began to fall in concern. It was a leap, but did it really need to be so grave?

“Just… don’t judge me, I’m a grown adult and yet I feel like a kid.” Fi drew her knees up to her chest as she absentmindedly stroked Sasha’s head.  She went on to explain her interactions with Astarion up until that moment. Like their first ‘exciting’ meeting with his blade to her throat, the consequential struggle to free herself from him, and the restraint it took not to meet her boot to his face. Or the curious shade of red in his eyes, similar yet more somber than her own and the sharp piercing of his fangs on her neck. She’d allowed him to drink her blood from her wrist thereon, but that fool of a man had the worst ideas at times. Yes, let us go after someone’s blood as they are sleeping surrounded by predatory animals. Kudos to the rogue, however, since he managed to get as close as he did.

Then there was that fateful night of the tiefling party where she’d somehow found herself sleeping with the man. Liquor was a hells of a thing.

“I knew you got some ass that night! And you let him bite your neck? Didn’t expect my girl to be so kinky.” 

“Karlach.” It took one look to shut that woman up. A quick glance around them proved that no one had heard that particular outburst. She sighed, maybe talking was a mistake.

“The best advice I can give you is advice you don’t want to hear.”

“And that is?”

“Be yourself.” Fi groaned and Karlach fell into chest-heaving laughter.

“That does nothing. Have you even met me? “

“Yes! And you’re absolutely perfect. Now go get ‘em soldier.”

Fi played with the velvet-soft ear of Sasha. “I have to say, I got nothing from this conversation.”

“That ain’t true, give me a second.” Karlach sprung to her feet and rummaged through a nearby trunk. She pulled out a book and tossed it at the other tiefling. Fi caught it, eyes flickering over the cover before she stared at Karlach with the flattest expression she could manage.

“What?” Karlach asked. ”I’ve gotten plenty of ideas from this series. Sexy ideas. I’m sure you’ll be inspired too.”

“I guess I’ll give it a shot.”

“That’s the spirit, Lil’ Fi!” Lil’ Fi and Mama K, what a pair they were. The ranger-bard rose to her feet, shooting a sharp whistle to Sasha as the wolf stood up. The canine padded up to Karlach and gave her a big, slobbery kiss before turning to follow her mother.

“If this fails me it’s going to be all your fault, Karlach.” A beat of silence. “Who am I kidding? Knowing me I’ll be my own demise.”

“Just remember what I said, be yourself.” Karlach gave an exaggerated wink and Fi stalked off with Sasha.

•••

Once Loved, Twice Loathed. The book was well loved, its worn edges and dreaded cracked spine proof of that. The book Karlach shoved in her hands was the first in the My Most Beloved Betrayer series. Flirtation was a concept all too uncanny to the tiefling. She sat within her tent, leaning back on Sasha as the wolf’s pale fur brushed up against and enveloped her in an uncomfortable warmth. Kilbern, Fi’s raven, was nestled in his usual spot within the curl of Sasha’s tail and sat with his eyes closed, oil-slick hued feathers giving the occasional twitch. Fi gripped the book in her fingers scanning over the cover for the umpteenth time.

It featured a roguish, bare-chested male half-elf cradling an ornery, female drow. She flipped to the first chapter and settled in to read. Far too long did Fi focus on the first paragraph, reading it multiple times over to no avail. With a huff of annoyance, she set the book down in her lap and nearly gave up. Nearly. From the tent across from her she spotted Karlach doing gods-knew what. The other tiefling in turn, spotting Fi, gave a lopsided grin with an exaggerated double thumbs up. Fi’s body rose and fell with a full sigh. She loved Karlach, but sometimes her closest friend had her wanting to shove her own face in the sand from embarrassment. At least Karlach tried. Fi wouldn't dare share these thoughts with anyone else in camp. Except for Wyll. The Blade of Frontiers had a brotherly feel. He was also the least insane of their group and given his deal with a literal devil, that was saying a lot.

 She opened the book once again and stared at the first page. And stared. And stared. This wouldn’t do. She could have all of the patience in the world for a good hunt or for stalking an elusive target, but when it came to something like reading a crotch novel for romantic advice, it evaporated into the ether. 

Gods, why couldn’t she just read a dirty book like the very mature, very experienced, high-esteemed adult that she was? It was just smut. She wasn’t a child to be defeated by the threats of maturity. Fi thumbed through a few more pages before picking a random one to find a more interesting passage.

The man looked cooly towards the drow as her red eyes, shining with power, narrowed with glee. She pressed a pointed finger to his forehead, pushing until he fell to his knees, his gaze never releasing hers. 

‘Sit.’ Her finger moved to trace his jawline and hook beneath his chin, forcing him to keep his eyes on hers as her heels dug into his chest, pushing him onto his back. ‘Good boy.’’

