#bc the old writing is… well I am certainly better now lol!

[kirnet]

How does one go abt rewriting a fic that’s already posted and in progress on ao3? Like are yall just editing the chapters right there or taking it down and reloading it or what?

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

also do u think it’s plausible that Tom riddle would’ve turned out better or worse if Dumbles adopted him ? i Wanna write that as a short fic but i wanna know what u would think About it first lol. not the fic itself I Am writing that regardless but the premise. (In mine he’s going to kill dumbles but other than that he actually has a solid chance at a future bc u kno he’s the Son of a Respected Man dootdoot nepotism for the win Bestie, so I don’t think he’d go bananas and end the wizarding world as we know it.)

Apologies for my poor grammar and spellings, I don’t have glasses on rn so it could be really bad.

Also really sorry if u have answered this previously I don’t think so but I’m also Very Behind on ur metas I’m sorry :( I took a break from tumblr forgetting that involves taking s break from reading u and (I forgot how to spell the vinelle? Vennelle? idk I always mix the letters up and read neville regardless,, uh the irl is the-real-vinelle if u put the correct spelling in, lol, I’m sorry abt that too) and now I gotta backread

Worse is a strong word but certainly not better.

Caveat the First

You make a note of it yourself, but I feel like I should reiterate.

Write the fic you want to write.

It really doesn't matter what I say here and that you're even asking me, before you write anything down, because you're curious has me a bit leery.

There's a very good chance I will tell you... not what you want to write. Which is fine, but certainly something to keep in mind that you should write what you want to write and not what I write below.

Don't take this too personally, basically

Caveat the Second

Dumbledore didn't do this and would never do this.

Dumbledore despises Tom Riddle, and he despises him from the very moment he meets him (which is very impressive as in that first meeting Tom doesn't really do anything, seriously, go reread that section it's... Dumbledore should not be around children).

And while he has an agenda with Harry, I'm inclined to believe that he believes what he's saying (otherwise he wouldn't use these ridiculous examples he's stored up).

Dumbledore fully believes that Tom Riddle is a doomed child because of his genetics, that his family is predisposed to mental illness (and this is a shameful thing caused by dark magic), and that his impoverished muggle upbringing reflects poorly on him (well, it's not so much that he's poor and muggle, but that Dumbledore seems to expect his muggle peasants to act like they belong in a Tolstoy novel where they're wise and generous beings, where Tom's a suspicious brat who hoards things and doesn't trust strangers who light his wardrobes on fire).

Notice that, rather than extend any helping hand, Dumbledore's instinct is to terrorize and threaten an eleven-year-old boy and then proceed to sabotage any career prospects he has as Tom continues through his schooling.

Dumbledore would make sure that Tom was never adopted by any wizarding family.

But Alright, Let's Go Down this Hell Hole Together

Well, now Tom gets to live with the motherfucker who seeks to psychologically terrorize him and is just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Tom will be kept a constant eye on, but not even that, traps will be set up throughout the house intended to tempt Tom into reading this or that forbidden book only for Dumbledore to then catch him and reaffirm that Tom has something wrong with him.

And how noble Dumbledore is, taking him on, as Dumbledore is saving this boy from perdition and uh... his genetic disposition to be a dark wizard.

Tom will be told every day of his life that something is wrong with him, that his going to Slytherin is only an affirmation of that, and Dumbledore will be constantly trying to mold his behavior through suggesting friends, reading material, how Tom should act in public and private, etc.

And Dumbledore will still sabotage any chance at a career Tom will ever have. He'll prevent him from getting any work save for those Dumbledore would deem humbling and appropriate (hello flower salesman in Diagon Alley).

I have no doubt that Tom will have no choice but to simply leave the country and cut all ties altogether. As he will have no future in England and staying near Dumbledore is just asking to be involved in constant psychological warfare.

A miserable time would be had by all

On the Meta Thing

Don't worry about it, this blog is out of control. I'm kind of shocked any one does actually keep up.

[misspearly1]

hi, um no idea if you can just ask about stories here, but I just had a flash of inspiration and had to think of you. I'm usually a quiet reader and never write comments but I just love all your stories. You really have such a good writing style it's amazing. So my idea of ​​a story was: Joel and female reader with age gap (bc daddy issues r kicking in when i think abt joel) and then just joel comforting the reader because she has her period and it hurts? So just fluff ig? Idk I just had to think of a story like that with Joel. As I already said, I think your stuff is so good, I thought it wouldn't hurt to ask <3

Couple things I’d like to say <3

1st - You can leave any comment, message or request or even an emoji with no context in my ask box/in my dms or any where that you feel comfortable with my darling, I don’t mind :))

2nd - Thank you so much for coming to me with this request. It means the world to me and I would be delighted to write this inspiration of yours out for you. I massively appreciate your kind words, they brought a huge smile to my face.

3rd - As for being a quiet reader and not leaving comments, do not worry about that at all my friend. I see many of my quiet readers all the time and they make me smile all the same. If I have brought happiness to you through my writing, then I am happy too <33

With prompts like these I always like to do a brief idea of said prompt through The Last of Us timelines & a fictional story too. Hopefully, if this is ok with you, I’d like to cover this concept in all aspects and do just that. Shall we call it, a two in one?? Lol. Hope you enjoy what I’ve wrote, my love :D

For this part, the age gap for reader obviously ages with time. The second part (in the fictional story) I will implement it better with it being a singular event opposed to living through 20 years of the monthlies.

Warnings up ahead: Lots of menstrual cycle talk :)

Pre-Outbreak -

You’ve gotten your period again? No problem! Joel Miller is on the case. Of course he would be. Anything for his lady.

Off to the car and straight to the nearby store, no matter what time of day, Joel will be out buying the essentials.

Essentials ranging from the sanitary products you need, any painkilling meds to help with your discomfort, to candied sweets, savory foods and beverages. Any type of food or drink that he has picked up on - during the time being with you - that he knows you like. Because let's face it, chocolates are considered essentials during the monthlies, Joel knows that by now.

As for pain, Joel will comfort you regardless if the meds are kicking in. He will comfort you during this regular process, just like last month and the month before that, and hopefully forever in time. You’re his lady for life and he will tell you this any chance he gets.

Comforting such as massaging, hot baths and hot water bottles. Long, tight and close contact cuddles with extra kisses, all while he whispers how much he loves you.

“There, darlin.” // “Just relax for me, I’ll take the pain away.” // “I love you, sweetheart.” // “I’ll rub your back. Anywhere you need massaging, name it, baby. I got you.”

During the Outbreak:

Nothing has changed. Joel Miller will always be there for you, front row and center at the ready.

But oof, this time period is certainly a little more difficult to tackle a monthly cycle. Without the factory production of sanitary products, pretty soon after the outbreak, those will run out and you will be reduced to old fashioned methods for protection.

Not a problem for Joel. He will still be helping in any and every way he can. Like scouting items to craft these makeshift, old fashioned, sanitary products. He’s your man, and Joel is a man that is devoted to his lady.

As well as that, painkillers are no more. For you, this is not ideal or pain-free during this time of the month, for Joel? He has the opportunity to massage, kiss, hug and comfort you even more than he already does. To give you all that extra attention that you need, that he loves to provide even without reason to.

His whispered loving remarks and caring reassurances aren’t far behind either…

“C’mere darlin’” // “let me look at yer” // “Tell me where it hurts, I’ll make it better.” // “I love you sweetheart, I know it’s painful” // “It’ll go away soon, baby. I promise.”

Post-Outbreak (Jackson Era)

20 years down the line and guess what? Joel Miller is still right there with you, easing you through this cycle. Some have been easy and light, others have been painful and heavy, but it makes absolutely no difference in how Joel has comforted you over the last two decades.

