#apologize if I described this topic incorrectly

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

This one's probably a hard one but: Vanilla + SVE bachelors with a farmer who has the fear of dying/thanatophobia/death itself? Curious what you'd do with this!

Oh, heavy topic...

Thanks for the ask, dear anon!

⚠️ Warning: mention of death, mention of attempted suicide, mention of war.

_________________________________________

Stardew Valley

Harvey:

Near-death experiences almost always leave a scar in a person's mental health. Harvey suspected that after the emergency operation he had performed on Farmer, severely wounded in the Mines, his friend and patient would have to recover not only their physical health, but their mental health as well. And he was right (and hoped he was wrong): Farmer began to suffer from insomnia, panic attacks, and avoid all places that could be associated with death, even the Harvey's Clinic. The doctor will give Farmer the contact of a therapist he knows well who can help them with their phobia, and offers his support and help too.

Sam:

Young and perpetually energetic Sam used to think little of death until his father left to defend the Republic, with the likelihood of not returning. Frowning thoughts began to visit him more, but the guitarist still chased them away, trying to think only of good things. Farmer, who is so panic-stricken about death and all the news about death-related events, caught Sammy off guard. He wants to help Farmer, but doesn't know how. Maybe he can ask Harvey for advice. But he's always willing to help Farmer at least calm down if they get caught in a panic attack. And will also try not to mention the war news in front of them, so as not to trigger them.

Shane:

Damn... How Shane can feel their pain and struggle. When he woke up in the clinic, remembering his (thankfully) failed jump, it was his fear of death that made him stop. Although it saved his life, he was terrified of death afterwards, walking around depressed, afraid of ending without knowing what came next, and afraid of dying and leaving Jas, who had already lost her parents before. But Shane was able to control himself, not without the help of his family and Farmer, of course. So he will not abandon a close friend when they are suffering. One word - therapy: it helped him, and it would help them too.

Elliott:

Some anxiety about death is a perfectly normal part of the human condition, is it not? A question that sooner or later arises for a person, forcing them to look for answers in philosophy, religion, or elsewhere. But Elliott sees that Farmer's abnormal fear of death is preventing them from the most important thing of all: enjoying life. The writer will be careful to approach Farmer with help, as he doesn't have the right knowledge and is afraid of triggering a panic attack in them with the wrong words. Harvey should know the contacts of the right people, plus Elliott will ask around his acquaintances. All in all, he won't leave his friend alone with a problem.

Alex:

Alex had to face death at a young age when his mom passed away. The poor kid, who lost his family so suddenly, later grieved not only for mother, but also had a fear that his grandparents would also pass away (they were already old at that time). Then he received help, but about the very subject of death the athlete did not tell anyone except his grandma and grandpa, not wanting to appear weak and tearful. But Farmer listened and supported Alex, even though Alex told them about his late mother, and the subject of death scares them to death. They have not abandoned Alex, and he will try to listen to them and help them as he knows how, either in word or deed - anything.

Sebastian:

Standing by the railroad or on the sandy shore, Sebastian had thought more than once about death: was there really an afterlife, would anyone remember him when he passed away, was there any chance that he would become a ghost after death? But these were just his thoughts, and local emo didn't expect a harsh reaction from Farmer when he casually mentioned one of this questions. He didn't mean to offend or scare them, but... this behavior wasn't right. Sebby would try to ask Farmer if they're okay, trying his best to help them, but for now he would leave them alone, not wanting to make the situation worse.

Stardew Valley Expanded

Lance:

Death, the threat of which accompanies the adventurer throughout their life, ceases to be their fear. This is explained to every would-be monster hunter in every guild from the very beginning of their journey. It has been explained to Lance as well, and he is ready to throw himself into the defence of humans without fear of death. Farmer became an adventurer much later, and judging by their reactions, no one prepared them for such a thing. The gallant adventurer would try to help his friend, but if this continued and hindered Farmer in battle, then... He would advise Farmer to postpone position as adventurer, and concentrate on their own mental wellbeing.

Victor:

Victor ran around in a panic looking for sedatives in his house, not at all expecting that the tv news program would gave Farmer a panic attack. When the spaghetti lover was able to calm his friend down, Farmer explained to him that the news about the massive loss of life due to the war had triggered them, and began apologizing to Victor. To which he stopped them, telling them that they had nothing to apologize for. Such news can... indeed make a person really sad. Victor advised them to go to Dr. Harvey for help, and told them that his house was always open and he was ready to receive and listen to them.

Magnus Rasmodius:

Death is a natural, inevitable occurrence, and Magnus, who is of a respectable age and has begun to prepare for his end by leaving a legacy for his pupil, no longer fears death. But he can understand the fear of the young Farmer, especially after their near-death experience in Mines. Magnus... isn't the best at talking, but he will do his best to comfort Farmer and explain to them about the concept of death, trying to help them deal with their fear. If his words weren't enough, well... Then he might suggest Farmer turn to Linus, with his wisdom, or the local doctor. Not that the Wizard doesn't care, it's just that he doesn't quite know how to help his friend with this.

[farewellwndrlst]

inside (2021)

some random quote from lord of the rings incorrectly attributed to martin luther king.

first of all, i hope what that post won’t be all about depression, but who knows.

bo burnham is a comedian. like many comedians, he jokes about feminism («everyone's a feminist until there is a spider aroundt»), about the phrase «white man» and that the cursed capitalists have again destroyed the world. and he didn’t joke five years before that stand-up. in the summer of 2016, the last special “make happy” came out, which ended with the song «can’t handle this», which described the difficulties of being a comedian. before this bo had serious problems with feeling himself on stage (regular panic attacks during the performance), which led him to a certain situation from which he fight for five years.

and so, as he was finishing his therapy by the beginning of 2020, the idea matured. he can go on stage again, make jokes, tell people about his life, and work again. again these ��night shifts» with the desire to make people happy, repeating the same jokes to get out of his dead-end work on a new round and the next year repeat all the same. and then, the funniest thing happened.

this is another film about pandemic reality. unlike «knives out: glass onion» all happens in one place. unlike «staged» only one person works on this. no job share or «zoom comedy». we see what is locked in a small house, creating reality around us and trying to find a common idea that will cheer the viewer. and that’s the hardest thing for a live comedian to do: to hear laughter and applause where they didn’t exist.

i think we all heard «welcome to the internet» and maybe «1985» that make fun of some reality around us.  and while the second song is outtakes, the first one is almost at the end of the whole stand-up. and even from there, we meet this contrast of comedy that exists for bo and comedian. we see a contrast between ��joker» and «depression», but they are connected in one - in one person.

the theme of comedy in depression is now common. satire on society is mixed with outright frustration and fear. with what requires the help of a specialist. bo in depression. and on this topic even there is a scientific work - about how separate personalities in this stand-up. you didn’t think i’d just write about a bunch of music jokes, did you?

anyway, in order to see the structure of the show for netflix, we need to break it down into episodes. yes, between each song there are certain phrases, stories, moment and even work with frame (oh, my favorite theme), but this i will touch at the end, and in the meantime small structural points that i take from the «top of the iceberg».