Everything was going as expected so far, what was she so afraid of anyway? Fi chuckled to herself, flipping the page until a dastardly intrusive thought wove itself into her consciousness. The man in her imagination was no longer from the book, but instead, replaced with her. The ice-cold expression of the drow was now Astarion and his stupid little grin. It was his finger that had hooked beneath her chin, his eyes boring into her, his smile that-

 Oh my gods. She couldn’t do this. The embarrassment was agonizing. Fi shoved the intrusive thought back into the deep crevices of her tadpole-infected brain and set the book down on her lap. For a long moment she stared at the ground in front of her, studying the intricate, weaving patterns of the rug she’d placed at the bottom of her tent. No, she needed to read on, this time promising to herself that she wouldn’t let her wayward thoughts get the better of her. She skipped a few more chapters ahead.

‘The seductress railed the half-elf with her strap-on until he could no longer beg her to allow him orgasmic release.”

The book promptly closed. Exploring these feelings was allowed. It was natural after all, wasn’t it? To want to explore this part of herself in the relative safety of her own mind? A place where she could fight the self-judgment she felt due to her sordid past? Fi could allow herself to enjoy this moment, learning from this clearly very Official Guidebook to Sex at her own leisure. Perhaps, she might dare say, it was okay that  instead of the protagonists, she imagined herself with this man who she’d slept with at the tiefling party many moons ago. She shuddered a sigh through her nose. How pathetic he’d think of her at this moment when he’d been so upfront about his desires. Deep inside, she knew from the tightness in her chest and ache in her throat that things like sex were more complex than that.

Fine. These thoughts were as well-protected as she could manage given the telepathy their tadpoles would occasionally grant. Fi began to read yet again, loosening the leash she held on herself in the words and actions of the protagonists who explored one another’s bodies. The warmth spread through her cheeks tingling with a quiet shyness as her eyes skipped through the words in haste. Her desire was tentative, though yearning, to replace the protagonists with herself and the elf she hopelessly pined for. Not romantically, of course. Never. Just, physically. She absolutely lost herself in Karlach’s filthy novel.

“Dare I say, you look quite taken by that book you’re so enthralled with. What title has your fancy, hm?” 

With a startled yelp, Fi did the only thing she could possibly do in that moment. With one smooth movement, she clutched the book, arched her hand back, and chucked it as far from her tent as she could straight into the middle of camp. From above, the pale elf was almost invisible against the sunlight that bathed him making his expression indiscernible. She didn’t need to see his face to tell what his expression must have been.

“I’ve never seen you move so quickly. Impressive, really.”

“What do you want, Astarion?”

“As I said,” and he grinned with a bit of fang, “I wanted to see what you were so focused on reading. What was it, adventure? Romance? Something more?”

Fi sat up as he continued rambling, his guesses becoming more and more lewd as he went on. “If you’re not here for a good reason then go away. You caught me off guard, is all. Go chug a rat or something.”

Her tail tip whipped against the ground as he stepped into the shade, his features becoming more clear as he stared down at her.

“Oh, if you insist. But first, why don’t I do you a favor and go fetch it for you?” Red eyes gleamed with innocence as he flicked a wrist in the direction of the book. How many times would she be sighing of frustration today?

“No thanks. I’ll get it myself.” Fi shifted onto her knees when she froze, blinking a few times to get a clear view of where the book had landed. It was gone. She gave a tilt of her head, eyes narrowing as Astarion followed her gaze in curiosity. With a flash of feathers, Kilbern appeared above Astarion, dropping an object from his talons into the elf’s hands and landing smoothly into the tent with bristling pride. She’d never noticed he’d even left.

“Here, mother. This is what you wanted, right?” Kilbern preened his feathers for good measure.

“Have I failed you that much as a mother, Killy?” Fi shrank in defeat as she stared at her bird who cocked his head in confusion. Not one to take an opportunity for granted, Astarion had already devoured the title of the book and flipped through a few of the pages, the grin on his face growing wider, more asshole-ish.

“Darling, if you were feeling that pent up you could have just come to fetch me.” He leaned down, his face close to hers as he whispered in her ear. “No need to be so shy. We could always pick up where we left off?” 

Fi’s eyes widened as she pushed his face away with her palm. “Not a chance. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean, the sight of watching you squirm? Perhaps a little.”

“I hate you.” “The feeling isn’t mutual, darling.”

“Alright, ‘harass Fi’ time is over. Go be a sexy vampire elsewhere.”

The low timbre of his voice rose to an amused lilt. “You think I’m sexy? I’m not surprised, it’s me, after all.”

“Out!” Yet another projectile launched from her hand, this time an embroidered pillow, and this time at his face. He dodged with ease, turning around to walk away with a shrug of his shoulders and that strange, trilly laugh of his.

“If you change your mind you know which tent to find me.”

Fi was done with sighs. This time she just stared at his retreating back, turned to glare at her bird, and flumped straight into Sasha’s side.

“I’m never listening to Karlach’s advice again.” Her words were muffled through fur and the heavy weight of shame. That was a lie. Not only would she finish Once Loved, Twice Loathed, but the entire series of My Most Beloved Betrayer.