Within the walls of Jackson, the hot baths and hot water bottles are back. Even better, they have real food. Not like the junk from a QZ or living out of a tin of beans out in the open world. You’re at home now. In your own home with your man.

Joel will - if he can - join you in these baths or hot showers, holding you near and dear while peppering kisses all over your face. Rubbing soothing hands up and down your back, kneading the areas where you’re most in pain.

With the fresh produce that Jackson provides, he will be able to cook you actual flavorsome food. Breakfast in bed and extra naps, hell, Joel is joining you in those naps. Anything to be with you.

Did Joel mention this was for life? Because that’s what soulmates do. Sticking with each other like glue, you and Joel are mended together as one, and the natural - yet painfully annoying at times - monthly cycle won’t ever get in the way of him comforting and loving you.

His love and adoration never faltered, it grew more than he ever possibly could have imagined it to and living out the rest of his days in Jackson with you is exactly where he wants to be.

I enjoyed writing out this part, hope you did @chxpsi and anyone else who have read :))

Part 2 - Fictional Story.

Pairing: Joel Miller x You

WC: 1.8k

Summary: Awoken during the night with that all too familiar sensation, your period has arrived and not long after that, it comes with the deepest, possibly even the worst yet, pain in your lower abdomen and back. Can Joel even comfort you during this heavy and excruciating cycle?

Warnings: Lots of period talk. Mentions of blood. Near accidents, (Leaking). Embarrassed reader and reassuring, loving and fluffy Joel in response to that. Kissing. Age gap between characters.

AN: Oh I really enjoyed this fic - Left a big paragraph of AN notes at the end, much love folks, enjoy the read and thank you so much for this request @chxpsi <33

Devotion

Stirring with discomfort in your sleep, you awoke with the familiar sensation of leaking and the dread of it seeping through your underwear.

Shit, I’m early!

Pulling back the covers hastily and heading into the bathroom in a panic, this action had awoken Joel too and he immediately sat up to ask, “baby, what’s wrong?”

“What do you think?” you snapped unintentionally.

Pulling down your pyjama shorts and underwear, thankfully you haven't leaked too bad but your underwear would need a few rounds with the washing machine that's for sure. The door creaked with Joel gently pushing it open and you balled up your dirtied clothing to hide your accident.

Normal yes, these things happen at times but it still feels embarrassing nonetheless.

“Baby,” he soothed, stepping further into the bathroom and kneeling down to the floor in front of you, Joel held his hands to your thighs and lifted your chin with his thumb, “C’mon doll, don’t get shy on me now. You know this is ok and that it’s natural. I’m willing to bet it’s happened to everyone that goes through this at least once in their life.”

“I know,” you shrugged sadly, and Joel reassured, telling you exactly what you needed to hear, “but it still feels embarrassing for you, I know that too darlin. I will tell you every damn time if I have to, it’s ok and you have nothing to feel embarrassed about.”

That brought a smile to your face. Joel doesn’t know exactly how you feel but over the course of the last four years being his girlfriend inside the walls of Jackson, he has come to empathize with your explanations and understand every aspect of how to ease you through it.

Even at the beginning of your relationship, he understood the problems that people have to go through with this regularity each month. The very least he can do is be there for you. Leaning in towards you, he closes the gap and kisses you, mumbling into your lips, “how bout a hot bath?”

“Joel,” you pulled back and worried, “It’s three in the morning,” to which he ran his calloused hands along your thighs softly with a smile, “So?”

Leaning over the tub, he placed the plug in the hole and ran the hot water before turning back to face you, “time of day doesn't matter when it comes to running a bath when you need it, darlin.”

You smirked, “Trying to say I'm stinky, Miller?” Teasing him playfully to lighten the mood, for yourself and for him, it worked because you both began laughing. Joel leaned in again, “nope” and nuzzled his nose against yours, “you smell wonderful, girl. Always.”

Brushing his bearded lips lightly across yours and tickling you just how you like it before kissing you once more. Running heavy, reassuring hands up and down your thighs, you break off to gasp, furrowing your brows and squeezing your legs together.

“Is it the cramps or the stabs?” he asked, trying to understand which type of pain that you are feeling right now. “Both,” sucking in a sharp breath of air, you cringed to Joel and asked him to run the hot and cold water a little faster in hopes to rid the pain quickly in the tub.

Doing as you requested, he leaned back over the tub and turned the nozzles up. After a few moments, he turned the cold back off and helped you climb inside, leaving the rest to fill up with hot water.

Bringing your knees up to your chest and resting your head against them, you leaned forward while Joel dunked an arm inside, rubbing the heel of his hands into your back, “Tell me when to stop, ok baby?”

“Hm,” laughing lightly and smiling, you closed your eyes and hummed contently with his touch, “Hm, never stop, Joel.”

His reply was simple, yet heavy with love, “as you wish, sweetheart.”

Joel isn’t just your partner. He is the other half of your life, what makes you complete as one. The man is devoted to you, and you are with him. Always by your side since the moment he laid his eyes on you on your first patrol together, it took a while for either of you to admit your feelings but you wouldn’t change it for the world.

Being just over twenty years younger than Joel, the social stigma of an age gap relationship is the only reason he didn’t say something right away. While he can be closed off, quiet and broody, Joel is straight up with what he wants. There’s no sugar coating it, he will say exactly how it is and the day he met you, he knew you were for him.

After months of dancing around each other, flirting and teasing like any other couple would, it was the kind remarks that multiple townsfolk spoke that made Joel realize people weren’t fazed by your close friendship. In fact, they thought that you were in a relationship already.

After many encounters with people all around town asking him questions about you such as ‘where is your girlfriend?’ or ‘when is she moving in’, Joel realized that he has wasted too much fucking time worrying about what others think and headed straight to you, to tell you exactly how he feels.

The reason why you wouldn't change it for the world is because of how it happened. Maybe if it happened differently, you’d still hold it as a special moment but it’s hard to think of it any other way.

There was a summer dance in the town's bar and Joel strode in, taking everyone by surprise, even yourself, by pulling you with him towards the crowds of couples on the floor and slowly danced with you. It was bold, even for him but deeply memorable for you.

Ever since that night, since seeing your emotional reaction to him slow dancing with you and admitting his feelings that he had held back for so long, it became yours and Joel's thing to dance in the living room after dinner, just before bed while whispering how much he loves you.

Every night, you and Joel would relive that memory. Chuckling and giggling to one another with his improving moves, yours too. It's a simple gesture, maybe even a regular thing for other couples too, but for you it meant the world and more. To spend each night twirling by his hands or swaying on the spot with him.

Joel saw your reaction that day and was devoted to reminding you every chance he got at how much he loved you. To remind you every night of that feeling you got in that exact moment in that bar so long ago and hopefully for the rest of your lives together.

Unfortunately right now, he is being reminded how painful your period can be considering the hot bath isn’t easing your pain as effectively as he hoped it would. He left you momentarily to get your fresh clothes, some makeshift sanitary products and a glass of water with some painkillers.

Helping you out of the bath, you could barely stand up straight with the crippling cramps and although you didn’t need him to, he helped you get dried and dressed too before carrying you. Legs and arms wrapped around him, you buried your head into his neck while he walked to bed.

There’s something about him that makes you feel better. His proximity maybe. His body heat or just his love, but when he lay down on his back and kept laying across his chest, sleep was racing towards you quickly. It was tugging at your eyelids, stinging for you to close them and rest.

Joel knows you like the back of his hand. Pulling the thick duvet covers up over your bodies, he rubbed deep and slow circles into your lower back while kissing your cheek, “rest up darlin, I ain’t going anywhere, and you let me know if it gets worse, ok?”

Nodding to him, you closed your eyes and let sleep take over. He hated seeing you this way. Watching your face wince here and there with a stab of pain, your body shifting to find ease. After a while, he could see and feel how hot you were getting, so he carefully rolled over to switch up his laying positions.