(yes i love read a lot of paper work about things i passionate about. as always.)

song 1. / content.

the first song is the most important song. we open the stand-up for an hour and a half from a comedian who always played the piano as part of the performance (let’s call it a concert), and the first song is what gives us context. background? maybe even exposure.

this is the beginning. at the end of «make happy» we see a high level of stress. here, if it does appear, it does not grow.

and in the 7th line of the whole stand we see «robert’s been a little depressed, no» and attempts to «get out» of this state - to get up, sit down, write jokes and sing silly songs. he made «content», which he hopes the public will like - and himself. so we see both apology, invitation, and justification. the first song. what’s next? who knows.

song 2. / comedy.

one of my favorite songs is for obvious reasons. beginning - questions, questions, questions, - literally all doubts about the work. flexi-time and light workload are cool, but not when you are working alone and in bad relationships with your workmate. can the work be done? maybe comedy isn’t as glamorous as work? maybe, maybe, maybe?

and all these doubts that are based on the desire to make the world a better place, to keep it better than it was before. and all of them cut off on money, which is a certain technique that creates a comedy out of horror.

making it absurd. the technique is simple and old, but it does not get worse.

this is all - a big oxymoron. «healing the world with comedy» - «not for free». «to give your money to change the world? no, i’m better will take money to change the world.» and so on. a bright image is a comedy world in practice is harder to change than money. «if you wake up in a house that’s full of smoke don’t panic-call me and i’ll tell you a joke». will a joke save you? i don’t know, but i don’t think so.

it then cuts to a scene of robert, the actual person sitting in front of the mirror with a microphone in hand and talking. it creates a sharp contrast between the performance of “comedy” and this following scene as from the overwhelming experience of many cuts and sounds, he is suddenly sitting in daylight in silence. this scene is also important because it is one of the first ones that create this sense. he even says that: “it will be only me and my camera and, of course, you and your screen” which ultimately connects robert and the viewer as it feels almost like an intimate relationship because no one else is present.

song 9. / look who’s inside again.

the whole stand-up, if we divide it into «robert» and «bo», shows us this «prison cell» in which they find themselves. one location. wires on the floor that are tangled. pandemic. own fears. this is a conflict of «fight club», but in miniature, in the aquarium. and the visual appearance of the scene with this song - the camera on the floor, the wire around, the lack of bright color lighting and the element «show» - is more a personal conversation about whether you can do your job if you are alone in the room and you are not a freelancer. can you do your job if you don’t have a deadline, if you’re depressed and «surrounded»? try.

but cool thing about this: it cuts to another behind the scenes sequence where robert is testing the mist machine and is moving the cameras. this specific scene is interesting because it is ended with the camera falling where robert is trying to catch it but failing his attempt. that again creates the illusion of an “accident” which brings the question of whether it was all planned or truly an accident. this scene might only create the illusion of authenticity and relatability which then helps burnham to create a deeper relationship with the viewer.

song 11. / 30.

robert (not bo, again) is sitting in the middle of the room next to a digital clock that shows that it is two minutes before midnight. it had been six months since starting to work on this special and that he thought that he would have been finished by his birthday, but didn’t manage to achieve that and sits for the remaining minute of his twenties in silence.

and “clap”. 12:00 on the clock, so he didn’t achieve his idea.

yes, this is another post about the crisis of growing up. yes, i know that everyone is tired of it, but apparently, people are really afraid of getting old. overcome 18 years, 21 years, 30 years, 40 years and beyond. nobody wants to become old. especially those who make money with their humor. «humor and old age are not compatible», yes?

but this part of the scene is bo. it’s a show. it’s a show out of the idea of aging. the show out of awareness is old. the show from the realization of «i am thirty, i no longer fit the definition of «young», yes?». i feel sorry for everyone who goes through this.

song 14. / all time low.

i was talking about a «contrast». about the separation of bo and robert. so this song shows all of this robert’s depression and bo’s depression. the first one sinks. the second makes of this show. the first jokes through force. the second presents his horror picture, like a skittles or something - bright, sweet, but still it turns out that something is wrong. and that’s one person. still.

song 19. / goodbye.

i realize we’ve been gone a long time for a thousand words, so i’m really trying to cut down on what i think, write and say here.

this song is important for the visual element (like the whole stand-up, let’s be honest). we see robert - short hair, short beard. he’s at the beginning. he just comes up with an idea. «the concept of the last song». he comes up with a way to start over after five years of missing.

he enters the cage. promises to become a prisoner. he asks if he has returned many years ago when he first started. he’s trying to figure out what to do when the format changes, the salary is the same, and the work is out of touch.

the song mixes everything before. and it’s an important element.

the promise to get into the cage. thoughts that mix and should be structured. questions about finding a beginning. first attempts after a break. do you get the point?

after songs. / truman show.

we watched an hour and a half of how one person locked in a cage struggles with himself. things from "can’t handle this" remain relevant.

and it’s time to get out of the cage. find the wall, climb the stairs and realize that you’ve been surrounded all this time. and robert’s doing it. gets out of his «dragon lair». if the hero’s journey is through the dragon fight, then for robert the dragon is himself.

we see visual elements - tangled wires, light, pictures on the wall, a ray that falls on the clock (two minutes left... one minute left...). we see all this and in this one of the nicest things about this work is that it was done by one person, makes it original. completely. solutions with light. decisions with composition. decisions with music. all this is one robert burnham. a depressed guy who plays silly songs, jokes, tries to come up with something new and creates. it is robert burnham who is the writer, director, principal actor, musician, makeup artist, creative director and performer. he is all of this. he creates his reality in a little house-cage, and we get to look at it. discuss. and that’s the beauty of this work – persona.

[angelinkstain]

Vain & Vulnerable

Vulnerability and being a man do not go hand in hand. Being vulnerable is an immensely difficult process to go through, and time only proves a harder lesson in whether to proceed or not. In Brené Brown’s TEDTalk, Listening to Shame, she describes the mental fatality faced when dealing with shame and reconciling a faulty situation. In reconciling relationships with others, there is a level of disappointment and shame that accompanies, and can even overpower the initial want to apologize. 

Vulnerability comes with an initial feeling of shame and disappointment, only increased when men are made to admit their shame and face their consequences. As a man, there is an expectation of being faultless In everything we do, and an increased feeling of disappointment if we are unable to deliver on something. When men need to admit their faults they can feel increased stress as they also have to deal with the other person’s response when expressing their feelings. 

As Brown names it, a “Vulnerability Hangover” occurs after you express your shame, and open yourself up for ridicule. Like an alcohol hangover, there is a dark feeling of shame weighing down after you express yourself and open yourself up to emotional bullets when you allow the other person to be as honest as you’ve been with them. As I was watching this TEDTalk, I was reminded of times growing up where I have felt immense shame in addressing a situation where I had acted incorrectly and had to correct myself, despite how uncomfortable I felt. While I was afraid in bringing up situations with potentially hurtful consequences, I am aware that “vulnerability Is not weakness,” and being honest only serves to build more than destruct. However, I cannot bring myself to admit that I have messed up in the fashion usually required for conversations like this. On a grander scale, there is a sense of shame associated with many conversations in daily life. It is impossible to discuss certain topics, like race, without introducing the topic of shame into the conversation, as people are uncomfortable talking about things they consider shameful, and would instead try to steer the conversation into a different direction. 

When race is brought into a conversation, there is an inherent shame, regardless of what side someone is on. Maybe they don’t want to come off as racist, maybe they don’t want to be That Confederate Coworker, but there is always some discomfort when talking about race. The inherent shame that comes with the topic is trailed by centuries of mistreatment leading to shame in mentioning and discussing matters that have a large effect on daily actions and interactions. The feeling of shame is one that overwhelms any other feeling, and can remain as a prevalent force in damaging good relationships and harming budding ones. 

Psychology Today has an anecdote in their December 2021 issue aptly titled “Feeling Our Way.” Tyler Woods, the author, sums up a big unifier in daily struggle with shame- collective shame being an “amazing way to bring together large chunks of the population.” (Woods) Shame is a social feeling emphasized as people fail to live up to the expectations set up by those around us, scarcely ourselves. As social situations stir feelings of anxiety and shame, there is an increasing feeling of shame throughout communities as failure accumulates. As much as we inflict shame upon ourselves, we expect forgiveness to come from outside sources, and we’re left waiting for something we should be providing to ourselves. Shame and forgiveness go hand in hand: as long as you want to ask for forgiveness to move on from feeling shameful, you’re too ashamed to ask for forgiveness and instead choose not to act. 

Shame is “That Thing” (Brown) that prevents those who seek forgiveness from moving forward. Feeling shame, I gave forgone several situations where I should have asked for forgiveness but instead took the shameful route, keeping silent and ignoring the conversations that should have been held. Much of my life has been led by shame, and Brown’s TEDTalk only served as a warning that shame will only lead to more personal loss. While I am unsure of how I can continue forging relationships when I know I’ve damaged several already, I know there are many ways I can learn to develop better methods of communication in developing relationships with others, 

REFERENCES

Brown, B. (n.d.). The power of vulnerability. TED. Retrieved November 28, 2021, from https://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_the_power_of_vulnerability?language=en. 