[rebrandedbard]

Alright so, I’m gonna send this as an ask instead of clogging your comment box on ao3. And I’m still laughing at the fact you call these essays when it’s just unedited night ramblings. 🫡

Full disclosure, I have absolutely zero knowledge about music. I’m not even going to pretend like I knew what I was doing with those annotations and I certainly don’t know enough about poetry to articulate how that would work either… But I still very much hold firm to the belief that this would make an excellent recitation. The only other way I can articulate it is by insisting that it is a melodic kind of language. I see what you were going for and you’ve done it so well and I am so excited to see this kind of style and specific diction of language.

My education and experience is more in painting, art history, critical analysis so you know I’m not a complete hackjob and just blowing steam out of my ass! But I really have like no knowledge of music. 💀

I also very much hold firm to the belief that Jaskier is always going to be a choice. That is ultimately at the heart of the found family trope/genre. It’s not about shoehorning people into traditional family roles, but rather and I’m going to borrow from your fic here to support this, it’s about people coming together and the care and love that exists between them regardless of background, experience, and pre-ordained fates.

“Ciri put herself between the stranger and Jaskier, waving a large branch in warning. “Keep away,” she growled. “If you come any closer, I’ll scream.”

This is great. This is important. This is also really funny. A small child protecting a larger child. I know Ciri is more powerful, and perhaps even stronger than Jaskier. But the mental image of her defending Jaskier against a witcher with a branch is hilarious. I bet Lambert was telling everyone about it when they got to Kaer Morhen.

What’s important about this observation is that Jaskier lets her. It cannot be easy for a grown man to suddenly have to rely on a child to take care of him, but he lets her and there isn’t a shred, not an ounce of resentment between them.

Also, I did not originally mean to analyze this against the hero’s journey and the monomyth, but the witcher so often explores the concept of destiny and fate that I find myself falling into it constantly. What this fic does though, as I’ve mentioned before, is refuse the call and subvert the myth which I love.

I’m very interested in that perspective, thank you. I was a little suspicious because Jaskier was clearly picking up on something but I knew from his reaction at the end that he really didn’t know. It’s that thing where as an audience we have more information than the characters which again very much puts me in mind of a play and the fics other artistic qualities. I think I feel more like Ciri in this instance, and also a little like Jaskier. One is kept in the dark because she’s a child and the other because he’s literally blind.

Omg okay last disclosure… I couldn’t remember the word for prose poetry (idk why) and it sent me on a deep-dive. I just really love writing, and fanfiction and all this shit. It’s my goddamn jam, and I’m literally incapable of shutting up. I’m about to vibrate out of my skin.

I never ever ever forever want you to shut up. I love this. I love ALL of this. I want to read this analysis like I'm in an english lit class. I am eating it up with two serving spoons like I've been given the entire tray of sweet potato casserole to kill off at thanksgiving. PLEASE I beg of you, CLOG MY INBOX. I would LOVE to have this in my inbox to keep and to treasure. In fact, I keep my favorite ao3 comment emails in a special folder! Please please PLEASE copy and paste this and put it beside the other half so they are together. Your comments are FAMILY you can't separate them! They need a loving home!

[arttheclown]

paragraphs of bad mental health stuff under the cut don’t mind me 💀

i love finishing school and realizing i truly need to begin adulthood and focusing on things like building a writing CV and getting my driver’s license and most importantly breaking away from my severely controlling & emotionally abusive mother and then just. every bad fucking thing from the last 10 years hitting me in the face lol. my father’s deterioration and death and a really violent incident with him i don’t like to talk about. a lifetime of my mother micromanaging nearly everything i do, abusing me, gaslighting me, and refusing to let me grow up to this day. a string of abusive and manipulative codependent friendships that ended in ugly and sometimes public falling-outs. my grandpa dying in march and my grandma having to live on her own now. having to see my sister go through a lot of the same shit that i have and desperately hoping she can be helped in time so she’s not 2 years away from being 30 and just falling the fuck apart lol

i’ve spent so many years saying i’m fine and i’ll get over it and move through it but everything has gone still right now. i can’t run anymore. i physically cannot lie and downplay things and say i’m fine anymore. i am unable. i have become a people-pleaser to the point where doing things purely for myself — sometimes knowing i’m the one who gets more out of it than anyone else — is a foreign concept to me. i cannot do things anymore if i feel i’m mostly doing them to just please someone else because then i start panicking & i know that’s progress but god!!! it feels like shit!!! these growing pains hurt so bad!!! and then i start agonizing over potentially disappointing people and uugghuhh i don’t like it. i don’t like it at all.

i want to do things but everything feels so fucking terrifying right now. realizing the extent that i’ve been traumatized is miserable and i don’t even like admitting it because then i feel like i’m lying or trying to get attention. i don’t know if i have fucking ptsd because that’s such a severe disorder but at the very least i’m going through a period where even little things petrify me & sometimes just getting through a day feels like an accomplishment. i love food and i’ve been agonizing over making sure i’m nourished properly on top of dealing with selective eating that i’m almost positive is because of my autism. i am a small person — if i lose any more weight i will get sick and that frightens me. and i’m painfully aware that the reason this is probably happening in the first place is because i am so used to worrying about SOMETHING that my mind can’t accept peace and is now inventing issues and it sucks. this isn’t a new issue for me but it sucks. it feels like hypervigilance or something. idk.