Spooning you from behind instead, you hummed sleepily with relief when he slipped his warm hand around your front and across your lower stomach. Nestling his chin into the crook of your neck and feeling your hand find his, interlocking your fingers between his own, Joel kissed your cheek again and fell asleep with you.

-

Never say never when it comes to your period.

The pain had eased off a little and gave you a break the next day, however the flow was heavy. A part of you feels terrible for taking up so much of Joel's time while he stayed with you, but another part of you was forever grateful that he wasn’t scared off by the sight of blood.

Bleeding through your sanitary products and nearly onto the bed once again, he had to remind you for the second time that it was ok. You know it is, but you're now doubling up the protection in fear of leaking onto the bed later tonight.

Stepping out of the bathroom after a quick shower, you headed downstairs and into the kitchen. “Hey baby,” greeting him by the kitchen counter, you turned on the spot and asked, “Could you check me?”

He slapped your ass, “All good darlin, I promise,” eliciting a teasing shake of your head with narrowed eyes to which he threw his hands up in the air, “Hey, I had to make sure.”

Humor was another tactic Joel liked to use to help you. He’s quite funny on a mellow level anyways, but you’ve noticed that he amps it up a little during your period. Laughter is always good in raising one's spirit, right?

Pulling you in for another morning kiss to the cheek when you walked over to the sink, Joel wrapped his arms around your front and rubbed your stomach, “How are you feeling?”

“Much better than earlier, thanks to you,” lolling your head back to his shoulder with a smile, he swayed on the spot with you and replied, “my pleasure, baby. Can’t allow you to be hurting like this.”

Humming together, you brought your hands down on top of his, closing your eyes while he peppered light kisses to your neck. Periods can come short and quick, painless and make life easy but other times, they can be very heavy, extremely painful to not only your body, but painfully annoying in mind too with the drastic spikes in hormones.

You suck it up and plod on through them but Joel Miller makes even the hard ones much easier to go through, and swaying right here on the spot with him in the kitchen on your home together, you're thankful that your period sparks such intimate and loving moments with him.

His devotion to you matches no other.

AN: Growing up with lots of sisters, it was quite an open and honest atmosphere in my household, so going through the monthlies for myself personally, I was never alone. I only hope that this fic can provide something like that for anyone who reads and finds themselves alone during this time.

I know people may say ‘it’s just a period’ but for some (like myself) it can be a harrowing experience in many ways to go through each month. They're natural, normal, fucking awful at times too, and I hope this fic of Joel comforting reader through this provides everything that you needed to hear. Even if you don't suffer with terrible monthly cycles, I still hope you find some comfort when reading this. Much love my friends, have a wonderful day <33

Tagging:

Permanent Taglist (All story Updates): @marydjarin @kirsteng42 @supernaturalgirl @supernaturalgirl20

All Joel Content: @extraneous-trip @luvmeijii @readsalot73 @pale-gingerale @joelsflannel @something-tofightfor @readsalot73 @dinsangelx @ponyosmilfmom @hb8301 @squidwell @spideysimpossiblegirl @mooraakath @michele131 @chxpsi

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

i think you will like this prompt 👀❤️ geralt going to a professional cuddler (jaskier) because he's been deprived of touch for so long that it started to make him sick.

yes i'm asking you to make geralt cry again bc i love the way you do it 🤭

Did I want to make him cry? Yes. Did Jask let me? No. The bard wanted the witcher to have a nap and I had to comply. Apparently I don't make the rules even in my own writing??? I’ll make him cry soon though lol

Warnings: lmao our boy is unprofessional af, touch starvation, som big awkward, but nothing intense. 

___________________

Geralt bounced his knee as he contemplated bolting out of the waiting room. Well it wasn’t so much a waiting room as it was a seating-heavy foyer into a historic-district flat, but it served its purpose. 

He took a deep breath and tried to still his leg. He was doing this for Ciri, because she was worried, and he could at least admit to himself he hoped to be able to sleep better. 

A man about his height with wispy brown hair and a soft smile under twinkling blue eyes emerged from one of the doors, calling out his name and waving him forward. 

“Geralt? Hi, I’m Jaskier Pankratz. Pleased to meet you.” 

Geralt found it odd that he didn’t offer to shake his hand but was rather relieved. If this started off like a business transaction he might not be able to take it seriously. Jaskier quickly went over his paperwork and had him sign one last release form before he directed him to a long plush looking couch. 

Jaskier sat at one end and Geralt planted himself at the other, picking at his nails and scrambling for something to say. Anything. Even a dumb question would do at this point. 

“It’s okay to be nervous. Perfectly normal, actually.” Jaskier’s reassurance was nice, but not entirely helpful.

“Hm… okay.” 

“What are you nervous about? Or can you put a finger on it?”

Geralt took a breath and shifted a bit to face Jaskier, “I’m out of my depth.” 

Jaskier smiled, draping his arm over the back of the couch and extending one leg so his foot was hanging off the edge, “That’s alright. You don’t have to do anything you want to. We can just start by touching hands or knees. If that’s uncomfortable that’s okay. Hell we could sit back to back and pretend the other isn’t actually there.”

Geralt huffed, “My daughter would say that’s cheating.”

“She may,” Jaskier tilted his head with a soft expression, “but I have a feeling you show her a very different side of yourself.” 

“I do,” Geralt nodded, “but I’m not paying you for therapy.”

“Nor am I qualified,” Jaskier laughed. Something about the sound melted a bit of the iceberg in Geralt’s chest and he cracked a small grin. He rested his arm over the back of the couch and laid his hand next to Jaskier’s. His fingertips could brush his wrist if Geralt had the stones, which he didn’t. Jaskier just rolled his arm over, resting the back of his hand directly in Geralt’s palm. 

He was painfully aware of every cell in his arm. It felt like jello and electricity but it was nice. Really nice. 

Geralt just stared at their hands for a bit before he smiled.

Jaskier scooted closer, sliding his hand up Geralt’s arm and giving him goosebumps as he laid his hand on his shoulder, “How you doing?” 

Geralt snorted, to which Jaskier looked confused, “My daughter had a Friend’s phase. It just- Joey always hits on people with that line,” he explained. 

Jaskier blushed bright red, “Oh! No! I didn’t- I mean, you’re certainly nice to look- bollocks. I’m sorry. Not what I meant.”

It was Geralt’s turn to reassure, laughing as he did and resting his own hand over Jaskier’s shoulder, “I got what you meant. And- uh. Thank you.”

“That was extremely unprofessional. I’m sorry.” Jaskier shook his head, closing his eyes in embarrassment. 

“Better than thinking your client’s gross. Do you have that sometimes?”

“Not for a long time.” Jaskier confessed. 

They chatted like that for a while, chatted almost like they were on a date. They talked movies and old sports injuries and Geralt spent a while gushing about Ciri getting into a top Kinesiology school. As the conversation flowed Geralt shifted closer, only in increments, before Jaskier gave his hand a light tug, pulling him so Geralt was tucked under his arm. 

Jaskier continued talking like nothing had changed, like he couldn’t hear Geralt’s heart beating out of his chest. Geralt slowly tilted his head till it was resting on Jaskier’s collar bone, testing the waters. After a minute or two, when he’d relaxed into the position, Jaskier brought his arm off the back of the couch to trace lines up and down Geralt’s arm. 

It was intoxicating after so long without any kind of touch. 

Geralt’s eyes started to flutter closed and he wasn’t keeping up with the conversation as well as before. 

Jaskier brushed a hair out of his face and whispered, “Do you want to lie down?”

Because he was so tired or because he didn’t want Jaskier to let go of him until the day he died, he nodded and let himself be pulled so he was laying on top of Jaskier, using his chest as a pillow. He drifted between sleep and wakefulness for a minute or two, part of his mind absolutely baffled and outraged by his circumstances, but it had been so long since he’d felt so peacefully sleepy. 

