#and maybe this will inspire a better artist or writer to do something with it

[felassan]

David Gaider on Fenris, under a cut for length:

"Fenris. Now, DA2 is a story all on its own but I'm not going to go there other than to sum it up as "we had just over a year and a half to make this". It's why I only wrote one follower, Fenris, and although it'll make his fans mad: I probably shouldn't have. Let me explain. The way we'd approach making the followers is brainstorming a list of concepts covering first the array of gameplay classes (and sub-classes) and then making sure they each have some skin in the game when it came to the story's conflicts - ideally having characters on both sides of the major ones. Why? You can't make a player care about the world, but you can make them care about characters who care about the world. It's the easiest way to provide hooks into a conflict, outside of it knocking on the player's door. Heck, it's probably better than that. Players will burn the world for approval. After that, we'd decide things like romances/sexuality. Then the writers would pick who they'd write. I always let my writers pick first. I figured they do their best work when it's something they're inspired to write... and they got so few chances at ownership, I wanted to give it whenever I could It's why I (reluctantly) let Patrick wrest Cole from my grasp in DAI, a character I'd created in Asunder. It's also why I let Jennifer take Anders in DA2, who I'd started in Awakening. In this instance, it meant I was left with the angry elven warrior character who nobody else appeared to want."

"It should have been my first clue that something was up. The second was how the artists had zero clue what to do with him. The art concepts were all over the place - from mages to crows to... well, even weirder. No matter how hard I tried to explain the idea, the artists simply didn't seem to get it Does this mean he was a bad character? Not exactly. Just an idea that probably deserved some re-examining. You can tell when an idea has a certain spark, and part of that is being easy to communicate. Sadly, there wasn't time for any re-examining even if it'd occurred to me. And it didn't, not yet. If it had, if I had time, maybe I'd have re-booted him as a templar. Someone pro-templar rather than anti-mage, who could give a personal hook into Meredith and give the templars some badly-needed humanity. But this falls into the shoulda-woulda-coulda category. I had a follower to write. Quickly. I struggled, at first. It was hard to get away from "Fenris hates everything, all the time". It felt very one-note, and I didn't know where to take him. My third clue, I guess. I also wasn't sure if I was the right person to write a former slave. I did know that couldn't be the center of his story. I did know trauma, however. How it can eat you up. How the hate and resentment is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies. How it can infect your relationships. Fenris's trauma isn't my trauma, obviously, but here I dipped into a more personal part of myself than I'd ever done before."

"It gave me the center of his story I was missing, but wow was it uncomfortable. In a good way, maybe. I likely wouldn't have, if I hadn't been so desperate. In a way, I think DA2 had some of our best writing *because* of the timeline. It was raw, with little time to sand down the interesting parts. I wouldn't have done the "Fenris doesn't talk to you for three years" thing if I'd known we were going to cut all the reactivity initially planned for the time jumps. When that call was made, I campaigned to cut the jumps to a year, but there was no time for the revisions it'd need. So, um. Awkward. I used to get asked where the name came from, and I... don't remember? Obviously it's derived from Fenrir, but I don't recall why we picked that. Someone pointed at Fenris the Feared from Joe Abercrombie's books... and I did read them, so maybe the name lodged in my head? Wouldn't be the first time. Casting Fenris turned out to be easy. He was the first time I requested a specific VA and got him. (The other times were Merrill and then Solas, my two "I want these specific Welsh actors, please".) Why? OK, if you must know, I'd played a bit of Final Fantasy XII. I heard Balthier. "Yes, that." 😅 And Gideon Emery was a delight, as it turned out. Consummate professional, and that lovely gravel in his voice... good god. Bite the knuckles. There was a struggle to find the voice at the outset where I did my best not to say "just pls do Balthier" but he found Fenris on his own and it was amazing. Overall, Fenris turned out better than he had any right to, considering the rocky start. He had a lot of soul, a vulnerability forged by pain that struck a chord with a lot of players, and I'm glad. Do I regret anything? Probably having him live in a corpse-filled mansion that would never update. That's a hindsight thing, though, as again the cut to reactivity over the time jumps came late. Outside of that, maybe letting the player give him back to Danarius? Poor shock value and a waste of resources because almost nobody took the option. Good evil options are ones that are tempting to take. And the lyrium tattoos. Interesting concept, but they're probably why you'll never see Fenris in a future DA. He requires a custom body, and the tattoos make that expensive. It's why I put Fenris in my 4th DA novel - the cancelled one. Don't fret, though. He died in it, so this way he lives on. 😉"

[source thread]

User: "Wait wait how does he die in [the cancelled novel]??" David Gaider: "Gloriously, after taking up a cause he didn't believe in at first but then made his own, one that allowed him to rediscover what it meant to be elven." [source] David Gaider: "I’m not sorry about the novel cancellation. I’m the one who cancelled it. I am kinda sad we couldn’t make it work, though. Considering it was after I left the DA team, it would have been my final DA hurrah." [source] David Gaider: "From my perspective, it was kind of "well if you're never going to use him again, let me at least give him a proper send off" and the story required a glorious death... but I get that's not the story his biggest fans would want (which is Hawke + Fenris 4ever), so it's just as well." [source]

User: "You all did some incredible work with such a tight deadline" David Gaider: "I'm of the opinion that even if we'd had only another six months to bake, DA2 would be remembered as a classic and not either a flawed gem or underbaked sequel, depending on who you ask." [source]

[ariavar]

Alternate universe Dune where Paul Atreides is born female but since the Bene Gesserit can't have nice things, their designated Virgin Mary still ends up declaring herself the false messiah/emperor, starts the jihad, and gets the most toxic yuri story ever with Chani.

[uchinagai]

Your endless love - ningning

➢Synopsis: once, teenage sweethearts, y/n and ningning, now meet each other as full-grown adults, expect, one life had to take a different, much harder patch. will they reunite? Or did ningning only return for a different reason?

➢Pairing : CEO!ningning x artist!y/n

➢Genre: angst, fluff but maybe only past... slightly suggestive almost there but a man has to interrupt, I really wanna point out it's angst! but gets better ...?? maybe

➢warnings: heavy topics, such as - suicide, death, arranged marriage or self-hatred, miscommunications, blackmailing, suggestive/smut, mention of a corpse but not g0re, mention of murder/possible murderer, 18+.

➢wk: 5.1k+

➢note: well... kind of inspired by my childhood Turkish drama I forgot the name of but till this day remember the heartbreak my 10-year-old ass went thru. I think that's all I have to say, hope you guys will enjoy it. :3 I'm not the best writer, I do this only for MY pure entertainment. not proofread. will there be pt.2? maybeee...

You lost five years of your life to keep your younger brother free, to save him from going to jail after he accidentally took the life of a woman. Given the choice between covering up his crime and your own freedom, you chose him. You loved your brother dearly, but the cost was far greater than you ever imagined.

They married you off to a man you could hardly stand—a man who seemed obsessed with you, and not in a way that felt like love. Yet, he called himself your husband and flaunted you like a prize that made you disgusted each day that passed. Five years had passed with the weight of that ring around your finger that was more of a rope, tightening taking away air from you.

But now, staring at your brother's pale body lying on the hospital bed, you felt a hollowness eating at your insides. Is this what you meant to waste your five years to?

Your fingers trembled as they traced over the red scar on his neck, feeling your own throat tighten as though a rope was there, suffocating you, too.

He looked ghostly, eyes closed, lips an unnatural shade of blue. You gripped his limp hand, sobbing and begging him to get up. It was all for nothing; your life was ripped apart, sacrificed to save him, only for him to take his own life out of guilt. In his last words, he admitted as much. A note lay beside him, neat and careful, explaining everything. He couldn’t bear the weight of watching you wither under the demands of a loveless marriage, sacrificed to protect him. He couldn’t stand hearing you cry through closed doors as he walked by with food for you, feeling helpless to fix what he had caused. And he couldn’t stand to see your parents throw you away, to a man who saw you only as something to possess. And it mostly saddened him knowing you were only capable of loving a person you met on a bus.

You were just 19, running to a bus you were going to miss at any second. The door closed right into your face as you banged on the door, begging the driver to open it. He did, thankfully. You thanked him as you tried to catch your breath.

‘That was a hard run’ you thought.

You looked around for a seat, but there was none.

‘Great. Just my luck.’

You tried to take a breath as you clutched onto the pole next to you. You set your canvas to a safe place and look around the bus, trying to spot the next muse of your art.

There you lock eyes with a girl. A beautiful one, looking right at you, with slight interest written on her face.

‘Woah she’s pretty’ you thought.

The girl stared back at you, not breaking eye contact. Her blonde hair fell in sleek, straight as it could be, as sunlight hit her eyes from the window. The light color framed her features in a way that made her look effortlessly striking. Her eyes held an intense, yet steady gaze, focused onto you, like you’re the only one in this crowded bus.

Your eyes roamed around, taking in her appearance.

Her lips painted a rich, dark red, stood out beautifully against her fair skin. God, she was pale—not sickly pale, but pale to the point that it was beautiful and reflected light off of her body.

She wore a simple outfit, a denim cropped jacket, with a black tube top perfectly sitting around her body. Her jeans matched her denim jacket.

As you stared, you felt an unfamiliar turn to the left as you broke eye contact that felt like it lasted ages. You looked out the window and realized that the bus you got on was not the one you thought it was, so here you were—going off in the wrong direction.

All you could do was panic and turn to the driver, asking when the nearest stop was. He reassured you it was soon, but you were already late.

It did not take a while to get to the stop, as you rushed off the bus.

But fuck! The canvas!

You turn, seeing the bus already off.

‘What a horrible day to be alive’

You mentally cursed at yourself as you were about to break down till an unfamiliar voice, filled with a sweet tone to it, broke you out of your thoughts.

You open your eyes that you closed due to stress hitting your nerves to be met with the same beautiful face, looking at you with a smile.

“I think you forgot this,” says the stranger as she reaches out your canvas.

‘What a great day to be alive’ you changed your thoughts in a second.

“Oh my god! Thank you so much!!” you say as you grab it and hug the canvas.

The girl giggles at the sight as you sigh.

“I can’t explain how grateful I am”

“It's not a problem, really”

“It should be! You had to get off of your ride to bring this for me”

“Oh yeah…” she says as you both chuckle at her lack of thinking.

“Well, I wasn’t rushing anywhere, seems like you are tho, need help?”

‘Is she an angel sent from the heavens for me?’ you thought as you nodded at her request.

“I was trying to get to my house… but seems like I got on the wrong bus,” you say defeated.

“Where were you headed off to?”

“Cheong-dong..”

It felt like you were rubbing into her that you were from a wealthy family.

The blonde looked at you, slightly taken back but she covered it with a smile.

“And you were trying to take a bus… there?”

You nod.

“Well, I forgot my car keys…”

“Let’s get you there then”

She says as she grabs your wrist without thinking, dragging you along with her back where the bus made a turn.

“So what were you doing out here?”

“I was in my studio... Painting”

“Figured,” she says as she chuckles.

“Oh right, what’s your name… at least got to know what’s the name of a beauty that is about to kidnap me” you say as you both burst into laughing.

“Ningning, it's Ningning, and I'm not gonna kidnap you,” she says as she reassures you. “Yours?”

“y/n”

“Pretty name, just like your face.”

And that is pretty much how it all started. Was it too cheesy to say you both fell in love at first sight? Maybe. But god she had you whipped.

Every little thing she did made you feel butterflies all over. The way she looked at you, waited for you in front of your studio and surprised you with a bunch of balloons attached to your car. How she played music that she loved while doing her homework in your presence. It was a matter of time and you two were official.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from her. The way her blonde hair fell to her face, the way her nose would scrunch up when she couldn't get the answer right. It made you all fall for her, and she was just as much in love with you.

You would always sketch her at different times while working or writing music. She was beautiful every single time. You mostly loved sketching her while sleeping, that’s when she looked most relaxed and calm, without a care in the world. You were always at her place because you didn’t know how your parents would react to… someone from the lower class.

But it did not matter.

You were in love.

You decided it was a good idea to tell your mom about it since she was always supportive of your decisions in life - painting? She got you a whole studio and the best paints in the world. Music? She installed speakers in the studio to enjoy it. So you told her, and at first, she easily accepted you and supported you.

Till she wasn’t.

You remember it like yesterday, calming your little brother from what he had just done. You couldn't believe it either? Your brother, hurting someone? But before you could even process that, you were pulled by your parents into a security room.

There he was, again. With that smug of his that made you feel uneasy with everything.

He pressed space. And there was your brother, with a gun, laughing and giggling, pointed at the girl. He thought the gun girl brought along for ‘roleplay’ was just a toy till he fired.

He pauses the footage.

“I delete this footage and do not turn it to the police… on one condition”

“Whatever you want!” your mom pleaded.

Then he looked at you and it all clicked. He wanted you. Then you looked at your parents.

Your mom was looking at you full of hope but your dad… He seemed just as against the idea as you were.

“We will have to talk this out first,” Your dad says as your mom looks at him unpleased with his decision.