i kept hoping that maybe i would bounce back on my own like i’ve done in the past and maybe i can but i don’t know if i’m able to waiting and how many pep talks i can keep giving myself, nor do i want to constantly rely on others for comfort. i’m fortunate enough that i live in a part of the world where i don’t have to pay for doctor’s appointments so i might just go and see if mine can get me some help because 🥴 i don’t know how many bad weeks i am capable of having right now! i’m gonna be honest!

it’s going to suck likely paying for therapy. it’s going to suck potentially finding a new therapist if it turns out i’m uncomfortable with the one i’ve had since childhood because don’t get me wrong he’s a nice man but i don’t know if he even recognizes i’m autistic on top of other things lol. i really do not want to end up on anxiety medication or antidepressants and want to believe self-medicating with weed is enough but i don’t know anymore.

i just needed to write these feelings out somewhere. i can’t silently carry them with me anymore. they’re too heavy. i hope things get even a little easier soon.

[prometheankat]

The Girls is Not That Good - review

video version here: https://youtu.be/0xCFmudBbos

I recently found out via email newsletter that Emma Cline has a new book out. I’ve been told that reviews for her second book, The Guest, have been overwhelmingly positive, although I must admit that I have not read any of these reviews or the actual book itself. I have, however, read her debut novel, The Girls, and this new release reminded me that I never actually published a review for it and now I’m going to make it everyone’s problem. So, in this essay I’ll be covering the book and my thoughts on it, most of which aren’t that positive. There will be spoilers and I’ll be covering sensitive subjects related to cults and murder, so view at your own discretion. 

To start us off, The Girls was originally published in 2016 by Random House and is Emma Cline’s first published novel. Loosely inspired by the infamous Manson family murders, its plot follows 14-year-old Evie Boyd as she is caught up in a group of spellbinding girls and the man/cult leader they all follow, Russell. The book was the winner of the Shirley Jackson Award for Best Novel 2016 and was a Goodreads Choice Award Nominee for Best Fiction 2016. Sounds like a pretty good book, right? Many other readers and reviewers would agree with you, like the Washington Post and NPR. I, however, would not, as you have probably already guessed from the title of this review. I have a few different problems with this novel, the first of which is the fact that the author managed to make something as fascinatingly macabre and intriguing as boring as my high school finance class. 

The real life story behind Charles Manson and the so-called Tate Murders is almost horrifically interesting. I read Helter Skelter by Vincent Bugliosi, a true crime novel about the case written by the actual prosecutor for the trial, right before I read The Girls, which is part of the reason The Girls felt so flat to me. Helter Skelter is a gripping, horrifying beast of a book. It sucks you in and refuses to let you go until you’ve learned every gritty, gory detail. Bugliosi’s intimate knowledge of the case makes him the perfect storyteller, as he leads you through every small clue and motive that build the case against Charles Manson and his oh-so-devoted followers. There’s so much to the story that has already been said both by Bugliosi and other creators in the past fifty years that a retelling like The Girls has to find something new and exciting to shed line on, a whole new avenue to explore. This book just doesn’t do that. Cline doesn’t really have anything new to say. 

Our main character, Evie, is a perpetual outsider. In this way, she acts like an audience-insert, allowing us a peek into the dark world that she’s stumbled upon. And there’s nothing wrong with this premise besides the fact that Evie doesn’t really do anything. Whether it’s because the author didn’t want to offend any of the real life people involved in the Manson family by basing a character on them or because she didn’t want to implicate her character in their crimes, therefore absolving her of guilt, this decision forces Evie to lurk outside of her own narrative. She isn’t allowed to do anything new, so the book never delves into uncharted territory. The story would have happened the exact same even if Evie had never existed at all, which is not a good thing for people to say about your main character. And because of this, the book really lacks a solid purpose. It fails to explore anything at all. 

The same is true for the plot, which is largely a gross simplification of real life events with a few spatterings of original writing that serve as our look into the future. Obviously, no retelling that is “inspired by” true events will line up perfectly with reality, but rather than taking an interesting concept and adding something new or turning it on its head, this book makes it boring and pedestrian. In the real world, Manson’s motives are a complex and confusing amalgamation of race wars, prejudice, post apocalyptic futures, dune buggies, Beatles lyrics, and miscellaneous Biblical influences. They’re a mess and they barely make sense, but that’s what makes it interesting. The search for a motive in the mountains of evidence is one of the most important parts of the prosecution case explained in Helter Skelter. In contrast, our Manson stand-in featured in The Girls wants to kill people because Mitch, our resident Beach Boy stand-in, couldn’t get him a record deal. Which is mind numbingly boring, especially when the other option is a madman’s belief that he is Jesus and killing any random influential person will start a war where him and his family will be the only survivors, all because they hunkered down in the desert on dune buggies. Like, it’s pure insanity, but it’s interesting to read about. The motives are the most glaring example I can provide, but The Girls simplifies pretty much every true event it draws inspiration from. And in that aspect, the plot really falls flat. 