When he woke it was to Jaskier carding his hands through his hair, “There you are. Any fun dreams?”

“Oh, shit…” he mumbled, “I have to go, don’t I?”

Jaskier rested his other hand on his shoulder, “Not yet. I wanted to wake you up slowly. I see that’s not really an option with you,” he chuckled. 

Geralt hummed and laid his head back down, “Toddlers do that to you.” 

Jaskier sat them up, not missing the opportunity to keep Geralt cradled close to him as he gently coaxed him back to the land of the living.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Geralt sighed, “My time’s up.”

“Doesn’t have to be. I’m not booked for another hour,” Jaskier hummed, placing a kiss to Geralt’s hair.

Both of them froze.

Jaskier breathed, “Oh fuck.” before launching into what was probably going to be a lengthy apology about professionalism and conduct before Geralt cut him off. 

He tilted Jaskier’s chin toward him and kissed him, not for too long, just long enough to get the frantic man to shut up, “There. Now we’re even.” 

“I- I can’t see you anymore,” Jaskier stammered. 

Geralt nodded and sat back, untangling himself from Jaskier, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m-uh- not awake yet.”

“No,” Jaskier reached for his hand, “Not like that. Do you… Would you like to go for a drink later?” 

[thebestpersonherelovesbucky]

Just venting

I’m not doing so well. I sort of feel like I’ve suddenly plunged back into an emotional downward spiral. I haven’t felt like this in months. but I think I know what’s really behind it.

My obgyn (she’s not the culprit lol) put me on the pill. Every time I’ve tried using it in the past, it’s sent my emotions into chaotic turmoil. This particular one, my doc said, isn’t known to having much of an effect on moods and also won’t interfere with my current med-cocktail. The reason I’m taking it in the first place is because I won’t stop bleeding, even after having surgery to fix the problem. 

After about three weeks of not bleeding (after continuously bleeding for at least three weeks, and HEAVY) I started bleeding a week and a half ago in a relatively normal way (other than it continuing for more than a week). Made me think it was the first sorta typical period I’ve had in over a year. Then Sunday, it was like the elevator scene in The Shining. This past week alone, I’ve gone through two boxes of overnight pads. Cramps are horrendous. Not to mention how tired and weak and unfocused and achy (more achy than usual) I feel all the time. 

This actually started in early 2021 (and, yes, I did speak to my old doctor then and we thought we fixed it but...)

And now I’m so depressed and down and gloomy. On the verge of tears all the time. Unable to concentrate. Bleeding and bleeding and bleeding, worrying that I might start leaking while out in public (which has happened) or stain the carpet, couch, bed.

And then I made the mistake of looking at reviews of my books, and even though there’re plenty of good things said about them, there’s those that aren’t and we all know how the negative sticks a lot more than the positives. 

I’m trying extremely hard to not only remember that I can’t please everyone but also how this could be a way to improve. While commentary such as “total waste of money” and “I wanted to throw it across the room I hated it so much” and “it feels like fourteen-year-old girls wrote this” (which is pretty offensive, actually) don’t help in the slightest, other critiques might. Things like “this was repeated so often that it was annoying” or “there’s too much telling and not enough showing” can be very helpful. Like, oh, okay, I can see why you didn’t like it because of that, I’ll keep that in the back of my mind and hopefully do better next time. 

On top of that, I’ve been having so much trouble actually writing and seeing that certainly didn’t help because now I feel like I shouldn’t even bother when rationally I know that’s stupid and it doesn’t matter if some people don’t like it and i think a lot of this reaction comes from the change in my moods bc i’m on the pill and it’s not even working.

It’s not even working.

Which means the next step might be a hysterectomy, and even though there’s barely even the slightest chance that we might have another baby, I still want to so badly. So badly that it hurts. I often dream about having another child. My dreams are usually all sorts of crazy, these dreams are perfectly normal. Like freaking WandaVision without the magic. Just a little world of my own while I sleep and when I wake all I want to do is cry. For ten years people kept saying “Oh, you have plenty of time, don’t worry!” when I’d talk about this (only with my husband, sisters, mom, and therapist) and here I am. Out of time. 

And I know this all sounds incredibly selfish. I have two beautiful children and I feel so blessed that I do and they mean the world to me. It’s just that three was the number always in my head. The day after my youngest was born I was already talking about planning for another. Now there’s this ache burrowed deep in my chest that just won’t go away. 

Anyway. I’m just venting to the void. 

[stephanythedramaqueen]

Icarus is my favourite darklina story out there 🖤🖤🖤!! I am not exaggerating. Is it possible to get a snippet while we wait for chapter 2?? But I totally get it if u don't want to! Thank you for sharing your talented writing with us!

omg I’m so flattered??!! I’m shook bc darklina has a plethora of better written, more interesting fics out there! Like there are legendary, iconic fics read by practically everyone and you like mine? I’m blushing and giggling and kicking my feet and everything! thank you! thank you! thank you!

idk why I haven’t thought of it before to release snippets for ppl if they asked!

here’s not one but two snipps, one featuring Nikolai and Aleksander toe to toe! The chapter is lengthy so umm, prepare for lengthy snippets lol

“Darkling.” Nikolai vehemently declared, lest the man get it in his head that he was at all intimidated. “Come to finish the job, have you? Going back on your word to abstain from murder now that Alina is in your custody?”

The tsar eyed him for a moment then sighed, dismissing his guards and the pair of heartrenders both. “You are all so predictable,” he shook his head. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

Nikolai smirked. “Oh, how rude I am. How could I ever think ill of the man who usurped the throne from my family and doesn’t hesitate to kill his own for power? Wherever are my manners?”

The Darkling didn’t bother to comment on Nikolai’s sarcasm. “I’m sparing your life, the least you could do is extend the courtesy I’m sure your governesses beat into you.”

“They were not allowed to put a hand on me.” Nikolai countered to prove he didn’t need to extend the Darkling anything.

“On your whipping boy, then.” The Darkling shrugged it off. “Surely he did not suffer your beatings for nothing if you don’t know better than that.”

“Certainly you agree that I won’t need to be civil with a perfidious felon like you?”

Nikolai expected the Darkling’s anger, for him to lash out and bring credit to that homicidal reputation that he heard about the Black General all his life, but the Darkling looking seemingly amused was definitely not the reaction the prince anticipated.

“Felon?” The Darkling repeated, as if the accusation was preposterous. “Enlighten me, how so?”

Did the Usurper think himself witty? Did he take Nikolai for a simpleton? “You killed my parents, Darkling.” The prince hissed, barely withholding the urge to lunge for his throat.

“Your parents? Hardly.” His scoff was condescending enough that had Nikolai seething. “The man you may believe to be your sire was a licentious, incompetent, egotistical man who abused his position constantly. Do not fool me by saying you could withstand him. You ran from his court as soon as you came of age.”

“He was still the king. Regicide is a felony, as far as I can remember.”

The new tsar was unmoved. His voice hardened into steel, sharp and lethal. “Death was the least he deserved. Do you know how many servants he forced himself upon?” At this, a flame of real anger flashed in the Darkling’s grey eyes. “I granted him the mercy of a quick death. If he were not the king, any other man would have been gelded and hanged for his crimes. Do you deny that?”

Nikolai glared at him and said nothing. It was not the punishment he would have given his father, but punishment he deserved nonetheless. “You expect me to sympathise with your treason, Darkling?” He charged instead. “To clap you on your shoulder for a job well done? For murdering my mother and brother in your coup for the throne?”

“Neither were innocent from their own misdoings.” The Darkling said, ever ruthless. “And your half sibling Vasily, would have been much the same as the old king.”

Nikolai would not sit by and let this usurper speak slander of people who were not here to defend themselves, especially since he was the cause of their deaths. “That is calumny.”