But there was no point.

Your life was already decided

Now here you stand, watching as they lower the casket as you can only think about Ningning.

Your ‘husband’s’ hand was holding u firm against him. Like he was holding u for support but it suffocated you even more.

You couldn’t even cry, you felt numb. All of those years for what? For him to kill himself because he felt guilty? Bullshit.

As the time passed after the death, you felt yourself grow angrier than sad and the only person to be able to shut it down was Ningning. You kept looking back to old pictures, missing her, her touch, scent, everything.

At some point, you would stalk her socials, and try to keep up with her till she completely vanished from all social media. Her account was up but her last post was when she left back for her home country - china, and that was years ago.

Was she still in China? Did she come back? Does she still live in the same house?

It was another day, staking her dead account which was too much for you because most of the pictures that were posted, were taken by you, so you just went on a night walk by Han River, after another argument with Kai He always found a way to drain you, was it either verbally, physically, or mentally.’

You put on your earphones as you enjoyed the specific scent the water had. It was pretty chilly, so you dressed up warmly, a puffer jacket with a black scarf around your neck, wore simple black baggy jeans, and went on the walk. It calmed you down for sure and music playing in your ears that distracted you from unwanted thoughts.

But you stop in your tracks.

As the music was about to switch and earphones went silent for a few seconds, you heard it.

Honey-dripped voice giggling. All too familiar.

You couldn’t have mistaken that. It was basically recorded in your brain.

You shut your music off in an instant as you start looking around, searching for the familiar blonde hair… but it is nowhere to be seen.

Were you just imagining it?

But there was no way… right?

And then you heard it again, you were not going crazy.

You tried to follow the sound only to be met by a black-haired haired turned away from you. What was going on?

Till you saw it.

That beautiful side profile of hers, her nose scrunched up in laughing.

She went black… you thought as you just stood there, looking but not moving an inch. She was with a bunch of three other girls that you paid no mind to. It was just her, standing in front of you to reach but being so unreachable. Everyone was out of the picture like the world had stopped where it was her voice filling it up.

God knows how long you stayed there, watching, but it definitely caught the other three's attention as they nudged the black haired whispering something to her as she turned her head right at you.

It was like a spark went through you as her smiley gaze landed on you, but it quickly died down as her face dropped.

‘She hates me’ you thought due to her facial expression dropping as you felt tears forming. You wanted to run, hide, and never show yourself but it was like you were stuck in a quicksand, unable to move from your spot.

She stared back right at you till she turned her head towards her friends. Saying something that made them all look at you and then back to her.

You wanted to reach out, call her, touch her, explain yourself, but the lump stuck in your throat made it all impossible.

“Ningning!!” you choked out as she was about to start walking away, making her pause in her tracks making her turn to you, standing what felt like kilometers away. You were at a loss for words… she changed, in a good way, but everything about her was different. The way dressed, the way she did her makeup… the way she looked at you.

The last one hurt the most. Her expression was almost unreadable but it was full of hurt and hatred, and you understood her more than anything. You had no idea what to say to her. You haven’t even planned out how to talk to her, thinking she was still in China.

“Can we talk?” you say after a decade

“What is there to talk about?” she says, almost mocking you. Her honey voice was completely replaced with venom. It hurt but you couldn’t blame the girl either.

But she moved against her words because the next thing you knew, she was walking towards you.

‘What the hell is going on right now?’

“What are you gonna say? I’m sorry I ghosted you? Or are you gonna tell me you’re married, because I already know that, everyone in South Korea knew about y/n l/ns marriage BUT me.”

God, it hurts so bad, you couldn’t respond to her. You just stood there while Ningning looked at you like she hated your guts. It made you feel like you were trapped, with the door right in front of you, but it was locked away.

“Answer me y/n!” She yells, demanding an answer from you, knowing you physically couldn’t utter a word. You choke on your sob as you start crying. All you could do was cry.

As she stood there her scent was right in front of you, all you wanted was to grab her into a hug bury your head into her, and never let her go.

For Ningning it almost felt like an instinct to reach out and cup your face, wipe your tears away, and tell you everything was fine when it wasn’t fine, but she would do anything to stop you from crying in front of her. It ate her from inside as she saw your hand reach up to your face, covering your tears away.

The ring.

It should’ve been her who you were married to, not some guy Kai that she knew very well was from a very well-off family.

“I never meant it to get this bad,” you say between sobs as you fall to your knees in the middle of the bridge.

Ningning instantly went down with you as she held your head.

“What do you mean y/n, for god's sake speak to me at least once. Tell me you don’t actually love me so I can let you go”

That was your biggest fear as you looked up at her and clutched onto her wrist “No! No, that's not true!” You yell, desperate for her as she looks at you. Her eyes slowly welled up with tears as she bit her lower lip.

“You’re making everything harder than it should be y/n…”

“I had to Ningning, I couldn’t pick…-” you say as the lump in your throat chokes you from saying anything else.

“What you couldn’t pick”

“My own future…”

Ningnings heart hurt. She didn’t know what you meant at all but one thing was clear to her - everything was against your own wishes. That was enough for her to grab you into a long overdue hug as she held you tight against her.

You melt into her arms as you wrap your arms around her neck, clutching onto her shirt as you sobbed into her. You two stayed this way for a long time till you finally calmed down and steadily started breathing, enjoying her arms around you.

It made you feel complete.

Like you were missing a part of you, and now that it’s back, you would give anything to keep it with you.

She took you to her new place—one that, to your surprise, was just a street away from your own house so near that you almost thought she got it on purpose to stalk you. You could step into the driveway and you were able to see your own house clearly.

‘Seems like she built herself up’ you thought as you stood out in the driveway, staring at your prison perfectly on display while having a blanket wrapped around you.

The younger girl stepped out with two cups of hot chocolate. As she reached one to you.

You guys left her friends behind as she drove you to hers, even though she knew where you lived. She wanted you to be with her only.

Only then you were gonna be able to tell her everything.

You grabbed the cup and held it with you.

“If you’re wondering, yes. I did buy the house to be close to you.”

You felt it coming. You knew it was her dream to live at least close to you, if not with you.

“It’s pretty”

“Yeah, it is.” She says as she slowly turns her head to you. “Care to tell me, properly?..”

“My brother is dead.” You said as you looked back at her. “He’s gone while I suffered for five years because of him.”

‘Suffered’ made Ningnings's ears perk up and feel uneasy.

“You know my… husband, kai. He threatened me that he would leak footage of my brother accidentally killing a woman. To stop him from doing so, I married him.”

“Y/n I’m so—“

“You didn’t know, nobody does, so don’t stress yourself” You smile at her as she sends you a weak smile back at you.

You take a sip from your drink as you turn your head back, now seeing movement in front of your house. It was Kai, slamming his car door and screaming at the staff.

“I couldn’t make sense why you would marry him when I saw him act like a spoiled male brat, but now it all makes sense,” she says as she giggles at his outburst as you crack a smile.

“He’s a boy, seriously. He might be leading his daddy’s company but it will go downhill with his outbursts in around 1-2 years.”

“Then another rival company down,” Ningning says as she turns back to her house and you instantly follow her in.

“CEO Ningning?” You question with a teasing smile as you lean against the kitchen island, next to her.

“Why? Does it turn you on?” She says as she leans on the counter, playing into your game.

“Maybe… you always looked… good working,” you say as you lean towards her now.

It was like something flipped in her as she grabbed your waist and trapped you between her and the counter.

“You’re playing with me, aren’t you”

You looked at her, like a prey trapped with a predator. God, you missed her, the way she touched you, or looked at you. You couldn’t even answer her as you wrapped your arms around her smashing your lips on her, which she responded to immediately.

Her hands went down to your waist, placing herself between your legs as your hands went to her hair, thuggin' at it which caused her to whine into your mouth.

You break the kiss as you look at her with hooded eyes, telling her everything just by looking at her. In an instant you switched positions as now, you were trapping her.

“Let me make up for all the times we missed..” you mumble against her lips as you lay wet kisses from her jaw down to her neck.

The girl was sensitive and you were kissing all of her right spots so all she could do was whine and clutch onto the counter behind her.

Ningning was very impatient with you because it seemed like you were taking an awfully long time with her, so what could a girl do?

She positioned herself on your thigh before so now all she could do was grind against it, searching for some friction, but to no avail. You held her hips down, not letting her chase her desired feeling.

“Getting slightly impatient now are we?” You tease her as she looks at you with her.

At that, you both froze at an incoming doorbell, from the entrance of the driveway, which was guarded with a getaway. It causes both of you to groan as she looks at the security camera installed:

It was your husband, looking as if he's composed and calm but you can read him like an open book: a hint of anger in his left eye, a slight dent in his cheek on his right, which means he is biting on that side, clenched jaw and car in the background messily parked by him. He was mad, for whatever reason.

But how did he know you were even here? And what was he even doing here, in front of Ningning's house?

What confused you even more was, why was Ningning seemingly all okay with it?!. It was like she was expecting him so she opened the gate for him as he walked up the driveway, taken aback by seeing you from the ceiling-tall window.

“Mr. Kai,” she says as she greets him offering her hand to shake, but there is no point in it, he is staring dead at you, not even glancing at Ningning waiting for a handshake. She takes her hand back and chuckles seeing the staring battle between the two. You were staring at him, without any emotion showing, scared that he might suspect something between the two of you.

“We are childhood friends, Mr. Kai, no hard feelings”

“Oh are you guys now?” he says as he turns his head, eyes still on you, but then he looks at Ningning and sends her the psychotic smile that made your skin crawl every time you saw it. You knew he was mad and in an attempt to calm him down, you took a step towards him grabbed his upper arm, and looked at him. The touch was gentle, and that did not go unnoticed by Ningning. Now she was the one clenching her jaw as she looked away.

“Kai don’t cause a scene, she's my friend, we were catching up,” you whisper as he looks down at you. He glares at you but looks up masking it perfectly.

“And here I was, wondering where my wife went,” he says and giggles which Ningning can only manage to send him a fake smile.

‘My wife’ coming from his mouth made Ningning livid. She should be the one saying it. She should be the one you wake up next to but here she was, in front of him.

“We have to go back,” you say as you turn to Ningning “ We are having lunch, right?” you say to him as he nods and grabs your wrist.

“We will talk another time, Ning Yi Zhuo” It was probably your first time hearing her actual name from someone other than her or her parents. But the question was… why would Kai and Ningning even speak about and how did they know each other?

It didn’t take two weeks for you to figure out why would they speak - they’re basically rivals in their job.

Both your husband and Ningning were law firm CEOs and the rivalry between the companies was pretty much known to mankind. So here they were, standing, a drink between their finger at a dinner party, hosted by someone you did not care slightly about.

But what you DID care about, was that the invited person had a chance to bring a plus one. You, as Kai’s wife, were his plus one. But who was Ningning’s plus one? She would never go alone to these kinds of parties, so you hawked around the big room full of people, trying to spot someone you had no idea about.

Till your eyes landed on a familiar one from the day on the bridge with Ningning. The girl had pink hair - very unusual for this kind of dinner, so she stuck out like a sore thumb. You trailed her movements before she approached Ningning, making you clench your jaw.

The way she leaned in, whispered into her ear, backed away, looked at ningning, everything, made your blood boil, why the hell were they so close? But then again, you shouldn’t be the jealous one, you were the reason for the breakup, after all.

You looked away, not wanting to anger yourself with the scenery unfolding right in front of you, that you had no control of. It made you feel uneasy and uncomfortable.

And to top it all, Kai walked over. ‘Great’ you thought, as you mentally got ready to brush off his arm around your shoulder, a move you mastered he loved. But before you could do that, he leaned down to your ear, whispering:

‘Ning yi zhuo is approaching, act like a loving wife, for once, goddamit’

All this caught you off guard, and you looked straight ahead, seeing he wasn’t lying. Ningning was slowly making her way over you two, arms hooked with a pink-haired stranger, as you decided to use this moment.

Be lovely-dovey with your ‘perfect husband’.

So you put your arm up to your shoulder, Kai expecting you to brush him off, even after he asked but instead, you held his hand, as you looked up to him with a reassuring smile, that completely caught him off guard and softened up with his touch around you.

As that happened right in front of Ningning, she wanted to break a glass on his head that he was holding. But what confused her more was, why were you smiling back at him? Didn’t you hate him? Did you just lie to her?

She approaches you two as she reaches out her hand to shake Kai as she looks at him, trying to maintain her composure, that you saw right thru of. ‘It was working as you turned your head towards the couple in front of you two. You send them a small smile as a greeting and watch the two of them shake hands.

“Mr. Kai, so nice to see you,” she says with a smile, you noticed how the left side of her cheek slightly shivered which was obvious she was not having any of the things that were unfolding in front of her.

“Same goes for you, Yizhuo,” he says as he smiles, which you knew was genuine, probably due to you letting him hold your hand. He shifts his gaze onto the pink-haired girl. “Who is this girl? First time seeing someone with hair like… that. Here” he paused, wanting to point out it was not normal to have hair color as bright to a place as honorable and noble as this dinner.