The other parts of this book are comprised of Cline’s original ideas, particularly inventions about Evie’s family, friends, and future. Some of these portions take place in the future, following Evie as an aimless middle-aged woman currently house-sitting for a friend. When said friend’s teenage son and his girlfriend show up, we get some good interactions between Evie and the girlfriend, Sasha. I actually really enjoyed these sections, especially seeing how Evie saw herself in Sasha and tried to help her despite Sasha’s own wishes. All of the original writing wasn’t bad. The only time it fell flat was when it ventured back to the main plot, which was most of the book. 

And that’s what’s really the most disappointing thing about this book. There’s just so much wasted potential. This could have been interesting. This could have been amazing. I could have really enjoyed this. I actually really enjoy the idea behind it, which is why I picked up this book in the first place. Showing a girl’s perspective of these events, showing how someone vulnerable could get drawn into a cult would be an interesting area to explore. Especially when combined with how women were treated during the time period contrasted with how they were the actual ones doing the murdering, there’s a lot of interesting concepts in the idea alone. This could have been a much deeper, twisted exploration of some really cool ideas, if only the author wasn’t scared to commit to the actual cult material. Most of the story is built around it, but we never really explore it. It’s just another thing that happens because the plot demands so. Why write a book about a cult if you aren’t going to really go for it? Why do it at all? This book could have been so much better if Cline did commit to it. Or, alternatively, I think she could have written a really great novel if she just used her own original ideas. Her writing in the future sections was really good and I’m sure that a story where she isn’t bound to a historical inspiration could be really good. Either of those options would have been better than the book she actually wrote. 

Maybe I will read The Guest. Maybe it will be better than The Girls. But when it comes to The Girls, if you’re looking for a story about cults and murder in the sixties, just read Helter Skelter. Or if you don’t want to do that, you can just skim the Wikipedia page for Charles Manson. Either option would be more interesting. Because oftentimes, reality is much, much stranger than fiction. 

[transmissionsfromthebattlefield]

A Roundtable Discussion on Heavy Metal (and Melanie)

A few days ago, my boyfriend sent me a link to Lil Pump’s recent smash hit “Pump Rock x Heavy Metal” saying, and I quote, “DO NOT LISTEN TO THIS.” But it’s hard to not forcefully contaminate myself to music that is atrocious to make the good music all the more worthwhile. That’s how dedicated I am to my love of music.

Besides, I was meaning to explore this on my own anyways after hearing Lil Pump’s glorious, glorious weird scream-grunt noise on an Instagram story. Let’s review whether or not Mr. Gucci Gang is able to elevate two of rock’s most iconic subgenres to the modern age.

“Bob” help us.

The intro is, fittingly, the most stereotypical take on punk rock possible, and is probably most similar to what disconnected old farts think all punk rock sounds like. Mediocre Generica was the title of a (much more sonically interesting, if guilty pleasurable) Leftöver Crack album, and it fits here. Upon further reserach, last.fm tagged this song as rock, metal, nu metal, rap metal, drone metal avant-garde, beatdown hardcore, AND crossover thrash, so maybe my aural analysis is subpar. Maybe all this time I was actually the musical equivalent of one of those people who gets repulsed by eating anything better than McDonald’s and I had no idea. If so, I feel ashamed.

In this striking vein, I’ll give the rest of the song some credit: the production is actually interesting! Sonically, it’s more interesting and attention-grabbing than a lot of the more recent music I’ve heard, with an intense throbbing bass line that I particularly like. Too bad it’s got Lil Pump singing over it. I love having to hear scrawny men with awful hair sing about emo bitches and having a dagger dick, which is extremely disturbing. He calls himself a narcissist in this song, which makes sense with how self-indulgent and oblivious to common sense the lyrics are. As a complete outsider to the whole “emo rap” or whatever scene, I’m kind of fascinated by the repeated motif of wrist-slitting throughout the song - if this song is declaring itself “heavy metal,” does this mean that all those sensational news reports from the eighties about how those poor teens were beckoned to kill themselves because a Judas Priest song told them to, were actually true? It’s hard to overlook lyrical content when someone has such an awful voice.

This song seems to have been created for people who enjoy the concept of punk rock and heavy metal, but don’t have much knowledge in anything beyond the sloganeering and looking like you have street cred. I doubt Lil Pump has much knowledge past that regard either, or has any interest in going beyond it in his music.

I had been meaning to write this post for a short while, but I kept getting busy. But yesterday morning, the Instagram algorithm similarly offered me another current music faux pas that my masochistic brain just had to subject myself to, and I just had to get something about it out there. This time, it was a paragraph Melanie Martinez had written explaining one of the songs on her new album, because her fans are apparently too dumb to be able to come to their own conclusions about the meaning of her songs. She says:

This is obviously the best thing to be reading while you’re preparing breakfast. Funnily enough, Lil Pump also alludes to period sex in his previously mentioned song.