The great reset | psychology Today Singapore. (n.d.). Retrieved November 28, 2021, from https://www.psychologytoday.com/sg/articles/202111/the-great-reset. 

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Illuminations Part 2 (Conclusion)

I hope you... enjoy? The hanahaki is in bloom, friends.

First tag request, @cynic-spirit​! Thanks! (If I did that incorrectly, I apologize - still figuring out the ins and outs of the tumblrverse.)

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She finds herself in the same room, across the same table, with the same tea sliding down her throat. He’s taken to finding her at night, when she thought herself safe and alone, only to pull her away from her work, forcing her to stay even longer in his company. On his island. In his employ.

And every night, the tea loosens her tongue, and she shares a little more. Across the table – a world away and yet too near – he drinks the same tea.

He knows a lot about art, and he brings their discussions back to it time and again. He wants her thoughts, her opinions, and if she didn’t have a very reasonable fear of a terrible death on a lonely shore, she could enjoy their talks. She never doubts his enthusiasm. Only his intent. She’s learning his expressions. Trapped in a room with so many reasons to pay attention, it’s hard not to.

Somehow he can ask any kind of question without lowering himself, even when he’s curious. The curiosity is simply opportunity in another guise, not a weakness, not a revelation of a deficit of knowledge.

His chilling elegance makes her wonder – from time to time – about old stories of wicked, fey things. Each word, so carefully delivered, provides a mirror surface of still water, hiding the raging current that waits to swallow her under. Break the veneer and drown. And, of course, she already knows the danger of entering into a contract with such a creature. Spirited away to his own world, removed from knights in shining armor and mortal laws, her humanity has become his possession. She is more book than person, something to read for information or distraction in the lonely hours.

“How would you describe what you do?” he asks one night. “If you could not call it art, or drawing, or illustration, is there a better word?”

The tea sits warm in her empty belly – another missed meal in the name of finishing her work – and she blames the smile trying to grow in response to his question on that. This could be a conversation she’d have with a friend. She’s enjoyed similar topics with dozens of fellow students, colleagues.

“Summing it up in one word kind of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”

“That’s not an answer.”

And he so clearly expects one. She settles back with her cup of sweetly bitter tea, frowning at the table as her thoughts trip back to art school and adolescent wonder. Before she learned theory and technique, she had to have the drive, and the key to his question lies somewhere in that miasma of untempered hopes and dreams. She saw something. She read something. She felt something.

“Illumination.”

He likes her answer, even though she hasn’t finished. Eyebrows raised, lips firm but not frowning – it’s the face he wears when he’s taking her seriously, when she’s least afraid he’s trying to bait her into saying the wrong thing.

“Technically, since I don’t paint with gold, it’s the wrong word, but I’ve always thought it’s the best description of what I try to do,” she says. Too honest, too open, too late. He doesn’t deserve the things she tells him. Whatever he may think, he hasn’t bought her in that way. So, why can’t she stop herself? “I saw a touring exhibit of the Book of Kells when I was little, and the word got stuck in my head. The art brought light to the words. It brings some kind of understanding, I think. Or it’s supposed to.”

“Is that why you work at night?” he asks. “Are you trying to bring light to my island?”

She hunches over her cup, murmuring against the rim as she mutters, “No.”

It’s his turn to smile, though it lacks the softness she felt in her own. He knows why she works through the night, and it is nothing so altruistic that fuels her.

The next day dawns unseasonably hot. It’s unusual for the region and the time of year, but summer demands its pound of flesh before surrendering to autumn, even if it’s late. In the garden, the sun beats down mercilessly, and gardeners spend the entire afternoon running to tend drooping plants with watering cans. Safin doesn’t appear even once, and she skips both lunch and dinner to take advantage of the daylight.

Even when the sun sets, the old building keeps the muggy heat locked in the living quarters. It’s too hot to sleep. Despite her productive day, habit and sweat-soaked sheets drive her to her work. She leaves the door open, hoping for a breath of air, and she abandons her button-up shirt. Hair in a sloppy bun, shoulders and back exposed in her simple camisole, she loses herself in translating the toxic paradise of the Safin family.

She’s spent so much time in the garden, she doesn’t have to be near the plants to smell them. They’ve perfumed her mind. It worries her, but she’s making progress. It isn’t forever. When she’s finished, he’ll have to let her go. His aren’t the only flowers in the world, and she aches for kinder subjects to fill her time and senses.

It takes longer than it should for her to notice his breathing. No footsteps. No words. Only breath out of sync with her own. She looks over her shoulder, alarmed but not surprised. He’s been hiding from the heat all day. It was too much to assume he’d hide through the night as well. The heat had clearly affected him. Sweat-drenched hair sticks to his face, more disheveled than she’s ever seen it, and his eyes glow with a fever bright intensity she’s only noted from a safe distance. But now they’re burning her. Though they take a moment to lift to her eyes.

She realizes what holds his attention.

Her camisole reveals the better part of her back piece, and her professional wear has always covered it completely. The tattoo took months to design, and it took her years to find the right artist – and the courage – to actually do it. It is orderly chaos expressed in rare flowers and half-curled ferns. Natural geometry, blending and beguiling. The illumination she is most proud of but least likely to show.

Another piece of herself she never meant to share.

His nostrils flare as he breathes, like he can smell the art on her skin the way she can still smell his garden. He stares, unblinking, and she holds the look for a full minute before she dares to break the connection and return to her work. His lingering gaze offers the chill she’s craved all day, and goosebumps rise along her neck and arms.

When he finally leaves, she knows more by the absence of his attention than the sound of his steps.

----------

He’s adding to the garden. She’s sure of it, because she received a list of species to cover when she first arrived, and she counted the items to get an idea of how long the project would take. Someone swaps the list out of the drawer in her desk when she sleeps. Whenever she’s nearly finished, she finds the list has grown longer, new plants sneaking between individuals she’s already illustrated – like weeds growing up through the cracks.

She can’t say anything about it, of course. She doesn’t want to die, and she fosters the dimming hope of seeing home again. Someday.

But the day they take her to the lab is the day she realizes she is never going home.

It has been a week since she coughed up the monkshood. A month since he stared at her from the doorway of her studio.

She follows her armed guard, eyes on his back, not roaming the new territory through which he leads her. The less she notices, the fewer reasons her employer has to extend her stay. However, the fact she knows there’s a line to cross, things she isn’t supposed to know, is already a mark against her. When the guard descends to the lower levels, she hesitates. But he only has to glance over his shoulder, hand resting casually on his gun, for her to scurry along.

He gestures for her to go through the glass door ahead of him. The guards probably have too much filth on their boots to tread lightly on polished ground. He looks impatient. She still hesitates in the doorway. A future lies on the other side she simply does not want. It begins with secrets and ends in oblivion, but all she came to do was draw flowers. The guard shoves her hard enough that she stumbles three steps forward, earning a few evil looks from the scientists who hate her and curious glances from the few who don’t.

One of the scientists steps forward and leads her to a microscope. They briefly describes the tiny things she’s meant to draw as her stomach turns hard and her aching throat tightens.

Photography would’ve done just as well, and she specializes in botanical illustration, so this is a long leap beyond her wheelhouse. Safin can’t really care about artistic renderings of his nano technology. All this exercise confirms is her fate.

It doesn’t matter what’s in her contract. It doesn’t matter if she ever finishes the list. She belongs to him until he decides otherwise, like an artist trapped in a feudal lord’s court. Somewhere in their discussions, she has let herself become a little too interesting, and now she’s trapped.

That evening, she coughs up hydrangea – heartlessness – and wonders what he does with the dead bodies of his victims.

This will kill her, she knows. Hanahaki doesn’t retreat in the face of common sense and logic. It is an illogical infection with only two cures. She doesn’t think a man like Safin can love. Even if he can, it would be a fearsome thing, she’s sure. She’s happy to accept her own explanations for her impending doom: she’s entirely at fault. Her heart broke from the realization that she fell quietly in love with an absolute monster. Worse still, a monster that stole her life and freedom for his own petty ends. She can’t live with herself after that kind of betrayal.