But the Darkling would not have it. “Your supposed father assaulted most women he came in contact with against their will and your mother knew about it. She did nothing to stop it.”

Nikolai glanced down. “She had no say against the king.”

“Then do you see why Pytor Lantsov needed to be disposed of? He was nothing but a weak man on a weak throne, making the country look weak in turn.”

...to be continued!

And here’s the other one. One again thank youuu for your kind message! I hope you enjoy.

A pair of oprichniki, fully armed, stood aside to let them in. “Moi tsar,” they saluted, giving the same deference when Alina passed through. “Moya tsarista.”

Not that Alina could acknowledge their respects when she was too shocked by this place. She was led into a corridor that was perfectly furnished, nothing at all to what she expected to find in some underground hallway.

The wallpaper was the same baroque Zemini-lilies akin to the ones up in the palace, warm lamp light shining from the ceiling, even a carpeted floor. She thought this far underground, whatever she would find would be granite stone all around her, the chill of darkness never quite warmed by fresh air, or moss on the ground with rats and insects skittering from sight. This was a hallway as if they built more of the palace meters and meters below surface level.

“What is this place?” Alina couldn’t quite believe the existence of this lone hallway and the Darkling walked through it as if he had done so a thousand times before, the pair of oprichniki following their trails behind them.

The Darkling told her nothing but to nudge her along with him into the long path that had no left nor right corners, but was otherwise as perfectly clean and warm as any one in the palace. A couple of paces further however, a thick gate, with iron rods going through the ceiling, walls and ground, barred them from proceeding undisturbed through.

Alina shifted a little closer to the Darkling. She had no idea where they were and why this long corridor looked like this, but to have a gate so randomly in the middle of the path was ominous.

“What’s happening?” She whispered to his side. The place was so quiet, it seemed odd to break the silence.

“Nothing alarming.” The Darkling assured her, but his tone was too reticent for Alina to trust him on it.

Another couple of oprichniki appeared from the other side of the gate. “Who goes there?!” The question was asked as if they couldn’t clearly see that the king and queen stood between them.

“The tsar and tsaritsa of Ravka, our eternal monarchs.” The guards behind them answered.

Beyond the iron gate, one of them wrote down their presence in a log book before the key was presented and the iron gate was opened. Then and only then, did the oprichniki standing guard defer to the two royals.

Alina looked completely bewildered and the Darkling finally deigned to remark upon her evident confusion. “Everyone who comes down here is noted, for security's sake.” He said. “Even us.”

What was down here that even the sovereigns were to be accosted for so strictly? “Why?” Alina’s voice stayed small, unwilling to be overheard at how ignorant she was of the palace.

The Darkling gave her something of an amused smirk, urging her along the corridor with a new set of oprichniki at their back. “You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

There were two more similar gates down the hallway, both also locked and guarded by heavily weaponized oprichniki. Alina could only follow along as their presence was noted in the silence of this place, until they finally, eventually, reached the end that opened up into a spacious, but empty room. There was nothing in it, but at the back of it was a giant circular door of a vault, one bigger than Alina could ever imagine, reinforced with steel bars.

Alina gaped at it. “Is that… what I think it is?”

The amused smirk the Darkling sported only grew. “That depends on what you’re thinking of?”

Alina couldn’t help but let her imagination run wild. “A dark dungeon full of potions and sorcery books with a cauldron boiling a suspicious mixture?”

That almost got him to smile. “Not quite.” He waved at the oprichniki to open it, requiring quite a trick to do so involving two sets of keys and a combination of numbers, but the huge wheel was twisted open soon enough, and the thick, enormous steel door was opened for them.

The Darkling took her hand, careful as if she was fragile spun glass, and guided her into a place Alina could only describe as paradise.

While the insides was dim, as soon as she set foot into the vault, light flickered on above her, revealing all that was within with blinding clarity.

Alina could only stare. Stare and stare at the copious amount of priceless jewels presented before her.

On velvet cushion and faux mannequins, diamond crusted crowns and tiaras blinked at her, gold and rubies and crystals were on everything; earrings that would droop past her shoulders, rings of solid gold, bracelets of silver studded with gems, necklaces made of pearls and precious stones in all colors of the rainbow, chains so heavily ornamented it must’ve weighed a ton.

Besides that, there were even weapons displayed beneath glass cases; a long sword with a pommel fashioned after the double eagle of the Lantsov, with lapis lazuli for its eyes. A golden mace with scripture engraved on the globe written in Old Ravkan, several armors of plated steel she’d only seen drawings of in picture books. One armor set with griffins, one with an eagle taking flight, another set with a curling dragon forged of silver and gold, in clear honor of Sankt Juris.

Alina was surrounded by splendor and riches, and the place seemed endless, a stretched, underground cavern with lights pouring down to allow the radiant effect of the sparkling jewelry. The illusion was made grand by the fact that one side of the walls were only of mirrors, so all the grandeur was doubled by the untrained eye.

It had its desired effect on Alina, who could only breathlessly take in all the beauty in front of her, much more than her limited mind of an orphaned child growing up in the poorest part of an already poor town could ever imagine.

It was so much of it, too much of it. Who knew that they were living above a treasure trove so bounteous it could feed the entire country?

“The royal vault,” the Darkling intoned flatly, clearly not at all bedazzled by all the wealth and beauty. “There’s another one like this, housing all the collected money from the coffers.”

Alina swallowed thickly. There was a place like this filled to the brim with roublii coins? The part of her that grew up poor and wanting cried out in greed. She never had new clothes or shoes that quite fit her right. She had gotten scraps of food when there had not been enough to go around and now she could have all the money to burn.

It was an arrogant, dangerous thought and she could see why kings and princes grew up with swollen egos knowing they could buy anything in the world.

“I suppose this should go into some record book.” The Darkling continued. “There hasn’t been a king nor queen down here for generations.” Thinking themselves too important to make the journey, they usually requested their jewelry to be brought up to them.

“Why did you bring me here?” Alina’s mouth felt dry.

The Darkling then looked at her, sterling silver eyes prettier than anything in this vault. “I want you to pick whatever you want.” He made a gesture to all the jewelry in front of them.

Alina couldn’t choose a star in a night sky, how is she to make a choice of any sort from all this opulence? “B-but why do you want me to pick anything?”

The Darkling glanced around the width of the vault, as if the display of luxury fell in distaste with him. “Most of this,” he waved at the dozens of crowns and chains and rings, “is going to be sold.”

“What?!” Alina looked further into the vault. There were things of unspeakable value in here. And he’s going to sell them? “Why?”

“We have a debt to the Bank of Ketterdam, you recall.” The Darkling said, and Alina was not like to forget. Six hundred million roublii, with double interest, per her own signature. “A debt mostly made by Lantsov kings. It would only be apt that it’s paid with Lantsov heirlooms.”

And what such heirlooms they were. Alina shuffled carefully through the vault, afraid that even her very presence would break something as she took in all the jewelry. There was a kokoshnik so grand and stunning, it took Alina’s breath away.

For just a secret second, she envisioned herself with it; the crown would add another handful of centimeters to her height, all of diamonds so clear it seemed to emit a light all on its own.

She would look surreal and fantastic and worthy to carry the title of queen.

Alina felt ashamed at that train of thought. The Darkling had already crowned her tsaritsa, albeit against her will, she did not need to let herself become vain as well.

This was the corruption of the Lantsovs on display in front of her. Alina remembered the food shortages that plagued the country for years, but became even worse last year as bread prices rose while she could choose from a table with a succulent buffet. She had worn hand-downs all her life while Queen Tatiana arrived at the Winter Fete encrusted in jewels.

It was a startling revelation to know that while Ravka suffered through its long history, with people too poor to move, children dying hungry in their beds and serfs not allowed freedom, monarchs were meanwhile bedecked in gold and silver and feeling good about themselves.