I read the lyrics, which I refuse to link because they’re stupid, and I listened to as much of the song I could stand, which wasn’t very much. It sucked. You know when you only read the lyrics to a song and you come up with your own musical accompaniment in your head? I knew it wasn’t going to be as good as my brain’s assumptions, but I was stunned. You would think that an artist who is supposedly going through some radical image change would make music that similarly pushes boundaries, not just something created solely to be covered on a ukulele. It was one of the most mild mannered, unoffensive sounding songs I’d ever heard.

As for the lyrical content, it is sad to me how Melanie could not even come up with a basic metaphor to convey her idea. Like Little Pumperton, who uses the usual guns-and-cars flexing to communicate masculine hood prowess, Mel resorts to the most basic, blatant concepts to get across her point of being...a woman who exists and does things, I guess. As a cisgender young female, I technically should be on this song’s side, but it only comes off as condescending. I don’t need something that is completely natural and familiar to me explained to me in such, er, explicit terms. (“Womb shedding.” Gag.)

If I’m somewhere near the target audience for Melanie’s music in terms of my age and sex, then I’d say we deserve better. Young women can think for themselves and don’t need to be spoon-fed a fourteen year old’s concept of lyrical depth in order to feel “empowered.” Neither do young men need watered down portrayals of material wealth, hoe-wrangling, and glorified self harm. In today’s world, everyone fears being misunderstood. But the answer to that should not be undermining people’s intelligence and spoon-feeding them lowest common denominator nonsense. People should be allowed to bring their own interpretations to the songs they listen to and not have everything spelled out to them. Nuance and complexity are good things, and they should be present in what we see, read, and listen to. We should be encouraged to think critically about what we consume.

If we don’t, then...well, I guess we let songs like these take the world by storm.

[nagasakidivision]

Drama Track: Double Effect 2.2

>disappears for 4 months >drops another cliffhanger >refuses to elaborate

Seriously though, this should be the last long-term hiatus (please God I don't need anymore excitement in my life.) To make a long story short my employment, financial, academic, and home life related matters are way more stable now and I can hopefully get back to writing things that are not school related. I don't want to make a full post on why I've disappeared and I hate infodumping about life stuff anyways, so we'll just leave it at that.

A-NY-WAYS. Let's pick up where we left off! Link to the first part if you need it because it's been a hot minute. We're looking at.........probably two more parts after this, which I'll shoot for putting up within the next few days but I'll post something frivolous and short and silly and not at all ominous tomorrow to fill in the gap. Absolutely no reason to be concerned about the boys or what's going on in their lives or pasts. Trust me. :)

(but seriously it will be a low-effort fluff post so don't get too excited lol)

(Footsteps as Shirou walks down an alley.)

[Damien]: Yo. Done with the final casing. Or, uh, Lucia is. Heh. You get the footage I sent?

[Shirou]: I did.

[Damien]: Still think it’s doable? They’ve stepped up security.

[Shirou]: I’ve done far worse than this.

[Damien]: Yeah, yeah. I don’t see why you need to warn them. You’re making things way harder on yourself.

[Shirou]: What’s the point of doing this if they don’t know what they’ve done wrong?

[Damien]: Sure, but you could do it after the fact.

[Shirou]: Anyone could take credit for it then. I have copycats.

[Damien]: (sighs) …You know what? Sure. Can’t argue with that logic. Just try to not make a habit of this for every job we work. Street toughs are one thing, going against someone with real money is another. Like, you know, Solaris.

[Shirou]: Fortunately, we aren’t dealing with Solaris. I’ve run dozens of jobs just like this against people smarter than Tomabechi. Have a little faith in me.

[Damien]: Got plenty of that or I wouldn’t be here. So. Ready to go?

[Shirou]: As long as you’ve got my back.

[Damien]: Always. Gimme a sec to get to my post. C’mon, Lucia.

[Haruto]: …Okay, this can’t possibly be the right side of town.

(He sighs and slumps against a wall.)

[Haruto]: I was sure I saw him head this way. How can he walk that fast that quietly?

[Passerby…? 1]: This is a waste of time. Nothing’s happening.

[Haruto, thinking]: Whoa. Those guys look rough. Better get out of the way.

[Passerby…? 2]: Yeah, I know. Dunno why he’s so wound up. It could just be a fake. Someone trying to rile us up, y’know?

[Passerby…? 1]: C’mon. He’s gotta just be an urban legend. There’s no way someone’s that good of a thief.

[Passerby…? 2]: No. Trust me. This is the real deal. The flowers, the note, the handwriting…it’s Gabriel.

[Haruto]: ….Hold on a second. That name…

----------------------------------------------

[Haruto]: I got it! What about Metaxu? Like, the Platonic concept—I mean, I’m not a Platonist but Weil kind of took it and ran with it in a really interesting way. It’s the perfect MC name, right? It’s all got to do with communication.

[Damien]: Hey, so, you know that division from Ikebukuro? The one that’s made up entirely of teenagers?

[Haruto]: …Yeah?

[Damien]: Well, they’re going to shove you in a locker because you’re a nerd. Pick a different name.

(Haruto crumples up a paper and flings it at Damien.)

[Haruto]: Oh, you’re one to talk, Reprobus!