Her love is unrequited on both sides.

So, she says nothing, even as the symptoms become too intense to properly hide.

There’s no point being careful. She flounders to the realization one night as she coughs up anemones into the toilet. A few drops of blood fly out with the petals, and the crimson drops unfurl like silk ribbons in the water. Beauty and filth. The heart of her disease.

The thing growing inside – even if it is love – is rotten. Parasitic, it could only be beautiful removed from all context and circumstance.

So, assured of her death, she tries to force it out on paper. Purge it. But true to her words, she only illuminates the subject of her thoughts. Of her horror and fascination.

He’s beautiful in her sketches. Deadly smiles hint at concealed passion and naked brutality as he stands among his flowers, eyes cold but satisfied. She draws him with the shadows. In the light. In the meeting times of dawn and dusk when he should look softer – but he never does.

She can’t work at night any more, too weak to leave her bed for more than the requisite hours of daylight. Maybe he wanders by the closed door of her studio, looking for a crack of light, but she isn’t there to invite for tea. She can’t avoid him if he wants to find her, but he seems to have heard she’s sick, and maybe he’s leaving her space to recover. Or he’s afraid of catching whatever she’s contracted.

He must have noticed when the cough started. Had he tried to cure it with his tea? Or had he ever even dreamed of using his plants to prolong a life rather than end it?

She spirals quickly. Once she’s noticed what’s happening, her symptoms accelerate, like her attention is sunlight for the flowers clawing through her lungs. People notice. Servants give her long, frightened looks, and the scientists all frown and hold their sleeves over their faces. But no one dares to do anything about her without their master’s permission. The artist is under the lord’s authority, and he has given no order.

No one quite realizes what’s wrong until she collapses, though. An enormous peony chokes her, and she drops in the hall as Safin’s lead scientist gawps at her twitching body. Her eyes roll back in her head, and for a blissful, awful moment, she thinks she’s finally dying. Not by inches. All at once.

Fingers dig in her mouth, and Russian curses rain down as the bespectacled man finds the edge of the flower and tears it out. She coughs her way back to life, spattered in her own blood and saliva, as the scientist stares at her shame in his hands.

“Hanahaki?” he asks.

She can’t answer – can still barely breathe – but her mournful wheeze tells the doctor all he needs to know. He’s an expert, one of the most knowledgeable of human anatomy in the entire world, and he couldn’t mistake this diagnosis if he tried.

“Who? Who do you need?”

It’s not his business at all, and she prefers to close her eyes than deal with his meddling. What does he think he’ll accomplish?

“Your talent must be unusual for Mr. Safin to hire you,” he insists. “If you are still here, he still has use for you. This is no good.”

Of course the loyal hound wants to preserve his master’s tools. There are no real people on the island, she decides, flirting with the edge of consciousness. All monsters. Even she must be a monster, to have fallen so easily for the worst of them.

She drifts for a while. More or less aware of what happens around her as guards hoist her up and drag her to bed, as they comb through her belongings, gather her work. Are they trying to find the one she’s dying over? Do they have orders now?

She is only dying because she should. She can’t live with such a love. She can’t breathe.

The rest, even as her energy drains in wet coughs that threaten to tear her apart, feels nice. She’s worked so hard. She’s fulfilled her contract twice over, and she’s ready to just stop and sleep.

She was never going to return home.

The next time she’s awake and aware enough to open her eyes and understand what she sees, she’s in a much larger bed than her bunk in the employee dorm. Safin sits beside her, stiff and stern, a new expression in his eyes she doesn’t know what to call.

He’s holding her sketches. Studies of his own eyes peer up at him. His fingers brush over illustrations of his restless hands. In lieu of conversations over tea, he’s found a way to understand her, once again, without consent.

Cold eyes find hers. Hold her. Demanding something. But if it’s a question, she had no answers left. He’s taken everything she can give him and a few things she can’t. It doesn’t seem like it’s enough, though.

He takes a deep breath, drawing himself even straighter.

“I am illuminated.”

He sets the papers aside, as gently as his delicate porcelain tea service, and leans near. Cautious fingers explore the skin that’s still cold from his long look on a humid evening many days before. He strokes her cheek, and a crooked little smile staggers across his face.

Closer.

Closer.

His lips brush and press over hers. They’re softer than they have a right to be. Another sinful secret of the damned morning star. With his hand still holding her face, he pulls back to search her eyes. Looking for a miracle. Expecting a cure.

And she knows the word for that veiled expression.

Fear.

She wishes she could still laugh. She can barely cry. He really thought he could save her.

Too late. Or not enough.

Cyclamen blossoms tumble from her lips, and even as he shouts, clawing them from her mouth, she’s already on her way.

---------

Lyutsifer Safin has a beautiful garden. The most wonderful flowers bloom there, and even if they can do terrible things to a man, they’re still lovely. This is the center of his world, and all the things he loves most grow between the gravel paths.

A collection of monkshood, cyclamen, anemones, and hydrangea fill the plot closest to his bedroom. He wakes smelling them and watches the colors glow in the last light of day before he retires. He has forbidden his gardeners from cutting the blooms, from harvesting the rich poisons they offer. He killed without meaning to, and he will let his artist grow in peace.

He will keep her near, and admire the evidence of her empathy. She sleeps under the soil, and her flowers are even prettier than her paintings.

The loveliest in his garden.

[controlledchaoscollective]

okay. we’re gonna preface this post with saying this probably one of the most “chronically online” things we will ever talk about. and also it’s just not a topic that needs to be discussed tbh. BUT its 1 am and we’re not gonna be able to sleep until we get this out of our little peanut brain.

Anyway, onto how we can relate the pineapple on pizza “discourse” to syscourse and anti-endogenic rhetoric. (yes, i did just say that.)

okay, so. you start off with two people. one person eats a slice of pizza with pineapple on it. They enjoyed it very much, and find it delicious. another person tries a slice of pizza with pineapple on it. they do not enjoy it, and think it is gross. these are both descriptions of what they experience, and they are both experiences that we can accept. (as we can ALL experiences.)

The problem arises when person number two finds out about how person one thinks pineapple on pizza is lovely, and begins to tell them how that is the incorrect way to eat pizza, gross, and how they are “violating the pizza rules”. this doesn’t make sense, as different people can experience taste in different ways, and pizza does not have “rules” or a right/wrong way.

now, we have two systems. system A went through repeated childhood trauma, and is a traumagenic DID system. system B had no childhood trauma, and is a endogenic non-disordered system. both of these describe how they experience plurality, in their own minds and consciousness. these experiences can be accepted (as can ALL experiences.)

The problem arises when system A finds out about system B’s different experience, and begins to tell them that thats the “wrong way” to be a system, that they are disgusting (an actual thing we’ve been called for supporting endogenic systems, this is not exaggeration), and that they are breaking the “psychology rules”. this doesn’t make sense because there’s no wrong way to experience yourself or your brain. there’s no rules to psychology or the human existence/experience, and putting barriers and walls on what you think should and shouldn’t happen is harmful and blocks out people who could potentially have a positive effect on you.

okay, ramble over, apologies if what i said made absolutely no sense, it was very unfiltered and jumbled up. something may be worded incorrectly. you are free to ask for clarifications, just be respectful -🧿

[komaeda161]