Struck with this revelation, Alina felt almost unjust with herself and with the war she so readily wanted to wage.

“Why would you let me pick anything then, if it’s to pay off our debts?” Alina wondered demurely, set down by her own beratings.

“And leave my queen short of her own jewels?” The Darkling wouldn’t have that. Not when it came to her. “I don’t think so.”

“Imagine the stories the people will make,” Alina thought more so to herself than in response to the tsar. “The pauper queen.”

This time, he did smile.

...to be continued soon!

[mrskurono]

Hi Three! It’s okay, how’s your weekend going? I hope you’ve got some sleep! And oh my gosh I started reading the stuff you’ve written for the 5k event. Everything is so good 👏🏼

I’m the one who asked for Osamu for $12 and that was perfect! I’m usually all about messing with Atsumu but seeing Osamu becoming a very pretty mess is chef’s kiss! Kind of want to bully Osamu now…

It’s crazy how there was one weekend where I saw many writers I follow gosh over Sachiro and it’s only you and one other writer I follow that mention him now. But it’s okay! We gotta hype of underrated Haikyuu men. Wah! I meant to pick him but I hope someone else picked him. I’m such a sucker for brown haired guys (Says the girl who has a selfship with Atsumu) 😩

Yes! I caught myself skipping with the water so I’m making sure I’m hurrying! Oh no, it’s okay. I totally get you! I haven’t been to a gym in forever so I feel like if bring so many water bottles lol

Have you been getting many asks for the 5k event Three? Also, I keep forgetting to say it but congrats on 5k followers! I know I don’t usually send much asks to you but I love talking with you. I’m usually the 😊 anon on Rae’s blog

Anyway, I hope your Sunday is going well! <3 Kind of tempted to gamble again for your event but I want people to try their hand!

I'm glad you've enjoyed it! There's a few I feel I could have poured a little more into, or have done a better job articulating in thirsts. But as a whole this event has been very enjoyable even with the quantity it's brought in. I certainly have enough for a few weekends of writing so I'm thankful for that 😂

And I actually napped today! I don't think I've napped since my son was...maybe two months old? Too be fair Rae and I got real fucked up last night then proceeded to wake up at 6 am so a nap was in order 😂 I hope you've spent a weekend taking care of yourself as well hun!

And I'm glad you liked the Osamu one! Cockwarming can be so vanilla but Osamu...I just....I gotta bully him and be mean to him it's in my blood 😤 I was a chicken and didn't put my absolute favs in here bc I'm lowkey selfish

And thank you! I'm still amazed this blog has become so big as at its core it's a femdom blog. There's no stopping this train let's see if we last to 10k 😂

SPEAKING OF SACHIROU YOU TOTALLY REMINDED ME I HAVE SACHIROU ON MY EVENT LIST I DIDN'T PUT HIM DOWN ON THE POST!! PLS IF YOU WANT SACHIROU GO ASK FOR EITHER SLOTS I 100% WANNA WRITE BOTH AND I WAS DUMB AND FORGOT TO ADD HIM HGGGGGNNNN SACHIROU CONTENT NEEDS TO BE CREATED

My anons and mutuals can ask for any of the slots they want ♡ I'm trying to keep them up to date as I receive them so people know what's going to be written. You can gamble more baby I dont mind ♡

[yakuzacasual]

wow that last daigo request awakened my love for him.. i wonder if you could write something about daigo's s/o complaining about his hair and asking for him to go back to his emo hair (bc its so fvckng cute). also, i would suggest for you to write a drunk s/o to keep things realistic because no one in their right mind would ask anyone to cut an emo haircut SOBER, only me .. anyways, i really like your writing! i usually only read nsfw but your stuff is always so funny and cute, i love it 💓💗💞

PREFACE

Ay folks. I came just to say that this is a Daigo Dojima elaborate shitposting blog now, I don’t make the rules okay byeeeeee No but seriously, I’m prioritizing these two Daigo ideas I got after my first word vomit because you’ve come up with some gorgeous ideas while I was off making heart eyes at Y7 cast , you beautiful folks. Thank you so so much Non, this was a joy to write but don’t ever again assume that I wouldn’t ask this man that I am simping for to go back emo when I’m sober. I would. But in the hc it’s up to your personal interpretation. Also his hair’s shorter than i rememebr it now that i check lol. Hope you enjoy it and have an awesome day!

DAIGO HAVING THE HAIR TALK

Daigo Dojima, the chairman of one of the biggest yakuza organizations in Japan, is staring needles into a small container of what seems to be hair gel, like it just killed his entire family and spit in his face. When approaching him in that delicate state with wrath rolling off of his broad shoulders in waves, a level of caution is definitely recommended. And also readiness to hear him out because everyone in the family knows the drill by now and they make sure to disappear into thin air whenever the boss gets into that specific state of mind. Unfamiliar with the situation, maybe just a bit buzzed, you didn’t do either. You are a very special case with special privileges, after all. Whether the part of a family or an outsider, it doesn’t matter. There are a variety of doors that open up wide when you can openly proclaim yourself as Daigo’s lover. Such as barging into his office whenever you see fit, apparently.

You barely walk through the doors, when the man himself shoots you an acknowledging, albeit immensely tired look as he stops turning the container around in his hands only to set it down on the tabletop of his wooden desk. He tries his best not to pay it any attention as he beckons you over to one of the fancy guest chairs, but you can’t help and notice how his eyes wander right back to the box. It doesn’t really matter if you ask him outright or give him time to get to the topic himself, your conversation does eventually come down to discussing his biggest current concern. The price of hair gel.

What, did you think his hair gets like that on its own? Oh no no, you sweet summer child. Unlike some people, he doesn’t like styling it with the blood of his enemies. It’s a bit gross and most definitely inconvenient, though he’s got to admit, the look does feel incredibly cool. It’s this reddish shine that does it, in his opinion. Even long years after Nishikiyama’s unfortunate demise Daigo can’t help but try and replicate him like that, with copious amounts of hair gel. However, as he gets older he starts realizing how the seemingly small costs start snowballing into annoying large sums that he can’t properly explain to his finance handlers without having to come up with a strong justification for his poor life choices. And that is where you come in. An outsider’s eye, a fresh perspective for this troubled soul that is your boyfriend. So after what feels like an eternity of him trying to properly explain his problem without sounding like a total dumbass, he turns to you for assistance.

This is a scripted event with butterfly effect written all over it. Your choice will have severe consequences and can only be made once. Also, did I mention it’s timed? Well, better choose wisely and better choose real quick.

Do you: > Tell him to just be upfront with his finance team > Ask him if he can’t use less gel > “No, but hear me out, love. Your emo hair. Go back to it, no gel, no nothing. Just your gorgeous black mane scattered all over your forehead again, barely seeing anything through the pain of existence.”

Well, maybe that’s not exactly how you said it, but that’s most certainly the way he heard it. Also followed by you explaining how much hotter he looked that way and frankly, he’s not sure if it’s just your impressive bravado or the buzz talking. Alas, Daigo is quite taken aback, staring you with mouth gaping like a fish, not sure how to process whatever it was that you just threw at him. For the longest time he just sits there, feeling like he’s under scrutiny as you try to imagine this seasoned, adult him in his old haircut. Surprisingly enough it feels good to have your attention like that, but being the man that he is, he can’t help but react in a bashful manner, telling you to stop staring at him like a creep. Flatter him some more though, it’s actually a great and healthy boost for his ego, even if he acts like you’re being the most annoying person in the world. 