[Damien]: Hey! That’s different, he’s cool. He got torture-murdered and never broke throughout it. And he still healed the guy who killed him.

[Shirou]: According to one account of many. I mean, we can’t even be certain that Reprobus was even Saint Christopher’s prebaptismal name.

[Damien]: It’s a saint gospel, most of it is exaggeration at best. Might as well pick the most badass one.

[Shirou]: Well, fair enough. I’d imagine that’s exactly what the writers were thinking.

[Haruto]: That still puts me back at square one. I’m out of ideas. I guess I could just use my own name like that one guy from Shinjuku but that’s boring.

[Shirou]: What about Phoenix? It still keeps up the…religion-related themeing we have. Phoenixes are used frequently in hagiography.

[Haruto]: Theme? I see how Damien’s does that, but what does Kingslayer have to do with religion?

[Shirou]: Ah. It’s after the archangel Gabriel. He was supposed to be the angel who presided over the death of kings.

------------------------------------------------

[Haruto]: …You are fucking kidding me.

------------------------------------------------

(The wind kicks up. Shirou’s cape rustles.)

[Damien]: Alright. Nest’s all set up. Shepherd, in position.

[Shirou]: Gabriel, in position.

[Damien]: Curtains are up. Showtime.

(Shirou lets out a long exhale. There’s a soft scraping of his boots against concrete, far gentler than it should be. A whoosh of air as he leaps off his perch from rooftop to rooftop. After a few moments, he stops.)

[Shirou]: Ready to breach. How’s it look in there?

[Damien]: Absolutely infested. Your best bet’s through that window on the third floor. Goes into a supply room nobody’s using.

[Shirou]: I’ll see what I can do.

-------------------------------------------------

[Haruto]: It can’t be Shirou they’re after. Right? I’ll just…

(He taps out a phone number. It goes to the dial tone, and rings. Once, twice, then seven times before…)

[Phone]: It’s Sonozaki. Apologies, but you seem to have missed me. Please leave a message after the tone.

[Haruto]: Fucking hell…

(He shoves the phone in his pocket, rather aggressively. Footsteps as he paces in a circle.)

[Haruto]: I shouldn’t take the risk it's someone else. Right? Just in case. I mean, I do nothing and if it is him, he gets killed. I do something, and…

(A pause.)

[Haruto]: What even is something in this case?

[Haruto]: God. Okay. Do or die, right? I just have to find him first.

(He hums in thought.)

[Haruto]: …Huh. They say your last instinct is to look up for something, right? Okay, here goes…

(It takes a few jumps for him before he finally hits the first bar of the fire escape ladder. With a wheeze of effort, he pulls himself up, his boots hitting the metal rungs.)

[Haruto]: Alright. Now…

(He pauses, followed by a small quizzical noise.)

[Haruto]: Don’t tell me someone else had the same idea. Wait, is that…?

(Rapid footsteps as Haruto closes the gap between him and the unknown figure)

[Haruto]: Hey!

[Damien]: Jesus Christ—what the hell are you doing here?!

[Haruto]: What am I doing here? What are you doing here!? And what’s with the dog mask?

[Damien]: Keep your voice down! Does it look like I’m doing something where I want to be recognized? (He takes in a long breath to steady himself.) Okay. So I’m guessing that Shirou never explained anything to you.

[Haruto]: Apparently not.

[Damien]: Cool. Great. Short version is, there’s some documents in there. Stuff from the capital. He’s getting it, I’m spotting for him.

[Haruto]: …Thanks? That was very forthright of you.

[Damien]: Well, not much point in lying now. It’s a tossup whether or not he’s getting out alive.

(The personal comms Damien is using crackle to life.)

[Shirou]: …Shepherd? What’s going on? Who are you talking to?

[Damien]: ....Fuck me, I left the comms hot—

(He lets out a sigh of frustration, causing a static pop in the comms.)

[Damien]: I mean, obviously Haruto.

[Haruto]: Wait, is that Shirou? Tell him if he does get out of this alive I’m going to kill him. Metaphorically.

[Damien]: …He says hi.

[Shirou]: Don’t tell me he—how much does he know?

[Damien]: I think that’s the least of your worries right now, dude.

[Shirou]: You didn’t invite him, did you? I told you I would be able to explain this on my own.

[Haruto]: So those guys are trying to kill him? Goddamnit, I knew it. What the hell did you get him into?

[Damien]: Would you all just—I can’t talk to three people at once, Christ. Gabriel, hold tight, I’m going to get you an exit strategy. Lucia, away to me. Haruto, firstly, this isn't my fault, it was his idea, secondly, how the hell did you figure out what we were doing?

[Haruto]: Shirou was acting weird and left the hotel, I ran after him, there were some sketchy guys talking about Gabriel, it took me like half a second to figure out that was Shirou.

(A moment of quiet as Damien thinks this through.)

[Damien]: Yeah, okay, good footwork. Probably for the best at this point. (Pause.) Where were those guys you were talking about?

[Haruto]: I don’t know, over…that way, I guess?