Now I realize we’ve been at this for some time already, but at the risk of derailing the dialogue you initiated, and may I just say how thrilled I am that you did, Karkat, I would just like qualify my entire analysis of your “Alternian culture” by saying that in contrast with life on Beforus, while your people may have been engaged in violent, lethal class struggle for millions of sweeps, by no means does this imply that the Beforan way of life was entirely without problematic elements, perhaps even more disturbing and insidious for their lack of acknowledgement and open discussion, particularly as a consequence of what in my view were widely and dismayingly unexamined systemic social injustices resulting from the entrenched power dynamics in play, dynamics strikingly similar to those of your planet’s markedly more bellicose iteration, which has only served to fully vindicate my hypothesis that such a hierarchy is really predicated on intrinsic dysfunction, and failure to shift all the usual narratives and undiagnosed problems into an open, judgment-free discourse through which problematic issues are constructively channeled into more intelligently problematized avenues of discussion. Now before I continue, it is only decent of me to warn you about certain triggers that are surely ahead in this essay. I mean conversation. Triggers include but likely will not be limited to class oppression, culling culture and violence against grubs, lusus abuse, complementary and analogous hate speech, pail filling, slurries and other concupiscent fluids, lifespan shaming, ableist slurs, prolix dissertation… Actually, maybe it would be easier for you to list your triggers, and I’ll do my best to avoid those topics, or navigate them more delicately, if at all possible? Great. It sounds like you don’t have any triggers, at least none that you know about. I’ll proceed with caution nevertheless. Just please let me know if you start feeling triggered by anything I’m saying, and we can take a brief time-out while you summon your moirail to help pacify you, assuming you have one. Not that I’m presuming you do, But I heard that you did, is that correct? If not, I apologize. I further apologize if your orientation precludes the possibility, as a pale aromantic, panquadrant demiromantic, something in the gray palesexual department or such, and hopefully you are not triggered by such presumptuous concillianormative language. It wouldn’t be the first time I was guilty of such an inexcusable microaggression, and I am not so oblivious to my own romantic privilege to believe it will be the last time either. I’m glad I brought up the subject of unexamined privilege, because it dovetails beautifully with the point I was about to make regarding beforan society and its savage umbral potentiality which later manifested through the kind of Alternian brutality you are all too familiar with. Those in the higher echelons of the hemospectrum such as the ceruleans, or “blue bloods” (careful, being loose with such terminology is opening the floodgates to a whole host of toxic signist language and hemophobic slurs), when addressing the challenges faced by those lower on the spectrum, such as the midhues or in particular warm castes like umbers, ochres, or “rust bloods” (another slur, highly problematic, deeply offensive and triggering terminology, strongly imploring you steer clear of this term), they would be well advised to check their cerulean privilege, particularly before dismissing hardships or marginalizing claims of oppression, which can be difficult for them to identify or empathize with from their advantageous position within the beforan//Alternian power structures. And some may argue that in our peaceful “utopian” culture that we have freed ourselves from injustice and disparities in privilege in a post-scarcity economy, largely equal rights distributed across the hemospectrum, and therefore exist in a “post-spectral world” (laugh out loud), and therefore there is no need to champion important social causes and there is nothing left to debate, but really nothing could be further from the truth. You just need to educate yourself and carefully investigate the longstanding power dynamics in play. For instance, a seemingly “harmless” remark from a cisblooded cerulean toward an umber or God forbid a burgundy or yes even a warm-identifying physically-cooler caste, about their very long term future plans such as on the order of centuries, then this may prove to be a very hurtful microagression due to the fact that lowhues cannot possibly live that long themselves, and the more priviliged caste could easily outlive dozens of generations of midhues or hundreds of generations of BUOYs (burgundy-umber-ochre-yellowgreens, note please avoid describing the lattermost as “lime bloods” as it has historically been used as an especially vicious epithet). Such remarks can further trigger painful reminders of how cooler castes, to some extent OJAs, but CIPs and Royal-Vs in particular, have been able to use their tremendous lifespans over the millenia to gain a stranglehold over the social order, have been able to completely dictate our societal evolution by ensuring only their cultural agendas and narratives receive the dialogue’s air supply, assuring the codification of those resultant ideals and deciding what “normalcy” entails, and sadly these absolutes become internalized across the full spectral range, even within those of most compromised privilege, and so you begin to see the cyclical nature of the dysfunction and the resulting inertia against positive change and raising awareness of the most underproblematized issues, which I think we can agree, is pretty problematic. And really, it’s everyone’s business to examine their privilege, even burgundies, who may be subject to the pitfall of believing incorrectly there are none on the scale beneath them whom they enjoy certain privileges over, which off-spectrum trolls will never know, such as those identifying as otherbloods or caste-multiples, “polyblooded”, any who hemoglobically ID as having a caste which manifests nowhere (as yet known) in anyone physically, or for that matter offspecs who physically do possess such a blood type, or “mutants” (VERY problematic term, highly triggering to some, be warned), such as you and I, Karkat. but this puts us both in a situation which to our knowledge uniquely allows us to understand and empathize with tragically underprivileged and unempowered groups across all scuttles of life, thus affording us both what I like to call a “uniquely underprivileged privilege”, which, yes, is a kind of privilege we should both strive to check as well, whenever we can. This same uniquely underprivileged perspective as I’m sure you know was disadvantaged upon my post-scratch iteration as well, and while I have no doubt you justifiably came to revere that figure of your planet’s rich history and your personal lineage, and while his goals of peace, equality, and a truly spectrablind society, I’m afraid I personally have trouble condoning his methods. I don’t like to use the term “problematic” lightly, but, well, his tactics were nothing if not massively problematic, to say the least, employing violent uprising to effect change, and emblazoning his mark upon history and his faithful followers with the salty flourish of a single rude, shouted swear word, it’s not to my taste even though he is who I would have grown up to be in another life. but no, I prefer to effect social change through rational, honest discourse and contributing to ongoing dialogues, focusing on what should be the real goals, through keen adherence to the discipline of Problematics, ensuring that we stay focused on successfully problematizing a wide range of direly undercomplicated social dilemmas. It’s nice to see we agree on so much. Maybe we are not so unalike, despite our drastically different upbringings. Anyway, as I was saying, the story of your ancestor, and more importantly my exhaustive list of misgivings with his approach to social change, is quite a long and elaborate one, but it actually fits brilliantly within the larger mosaic which captures the broad strokes of my post. I mean our discussion. Trigger warnings for the following content include: ancestor bashing, faith shaming, loud swearing, torture, burn wounds, ship sinking… again, seriously, just let me know if you begin to feel triggered by anything, even slightly. We’ll pause and see if we can really explore those issues, and identify exactly how I may have invalidated your struggles. Without further ado, the story is as follows:

[ghostonly]

Get ready...

For the long-awaited...

#9 - Actually Look to See If Someone Has Been Told They're Wrong Before Telling Them Again That They're Wrong

If you see someone saying something using the wrong words or that is slightly to the left of the actual truth (uhhhh let me think, maybe like using the words "purity culture" incorrectly? Just a hypothetical :) ), before you go and tell them that they did the thing wrong, maybe check and see if anyone else has already said what you want to say and, additionally, maybe check to see if that person has already gone so far as to address the mistake

This is not isolated to me, this happens all the time to a lot of people on here. It would take literally, literally, fewer than thirty seconds to click on the post notes and see that not one, not two, but literally over ten different people have informed me of exactly what you wanted to inform me of.

And! You might even see! That I have responded to these corrections!

I get it if you don't want to check the notes of every post you have a mild complaint about, which is why I don't bother engaging with people's personal tag commentary where they may point out that they disagree with my usage of the words "purity culture" to describe the phenomenon I described.

However, if you're going to go all the way into the notes and put in the effort to type out your correction, it is only polite to scroll for a second, at the very least, to see if it's been addressed.

So, yes, my tone here is impatient, and it's not because I'm upset that people pointed out my mistake; it's because I have had so many people (probably over thirty if we include tags) point out that mistake despite the fact that I've already admitted they were right and that I didn't check for the accuracy of the words I used before I used them, and even apologized for the error.

And now, apparently, people feel so fucking bothered by this and care so much about being right and care so little about actually ensuring the problem has been addressed, that I now have people sending me anonymous messages to let me know that I'm wrong and made a mistake.

But the nature of Tumblr is that you cannot edit post versions that have already been reblogged and begun circulating.

I literally Cannot fix this mistake. I have done what I can to ensure people know that I'm aware, and I can do nothing else.

So please, all of those who felt this post was valuable, please, learn from this very topical occurrence by incorporating #9 into your internet-experiencing repertoire: if you want to correct someone, please make sure you're not the fiftieth person to do so, slowly driving them to the brink of madness

If someone is outright ignoring a correction that you feel is really important, maybe ask the op if they addressed it elsewhere instead of just repeating the sentiment already made by others.