“This is Aeri, my friend,” She says, annoyance visible in her tone. “I think we should go somewhere private, No?” she suggests as you notice the change of posture and stiffness of your husband around you.

Was he always like this?

You didn’t know, you never let him close enough to feel his emotions thru touch.

He slid off hand from your shoulder as he grabbed both of them and turned you towards him, gently as he layed kiss on your forehead, whispering ‘don’t go too far’ as you nodded and smiled up to him. 

What were you even doing?

You watched to walk away, as you let out a breath you did not know were holding in as you turned to the aeri girl, sending her a smile as you excuse yourself but you stop when you hear someone call out your name.

You turned realizing it’s Aeri.

“y/n!”

“Yes?” you say as you smile at her, to be polite.

“Be careful.”

“What?”

“I said, be careful”

“Okay? Thank you?” you say confused as you turn on your heel and walk away, replying her words over and over. You walked mindlessly as you arrived to womens restroom and by the corner you hear muffled sounds, what seemed like two persons talking, but they sounded angry at one another. You didn’t wanna be involved but it was right near the bathroom so you walked over, clearly hearing the conversation.

The low whisper-yelling made it obvious to you, who was one of them.

Ningning.

But who was she arguing with???

“Yizhuo stay out of my fucking business!” another whisper yell, but louder.

Kai.

What the hell is going on?

“Your little precious ‘wife’ needs to know the asshole and murder you are, kai.”

Murderer.

It rang in your head, the same feeling of air slowly being taken from you came back, just like when you heard about your brothers passing, but before you process all of that you hear him bite back.

“And you need to stop messing with her head. You only came back to get revenge on me, leave her alone, we both know you don’t care about her, Yizhuo!”

Things just kept getting worse.

She only came back for… revenge? That’s what you only were to her?? A plaything for her to get revenge on your, alleged murderer husband??

What was going on, you had no idea but need to get away was huge so you ran.

You ran out, crying, causing everyone to look at your running figure, confused and taken aback. 

You ran till you own legs couldn’t support you.

You fell on the street sidewalk, staring at your own hands, hands that held his in your own.

hands that touched Ningning.

‘She was just using me’ is all you could think and repeat over and over.

Till your own mind shuts off on you.

finished.

god, this has been in my drafts for a while, heh..

[evolucious]

Midnight Brew : Zayne x Reader

For a moment, you both stood frozen, caught in each other’s eyes. A surge of panic gripped you, and you wondered if he would find your silent observation intrusive. 

But then, almost inperceptibly, he smiled.

pairing : zayne x reader (no gender specific terms are used to describe the reader)

prompt : our apartments are opposite each other and your kitchen window faces my kitchen window, so we always see each other making coffee at 3am. (aka, you and zayne sneak glances at each other before you decide to do something about it)

genre : sfw, fluff, slice of life, zayne please get some sleep

word count : 1,050

a/n : heyo, i've dusted off my tumblr skills to dive headfirst into another hyperfixation. this is just a one shot i couldn't get out of my brain so i slapped my keyboard and here we are. I'll probaby post more but feel free to dm or request any prompts/pairing!

It was another sleepless night, and the quiet hum of the city was the only sound breaking the stillness. With slow deliberate movements, you wrap yourself in your robe, the soft fabric offering protection against the predawn chill. You found yourself once again in the kitchen, guided more by muscle memory than conscious thought. The soft glow of the streetlights filtered through the window, casting a gentle light over your counter as you began the familiar ritual of making coffee.

As the coffee brewed, you leaned against the counter and looked out the window. The city never truly slept, but it had moments of stillness, especially at 3 am. You had always found solace in these quiet hours, the world outside muted and calm. The soft hum of distant traffic, the occasional bark of a dog, and the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind created a soothing backdrop to your nightly ritual.

The building opposite yours had always been a source of idle curiosity. You often glanced at the darkened windows, imagining the lives inside. One window was illuminated, the soft light spilling out and creating a beacon in the night. There, just as he had been for the past few nights, stood your neighbor, a man with dark, tousled hair and a pensive expression, moving with a quiet grace as he prepared his own cup of coffee. You watched him for a moment, intrigued by the way he seemed so absorbed in his thoughts. There was something almost mesmerizing about the scene, and you found yourself drawn to it night after night. It had become a silent companionship, a shared moment of solitude.

The first time you had noticed him, it had been purely accidental. A restless night had driven you to the kitchen for yet another cup of coffee, and as you gazed out the window, your eyes had landed on the man in the opposite building. He had been so engrossed in his own routine that he hadn’t noticed you, and you had quickly looked away, feeling a bit like an intruder. But over the next few nights, your curiosity got the better of you, and you began to look for him. 

You found yourself wondering about his life. Why was he awake at such an ungodly hour? Did he suffer from insomnia like you, or was there something else that kept him up? Maybe he worked odd hours, or perhaps he was an artist or a writer, finding inspiration in the silence of the night. Your imagination ran wild with possibilities, each one more intriguing than the last. He became a character in your own personal narrative, a small comfort in the vast loneliness of the night. 

Each night, as your late-night coffee ritual continued, you would glance out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man across the way. He was always there, his presence a comforting constant in the silent hours. You began to notice little details about him—the way he ran his hand through his hair when he was deep in thought, the soft smile that played on his lips as he read something amusing.

One night, as you prepared your coffee, you felt the familiar pull to look out the window. To your surprise, the man was already there, his gaze meeting yours. For a moment, you both stood frozen, caught in each other’s eyes. A surge of panic gripped you, and you wondered if he would find your silent observation intrusive. 

But then, almost imperceptibly, he smiled.

It was a small smile, but it warmed you more than the coffee in your hands. You returned the gesture, feeling a strange connection form between you in that silent exchange. From that night on, the smiles became a regular part of your routine, a wordless greeting that made the lonely hours feel less empty.

Despite the comfort these nightly interactions brought, your mind was constantly buzzing with thoughts and questions. Who was this man? What was his story? And most importantly, why did it matter so much to you? You found yourself thinking about him during the day, wondering if he thought about you too. It was strange to feel such a strong connection to someone you had never spoken to, yet the bond felt real and significant.

But tonight, as you prepared your coffee, you decided to take a chance. You rummaged through a drawer until you found a piece of paper and a marker. Your heart pounded in your chest as you scribbled a quick message:

"Couldn't sleep either? - Y/N"

Taking a deep breath, you held the note up to the window, praying that the streetlights would provide enough illumination for him to read it. For a moment, there was no response, and you felt a pang of doubt. Had you been too forward? But then, he stepped closer, squinting to read your message. A slow smile spread across his face, and he nodded before disappearing from view. When he returned, he held up his own note:

"Work keeps me up. Wanna share a cup? - Zayne"

Your heart skipped a beat. Zayne. Finally, you had a name to go with the face. You quickly wrote back:

"Meet downstairs?"

Zayne raised his mug with a nod and a smile, and you felt a flutter of excitement as you grabbed your mug and slipped on some shoes. You made your way down to the entrance of your building, your mind racing with possibilities. When you stepped outside, he was already there, leaning casually against the wall with his mug in hand. The cool night air washed over you, carrying with it a sense of anticipation and hope. He looked up as you approached, his smile warm and inviting.

"Hi," you said, feeling a bit shy now that you were face-to-face.

"Hi," he replied, his voice as smooth and soothing as you had imagined. "I suppose our midnight coffee rituals have finally converged."

You laughed softly, feeling the tension melt away. "It seems so. I hope you don't mind me intruding on your solitude."

"Not at all," he assured you, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "In fact, I was hoping we'd have a chance to talk. It's not every day you find someone who shares your unusual habits."

{pls dont repost i beg}

[theonottsbxtch]

FREE NOW | OP81

an: coming in to drop in my usual dose of pain! sorry guys! also i know london doesn't snow much i live there okay - for fictional purposes it snows like canada okay

wc: 4.6k

She had always imagined London as a city brimming with stories—something in the fog, in the way strangers passed each other without a glance, as though every life was a thread winding off into its own tangled skein. But sitting at the tiny table in the corner of a café just off Piccadilly, all she felt was an ache of silence. It settled into her bones, heavy and dull, refusing to leave as she stared down at the empty page of her notebook.

It wasn’t just that she was struggling to write; she’d had writer’s block before, countless times. This felt different, like an emptiness she couldn’t quite explain, as if she were looking for something and wasn’t sure she’d ever find it.

Outside, holiday lights twinkled from shop windows, the buzz of Christmas infecting the streets with a forced cheer that only made her feel more isolated. Her family, well… they hadn’t protested when she’d told them she’d be spending Christmas alone this year, though her mother’s voice had held a thin strain of relief, the same quiet resignation that crept into their few conversations. This was better, she told herself. No pretence of trying to belong.

A little bell jingled as the café door opened, sending a swirl of cold air and a few snowflakes across the room. She lifted her gaze, feeling the dullness lift, just slightly, as she watched the strangers filter in and take their places—shaking off scarves, brushing snow from their shoulders. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, exactly. A spark of inspiration, maybe. The start of a story that she could somehow pull from thin air.

Then she noticed him. He had slipped into the seat next to hers, a coffee between his hands as he stared out the window with an intense, almost brooding focus. She studied him, wondering if he was waiting for someone. The sharp angles of his profile, the tension in his shoulders, the way he held his coffee like it was anchoring him to something unseen. There was something almost familiar about it, that quiet ache that seemed to ripple off him.

She barely realised she’d spoken aloud until she heard her own voice break the silence between them.

“You do that too?”

He turned, startled, his gaze flickering to hers with a hint of surprise. “Do what?”

“People watch,” she said, feeling a faint, unexpected smile tug at her lips.

His face softened, just a little, and for a moment, she thought he might smile too. “I guess I do.”

The silence between them held, soft but charged, like the last still moment before a storm. She was suddenly aware of the faint smell of coffee in the air, of the warmth of the café and the cold press of London just outside. She couldn’t quite look away.

For the next week, they fell into a rhythm neither of them acknowledged aloud. Each morning, she would arrive at the café, order her coffee, and take her usual seat by the window. And almost without fail, he would appear shortly after, his movements precise and unhurried, as if the same quiet pull guided him there.

At first, she thought it was coincidence. London was vast, but habits could form anywhere, and the café had a kind of intimacy that made it easy to return to. But after the third day, she began to wonder.

They didn’t speak, not really. Sometimes, their eyes would meet briefly, a flicker of recognition that neither of them followed up on. She tried not to think too much about him, but he was impossible to ignore, sitting so near, his focus as sharp as it was restless. He scribbled occasionally in a leather notebook, his jaw tight, his gaze flicking to the window as if seeking answers he wasn’t finding.

She imagined he was an artist, or maybe a journalist. Someone chasing a story just as elusive as her own. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

It was on the eighth day that he finally broke the silence.

“You’ve been stuck all week, haven’t you?”

She looked up, startled, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the café. He was watching her now, his gaze steady and warm but laced with something sharper—curiosity, perhaps.

“I—what?” she asked, her cheeks warming.

His lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Your notebook. You keep opening it, but you haven’t written anything.”

She hesitated, her instinct to deflect faltering under the weight of his gaze. There was no judgement there, just an odd kind of understanding that made her feel more exposed than she liked.

“I’m stuck,” she admitted finally, closing the notebook as if to prove her point. “Completely and hopelessly stuck.”

“What are you writing?”

Her fingers tightened on the cover. She wasn’t sure why she answered him. Maybe it was the way he asked, so simply, like the answer mattered. “A romance novel.”

He raised an eyebrow, and for a moment she thought he might laugh. But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, considering her with a thoughtful expression. “Romance, huh? No wonder you’re struggling.”

“Excuse me?” she said, a faint edge creeping into her voice.

“You’re not going to get much inspiration sitting in a coffee shop,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again. Because he was right. The truth of it gnawed at her, even as she bristled.

“I’m only visiting London,” she said instead, as if that explained everything.

“Even better.”

She blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

He leaned forward then, his gaze pinning hers. “I’ll take you,” he said, as though it were already decided.

“Take me where?”

“Pack your things,” he said, standing abruptly and shrugging into his coat.

She blinked up at him, startled. “What?”

“You’ve been sitting here for a week, and it’s obviously not working,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Come on. We’re going to Hyde Park.”

Her instinct was to refuse, to laugh it off and tell him she didn’t have time for distractions. But something about the way he said it—firm, certain, like it wasn’t a question—made her pause.

She hesitated. “It’s snowing.”

“That’s the point.” He glanced at her notebook. “Unless you’d rather keep staring at blank pages?”

That stung, but he wasn’t wrong. With a sigh, she slid her notebook into her bag, slung her coat over her shoulders, and followed him out of the café.

The snow fell softly, brushing against her cheeks and clinging to her hair as they walked to the nearest tube station. She didn’t bother to ask where they were going—he’d already told her, and besides, she had the strange sense that she could trust him, at least for now.

The tube was chaos. She clutched the cold metal pole for balance, acutely aware of the press of strangers around her. He stood just ahead of her, perfectly at ease, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other resting casually on a strap above his head.