(A rustle of fabric as Damien shifts towards the indicated direction.)

[Damien]: Shit. That…was our exit. (A too-long pause before he activates the comms again.) Gabriel, we’ve got…complications.

[Shirou]: I’m pinned, aren’t I?

(Damien swears under his breath. When he speaks, it's uncharacteristically tense and anxious.)

[Damien]: Please don’t do anything stupid, just give me a second to think. I’ll work it out.

[Haruto, internally]: I...don't know what I'm doing. But Shirou isn't the kind of person to save himself. So...

[Haruto]: Hold on. I’ve got an idea.

(He digs into his bag and pulls out a flask. The top unscrews with a slight squeak as the cork pops. He takes a long draw of it.)

[Damien]: (The flattest possible affect you can imagine for him.) Interesting start.

[Haruto]: Look, I’m gonna have to sell this. Tell Shirou to stick to the plan and take that route out. I’m going to distract the guys trying to cut him off.

(He exhales, jumping up and down a few times to roll his shoulders.)

[Haruto]: Okay. Do or die...

(TO BE CONTINUED....)

[unseelie-grimalkin]

Hello, welcome to Grimalkin’s Flannán Conspiracy Board. This is an exercise in three basic principles:

Research

Shitposting

Screamming

Unfortunately, it’s not the normal kind of RSS feed, but hey. You’ve got this document. May it bring joy and brainworms in equal measure.

However, first: a disclaimer. Three of them, actually.

While I talk about topics here in the tone and diction of an expert, I am very much someone digging in old books and sharing like an excited raccoon. Most of my expertise lies in Hellenistic studies, Western medieval alchemy, Kemetic anatomy of the soul, and bits and pieces of Norse folklore. This document is very much me reconnecting with my heritage and going “HOLY SHIT” very loudly in a way that is (hopefully) comprehensible and enjoyable.

If I’m right about any of the contents in here, I do hereby solemnly swear that I will not turn around and go “THE DEVS, THEY STOLE FROM MY IDEAS”. This is a statement I have to write down as a show of good faith.

However much I sum up the concepts here, I do not expect the game to be 1:1 with the folklore, as that wouldn’t really give much of a story for the game to tell. Alas, talking about the inspirations though is fun AND brainworm-inducing, so I’m making this document.

Some trigger warnings:

Discussion of Bodily Autonomy and the Lack Thereof

Descriptions of Body Horror (unavoidable with scholarly discussion of Cú Chulainn, I’m afraid)

Implied Discussion of Grooming

So, let’s sum up Flannán mac Lugh.

His name means (roughly) Little Red, Son of Lugh.

His real life inspiration is Cú Chulainn. Put a pin in that, I scream about that later.

He is the only one of countless sons and daughters that Lugaid actually claimed as his own child, gaining the title of warrior-“prince”.

He has been trained to be a Jack of All Trades, with regard to weaponry.

He has things he’d like for himself in the future, but would not count on actually receiving.

He actively avoids situations where he would lose control of his body (avoiding sleep, refusing to drink to intoxication).

He is a sucker for children and those who cannot fight for themselves.

He took in THREE orphaned dogs in the middle of a war, where they would’ve died without his interference. THREE dogs is a LOT of food, a lot of time, a lot of SPACE. But he did that. He fucking did that.

Don’t talk to me, I’m soft.

He’s also real sensitive about receiving luxury at the expense of others, to the point where his room is extremely Spartan, refuses to have a favourite gemstone on account that he cannot separate the abusive mining industry from any stone’s appearance, and a lot of his favourite things in general fall into pattern of common everyday guy stuff, especially for the genre conventions NDM is going for.

He has a tragic past, this goes without saying.

Like we know his DND class/subclass would be Path of the Beast Barbarian, but his DND background might as well be HAUNTED ONE in glowing all capital letters, in Impact font. We joke that he’s straight out of Skyrim, but I would argue that Flan would feel right proper home in Barovia, just on account that the populace is just as haunted as he is (there are also lawful good wereravens there, making it a lovely vacation spot for Maeve, but I digress).

He has a LOT of dog jokes about him. Like. A lot. You cannot ignore this about his character, this is the TEXT of him, not the subtext.

He cannot drink hot chocolate without his stomach getting upset.

If this is simply a dev joke or actual fact remains to be seen. He doesn’t seem to follow the entirety of dog dietary rules, so it’s very up in the air if he’s 1:1 and I refuse to go down the list of “All Things Dogs Can’t Eat” in the askbox to find out. One of you can take the L, I’m not that desperate.

If he misses you, he will wait by the window and stare until you come home.

He gets excited by the merest touch and has to restrain himself to behave and not turn into a humanoid version of his own dogs (no thoughts, only cuddles).

Epitome of Scary Dog Privilege.

His love language combo is giving acts of service (doing tricks) and receiving words of affirmation (being told he is a good boy)/physical touch (head pats).

Simultaneously “uh oh” + mental tail wagging.

This man is a dog, your honour.

For the full text of this, please follow this link here to experience the full Flannán Conspiracy Board (breaker of hearts, left and right).