If you actually care about justice and accuracy and not just sounding smart and being right, prove it by taking a few seconds (maybe even a few minutes if you wanna get wild!) to see if the problem was already resolved

Christ, I'm starting to get why no one wants popular posts on this fucking website...

How to have a good internet experience in 8 easy steps

#1 - Stop having a bad faith interpretation of every thing you read

If you think something someone said might have been something you disagree with, instead of starting an argument, ask them to clarify or ask them specific questions about what they said

You will be so surprised to find that half the people you assume are being shitty or negative just didn't phrase what they meant very well

#2 - Learn to block people

It's free, it's easy, and it will save your life. Tired of someone tagging your stuff with characters from a fandom you don't like? Don't try to control them by telling them not to, just fucking block them. Less upsetting to them, less work for you, less inflammatory, more effective.

#3 - Don't share your entire backstory with strangers on the internet

No one is entitled to your information - not your pronouns, your age, your sexuality, your location, nothing.

Share the things that you're comfortable with, but remember that the more you share, the more vulnerable you make yourself to attacks. Like, do not share your triggers in your bio. You are giving abusers and harassers a to do list. Keep that shit private for your own safety.

You can get harassed, you can get stalked, you can get doxxed. Internet safety is real and necessary and the less we care about it, the more we set up future generations to get hurt through the internet

#4 - Learn to say, "It's none of my business."

Don't understand someone's desire to use neo pronouns? None of your business. Can't understand why someone is a furry? None of your business. Curious about how someone who talks about being poor can have a Starbucks in that last selfie they posted? None of your damn business.

If you don't like certain things on your dash, unfollow or block people. If you don't understand how someone can identify a certain way or do a certain thing or like a certain thing or feel a certain way or literally anything, just remember, it's none of your business.

If you have genuine questions from a place of good faith (i.e. what inspired you to use neopronouns?/what do you pronouns mean to you?) Go for it. But if you're only asking questions to draw negative attention to someone or make them feel bad or to other them, you're just being a nosy asshole.

Minding your own business is also good for you because - and I mean this genuinely - feeling entitled and superior is fucking exhausting. I know, because I've been 20 before. You will have a way better time online if you just stop caring about shit that doesn't concern you

#5 - Learn to lurk

Lurking is frequently seen as a bad thing, like someone who's lurking is somehow being creepy. The truth is, lurking is a great way to learn. More people should do it.

For example, if you're new to a community, spend some time consuming content and information from that community without saying anything. This goes for fandoms, queer spaces, disabled spaces, cultural spaces, etc.

Nothing is worse than being in a community for years and someone popping in for the first time in their life and airing their opinions loudly and with zero respect for the space. A great example of this is that post someone made about the leather pride flag. You know the one.

(If you don't, basically, someone said that the leather pride flag is embarrassing and insulting to the queer community and has no place at pride and then got schooled by hundreds of people about how the leather pride flag is one of the oldest flags in the queer community and leather daddies and leather dykes were the people on the front lines protecting other queer people from cops back in the 80s and 90s)

So basically, learn the history of a community, research your opinions before you decide they're your opinions, and keep your ignorance to yourself until you're not ignorant anymore. Not only is this better for community spaces, you won't have 9000 notifications of people telling you to shut the fuck up

Learning to lurk to educate yourself about a space also makes actually speaking in that space a lot easier

#6 - Stop believing everything you read

I'm not talking about stupid funny stories. Believe them - it's not hurting anything to get a laugh out of something that may or may not have happened.

I'm talking about news and current events. If you hear that some celebrity did something and there are no receipts, go and find the receipts or discard it. People spread misinformation on here all the damn time. It's like a game of telephone and, unfortunately, a lot of small creators end up getting slandered and canceled because of it.

#7 - Quit wasting energy on hating random shit

Being annoyed by a certain fandom is one thing, but actively hating things that other people do just because you're not into it is such a waste of your energy. Not only are you actively putting more negativity into the world, you're wasting your own time on things that upset you.

Focus your time and energy on the things you do like and quit scrolling through Tumblr user AnimeIReallyHate7648's discourse blog. You might think it's fun, but there comes a point where hating something goes from kind of fun to actually obsessive and unhealthy for you as a person.

#8 - Unlearn purity culture

This is a big one guys. What is purity culture? It's referenced a lot, but I think a lot of you don't know what it is.

In short, purity culture is when people take many nuanced situations and try to divide them into black and white categories. There's the Good category and the Bad category. The problem is, life is not in black and white. You can't put a neat line down the middle between good and bad. This kind of thinking is extremely regressive. Ask any therapist alive and they will tell you that black and white thinking is unhealthy and often a Symptom of Something.

So, what happens is, someone sees something on the good side and spots something they think is morally objectionable in it and says, "this can't be here, it needs to go to the Bad side." (Cancel culture). The problem is, people are always on the lookout for anything wrong in the Good - constantly looking for impurities so that they can completely sanitize things and therefore be free of sin. So they will look harder and harder and harder and keep moving things to the Bad side of the line until there's basically nothing left on the Good side.

This ends up meaning that perfectly good media is canceled because every character in it didn't make the perfect, right choice every time. It damages media in that it demands characters be completely flawless - something no human is. When a character does something that's actually problematic, even if the media doesn't condone the behavior, instead of engaging with it and using it as an opportunity to learn and teach other people why that wasn't okay, people who subscribe to purity culture throw the baby out with the bathwater, saying the entire piece of media should be canceled because its creators support the problematic action of that character (even if they don't).

This entire line of thinking is extremely unhealthy, heavily informed by Christianity, infantilizes adults, assumes no one can distinguish fiction from reality, and promotes censorship, which has a long and sordid history.

I could go on about this at length, so if anyone wants a full post, just let me know. But the point is, purity culture is bad for community, it's bad for media, it's bad for healthy emotional and intellectual development, it's bad for interpersonal understanding and empathy, and it's bad for you.

Unlearn purity culture and you will be a happier person. If all else fails, remember step #4.

[molly-hooper-uk]

I’ll Grant You Some Time To Pick Up Your Biscuits.

I apologize for this being terribly late after the fact, but I’ve been so busy with work the past couple days, I haven’t had the time to settle in! First things first, how are you all? I hope you’re quite well! 

After Sherlock’s and my date at Ishnilia, we took a cab back to my flat with the intent to have tea. We’d been having a good conversation about the different types of implants used in orthopedic surgery. Most specifically, the gender specific knee implants found in the body of a transgender individual in Scotland. The case was solved but he had questions about manufacturers and the differences between implants. Something to tuck away in his mind palace for the future. I was going to show him some when we got to my home, but first, I kicked my shoes off and headed to the kitchen to start the kettle for tea and that’s when I got the text. This is a thing now, this texting from the other room thing. It’s a very US thing... We’ve got an us thing. Lol!

Sherlock: Do you ever find yourself at a precipice and not certain how to proceed next? Me: I do. Me: Are we doing this texting thing again? 

I was amused as I set about pulling a package of Digestives from my cupboard! Here we were, again, him in my lounge this time and myself in the kitchen, same as the night he first asked me to stay over. I wondered what could be on his mind this time as I waited for him to text back, which he did, right away..

Sherlock: Yes, it's important. It's for a reason. Me: All right. It's fine. Sherlock: I want to discuss something that is going to make you uncomfortable. Me: Oh. Alright. Should I stay in the kitchen? Sherlock: Yes. Me: Okay.. Me: Right. All right. Go on.

You can imagine, when he says things like that, it gets the nerves all stirred up a bit. Admittedly, there are any number of topics that he could bring up that would make me uncomfortable. There was one on the forefront of my mind, and I was hoping it wasn’t IT that he wanted to discuss.

Sherlock: It's about the day you got the phone call, when I was in Sherrinford. Me: Oh. Right.

‘Piss on chips!’ I thought. Of course it was IT that he wanted to discuss. We hadn’t discussed it at all, the two of us. It was Greg who told me first what had happened (that night). And then Mary who explained it to me, after the fact. It was a kindness from her compassion. 