Honestly, from that point onward it’s just a bickering war of him claiming that he looked like an absolute idiot back in the day and now he’s got to be all dignified and shit, while you continue to tell him otherwise. You may even try to launch a full out offensive and try to get his hair down - if that’s even possible with the amounts of gel. Though it may feel a bit gross for your fingers, the effect’s definitely worth the prize because this man looks drop dead gorgeous. And, what you may observe as even better about this situation, he is like this specifically for your eyes to see and no one else’s. He does feel a bit liberated himself when you let his bangs just lay freely like that so at the end of the day you could say it was a battle well fought and maybe, maybe even won.

Because who knows, maybe Daigo will let his hair down like that around you just so that he could get you to look at him lovingly like that again. And maybe touch his hair, too....

[a-libra-writes]

who do you think would prefer an s/o who’s charming, more of a people person, using their words to get what they want vs an s/o who’s more quiet, strategic, and plans and schemes to get what they want? is it a case of opposites attract, or would they want someone to compliment them? 👀

.......so i ended up having a lot of thoughts about this LOL 

okay so i think this depends on the s/o’s morals! like you can be scheming to help others instead of hurting them. so let’s go with that bc i dont wanna brainstorm a low ethics/morality s/o (this makes me think of 7KPP, a fantastic visual novel that’s the only decent Court Drama Simulator vn i’ve come across). Also there’s a loooot of characters so imma just list the ones I have Strong Thoughts on and sort them by region oh lord what have you done my dork is showing

Northbois

So while I feel like Robb and Ned would prefer a more outgoing and charming sort of person ... I really can’t help but ship them with someone whose more cunning and can actually play the game of thrones. Like lord someone help these Starks because their intrigue score is 0 and they need someone protecting them from Tywin, Roose and Walder LOL. I can really see both father and son thinking their s/o is this sweet thing and not having a clue of how much scheming they’re actually doing to protect Winterfell... Ned would probs catch on after a while but Robb would just be blinded by love and devotion haha. 

Sansa would probs want the first ideally, but as she gets older she’d greatly appreciate someone who has that sort of cunning and uses it for good purposes. Also she’d like a calm and steady personality to rely on.

Jory is a straight up honest guy to a fault, kinda like Ned, so he’d also prefer the first type of person and appreciate them more.

OKAY SO you’d think Roose would go for the second type but HEAR ME OUT. I think he’d go for both equally, or a mix of the two. Listen. I have a strong HC that he would be very attracted to someone who is his opposite in many ways - outgoing, charming, sweet and kind. If that person also happens to be cunning as hell and willing to manipulate anyone - even him - to protect what’s their’s, oof. He’s gone. I think he’d really get off on the idea of having an s/o who everyone is shocked he’s involved with bc “omg they’re sooo nice” and only he really knows their “other side”, so to speak. Realtalk I don’t think he’d go for someone just as morally awful as him bc he’d see them more as a threat than a potential partner.

Ramsay is a little shit that would also be attracted to the first kind of person but honestly needs the second type to keep his ass in line. That’s the sort of person who would figure him out and manipulate him accordingly so he isn’t skinning the goddamn neighbors. Also he wouldn’t give a damn about their morals so go off i guess just dont start any revolts in the north

VERY Northbois

Jon really doesn’t care for schemes, even if he acknowledges they’re useful, and he’d be attracted to someone who knows just what to say and is charismatic bc lord knows he’s struggled w that for a bit.  Benjen really loves outgoing, charming and talkative peeps esp when they wiggle their way out of stuff or convince the upper command of the Watch to consider a different plan. He’ll be soooo attracted to that. Edd is kinda meh on both I’d feel? Like he’d prefer a quieter person but not a scheming sort, that’s too troublesome to deal with. I think he could come around to the first one eventually.

Mance super respects the second type, he finds it very attractive actually, especially when they start manipulating him into something and he catches them. Tormund is a dork and prefers outgoing people, totally doesn’t notice when he’s being taken in lol. He rlly hates the second sort of person, sees them as snakes.

Southbois

Edmure would absolutely be drawn to a gregarious and outgoing person! And if they can talk their way into or out of things thank god bc fishboy has a habit of putting his foot in his mouth. I really don’t think it’d work out with a schemer person bc of that Tully honor, and unlike Ned or Robb, Edmure would start to catch on (I don’t buy into the show characterization of Edmure like frack that he’s not an idiot). Brynden has a lot of experience and has seen a lot of BS, so he’d understand the risks and sacrifices his s/o would be making when they’re playing the game, and he’d really wish they wouldn’t!! Like yeah it’s to protect their family and friends but he wishes they didn’t have to do that. He wants to protect them on his own.

Brienne REALLY prefers someone whose honest and can talk their way in and out of things!! Like the Starks she’s very honorable and has no patience for lies and manipulating even if it’s for something good. It’d take a lot for her to trust and be attracted to that kind of person, they’d have to like... be very honest with her about what their plans are and why they’re doing them. 

Kingslanding bois

oh lord Stannis okay so INITIALLY he’d be put off by both personalities for diff reasons - outgoing because socializing and diplomacy is something he just sucks at and the second one because holy hell he hates dishonesty and scheming. Now, he can admire a strategic and collected mind, but as soon as dishonorable plots roll in he starts side-eyeing. I think it would take some time for that latter personality to gain his trust, and if this is like... his wife we’re talking about, she’d probs have to scheme behind his back, even if it’s for his own sake. For an outgoing person, he could eventually befriend or fall for them once some common ground is found. He wouldn’t be able to admit how much he admires their people skills haha.

Davos understands that sometimes manipulating and scheming is needed and can be used for good, but personally he prefers a more diplomatic, out in the open approach. So the first type is def his kinda person. He could still befriend the second type as long as they’re not assholes, though.

Tywin would honestly work with both sides of the spectrum and in between, but ultimately, you’d have to understand who you’re dealing with. There’s no honor or high ground being involved with Tywin Lannister, and the s/o should expect to get dragged into his schemes, esp when he trusts them ... and that’s no easy feat. Ultimately it’s less of how you get what you want and more of ... what are you willing to do to get it. Pesky morals and all that.

Tyrion has had enough of his dad’s bullshit that he’d only be romantically involved with the first type, someone who uses sass and flattery like he does. He can still respect and befriend a more cunning person, though. Jaime also prefers the first type, he thinks it’s just because “oh I like outgoing and forward people” and not...”i’ve spent years dealing with lies and schemes from father and cersei”, yanno that old chestnut. Bronn definitely prefers gregarious and cheeky peeps, schemes go over his head and bore him.

Sandor dislikes both sorts of personalities for different reasons ... He’s offput by someone who would be very talkative and outgoing with him (like why are they talking to him wtf), and he also hates scheming and lying and all that, he’s seen too much of it. The first type has a better chance of befriending and getting close to him, the second not so much. 

Petyr very much respects and admires both but like ... you know he’d prefer someone that he thinks he can outwit and manipulate, so probably more of the first type of personality because they seem less cunning and more of “just” a people person. Given his obsessive/yandere tendencies he probably wouldn’t notice he was being taken in by someone friendly and kind. 

like okay weird thing to think about but just consider this... I really wonder what it’d be like if Robert had an s/o like the first one you mentioned. Not Cersei, certainly not his beloved Lyanna - a third party, a gracious and likeable queen that kinda makes up for his faults and she’s TRYING hard as hell. like idk if they’d ever fall in love but like idk i feel like his depression would be slightly lessened to have a partner that’s very beloved and tries to help him and put him in a good light in his subject’s minds. Am I making sense? She’s not perfect but she wants what’s best for the realm and if she’s gotta do it herself she will. IDK sorry this is a tangent, i think about major change AUs and their political consequences a lot

Heckin south n east bois

Margaery is a Big Gay and you can’t fight me on this, you will lose. She’s super attracted to the first kind of gal bc that’s def how she is herself! So she’d love to play those little word games with them. The second personality type she’d just write off as “eh quiet person” but once she got closer and began to realize their cunning and wittiness she’d def take an interest, esp if she found out about some good things they did. Then it’d be a classic “outgoing babe dating more reserved babe” and yall both would be VERY well-known in court. absolute power couple

Oberyn likes both equally! Especially if your motives are to help others and/or save your friends and family. He loves that kinda loyalty and he really admires someone who has a way with words and schemes in equal measure. Hell he does both himself. He might lean more toward an outgoing person just because that’s how he is too.

idk where to put Beric but he rlly likes the first kind of people!! He’d probs ask you to get supplies or money on the Brotherhood’s behalf, and he actually kinda likes it when he finds himself doing something you wanted cause you asked so nicely or talked him into it ..... Thoros calls him a simp and it’s true ok don’t bully he can’t help it

& lastly Essosssss

So, I think Daenerys would be a lot more drawn to the second kinda person. First of all: Very mysterious, ooh. Secondly, she’d appreciate a cool head that will tell her the truth and is willing to do more unsavory things bc they believe in her so much. Obvs she would need someone with unquestionable loyalty, and once she tests and is reassured of that loyalty, then she could start some kinda romance. She’s def attracted to someone who can get shit done that way.