“This is…” She searched for the word.

“Overwhelming?” he offered, glancing back at her.

“Beautiful,” she said, surprising herself. The movement, the noise, the life—it was nothing like home, where everything felt static and predictable.

He smiled, just slightly, and she wondered if he’d expected her to say something else.

When they finally emerged from the station, Hyde Park lay spread out before them, its open paths blanketed in fresh snow. The lamplight made the flakes glisten, casting an almost magical glow over the scene. Families bundled in scarves and hats wandered by, their laughter carrying through the cold air. A few children darted across the snow, throwing snowballs and leaving behind trails of footprints.

She inhaled deeply, letting the crisp air fill her lungs. “This is perfect.”

“Told you,” he said, his voice low and teasing.

They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds the crunch of snow underfoot and the distant hum of the city. She found herself glancing at him more than once, studying the curve of his profile, the way his gaze seemed to take in everything and nothing all at once.

Finally, she broke the silence. “You’re not from here.”

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “What gave it away?”

“The accent,” she said with a small smile. “Australia?”

“Yeah.”

“So why aren’t you home for Christmas?”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking away toward the trees. “Work,” he said simply.

There was a weight to the word that she didn’t miss, but she didn’t press. Instead, she nodded. “Same.”

“Work?”

“I have a deadline,” she said. “And, honestly, I don’t really enjoy spending Christmas at home.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged, stuffing her hands deeper into her pockets. “It’s complicated.”

“Fair enough.” He didn’t push, and she was grateful for it.

They continued to talk as they reached one of the gates, she found out his name was Oscar and that he was the eldest of four - all sisters. That he liked London at Christmas but nothing felt better than summer at home.

She didn’t know much about him, but the parts she knew she liked.She turned to face him, her breath visible in the cold air.

“Here,” he said, pulling out his phone and holding it toward her. “Give me your number.”

She hesitated, then took it and typed in her name—just her first name—and her number before handing it back.

He smiled, sliding the phone into his coat. “I’ll message you. Same time tomorrow?”

“What for?”

“We’ll go somewhere else,” he said. “More people to watch.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “All right. Tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said, turning toward the street. “And hey—bring that notebook.”

He walked away then, disappearing into the glow of a nearby lamppost. She stood there for a moment longer, the snow falling lightly around her, before turning back toward the tube station.

When she got back to her hotel room, she barely remembered slipping out of her coat and scarf before reaching for her notebook. The page that had stayed blank for days now stared back at her, expectant, but the words finally came.

She wrote about Hyde Park, about the snow dusting the trees like powdered sugar, the children’s laughter mingling with the crisp air. She described the quiet magic of it, the feeling of walking beside someone who wasn’t a stranger but wasn’t yet familiar, either. She wrote about the way the city moved even in the stillness, as though it never quite paused to catch its breath.

By the time she put her pen down, the clock on the bedside table read past midnight, and her eyelids felt heavy. She was just about to turn off the bedside lamp when her phone buzzed.

Tomorrow. Same café. Tower Bridge.

She stared at the message for a moment, then smiled faintly, typing a quick reply.

Okay.

The next morning, she found him waiting at their usual café, his coffee already in hand. This time, he didn’t waste any words. With a nod toward the door, he led her out into the bright winter morning.

The tube ride to Tower Bridge was quieter this time, the rush of the city somehow softened by the lingering snow. She leaned against the cool glass of the window, watching the stations blur past, while he sat across from her, his eyes distant as if he were lost in thought.

When they finally emerged onto the bridge, the view stole her breath. The Thames stretched wide and glittering beneath them, the snow-covered rooftops of the city rising on either side. A faint breeze cut through the air, carrying with it the murmur of distant traffic and the occasional laugh of a passerby.

“Over here,” he said, gesturing to a bench overlooking the water.

They sat in easy silence, the cold biting at her cheeks as they watched the world unfold around them. Runners passed by, their breath visible in the air as their footsteps echoed on the pavement. Families ambled by, parents clutching the hands of toddlers bundled in bright coats, their faces red with the cold.

And then there were the couples—leaning close, sharing whispers and stolen kisses, moving through the snow-dusted streets as though nothing else existed.

She watched them longer than she meant to, a soft ache unfurling in her chest. She hadn’t thought about romance in a long time—not for herself, anyway. Writing about it was one thing, imagining love in all its sweeping, cinematic glory. But watching it here, in all its small, quiet moments, made her realise how far removed she felt from it.

“Good spot for people watching,” he said, breaking the silence.

She turned to him, surprised to find him watching her instead of the crowd. He had an easy, unreadable expression, but there was something in his eyes—curiosity, maybe, or understanding—that made her feel unsteady.

“It is,” she said softly, turning her gaze back to the bridge.

The bench shifted slightly as he leaned closer, and then she felt it—his arm, warm and solid, draping lightly over the back of the bench behind her. It wasn’t much, barely brushing her shoulders, but the warmth of it cut through the cold in a way she hadn’t expected.

For a moment, she let herself lean into it, just slightly, just enough to feel the quiet comfort of not being alone.

Her mind wandered as they sat there, the sound of the river mingling with the soft murmur of passersby. She could already feel the words taking shape, the scenes unfolding in her head—the way the light hit the water, the way couples moved through the world as if it were made just for them.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, the way his face softened as he watched the world move past. He didn’t say much, but she could feel the weight of his presence beside her, steady and grounding.

When she got back to her hotel later, she knew exactly what she’d write.

The days passed like pages of a book, each one filled with something unexpected. He didn’t ask her what she was doing tomorrow anymore—he simply texted her a time and a place, and she showed up. Each morning, they met at the café, where he’d already have his coffee, and then he’d whisk her away to some new corner of London.

On Tuesday, it was Covent Garden, where they wandered through the open market, listening to street musicians and watching shoppers bustle through the stalls. She watched a couple holding hands over steaming cups of mulled wine, their laughter bright against the cold air, and she jotted down notes in her notebook while he stood quietly beside her.

On Wednesday, they sat on a bench by the Serpentine in Hyde Park again, the water still and glassy beneath the pale winter sun. A group of friends threw breadcrumbs to a flock of ducks, their voices echoing over the water. She found herself leaning closer to him on the bench, the quiet between them no longer feeling like something to fill but something to savour.

Thursday brought them to Borough Market, where the air smelled of fresh bread and spiced cider. They stood in the crowd watching a vendor slice thick slabs of cheese for a customer, the chaos of the market swirling around them. “You see that guy over there?” he said, nodding toward a man balancing two grocery bags and a loaf of bread under his arm. “Think he’s a chef or just a guy with too many dinner parties?”

She laughed softly. “Dinner parties, definitely. He’s probably terrible at cooking, but his friends pretend it’s amazing.”

“I like that. You could use it in your book.”

“Maybe I will.”

By Friday, she stopped questioning his plans altogether. They spent the afternoon at Camden Lock, perched by the canal watching boats drift lazily by. They didn’t talk much, but when he rested his arm on the back of her chair, she didn’t move away. That night, when she returned to her hotel, she stayed up writing, the words pouring out of her with a kind of ease she hadn’t felt in months.

Saturday was Notting Hill, the pastel houses dusted with snow and the streets quiet in the early morning. They wandered down Portobello Road, pausing to watch a young family decorating their front stoop with twinkling lights.

“They’ll probably take them down on January first,” she murmured, watching the father lift his son onto his shoulders.

“Maybe not,” he said. “Some people like to hang onto things.”

She glanced at him, but he didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask.

By Sunday, the last day of the year, she realised how much these days had begun to mean to her. She woke up early, unable to sleep, and spent the morning writing, her pen racing across the pages. The world he’d shown her—the quiet moments, the people moving through the city in their own small orbits—was spilling onto the page in ways she hadn’t expected.

That evening, as the city prepared for New Year’s Eve, he texted her again. Meet me at the café. Tonight’s special.

She arrived to find him waiting outside, his breath visible in the cold air. He smiled when he saw her, and the warmth of it chased away the chill that had settled in her chest.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

They walked through the snow-dusted streets, the city alive with anticipation. Everywhere, people were gathering—couples arm in arm, friends laughing as they hurried to pubs and parties. The air was electric, charged with the anticipation of midnight, and she could feel it humming in her chest as they moved.

She glanced at her phone, the time glowing against the dark: 11:58 PM. Two minutes until the new year.

She stopped walking, her breath curling in front of her as she turned to look at him. He slowed, taking a step back toward her. “What is it?”

She didn’t answer right away, her heart beating a little too fast as her mind raced. For once, she didn’t want to overthink it. She was tired of going into every new year feeling like she’d missed out, of letting the weight of her family and her avoidance of Christmas follow her into January.

She wanted something to hold onto—a moment, a memory.

Her gaze flicked to his, steady and curious, and then she spoke before she could lose her nerve. “Can I kiss you?”

His brows lifted slightly, his surprise clear, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he searched her face, as if trying to make sense of her sudden shift.

“Kiss me?”

“It’s New Year’s,” she said softly, her voice almost lost in the cold air between them. “And I just… I don’t want to go into next year with the same old memories. I want—just one moment, something good. Something to hold onto.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, and she felt her stomach twist, already preparing for rejection. But then he stepped closer, his breath warm against the chill of the night.

“Okay,” he said, so quietly she barely heard it.

The first firework exploded above them, a cascade of silver light that lit up the snow-dusted bridge. And then his hand came up, brushing gently against her cheek, and he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft, wasn’t hesitant. It was consuming, like the city itself had folded inward around them, leaving nothing but the warmth of his mouth on hers and the distant thunder of fireworks. Her hands found the front of his coat, gripping it as though letting go might undo the spell of the moment.

When he pulled back, her heart was racing, her breath unsteady. For a brief, dazzling moment, she thought this might actually be the start of something. But then his expression shifted, and she knew.

“I can’t,” he said quietly, stepping back just enough to let the cold air rush between them again.

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

He exhaled, his hand sliding through his hair as his gaze dropped to the ground. “I can’t give you anything. This—us—it wouldn’t work.”

Her stomach sank. “Why not?”

He hesitated, and for a moment, she thought he might just walk away. But then he looked up, his expression conflicted. “I’m a Formula One driver,” he said, the words falling heavily between them.

She blinked, trying to piece together the sudden shift. “A…what?”

“Formula One,” he repeated, quieter this time. “I’m never in one place for long. My life is—it’s chaotic. It’s not fair to ask anyone to try to keep up with it.”

She stared at him, her mind scrambling to catch up. “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said, his voice tight. “Not at first. You’re only here for a while, right? This was supposed to be…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“A distraction,” she finished for him, bitterness creeping into her voice.

“No,” he said quickly. “Not like that. I just—I didn’t think it would get this far.”

She swallowed hard, the sting of his words cutting deeper than she’d expected. “So, that’s it? That’s the reason?”

“It’s not just a reason,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “It’s my life.”

Her chest felt heavy, like something inside her had collapsed. She looked at him, the way his jaw was tight, his eyes filled with something that might’ve been regret.

“We could try,” she said, hating the way her voice wavered.

He shook his head, his gaze dropping again. “It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

Her throat tightened, and she looked away, swallowing against the lump rising there. The fireworks were still going off above them, but they felt distant now, as though they belonged to someone else’s story.

He stepped forward slightly. “I’ll walk you back to the café,” he offered quietly.

She shook her head. “No.”

“You shouldn’t—”

“I’ll be fine,” she cut him off, her voice sharper than she meant it to be.

For a moment, he just stood there, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, stepping back. “Goodnight,” he said softly, before turning and walking away.

She stayed there for a moment, watching him disappear into the distance, before finally turning and walking back the way they’d co

The streets were alive with celebration—couples kissing beneath the fireworks, friends laughing and clinking glasses, strangers shouting “Happy New Year!” to anyone who’d listen. She walked through it all, alone, the cold seeping into her skin and the ache in her chest growing heavier with every step.

When she finally reached her hotel room, the city was quieting down, the last of the fireworks fading into the night. She closed the door behind her and sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at her notebook on the desk.

For the first time in days, she didn’t reach for it. Instead, she lay back and let the silence swallow her whole.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

The airport was buzzing, as always. Crowds moving in every direction, the hum of conversation and the tinny voice of announcements echoing overhead. He’d been through so many terminals in so many cities that they all blurred together now—just another stop on the endless circuit of his life.

It was late afternoon, and he had time before his flight. A rare luxury. The race weekend in Austin had been exhausting, but he couldn’t even think about rest yet. His mind was elsewhere.

It had been months since London. Months since New Year’s Eve, since her. And still, she lingered. No matter how fast he drove, how far he travelled, she was there—in the quiet moments, in the cracks of his carefully controlled life.

He thought about her more than he wanted to admit. The way she’d leaned toward him on that bench by Tower Bridge. The way her voice had trembled when she’d asked if they could try, and the way he’d let her walk away. He told himself it was the right decision, the only decision. But that didn’t stop him from replaying it over and over, from wondering if he’d made a mistake.