You can imagine that Sherlock was feeling vulnerable after. He’d had the shock of his life. They’d been through hell, he, John and Mycroft, all put through the ringer. It was understood, and in a way, I was thankful that when I came ‘round after, we tried to get back to normal. For a time, we’d managed. Until all this, these... over nights and dates. They’d been so lovely and I was afraid he was going to tell me again that he’d done all this to thank me. To apologize. In my whirling, anxious mind, I was comparing it unfairly to the time he’d invited me out to solve cases. I wanted him to say anything but “I’m sorry.” I didn’t think I could bare it. I wanted to reassure him.  

Sherlock: You understand the basic nature of what happened that night. Me: I do, I understand.  Really, Sherlock, you don't have to say anything. Sherlock: No, I really do. Me: No, Sherlock, you don't have to explain. Sherlock: No, Molly, I do. Now let me continue. Me: I'm glad I've got biscuits out..

I set my phone down on the counter, fought to open the package of biscuits as I watched the (...) on the message, telling me he was typing from my lounge, on the other side of my wall. 

Sherlock: You had asked me to say something to you first, something that took me by surprise. I was standing in a room with John and Mycroft, and there was a single coffin - one that Eurus deducted you would be buried in. It was dull, insignificant, uninspired and plain. Sherlock: I knew immediately it was for you, the size and shape of it. On it were the words that I had to make you say. 

I couldn’t bare it. My desperation manifested itself as a plea, one he would not entertain. We were doing this, come hell or high water. I was very nearly silently begging for both.

Me: God, Sherlock, please. You don't have to say anything else. Sherlock: MOLLY. Sherlock: Eat your biscuits and be still. Sherlock: You asked me to say it, like I meant it. But if you recall, I said it twice. Once was for you - because it was the condition to what I thought was going to save your life. Me: Right, I don't need reminding, Sherlock... Sherlock: The second time, because it was a realization. Me: ...I very much remember. Sherlock: I didn't have to say the words like they were true because they simply were.

I don’t know where time went. Where life went. It was like all things ceased to exist, save those texts on my phone. I barely recall the biscuits slipping from my trembling hands and into the kitchen floor. I barely recall picking my phone up, blinking to clear my eyes, as if they were lying to me. The house was quiet, I could hear the clock ticking, I could hear, just barely, his fingers tapping softly against his phone from the other room as he continued.

Sherlock: Eurus was surprised by this, as was I. I went back to the coffin and put the lid on and the idea of you being there and represented so incorrectly sent me into a rage. I smashed the coffin into parts because, Molly Hooper, you are anything but dull, insignificant, uninspired or plain. Sherlock: You are colorful and brilliant, you matter more than you realize and the words I spoke to you are true. They are still true. They have only amplified as I have come to understand the full gambit of emotions that go into loving another person, as I have come to with you. Sherlock: I'll grant you some time to pick up your biscuits. 

I couldn’t. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t contain the madness that seemed to leap from my chest and into my throat, the madness that seemed to want to burst through my fingertips. The biscuits could stay in the floor, forgotten, utterly and completely forgotten. I had something that needed to be said. So many colors burst into the world making it real again. So many sounds I had never heard before were waiting on his lips.

Me: Okay, okay, Sherlock, I can't do this in texts. Sherlock: Right. Me: Yeah? Alright? Sherlock: Alright.  Me: Right. So.. Just brace yourself. Sherlock: I will do  my best

Scene from there.

     Standing stalwart in the common room of Molly Hooper's living area, Sherlock stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His coat had been discarded over a chair and that left him in a purple button shirt and trousers, standing rather awkwardly even for the consulting detective. His phone was still in his hand, his thumb running over it as he braced himself for the onslaught -- he had told Molly he loved her. That he was in love with her. And now he prepared to face her with that very real emotion in the flesh.

     It was only a moment before the soft pitter-patter of Molly's bare foot steps could be heard on the hardwood floor and after a slight moment of hesitation on the other side of the wall, she finally appeared still in the dress she'd worn to dinner that night. Her hair was down, the fingers of both of her hands twisting around her phone as she regarded him with cautious brown eyes and sheepishly raised shoulders. 

     "Hi, Sherlock," she said softly after moment, before she smiled and bit her bottom lip. 

     Sherlock's striking eyes turned to Molly as she’d entered, his brows furrowed a bit for a moment before his features went placid. He nodded to the small woman, smirking a little. 

     "Is this where I tell you the words again?" he asked her, dropping his phone into a chair before extending his hand towards her to beacon her closer.

     Molly shook her head, her fingers clasped around her phone as she leaned forward a little and looked down. Then she reached over to set her phone carefully on a table next to her couch, turning it just a little to line the side of the phone up parallel with the table's edge before she suddenly moved towards him. It was all very quick, a soft chuckle escaping her lips before it was muffled in his chest. Her arms hugged around his waist as she face planted against him. 

     "Sherlock, just say again that you meant it, it's all I need," she said into the fine purple material, her brows knitted over her closed eyes.

     Sherlock was startled at first, but not by the impact of Molly touching him - he had anticipated it. Rather, the feeling that swelled quietly in his chest surprised him as his arms drew out to hug her close to him. 

     "I meant it -- I mean it. I do mean it," he said softly, his hand rubbing along her back and up to her neck where he cupped his hand against her. He breathed her in, his eyes closing as he sat with his emotions as John had suggested he do. It had a new meaning now, with her there to share it. "Molly..."

      "Me too, me too," she whispered, squeezing him tighter as she laughed softly. She could feel tears burning her eyes but she didn't care. It was such a relief, a relief of emotion and of time and of circumstance. It was a strange validation, because he'd described it exactly as she'd remembered. The first time, just saying it, like he said, to save her life... but the second time. He'd sounded so... His tone. It'd just felt so raw. 

     She leaned her head back to look up at him, releasing him so her hands could come up and press warm and gentle against his narrow jaw. Still, it was almost novel to touch him. To look at him from this close up and have his fantastic feline-like eyes looking back at her. His gaze was always intense, it was how he looked at everything -- but the sharp blue and green always seemed to soften to warm summer water when he looked at her. 

      "Look at you," She sighed, her thumb stroking the fine line that edged his cheek. "I love your stupid face, Sherlock." 

     "It's actually a very clever face," Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact but soft tone, smirking towards Molly. Her eyes were swimming and wet, her pulse was elevated and pupils wide. If ever there were clues to follow, it was now and Sherlock was not going to drop the ball. His hand drew up to her cheek, his head tossing his curls back from his brow a bit before he leaned in and pressed his full lips to hers. 

      "It is.. it--hmmm.." she cooed, her agreement contently muted by the unexpected kiss. Her fingers stretched upwards as she kissed him, her palms drawing up to let them sink and twist into his thick curls. She made a soft content sound, gentle and sweet as she pressed up into his chest and shrugged her shoulders in towards him. How many times had she wondered what it'd be like? How many times? Anything she'd imagined paled in comparison and she let herself drown in it, her brows furrowing earnestly as she slid an arm up further to wrap it around his neck.

     Sherlock had kissed women before, usually to get to know something about them or use them in some manner. This time, however, it was entirely different and he found that he took pause in everything - in his breathing, in his thinking, in his movement, all so that he could absorb the sensation of small Molly Hooper against his lips. Her thin lips fit like a lock against his, his nose nudging against her as he came to life again. He breathed in through his nose, sighing hotly against her mouth as his hand cupped her jaw a bit more firmly. He loved her and he could feel the reciprocation of it against his lips. 

      One and two and three. It took three kisses, lingering and lovely and wonderfully warm before she was hugging him fully around the neck with both arms, one ankle crossed back over the other. 

     "D'you want... I mean, if I could.. Or you could. Maybe, stay the night.. one of us, somewhere.." she whispered against his lips. She wasn't at all aiming for a sexy sort of thing, but she felt like if she couldn't curl up with him and close out the world as she slept, it'd be absolutely unfortunate. 

     Sherlock nodded in response. "Here," he told her, wanting to distance himself from 221B for the evening. 