As he walked through the terminal, his eyes caught on a bookstore tucked between gates. He wasn’t much of a reader—his schedule didn’t leave much room for it—but something about it drew him in.

The display at the front of the store was bright and eye-catching, a wall of bestsellers stacked high with glossy covers. His gaze skimmed over them idly, his thoughts elsewhere, until one caught his attention.

The title: Free Now.

And beneath it, a name. Her name.

He froze, the noise of the airport fading to a dull roar as he stared at the book. It didn’t seem real, seeing her name there in bold, shiny print, like a beacon pulling him in. Before he could stop himself, he reached for a copy, his hands almost unsteady as he turned it over to read the back.

The blurb was short, but it was enough:

"Two strangers meet in London over the holidays—a writer searching for inspiration, and a man running from the weight of his own life. For a week, they share the city, its magic, its quiet moments, and the pieces of themselves they never intended to give away. But some love stories don’t end with forever—they end with goodbye."

His chest tightened. The words hit too close, carving into him with a precision that felt deliberate. He flipped the book open, skimming through the pages. The characters weren’t them, not exactly, but it was their story—their conversations, their quiet moments, the snowfall in Hyde Park, the fireworks on New Year’s Eve.

Then his eyes landed on a line, and the ground beneath him seemed to shift.

"I was brave when I kissed you in London, but I wasn’t brave enough to ask you to stay."

He read it again, the words sinking in like a knife twisting in his chest.

She had been brave. And he hadn’t.

The truth of it hit him harder than he expected. He could see her so clearly in his mind—the way she’d looked at him that night, her eyes full of something raw and hopeful, something he’d been too afraid to meet. She’d asked for something simple, something honest, and he’d walked away, thinking he was doing the right thing.

But was it?

The overhead speaker crackled, announcing a boarding call for his flight. He didn’t move. The book was still in his hands, the weight of it anchoring him in place.

Months had passed since London, and yet here she was, writing the story they could never have. It was all there on the page—the longing, the heartbreak, the ache he couldn’t seem to shake no matter how fast he ran.

He closed the book gently, his hands lingering on the cover. For the first time in years, he wondered if maybe the life he’d built wasn’t enough. If maybe he’d made a mistake that couldn’t be undone.

The crowd around him moved, people brushing past without a second glance, but he stood there, rooted in place, staring at her name like it was a lifeline he couldn’t quite reach.

She’d been brave. And now he wondered if he ever could be.

Before he could even stop himself, or take a minute to mull the idea over, he took his phone out and opened up Instagram. He hesitated for half a second before finding her Instagram.

oscarpiastri: hey

the end.

taglist: @sheblogs @iamred-iamyellow

[doraminatook]

We're About To Get Playfully Blasphemous Here (or...The Metaphorical Death and Resurrection of Me)

2023 was the year I turned 33, and in case you didn’t know, many religious scholars cite that as the age Jesus was crucified and rose from the dead.  Now, within literature there’s a trope called the Christ-like figure in which a character sacrifices themself and from that death, something happens in order to advance the plot.  Usually that something is either the “dead” character rising from the ashes and obtaining new powers (think Gandalf the Grey battling the Balrog and then coming back as Gandalf the White) or the protagonist being so moved by the death of this secondary character that they are reborn in some way (think Red Badge of Courage’s Jim Conklin (JC…get it?) whose death changes Henry’s opinion on war.)

Because I’m a storyteller and have a dark sense of humor, I began to wonder if I would somehow have a Christ-like-figure-moment within my thirty-third year of life.  (Not long after my birthday, I told my mom that I just had to make it to 34 and then I would have “beaten” Jesus; being a good Lutheran woman, she did not appreciate this joke.)

Now, I may be reaching or forcing figurative imagery into the literal world (isn’t that what artists do?), but I think I did have a “death” and consequential “resurrection”.  

I’m at a strange place in my writing career in that I am not famous (by any means) but I’m also not considered emerging.  Recently, I was told by a theater that I should “sit this contest out” and give someone else a chance but at the same time my work has not been produced enough to catch an agent’s eye.  (It doesn’t help that theatre companies have an intense fixation on world premieres.  They want to be the first one to do the show, apparently assuming that as soon as a piece gets produced once, that means it’s finished.  But that’s a rant for another day.) 

Currently I live in Milwaukee and for a long time I thought (or at least hoped) that I could maybe just make it work here; it is technically a theater town.  Add to that the fact that my whole family lives in Wisconsin, my financial situation was not ideal, and my best friend (platonic soulmate) had made it fairly clear to me that she did not wish to move away from Milwaukee.  When I was honest with myself, I knew that I wanted to get out, but there were so many things holding me back from making the jump.  

As soon as the thought of moving away entered my head, Anxiety would perk up.  Always eager to be the backseat driver, it would shout things like, “Isn’t life here good enough for you?  You’ve got a roof over your head, a job that allows you to pursue your passion, and you’re perfectly healthy.  Be grateful for what you have and stop expecting something more!” 

I attended a workshop for other playwrights from the area and, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I didn’t have a lot in common with many of them.  Discussions and questions whirled around about how we find time to write, where we get inspiration, and how we format a script properly.  Some of the writers present had never even finished a full script.  I certainly am not bringing this up in order to shame anyone, but it was an eye-opening experience for me.  Was I a proverbial big fish in a little pond?

My anxiety had an opinion for that, too.  

“Wow!  Way to be egotistical, D!  You think you’re so much better than everyone here?  Get over yourself!  You’re not special.  You’re just another ‘artist’ who thinks they’ve got something special to say!”

A few weeks later I was at my cousin’s wedding and after the ceremony, he approached me to offer congratulations for all the success I’ve had…only to then immediately cut me off guard with the question, “So when are you moving to New York?”  As the groom, he was quickly called away for photographs and I never really got to answer his question.  

If this moment had been in a play, the spotlight would have hit me right then and there and I would have begun some contemplative soliloquy where I openly pondered, “New York, eh?  Maybe I should go to New York!”

Obviously, as a theatre person, the idea of moving to New York had crossed my mind; it’s the theatre capital of the US for obvious reasons.  But, at the same time, New York just didn’t feel like me.  (I have a lot of opinions on NYC, especially when it comes to the outrageous ticket prices.  When it costs a small fortune to see a Broadway show, art becomes a luxury rather than a necessity.  But that’s a rant for another day.)  It certainly seemed daunting, and every good dream should be at least a little daunting.  But New York was daunting without being exciting.  It felt like something I should do…something that was expected of me.

LA didn’t do it for me, either.  Nor Seattle.  I considered many locations, but nothing really made me sit up and take notice.  I wasn’t about to dive headfirst into debt and throw away a good thing unless it was something that truly excited me…something that was enticing enough to spark a change.  

Again, Anxiety spoke up, “Calm the fuck down, D!  New York?  Even if that is what you wanted, they’d eat you alive there!  You’re a soft midwestern girl who can’t take criticism and cries at the drop of a hat!  You really think you could handle New York or LA?  Also, the cost of living in any of those places is way more than you will ever hope to make!  Stick with Submission Helper.  Stick with the contests and the festivals.  Go back to dreaming only as big as The Milwaukee Repertory Theatre.  Sit down and shut up!”

It may have gone on like this…if not for the summer of 2023.

Close your eyes and picture it: WGA strike, Barbenheimer, The Eras Tour, OceanGate, the Grimace Birthday shake…and in the midst of it all, I was having an epiphany.  

A favorite television show of mine dropped its latest season and I eagerly pulled out the Chardonnay and the popcorn to binge it all.  The vast majority of the show takes place in London and features several actors whom I admire greatly.  Between the giggles, sobs, and various twists and turns of the emotional rollercoaster that was Season 2, something all at once occurred to me.

This is what I want.  

That’s where I want to be.  

I want to move to the United Kingdom.

Was it daunting?  Hell yeah, it was daunting.  

And it was exciting.  

It was a dream that excited me.  

It burned inside me.  

It raged.

It burned so hot that I didn’t know what to do with it.  I paced around my tiny apartment, simply stunned by the prospect of it all.  

Anxiety was in the process of drinking a quad shot espresso con panna and promptly did a spit take upon hearing this new idea.  In a frenzied panic, it bellowed, “Are you nuts?  What the hell do you think you’re doing?  YOU can’t move to the UK!  It would be so difficult!  You’d need to apply for a Visa…or something like that!  Do you even know how to apply for a Visa!”  

“No,” I metaphorically replied, “but I could learn.”

“I bet it’s super difficult!” Anxiety shot back, trembling in fear, “I bet it’s expensive and complicated and you’ll never figure it out!  I bet your sense of humor wouldn’t translate!  I bet you’d end up broke and living under a bridge and crying because you threw away this good thing you had!”

For a split second, Anxiety almost won…but somehow, prompted by the promise of this new dream, I dared to ask, “But what if it worked out?  What if I could figure it out?  What if I somehow scraped up the money and did the research and filed the paperwork and just made it work?”

If it were a play, I would have been standing center stage, staring out into the audience like some kind of dramatic hero and whispering hopefully, “Yes…what if…?”  

It has been a long road to get here, but, despite what Anxiety likes to tell me, I did figure it out.  The process has been stressful enough to induce atypical Shingles and a few anxiety attacks, but it’s happening.  It’s actually happening!

This October I’m going to grad school at the University of Essex where I’ll pursue my masters degree in Scriptwriting.  I’ll hone my skills as a playwright while learning the ins and out of writing for film, television, and radio.  I’ll take the train into London on the weekends and see every show I can at the National Theatre.  I’ll get new life experiences.  I’ll do my best to explore every inch of that beautiful island.  I’m going to do something new because it’s scary and, most importantly, it’s exciting.  

(To add to the awesomeness of this new adventure, my best friend (platonic soul mate) is moving with me and pursuing her own dreams of studying acting…also at the University of Essex.)

My “death” was not as dramatic or world-changing as Jesus’s, but it gave way to a new life for me.  The power of storytelling combined with a newfound confidence was enough to catapult me into something new, something different.    

And I know you’re wondering what show I was watching that prompted this sudden change; if you know anything about me, you’ve probably guessed it already.  

Along with seeing as much theatre as I can on my visits to London, I also plan to have surreptitious meetings at The Bandstand, feed ducks some frozen peas at St. James’s Park, and maybe help avert an apocalypse (or two).  My birthday is in January and it just so happens that Season 3 is scheduled to begin filming around that time; perhaps on my winter holiday, I’ll put myself onto a train and take myself up to Edinburgh.  I have so many thoughts on what could possibly happen next to my favorite angel and demon…but that’s a rant for another day.

(Fun fact: I say this line at least once a week...if only to myself.)

[oniraki]

Broken into fractures

Pairing : Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

TW : Mental health, Psych ward, mentions of : self harm, suicide wishes/attempts , severe trauma (both Simon and reader), dark themes , angst, hurt/comfort , swearing , nicotine and psychiatric medication/sedation use - maybe too much tagging but it's better safe than sorry I guess?

AN : inspired by all the fantastic artists and writers here I gathered the courage to try and write something up myself. Hope I don't mess shit up .. please have patience with me for I really don't know what I am doing right now (and English is not my first language..)

"you're in time out Mr.Riley.." his psychiatrist says in a hushed tone, making Simon's head throb painfully. He does not like that bawbag of a man with his silly round glasses and his pathetic attempts to comb his hair in a way, that would hide his growing baldness. Simon tries to focus on Doc.Hershal's words but instead his eyes are glued to a coffee stain on the man's button down.

"Mr.Riley do you even pay attention?" A grunt is the only response that so called doctor gets out of him. The man sighs. "You hurt another patient, Mr.Riley.." he tries again and Simon chuckles hoarsely. "I'm well aware of that. He had it coming for some time .." - "You broke his nose." The doctor states more urgently, observing Simon's features as far as possible, since half of his face is hidden behind a black scarf.

"Fucking hell..should've broken his neck instead." Dr.Hershal shakes his head. "We have talked about this plenty of times, didn't we, Mr.Riley? This is no healthy way of coping with your feelings. This is unacceptable behavior above all of it. Every patient has a right to be here, to heal and to be safe while doing so"

Simon could feel his blood boil, hear it rushing through his whole body. Safety? He was talking about safety after all, that happened earlier that day? "Where was her right of safety when that fucker had his hands all over her...?!" The psychiatrist nods "I have heard about the incident. But that does not justify your aggressive behavior. That was something to be dealt with by the hospitals staff, Mr.Riley."

Incident. The nurses should've handled this. "And still nobody showed up fast enough to put her out of her misery, for fucks sake!"

His heart was beating way too fast, his bruised hands shaking in his lap. Knuckles cut open from that other man's broken teeth. He felt no shame, no regret. He'd do it all over again. Do anything to keep you safe, to protect you from harm. Even if it ment that he had to be locked up here longer than he had anticipated.

He'd do it for you.

Anything..

_______

The light was nearly blinding you as you crossed the threshold of the door, leading to the cage on the hospitals rooftop. You've never been entitled to garden privileges, going out alone and wandering around the paths between old trees and decorative bushes. You couldn't be trusted, the nurses always explained with that sorry, kinda pittying smile on their faces. You'd be a danger to yourself, they'd argue. Couldn't risk you hurting yourself, fulfilling your death wish..

The cage was just a sorry excuse of a garden. An area with fake grass and plants, some benches, secured by a Chain-link fence.. but it was your only escape from the sterile and sad gray walls of the ward, crushing you between them until you couldn't breathe. Closing you in, never letting you go. The flickering of the neon lights, the squeaking of the linoleum floor. Cold,blood sucking fingers that had a hold of you. Everything designed to torture and torment you furthermore.

The only way for you to leave that place was in a body bag. That much you were sure of.

"Hey scare-bear.." you whispered as you let yourself slump down on the fake grass next to Simon. He didn't even flinch or look at you at your sudden intrusion of his space. Not even when your head was leaning against his biceps. No words or sounds left his lips as he fetched a cigarette out of the box, lighting it up on the one he was smoking and then offering it to you. You stayed in comfortable silence for a smoke or two. Simon could feel the tension leaving his body, how his shoulders relaxed more and more with every passing minute. You were here. With him. Not in the observation room with that big window, directly connected to the nurses office. Not sedated and fixated. Not alone.. never alone, as long as he could impede it.

You sneaked your arm around his, your hand engulfing his with featherlight touches. The nurses patched him up properly after his emergency session with Hershal.

"'m sorry, love." You could feel the vibration of Simon's voice. Calming and soothing as a lullaby. He still didn't look at you, instead he kept his gaze on the sundown, throwing another cigarette butt off of the roof. "nothing to be sorry for, Si. It's my fault they relieved you of all of your privileges.." you murmured kinda dejected, petting his hand ever so lovingly.

Simon huffed, shaking his head eagerly, nearly making his hood fall down. "I'd trade every fucking, meaningless privelege if that's what it takes to keep you safe. Stop acting like it was your fault. You didn't ask him to touch you.. should've killed that bastard the second he tried to get close to you the first time."

Your movements stilled for a long moment until you released a breath you didn't know you were holding.

"they all told you to stay away from me, didn't they...?" Your voice was merely anything above a whisper. Simon only grunted in response. "As if that's ever going to happen. Nothing can stop me from being near you, little gremlin."

"but what, if they're right, scare-bear?" You ask, now avoiding his gaze that lingers on your face. "What if.. I'm no good for you? Making your condition worse..?" You thought intensely about it for the last couple of weeks. Simon used to make progress, used to get better.. at least until you came along. Certainly it hast to be your fault. "Is that what they believe or what you believe?" He snapped at you, hating himself for the harshness in his voice immediately.

You heard the night nurses whisper about you and Simon. About you being a liability to him. Stopping his progress, pulling him down into your dark abyss.

Your mind began spiraling again.

"I need words, love. Talk to me.. don't shut me out. Not again.." he demanded softly, freeing his arm out of your grasp. He'd leave you, right ? Because he realized how much of a burden you were.

But instead of getting up and leaving he placed his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him gently, as if he might break you.

But by now your thoughts and emotions were cutting too deep, pulling you into a kind of headspace where'd you go nonverbal ..

Burden. Threat. Liability. Rotten heart and soul inside a useless, broken body. Not good enough. Not loveable.

Why can't you finally die?

" 'm here, lovie. I got you." He whispered into the crown of your head. "It's okay not to be okay right now. We'll get through it, together."

Oh how you just wanted to believe him..

[cacodaemonia]

Fan Artist Emoji Asks

Big thanks to @nottheweirdest, who created the Fanfic Writer Emoji Ask and gave me permission to use that as a template for a visual artist version! This ask game is for visual artists, and while the questions most often ask about drawing or sketching, just substitute your preferred medium.

😅 What's a sketch or finished image you've created that you're a smidge embarrassed exists?

🥺 Is there a certain type of moment or common interaction between characters that never fails to put you in your feels when you draw it?

🤡 What sketch or detail in an image have you drawn that made you laugh?

😈 Have you ever created an image or added some detail just to be playfully mean to the viewer?

👀 Do you have someone who you can go to when you need another set of eyes on an image?

🛒 What are some common things you incorporate in your images? Themes, feels, scenes, color palettes, etc.

🎢 Which of your images would you call your wildest ride?

✨ Give you and your art a compliment. Go on now. You know you deserve it. 😉

💋 Drawing characters smooching—do you enjoy it or hate it?

🎶 Do you listen to music/podcasts/audiobooks/podfics while you draw? What have you been listening to lately?

🛠 What traditional media or digital programs do you use to draw?

⛔ Do you have an image you started but scrapped?

🙋‍♀️ Do any irl people know you make fan art?

🍦 What's the sweetest image you've created so far?

🍷 Do you drink and draw?

🍆 Do you draw spicy stuff? If so, what's your favorite nsfw image?

🌞 Do you have a preferred time of day to draw?

💖 What made you start drawing? 

💌 How do you feel about comments and feedback?

❌ What's something you would never draw?

💲 Would you ever open commissions? 

🧐 Do you spend much time researching and finding references for your images?

🏆 What's your most popular image? 

🎃 Do you create images for certain holidays? What is your favorite holiday-inspired image?

🎯 Has anyone ever guessed a handy trick or shortcut you used in an image? Care to share which?

📖 How do you feel about fics based on you art?

📈 How many fan art images have you created?

🤔 Do you plan out things like values, colors, and composition or fly by the seat of your pants?

🎨 Tell me about an upcoming wip, please!

🤗 What advice would you give to new fan artists who are just getting started?

🤩 Who is your favorite character to draw? 

💞 Who is your comfort character? Not necessarily your favorite to draw, but one that always makes you feel a little better.

🧠 When drawing [character name], what about them is hardest to draw? (askers, don't forget to specify the character!)

🤲 Would you please share a wip? Maybe a sketch or a small preview of an image?

😬 Which of your images would you be most horrified for friends, family, or coworkers to stumble upon? 

🎉 What leads you to consider an image a success?

✅ What's something that appears in your images over and over and over again, even if you don't mean to?

🖼️ Would you ever want to turn making art into a career?

⌛ How long does it take you to complete a sketch versus a finished image?

🤯 What's an aspect of images with which you struggle (ex. human figures, backgrounds, hands, animals, cars, etc.)?

💔 Is there an image of yours that broke your heart?

💥 How do you feel about criticism? 

🤭 Do you have a favorite tag to use when posting your art?

🥰 How do you feel about viewer interaction? Are you open to receiving questions about your images?

[letrune]

You know what annoys me in Harry Potter?

And let us imagine for a moment that the author is Hatsune Miku. That it is an adaptation of Neil Cicierega's Potter Puppet Pals. That Warner Bros is not holding the franchise with patents and trademarks well beyond the powers of even millionaires.

Ah, nice to imagine, isn't it? Still with me?

The books are wasted potential. Every new thing coming in helps to show how the magical world is as flawed and xenophobic as regular, mundane version of it. Slavery, segregation by "blood purity", racial segregation, magic supremacy and cishet white male magic supremacy, too.

And then a downtrotten guy shows up. He is a hero, has loads of cash and a fame beyond his age. You would think the dude from the literal closet would CHANGE THE SYSTEM. To push along a new, better, more liberated, more equal world. Maybe even prevent the next bad guy from rising by removing the key aspects that made him rise to power, like slavery, the segregations, the supremacist ideas, and so on. Even if just pushing it in a way.

You would think the main character would fix the system. You know why?

Because every fantasy story, even if by just getting the just and wise king or queen on the throne, does that. The Lord of the Rings does not end by blowing up Sauron. It goes on, the world has to be changed to prevent a new, different Sauron. We saw glimpes on how anyone, even the purest heart, could go down that path.

So why can't this boy who lives in a closet? It is WASTED POTENTIAL. Imagine the stories you can tell! Now that you got a better world coming, would the old jerks not hate it? Would some change? What new issues arise? It is a fantasy, so you can do whatever you want - and then go the Man in Black route and have the magical slowly dripped into the mundane. Or, again, as with the (comic book) Men in Black, we had shown how even the utopian parts get issues not seen before, all based on xenophobia, human folly, etc.

You make a status quo that sucks, and then GO AND CHANGE IT. The big bad in a bad system is not the guy with the biggest gun, but the system that fails.

Oh, sure, you can make a story about the cyclical nature of revolutions - and yes, a bloodless revolution is the best for the little people, but in fiction, we may have the bad guys represent issues. So, you can make a story where a revolution leads to another in the next cycle. But...

You have to change the bad systems. Say that some things may change. Even if it is just a new school being put forward in the end, with empathy, and two characters talking about how the world will change if they keep going on... You have to change. The utopian status quo is the only one what the audience may like to be returned to.

When Bilbo comes back to the Shire, it is almost the same, but Bilbo himself changed. It was a bit for the better, but not that much that new stories could not be told... and what he thought as the status quo is shown to have changed. He became more artistic. He wrote a book, inspired by his "miserable adventure"... and then, later, Tolkien slipped in the ring from the sequel. It was not in the original draft! The ending did not changed, but we had a plot hook.

Though, Tolkien already had given us all the potential in the story. He hinted at a bigger world.

So imagine Miku, writing a thing but then she does not develop the things. The potential goes wasted, and when it returns, it has this "stop nagging me, here, a stupid retcon for your stupid questions" thing. Potential squandered! Wasted! No wonder the fans would go to write their own, for better or worse.

I am so happy Hatsune Miku is a talented writer and not some woman slipping into right-wing hatred, akin to some dude who loves gold and the aesthetics of power, and having none of it in his tiny hands or something. That would be-

Oh. I just realised the intro to this rant. Well, now that the train is deralied, what is my point?

If you write a story with systemic issues, you should at least attempt to resolve some of them. You got slavery? Have the main character and their friends free slaves and ban slavery when they get the power to do so.

You got a sort of space cyborg wizard nazi movement? Your character has the potential to punch them in the face, alongside B. J. Blazkowicz and Captain America, WHILE ALSO breaking the systems the space cyborg wizard nazies rely on. In fact, it should be what you do, because while your heroes give the cool action scenes, they also show their intelligence and empathy by PREVENTING new space cyborg wizard nazies coming into existence and fixing the inequalities in the world.

Sure, it is not as cool to see Mr. Potter to write a new constitution about equal rights than seeing him in a wizard duel with wizard nazies, but you can have both. This is fantasy!

You can get the audience to believe that a man can fly, that a single guy can save the world by throwing a ring into a volcano, or that a boy living in a closet is a chosen one - letting them change the world for the better is not a stretch, it is catharsis! That is where the happy ending happens.

[iloveyou-writers]

Hi! I'm sorry this ended up longer than I intended to. I really needed to let it out, and I hope you can share some wisdom with me.

I am feeling hopeless about my writing today. Lately I've been fighting with thoughts about how I'm not getting better, and some jealousy completely pushed me to the edge.

For the past couple of months, I've been working on one of the biggest fanfic projects of mine. Normally I don't read on a fandom if I'm actively working for it, exactly because then I compare my writing to others', but since this is taking more time than my other stuff, I allowed myself to take a look today. I immediately found a story that I haven't seen before, and I was exited the whole time! It was great, and have me so much joy.

At first I was full of admiration towards the writer, and inspired to continue woekint on my own story. It was one of the best things I've ever read, and I immediately sat down to write a comment. Then something clicked. My story can't compare to this. The topics are so much different, but the way they write the characters, dialogues, everything, it's so much better.

I tried to tell myself I'm going to get better, but I just hate that despite having great ideas, the finished work will never live up to stories such as the one I read today. Because even though I know I've gotten better in the many years I've been writing, I never had any work I'm proud of, or one that fit the idea I started with. That what makes me feel the most hopeless.

This broke my heart, so I don't want to ignore it, even though I'm "technically" retired from tumblr.

I do want to offer my utmost respect to you for giving yourself boundaries due to knowing yourself well enough to acknowledge that you have an issue with envy.

It is so healthy that you try to work with what you know your attitude tends to be and that you set a boundary for yourself not to read fanfic while you're writing. It isn't that you're not allowed to ever read it, but while you're writing in the fandom. That's great. That's wonderful. I'm proud of you for that.

It can be really easy to fall into the hole of "I'm never going to be good enough." You read something and you can be so amazed by others. I'll bet, though, that if you wrote the exact story you just read, you would likely feel differently about it. Why? Because we artists are HARD on ourselves. It really is true when they say that artists are our own worst critics. We judge every word, every movement our characters make. Why? Because we know the story we're trying to tell. We know what we envisioned when we started typing.

To us, we're comparing our writing to what we wanted it to be.

Readers? Yeah, they can have expectations or hopes for writing, but they ultimately didn't know what we were envisioning while we wrote it. They only know what they read. So they see it with fresh eyes and they see it for what it is, not for what it was supposed to be.

So it's really easy for readers to see the amazing aspects of a writer's work when a writer might only see what they did wrong or what they had to change in order to make the story work.