     He stood close to her, his arms collecting her slender form to him with his forehead pressed down to her brow. He opened his eyes, but he couldn't see her clearly. It didn't seem to matter, the warmth coming from her body was comforting to him. "If you would have me," he added in a tone that felt strange to him, coming from his lips. It was honest and brimming with an almost cheerful element, the sound of him smiling heard on his voice. 

      "I've never turned you away," she smiled, nudging her nose up against his. "It'll be a treasure though, sleeping in my room WITH you for once." 

     She chuckled softly, her tone playful. He'd bolt holed at her home many times, always took over her room. She'd always wondered what he did in there, if he laid in her bed and stared at the ceiling, if he sat in her chair and puzzled over whatever could have been bothering him at the time. Did he look at her things and wonder where she'd gotten them? Did he deduce things about her? Did he care to? All of those questions mattered zero percent now, though she had the feeling she'd ask him once day.

     Sherlock smirked and furrowed his brow. "A treasure," he repeated, a bit tickled. "Only you would see my penchant for blanket stealing as a treasure and not a blight," he said, his hand drawing up to touch her cheek again. He pet his palm against her jawline, looking at the shape of her softly upturned nose and deep divot above her lips. "I love you,"  he confessed then as his thumb drew against her skin, looking at her with a new softness that seemed reserved for the moment.

     She kissed his thumb as it passed over her lips, her hand drawing down to press against the back of his. "I love you, Sherlock," she said softly in return, her brows knitting before she leaned up to kiss him again softly.  

(Thanks for reading this far if you did! We didn’t have much time for this scene, unfortunately, so apologies if it seemed rushed. Hope you enjoyed the story anyway! This scene was done as role play, as always, with @sherlockholmes-uk  writing all of Sherlock’s actions and texts. Show them some love if you get the chance. ♥♥ )

[lassluna]

The Beauty in Apartment 13B(7/?)

Ao3 FFn

What’s a Comma?

“Why do professors insist on assigning homework the bloody first day of class?” He groaned, staring at his blank screen. “And it had to be my English class.”

Belle shrugged, working on her own computer across from him at the table. Her books scattered around her. She wasn’t in a good mood.

“I’d rather English than this public speaking class I have to take.” She muttered dryly. “Why couldn’t I have gotten into my Medieval Literature class.” She complained.

“I still don’t understand what happened, you were set to get there way before the office opened and others got override forms and you didn’t?” He asked. She averted her gaze, not replying. He gave her a sad smile. “It’ll be fine lass, maybe it’ll be good for you?” He tried.

“And maybe you should get back to writing your paper.” She replied back a bit harshly.

He nodded, getting a sense to Belle as to when she wanted to be left alone. It would be a learning process figuring out the curious brunette. He turned back to his blank word document.

His teacher had wanted to get to know her students, she wanted them to write a page about a topic that fascinated them and then relate it to a book they’ve read.

Killian was drawing a complete blank and it was due before class on Wednesday.

He’d usually put it off, but he had plans tomorrow, his first day and a part time job so he couldn’t afford to put this off, he wanted to start things off on the right foot, not scrambling to catch up for a first bad grade.

But he literally couldn’t think of anything to say, anything that fascinated him or a single book he’s read.

“Alright Killian, spit it out.” Belle droned. “I can hear you’re writers block from here.” She was looking up from her screen.

“I don’t want to bother you lass.” He started.

“You made me breakfast and did the dishes.” She reminded him “I can at least help you get started on a paper. Mind you, I will not ever write you a paper, I don’t care if you’ve been poisoned by a magic plant.” She proclaimed.

“Of course. Cheaters never win.” He agreed. “I have to write a paper about something I find fascinating and relate it to a novel I’ve read.” He explained. “And I can’t think of a single bloody idea.”

Belle rolled her eyes. “What are you studying?” She droned, as if it was obvious.

“Mechanical engineering.” He replied. “But I’m thinking of picking up a minor in electrical while I’m at it.” He says, recalling his conversation with Liam just the other morning about how the ship he was on was wired incorrectly.

“What are you going to do with it?” She pressed. “Any end goals?” He scratched the back of his head nervously.

“Well, I was hoping to belong to a firm that designed and built ships, all kids of ships, sailboats, yachts, even the army vessel my brother commands-“ He blinked looking at her. “You think I should write about that?” He asked.

“There must be a dozen different books you’ve read about ships.” She reminds him in a sing song voice, the lass was smirking.

“How the devil did you do that?” He asked.

“A little bit of brainstorming always helps get the juices flowing, besides it was obvious by the look of your room, what, did I see two bottled ships in there?” She teases.

“Perhaps.” He muttered quietly, starting his paper. He couldn’t pick between the Jewel and the Jolly, what was he supposed to do?

The moment the first words hit, he was on a roll. He chose Moby Dick as his novel to relate, describing the ship and how it could have been fixed to catch such a beast, as well as the Titanic and the obvious flaws it had had with its structure according to a book he once read about the topic.

Before long, he had a 3-page paper sitting happily in front of him. He grinned triumphantly at it.

“Need a proof reader?” Belle asked.

“It should be fine, don’t you have your own work to do?” He asked.

“I’m procrastinating.” She replied. “Give it here, I’m curious.” She admitted. He turned his laptop to face her, getting up to get himself a sandwich for dinner.

“Killian.” Belle said suddenly, in a voice laced with a fair bit of terror. “What is this?”

He blinked. “Is it that bad? I’m not much of a writer, and its filled with some technical jargon but-“ She cut him off with a fierce glare.

“You didn’t use a single comma.” She said as if he’d actually shot her. “Not a single one.” He swallowed.

“I’m not much of a grammar person.” He admitted sheepishly.

“And I’m not much of a math person and I still tip 15% to waiters.” She replied dryly.

“I didn’t see the use.” He tried again.

It worked even less than his first excuse. He could hear her typing, reworking and practically tearing his writing apart. “Commas are used to break off trains of thoughts, allow pauses and do at least a dozen other things!” She insisted. “How have you even gotten this far without-“

She dropped her head into her hand.

“Killian.” She droned.

He stayed by the counter, honestly afraid Belle would murder him.

“Well. You said ‘Well’ instead of ‘We’ll’. Apostrophes are a thing.” She reminded him.

An annoying thing.

“Sorry lass, won’t happen again.” He promised.

“I doubt it.”

“Belle is there something wrong?” He counters, her snapping up to look at him. “You seem unusually tense.” He explained. “Is this about not getting off the waitlist?” He asked.

“No. It’s about the fact that you can’t use an apostrophe. They exist you know.” She nearly growled. “You’ve known me for days, so don’t think you-“

He raised his hands.

“My apologies.” He said quickly. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

Belle put her head down.

“Sorry. I’m just stressed. I really want to take my class. And it was some stupid thing I didn’t do that stopped me.” She admitted.

“No, you did everything you could.” He reminded her, but little did he know, it was only the beginning of Belle’s rant.

“I could have done more if that-that-stupid jerk!” She exclaimed in outrage.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I hate how she says Gaston’s name and her insistence that she get a skim milk latte, what’s the point of that. She touches him and he hair is so pretty and ugggg!” Belle groaned her head landing on his computer keyboard.

“Lass.” Killian tried, nervous as to how to approach the obviously stung out girl. “You shouldn’t be so stressed so soon into the year.” He reminded her. “It’s the bloody first day.”

She glared at him, head still on the computer.

“What I mean is, do you have an assignment due?” He asked.

“No.”

“Then go relax, take a bath or call Ruby and go out, do something because it’s too early to be so stressed.” He advised.

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Lass, I’m most certainly am right.” He said. “Now go. Get ready and go out, make up with this Gassy bloke, or take a nice shower and read a book, whatever will make you happy.”

“It’s Gaston.” She corrected, getting up. “Thanks.”

“No problem, thank you for helping with my essay, I appreciate it.”

Belle smirked.

Killian barely noticed Belle as she had taken his adviced, bathed and disappeared into her room in pajamas, probably to read one of her-

He suddenly got an email.

13 most useful comma rules.

Killian smirked in the direction of her door.

“How the bloody hell did you get my email?!”