It's still the same incredible piece. It's still wonderful and I'll bet you're a much better writer than you feel like you are. 💗🫂

Maybe take a step back. Maybe take a few days off, so that the feeling of being "worse" isn't so fresh. Maybe do something else or work on a totally different story. Busy your mind so it isn't focused on what you feel you're not doing right.

No one's perfect. I guarantee the writer that made the story you read is nitpicking the things they wish they didn't have to change or that they feel they could have worded better.

So cut yourself slack. Remember to love your writing, to love where you're at. Writing is a journey. It isn't about getting to the destination. It's about enjoying the ride there. :) You'll get there, just remember to appreciate your writing for what it is now. And one day, you'll be where you want to be. Just keep working at it and loving yourself and your work.

Thank you for reaching out and I really, really hope you find comfort in this response.

Happy writing, my dear nonnie. 💗 I'm wishing nothing but happiness and pride in your work.

~Hannah

[scary-flag]

People being all "Ed is just an emo babygirl after a breakup, like, who wouldn't act like that???" and yeah I LOVE emo babygirl Ed, but I do not think cutting off someone's toe and feeding it to them is really a sad babygirl action (although you go girlies, he did deserve that)

Jokes aside, though: We are NOT being told anything in specific, and his actions can be interpreted in various ways. Did he go fucking feral, all kraken and shit? Sure, but he also cried when looking at the lighthouse painting later, which tells us he did not really, like, vow to not give in to his emotions again or something.

On the other hand, we ARE explicitly told in canon that Ed is *not* mentally well, and I do not mean it in a bad way. Maybe we, as a fandom, should stop acting like Ed's PTSD and his trauma responses are something bad that we can't work with? Ed has every right to be sad. Ed has every right to be angry. He has every right to be fucking traumatised. And by making him feel those feelings the fanfic writers or fan artists are not necessarily being racist, homophobic or mental-illness-hating. Ed is just human and he has human feelings. People react in all kinds of ways to heartbreak and trauma.

I know we all love babygirl Ed, but keep in mind that woobifying his reaction to Stede leaving him, we are kind of writing off the whole mental health aspect of the character, which, I think, is super important in the show? Going as far as removing this aspect of Ed (and I have seen people who really believe Ed has absolutely zero issues) is kind of building the stupid "we shouldn't talk about mental illness" ableist taboo agenda.

(to read more about masculinity and rage in the context of POC experience, I recommend to dig into what @uselessheretic posts who is definitely better at writing in English than I am and likely more educated on the subject)

There is nothing wrong in wanting a character to be flawed. Flaws make us human

Another point: He is a PIRATE. Most people are not making him violent and angry because he's gay, nor because he's a POC. Most do it because he is a pirate, and if anything, the legendary pirates were generally known to be unhinged. Pirates stabbed people, keelhauled them, burnt whole villages down, traded slaves and r*ped. I know we all love OFMD and our blorbos, but let's not forget who the inspiration behind those characters were. No one does anything wrong by just by saying a pirate character HAS issues with his mental health, anger management or attitude. Some people just give Ed (or Izzy, or Stede, or any character honestly) more of the real-world pirate characteristics.

Yes, it is a comedy show, but in fan works it can become anything - a drama, a horror, a post-apocalyptic sci-fi slasher, whatever the author wants. So I think that people who do not interpret Ed's reaction to the breakup as basically a cutesy american teenager eating ice cream in bed listening to Evanescence are not necessarily wrong and neither do they have bad intentions.

[thedragonagebigbang]

Bang Creator Interview: Tumblr: @blarrghe  |  [AO3: blarghe

The Collaboration period has begun! In these quiet months before works are due, we want to foster a sense of excitement, camaraderie, and celebration among our participants. To that end, all participants were given the option of a formal interview by our mod, Dema, or an informal “ask-game” survey. We hope you enjoy getting to know our phenomenal creators as much as we have!

Tortured Man More Tortured by Having To Endure the Best Week of His Life

Blarghe and Dema talk art imitating life writing, romantic foils, and the Platonic Ideal Dorianmance 

Dema: I'd love to begin in OC land with you. As someone who is both an artist and a writer, do you find that making art of your OCs informs your process? Or are those pretty separate for you?

Blarghe: Hmm. That's a good question.

Dema: Why, thank you!

Blarghe: My feeling has always been that I'm a better writer than I am an artist, so maybe the writing informs the art, more. I am always getting very visual ideas, like maybe some comic-panel type storyboards in the brain, and I can't really illustrate that to the degree that I want, so it can be like it is in my head. But I can more easily make words do that.

I'd very much like to do some illustrations for my own stuff, and I love drawing my OC and some things have helped in the other way, like designing his vallaslin on paper did give me something better to describe from in writing. I'd really love to reach the point of being able to do a few comics. There are a few scenes I really see that way. I try to be quite visual in my writing in the meantime I guess, haha.

Dema: That makes sense! I have the same dream. Comics are very intimidating. So it sounds like you write your OCs before you draw them?

Blarghe: Yeah, generally. I think since we're going from a video game and I already have seen the characters that way, there's that. Though I have OCs I have not made in the character creator. I haven't invented a ton of non-canon side characters but there are a few. I think I can picture them pretty well. I wind up drawing them after falling in love with them through writing them, rather than like, designing a character visually/on paper/in the cc before putting them in a story. Honestly, I put down DA:I for a looong time while still writing da:i-inspired fic with my OC and other canon characters. So I guess I don't have to look at him that often.

Dema: I have asked several of our writers if they make all their OCs in the CC, and if that's step 1. I'm curious, too, at what point you knew you were going to make fan content of your OC and participate in fandom. Did you finish the game first? Did you come in with a foot already in the fandom?

Blarghe: Ok long answer: I was into the games first. I started playing in maybe 2015, shortly after Inquisition came out. My partner already liked the games and was excited to play it, so I wound up watching some of that and being intrigued. But I started with Origins, loved it, and wound up loving and playing all three, all of them with more than one OC, to varying degrees of completion. When it comes to writing fic, I had ideas, like, little comics and some additional fill-in-the-gaps scenes written into notebooks and stuff for all three games. Mostly expanding on the personal relationships and romances, as you do. I'd done that kind of thing for other media I liked, but never really been in "fandom" about it for anything. I've always done creative writing and original fiction as a hobby and it was just a way of getting back into that on a personal level. I wrote the most after finishing DA:I for the second time... I kind of did a playthrough I wasn't super happy with, then made a new character specifically for a romance (Dorian's) then... wasn't super happy with that character either, THEN made Taren who is my current OC obsession, and wrote like 30K words of canon-divergence fic with a whole other OC companion inserted and just had fun with it. I forgot about that until 2020, when I found it in my docs and re-read it and decided it was actually pretty good and that I could maybe try to post online, find community, etc. I've since completely scrapped and deleted that fic from AO3, but getting out there got me into doing writing prompts and writing other stories, and now here I am. (I still haven't actually finished my Taren playthrough. I will before Veilguard lol) I was definitely motivated by COVID, thought I might go insane without community, so I picked a couple things I was already into (writing and dragon age) and went looking.

Dema: I'm guessing most of the art and writing you've done for DA has been DA:I?

Blarghe: Most, yeah. If only because my long fic is a DA:I inspired modern-au. Honestly it's fairly divorced from canon lol. Most of my canon writing is for DA:O actually. And I'm obsessed with Taren, I've drawn him more than anyone ever. He is very pretty, you see.

Dema: He is very, very pretty. Is DA:O your favorite game in the franchise? Everyone hates this question but I GOTTA KNOW hahaha!

Blarghe: Yeah it is! I love them all for different aspects, but it's got that first-game start of the obsession nostalgia. I also love a finicky, strategy-heavy RPG so to me the usual combat complaints aren't really a thing. I like the pause-every-two-seconds combat hahaha. I do really love running around through the scenery in Inquisition though, and I like the characters, and the fun flashy rogue stabbing too. But I have a soft spot for Origins for really gripping you into that story and world. It's a great balance of silly and funny and dark and difficult choices.

Dema: I haven't asked anyone else this yet, but are you finding the Veilguard announcements and previews are refreshing the inspiration? Or are you avoiding all spoilers and pretending it does not exist until the release? Or some secret, third thing…

Blarghe: Somewhere in between. I've been here the whole time lol, I don't know that it hyped me up any more, but it's nice to finally have news. And I'm excited that it will mean new people in the fandom and a resurgence that way. I am not totally avoiding spoilers but still kinda keeping my distance for my own sanity. I'll definitely lock down the spoiler tags once it's actually out.

Dema: So valid. I am feeling very inspired, myself, but I think it may be more the energy of the fandom around me reaching such a fever pitch. We're like a flock of ducks getting a whole loaf of bread after years of crumbs. 

Blarghe: So true haha. I am really excited about how it looks. Can't wait to play it!

Dema: Same! Returning to Taren a bit because, well, he's pretty: you said you went through a few iterations of OCs for a Dorian romance before him, and then were hooked. What is it about Taren that makes him a favorite? Was there a particular inspiration for him?

Blarghe: Oh boy. Not a specific inspiration. I played DA:I three times, counting the Taren one that I'm not technically finished, and the first I completely missed any romance (thought I could get Harding until it was too late) but I loved Dorian's character and his personal arc hit so hard that I immediately made a new character just for him. He was like a sassy Trevelyan who didn't really wanna be there, trying to pull kind of a rogueish charming sarcastic irresponsible pretty boy to hang with Dorian but I really didn't like how that clicked. I know it's a pretty common character archetype esp in a Dorian romance to do sassy x sassy so no hate but I found the Inquisition storyline and dialogue options just wouldn't let me be that irresponsible and funny, which makes sense. I really liked the themes of how the game pushes you into this impossible role where the only thing you can do is become a big responsible hero figure. I'm sure there's a compelling story there for the kind of character I'm talking about, but since mine fell so flat to me I decided to lean the complete opposite way. And Dorian inspired it too. The more I played and considered it the more I felt like I wanted him to have kind of a counterweight romance, you know. Opposites attract kind of thing. So Taren started as this very responsible, serious character who has always been prepared for leadership, being a First, and takes all that really seriously. He's also very Dalish and has reason to distrust and argue with him, which is great for Drama, but very very sweet and genuine and wholesome, which is so fun to contrast with all Dorian's trust issues. Dorian's quite emotional and idealistic, really, so they match in that way and it's very romantic. Taren's also a bit aspirational. Part of why I like Dorian so much is that I relate to him a lot, and I was struggling with trying to become less arrogant and more genuine, so Taren embodies a lot of that for me. Part of what makes him my favourite is probably the blank-slate of it all, too. Not having the Origin and getting to make stuff up. The whole romance plot is really compelling. I stuck him in some AUs and got carried away by worldbuilding, too. And after so much time spent with him he's just the fave now. But yeah, he's not my usual archetype. I think I've made a lot more sarcastic rogues than genuine sweethearts. He has like, anxiety and trust issues and I keep throwing him in situations to give him Trauma, but that sort of, happy, sweet, genuine, and healer-class character was all new ground to me and I wound up just loving the different-ness and challenge of it.

Dema: I did want to tell you that your "This is a story about trauma and relationships and socioeconomics and questioning belief and searching for balance. It's also about finding your soulmate on grindr" summary absolutely sent me.

Blarghe: Thank you, I'm very proud of that.

Dema: Speaking of which, can you come up with a clickbait title for your bang fic?

Blarghe: Something like Tortured Man More Tortured by Having To Endure the Best Week of His Life [[REDACTED]] you can cut that last part because it does make it obvious.

Dema: A+. Thank you for the lovely interview, it's been a treat chatting!

Blarghe: Thanks! It was very fun.

[arminsumi]

it's disheartening for writers to see "part 2 when??" comments, you know why?

because there's a lot of effort and thought behind one post. it takes far less time to read than it took for us to curate it.

the idea comes, we pen it down. then we look for inspiration to build upon this idea. we make notes on dialogue, pacing, structure. we highlight important aspects, underline the main feeling and hidden messages and subtle details we want to incorporate. we make sure everything aligns with the character to make sure they're not ooc or two-dimensional. and that's just the beginning stages of one fic idea.

then we write it. now for me, personally, when it flows easily i take two hours to write. but then there are some fics that take months. actual literal months. because the idea does not flow easily, but i hold onto it because i know it has potential. then i write multiple versions, sometimes they're 1k+ and i scrap them, all 1k+ words in the trash, just to make a "better" version which will go into the end post.

then we continue writing it, and some fics that get big wordcounts make us nervous because of all that editing and proofreading we have to do, which alone will take a long time. for me, editing can take more time than actually writing it. i have so many finished pieces in my drafts that aren't published or stay untouched because there's a complex jumble of 5k words that i need lots off energy to meticulously edit. errors, misspellings, restructuring. editing is sometimes such a nightmare that it deters me and then fics get avoided.

then there's the final touches. the banners, the warnings list, the layout, the aesthetics, etc. sometimes making banners takes a long time because of finding the right pictures and editing them too. or finding color schemes/combos that please the eye. a lot of artistic effort goes into post layout alone. there's so many tabs open it's a mess, and i constantly open and close and reopen and close, various sites for various tools to make everything look proper and neat and good for the eye and pleasing to the mind. and let's not even get started on the warnings list. it's probably my least favorite part, because i have to be very careful and proofread with a sharp eye to make sure i don't miss something that could cause the reader to accidentally have an uncomfortable experience.

and then it's published.

this baby post raised in the drafts, something that we put so much thought and care into, and now can you imagine the frown a writer makes at "part 2" comments? this whole post took a long time to make, and to just ask for more makes us feel like we're not satisfying you enough or we didn't do enough even though we did everything. it's appreciated that you enjoy it and want more, but it's still disheartening and even discouraging. imagine if you went up to your favorite author after reading their book and said "when is the sequel?" without saying anything else. it's weird. it makes us feel bad.

so please try to refrain from asking "part 2 when??" and maybe say a simple "i like this because xyz" or appreciate something about the post. even two emojis can give us an idea of how much you liked it or what you thought of it.

reblogs and comments or any feedback on the content we made is so super appreciated. writers want to know what you thought, it's fun to see reactions or understand what aspects you enjoyed. engagement is inspiring and motivational.

[chronically-ghosted]

I read this post and the one that preceded it, and I just wanted to thank you for taking the time to offer such a thoughtful and nuanced post. Nuance! On the internet! 💜

You have given me the language to articulate the discomfort I’ve had with some of the ways we all create around here. Often it feels like the tension between attention and self-expression is too hard to tolerate so I don’t blame anyone for the choices they make about what they create. But I do think reframing writing fanfic as engaging in art is a brilliant place to work from. Maybe the more we talk about the art of our creative work here, the more we gently nudge ourselves to raise the bar.

Anyway! That was long. But I wanted to thank you and say I respect so much the way you spoke about this. 💜

megan my darling thank you so much for this 🤍

i never want to come down on any one piece of fic or any one author - this is just an observation that i personally have had. doesnt even mean its true, just a pattern i'm sensitive to.

also, just to cover my ass once again: please don't stop writing the fic you want, especially if that includes writing for a character from a movie that hasn't been released. my frustration with seeing that phenomenon was TO ME PERSONALLY NOT AS A SOURCE OF TRUTH that it felt like people were using popular tropes on a popular character for the sake of notes - not because they felt artistically inspired by the original media. but at the same time, i understand the inclination to ride the wave of popularity: our time to be creative is so limited we want our work to be appreciated so why not do what's popular. it's hard out there for writers, for all artists, but i encourage all of us to stick through the frustration because ultimately, writing for something with artistic merit will make us better writers and, dare i say, better people.

As you darling megan said: "the more we talk about the art of our creative work here, the more we gently nudge ourselves to raise the bar."

[inkabelledesigns]

I know I'm posting a day late here, but Happy Birthday Bendy! February 10th, 2024 marks the 7 year anniversary of when Bendy and the Ink Machine came out. And boy, has it been a wild ride. Normally I would reserve this for my Bendy sideblog, @angelofthepage , but I'm posting it here because this is where I started years ago, and I want some of those people who don't see that blog to have a chance to see this. Because you guys are a part of this story.

In about three months, seven years ago, I was in finals hell, working through my process book for my packaging design class in one of the dorm lounges while my roommate had taken the room for herself again. And the only thing keeping me sane was putting Can't Be Erased and Build Our Machine on loop as I worked. BATIM only had two chapters out, and I didn't know everything about it, but I was so intrigued by what its deal was. I took one look at Sammy Lawrence and I wanted to know everything about him. Something about this barely started game, the idea of your characters coming to life to kill you, it thrilled me, intrigued me. It was something I was really afraid of, being so attached to my characters and putting so much of my identity in my art. And while the story isn't really all that much about cartoons themselves being alive, it gave me something else that ended up changing my life.

Over that summer, I would become obsessed, and for the first time in years, I let myself be a fangirl again. And maybe one day I'll pull up the timeline and tell you how it all went down. But right now, after all the celebrating of yesterday, I just wanna take a moment to appreciate the last seven years. All the people I've met, all the friends I've made. All the experiences we've had together, big and small. Some have been incredibly close, and others have been people I still smile about whenever I see them on my feed, even if we're not all doing stuff in the same fandom anymore. There's some people I've fallen out of touch with that I likely won't ever see again that I miss. There's some I'll be lucky if I never see again. There's the official voice actors for Dark Revival, which I've had the pleasure of working with on community things here in the fandom. I regularly moderate their livestreams (or Lovestreams as we call them) where they sign prints and interact with us fans (and sometimes I'm tech support, once an ink machine technician, always an ink machine technician xD). I'm honored to call a lot of them my friends, we've had some truly wonderful conversations. I've spent a lot of time in a variety of servers, trying to uplift people and make for a positive fandom experience for everyone, fans old and new. Sometimes it lands me in interesting places, like helping out over on the Inky News channel. The host, Brandon, invited me over to guest star on his anniversary stream yesterday, and in the past I've been fortunate enough to showcase my art on two of his interviews, one with Dave Rivas and one with Adrienne Kress. Sometimes it lands me on fun projects, like working on a fan game, and for the first time it's not as a voice actor! I'm a writer. I've had my work uplifted in turn too, meeting people who value me for me and also cheer me on when I try new things (sometimes entirely new mediums like doll customizing). I got my first helpful constructive critique in this fandom, and it was something I ASKED for. That is a huge personal milestone! I have a really complex and twisty set of feelings about critique, and finally, I feel better, because someone helped me start to unravel that just by being themselves and being thoughtful. It's inspired me to want to be better in how I handle critique and problem solving with others.

I spent so much of my life putting my self worth in other people's hands. I thought I would never be good enough to have friends who didn't treat me like garbage. I thought I'd never be a good artist in any sense of the word either. But I was wrong. I've grown. I'm valued, I'm wanted. I don't have to hide parts of myself to be desirable. Sometimes being the silly, goofy, fangirl that is Kat is enough. My art is enough, my ideas are enough, my flavor is tasty, and I am a goddamn treat. And after so many years of not knowing that, I'm glad I finally do. And it's all because of the people. It wasn't ever that my flavor was bad, it's that I hadn't found people with a taste for it yet. Bendy's greatest gift was giving me a fresh start, a chance to meet new people, good people, and for that, I'm forever grateful. Even though things have changed, I'm glad I met each and every one of you, you all taught me something valuable along the way, and I think about those experiences we shared often.

I won't lie to you, I've been rather frustrated with Bendy lately. And I think a lot of it has to do with the games not truly having grown with me. At some point our paths deviated, and there are elements of what's come and what's coming that are getting away from what really enticed me about the very first entry, the things I valued most in it. But in some ways, analyzing that has led me to figure out what made that first game so special. It was human. It was a character focused game, and each of the characters, while vague, gave us just enough about themselves that we could feel for them, get invested, imagine, maybe even sympathize. Everyone is a tragedy, but they're all different flavors of tragedy. And it was seeing people explore that, seeing people write these characters in ways that were so human, that really built a connection. For some people, Bendy is another indie horror experience. For others, it's something to indulge in that hits hard on a personal level. In many ways, it attracts a lot of us who feel like misfits. It's many things. But to me, the magic was in the people. The people in this universe, and the people in its real world community.

It has solidified my belief that people should play with fiction however they want, no matter how far it deviates from the canon, no matter how weird it is. Go be interpretive, go tell your story, go be free to make what speaks to you! (All I ask is that you're thoughtful about tagging it so people can make smart choices about engaging with it.) All stories are worth telling. Even if no one gets into it, having told it makes a difference.

Whether you're someone who's been there from the beginning, or someone that's new to Bendy, I hope you're all having fun. Whether you've finished exploring the world or you've just begun, I hope you've found something valuable. Thank you, for coming along for the ride. Here's to many more fun experiences and stories, be they official or be they in the fandom. Happy Bendyversary!

[rocksandmirrors]

this is something i wrote a couple weeks ago based on the second art of this post i've made, but i didn't feel like posting it on ao3. hope you enjoy!! the wonderful @sapphic--kiwi inspired me to write this, make sure to check out her blog as well <3 she's a very talented artist and writer

also watch out for body issues and internalized fatphobia

Matt couldn’t stand to see his reflection anymore.

He should have seen it coming, though; with all the work he had been doing for the last years, and being able to eat his fill every day, it was obvious he would gain weight. Yet, now that he stared at himself in the mirror, all he could see was the extra pounds that didn’t have to be there. He knew this was silly, but an immature part of him hoped he could have looked like these constructionist witches in the shows he watched, attractive and shaped like a V.

Grimacing, he pinched a bulge on his stomach and let out a groan. He hated looking like this, especially when he was so skinny just a couple years ago. Maybe he could skip breakfast, just for today. He wasn’t that hungry anyway.

Shaking his head to try and think about something else, Matt reached out to the cabinet above the sink until he saw Augustus’ reflection in the mirror, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. He froze as they locked eyes, and he prayed he hadn’t seen too much of him wallowing in his misery.

“Hey,” he mumbled, finally opening the cabinet to grab his hairbrush. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“Nah.” Matt heard footsteps behind him, and a few seconds later, felt a pair of arms around his waist, as well Augustus’ warmth against his back, and his chin on his shoulder. “You’re up earlier than usual.”

“Eh, I just woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep. Figured I could get prepared for work, at least.”

Augustus’ hands wandered around his stomach and hips- areas of his body that he hated more than anything- and he repressed the urge to push them away. Instead, he started brushing his hair, slowly, untying all the knots one by one. He had two hours left before leaving, might as well take his time.

“Matty, are you okay?” he asked, slumber still staining his voice.

“M’yeah. Sort of.” When he met Augustus’ eyes again through the mirror, he sighed. “No, not really.”

“I know. I saw you.”

Yeah, he figured as much. His fiance had that talent for always being at the wrong place, at the wrong time. He put his hairbrush down next to the sink, still staring at their reflections.

“Of course you saw me. There’s nothing else to see about me but… this,” he added, disgust dripping in his tone.

“Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“Like what? Like I became fucking ugly? Someone here has to, because you sure as hell aren’t doing it.”

Matt was getting worked up over pretty much nothing and arguing with a brick wall; he knew that, yet couldn’t help it. Just thinking about the way his body had changed over the last years made him feel miserable and fall back into his old self-deprecating ways, aggressive towards someone who didn’t ask for it.

“You’re not ugly,” Augustus argued, leaving a peck on his jaw. “You’ve never been.”

“Augustus, you don’t need to rub me up the right way. I know I’ve changed, I mean- you’ve seen me at seventeen, look at me now! I was in much better shape back then!”

“Were you?”

“Do you really need me to make an illusion of my old self to compare?” He asked, arching an eyebrow.

Augustus shook his head, his hands still rubbing the parts of his body he hated the most. Matt just wanted this conversation to end, to go on about his day and shove that brief moment of vulnerability into a corner of his mind so he could forget about it. As much as he hated his current appearance, he never intended for his lover to listen to him vent about his body issues first thing in the morning.

“Matt, you had nothing to eat as a teen, of course you were skinnier. Hell, I’ve seen you digging through trash at school just to have lunch.”

“Yeah, but-”

“You’ve grown up. You’re doing a lot more physical work, and like it or not, you can’t keep your teen body all your life.” One of Augustus’ hands moved up to his torso. “If you really want to lose weight someday, I’ll support you, but I want you to know I also love how you look right now, because you’re just as healthy and handsome. Frankly, I’m happy to see you like this.”

Matt’s breath got stuck in his throat, and his eyes widened at these words. He knew Augustus tended to be clingier than usual whenever he lacked some sleep, but he still needed to get used to all the praise that came with it.

“I don’t really see it,” he admitted with a shrug.

“That’s okay. I don’t expect you to get over this right away.” The younger witch left another kiss, this time at the nape of his neck, and a shiver ran down his spine. “But trust me, if you could see yourself the way I see you, you’d marry yourself in a heartbeat.”

Matt could feel- and see- all the blood rushing to his face, and suddenly, the warm hands wandering on his body didn’t bother him as much- they felt loving, tender, worshiping every part of the body he still struggled to accept as it was. He leaned into Augustus, still standing behind him, and the arms around him wrapped themselves tighter.

“Are you feeling any better?” He asked.

“I… Yeah, actually. Thanks, babe.”

“No problem.” Augustus left one last peck on the shell of his ear before stepping back, and Matt immediately missed his warmth. “Since we’re both awake, I’m gonna make some coffee. Do you want some?”

“You know it.” Matt turned around to face him, offering him a tired smile. “Let me make you breakfast, yeah?”

“Don't worry, I’m not touching any pans in this kitchen,” he yawned as he left the bathroom.

Matt watched his fiance walk away, then turned back to his reflection. Half of his hair had been brushed, the bags under his eyes were a little more prominent than usual, contrasting with his crimson face, and his shirt was a little crinkled from where Augustus had been touching him. He pinched a bulge on his stomach again, poking at the fat here and there with a faint smile.

Maybe he could indulge in breakfast today.