Jorah is a big opposite in that he’s kinda had to do that unsavory stuff himself and is still ashamed by it, and generally doesn’t trust people like Littlefinger and Varys and Illyrio, etc so he’d prefer someone who is just genuine and talks their way out of things. Also yall know him he can’t resist once he starts liking someone like cmon

Grey Worm is absolutely in the first camp too but for diff reasons! Scheming and all that shit just makes him nervous and he distrusts it, even if it’s for Daenerys’ sake. He just wouldn’t associate with the person ... Someone more outgoing would definitely fluster him more but at least he could feel like he could trust them. Missandei can go either way - she knows the power in both diplomacy and manipulation, and would likely admire and be pulled to someone who uses both to help people. 

sorry i got so wordy and a bit repetitive lol both are like, my fav kinda character archtypes, esp for court settings.

[reachfolk]

For the writing prompt, let's go with ruin.

request: alexandria silver-blood + "ruins" (elder scrolls writing prompts — OPEN)

summary: Alexandria's teaching methods may not be conventional nor are they always pleasant, but Lucien can't deny their effectiveness.

tags: fluff, lucien flavius, canon-typical violence, alex and lucien are still pretty new as companions so he's still Baby, lexi is an arguably good teacher, not proofread bc it turned out so long lol

warnings: none

word count: 2.3k

ao3 link: [tough love]

author's notes: for those that don't know, lucien is a modded follower who starts as a wimpy little imperial scholar and you train him to get better at combat. this was SO much fun to write, i feel like it really shows some of my fav things about lexi and her dynamic with lucien! thank u so much for the request dearie <3

The door to the old nordic tomb was jammed after what must have been centuries without being opened, but with a heavy shove, Alexandria was able to force them to give. As soon as they swung open, the smell of decay and rot overwhelmed Lucien's senses, and he found himself struggling to hold down that morning's breakfast.

Alexandria, on the other hand, had no such qualms. Instead, she took a deep breath and smiled at the smell. "Ah, I love these old tombs. You can just feel Lady Namira's influence in the air. Makes the eyes water though, doesn't it? Or maybe that's just the dust." She fanned her face, letting her eyes dry out for a moment before readying her sword in one hand and a simple Firebolt spell in the other. "You ready?"

"Uhh," Lucien hesitated. "Do I have a choice?"

"Nope!" With that, she pushed him through the doors, and he nearly toppled over. "You'll be taking the lead this time, alright?"

"What?! Me?!" He sputtered. "Are you sure that's a good idea? No, don't answer that. It isn't a good idea whatsoever."

Alexandria didn't seem to share a single one of his concerns as she placed a hand on his back and pushed him deeper into the old ruins. "It's a chance to practice sneaking and to test out that Turn Undead spell. Two birds with one stone, as they say."

"I only learned that spell last night. Who's to say it'll even work? Don't you think the stakes are a little too high?"

"Of course they are," she said in her usual, all too cheery tone of voice. "You're not going to learn anything by staying firmly in your comfort zone. Besides, don't you trust me to keep you safe?"

It was certainly a good question. In spite of how she presented herself, Alexandria was a difficult person to read. While he often did appreciate her optimistic attitude (it was certainly an improvement over the glum nature of most of Skyrim's citizens), there were more than a few moments where it almost felt like she enjoyed tormenting him. This wouldn't be the first time she pushed him beyond his limits; ever since she started training him, she seemed to make a game of torturing him and justifying it with reasons such as, "You need to learn to take a hit," or "You've got to get out of your own head." And, well... he wanted to trust her methods, but she make it quite difficult.

"If you take any longer to answer, it's going to hurt my feelings, you know."

"N-no, I don't mean to imply anything bad!" Lucien sputtered. "I'm just nervous, is all. You've been a wonderful guard and I don't mean to offend you in any—"

His ramblings were interrupted by her bursting into laughter, and the sound echoed throughout the chamber. He felt a brief panic, but it seems the sound didn't reverberate far enough into the ruins to alarm any draugr. Alexi, it seems, didn't share his worries at all.

"Calm down, will you? I was joking!" She chuckled. "Believe me, no one understands anxiety better than I do. But that doesn't mean I'll allow you to let it control your life."

Lucien had a hard time believing she of all people, in all her confidence and self-assuredness, could relate, but her words were a comfort nonetheless. "Right," he replied, letting her words sink in. He took a deep breath to calm himself, then firmly regretted it as the stench of death filled his lungs.

Alexi chuckled again at him and patted his arm. "You'll get used to it."

"I really don't want to," he said, but readied his spells nonetheless.

*

The pair made their way through the old ruin, crouched low and sticking to the shadows, just as Alexandria taught him. The muffle spell she cast helped them stay quiet and made it easy to make out the sound of draugr footsteps farther into the depths of the tomb.

Lucien stopped in the middle of the hallway they were crouched in and leaned his head around the bend, leading into a larger chasm. Two draugr patrolled the area, moving in circles around the perimeter.

Alexi leaned back on her haunches and whispered, "So, what's the plan, boss?"

It was strange, the way their roles were swapped. "Uhm," Lucien thought back to what Alexandria did the last time they were in this kind of situation. "Wait until they wander to opposite sides of the room, out of each other's sight, and shoot them down one at a time."

"Okay," Alexandria said simply, but the minimal response was enough to send Lucien doubting himself.

"Is that not a good plan?" He asked, unsure.

"Huh? I never said that. I told you, you're the boss here! I'm just following your lead."

"Right," Lucien muttered. "Right. Uh, I just... need to be more sure of myself."

Alexi didn't respond beyond glancing around the corner, watching the draugr.

"Right?" Lucien asked.

This time, she simply chuckled. "Dearie, how are you not realizing the irony? You're still asking for my approval. It's a good plan. Now go ahead before you start getting in your head again."

Unfortunately, his doubts already took root and refused to budge. Even as he drew his bow and had it aimed at the target, he found himself frozen in place.

After the second opening he missed due to his own hesitation, Alexandria leaned over his shoulder and whispered, "Can I give you some advice?"

"Please do."

"Great!"

She grabbed him by the neck not unlike one would grab a housecat, dragged him up from where he was crouched, and tossed him into the open chamber with the two draugr. As he yelped in surprise, the two draugr turned at the sound and drew their weapons.

The rational response was for Lucien to be angry at her for being so cruel, but in the moment, it was all he could do to bash his bow against the draugr that rushed at him with a greatsword. The attack staggered the enemy and interrupted her mid-swing, giving Lucien enough time to switch out his longbow for a sword and spell.

Just as the zombie had regained balance, Lucien took a swing, putting all his might behind it. It wasn't enough to bring her down, but as the sword connected with her shoulder, the two-handed sword she carried fell from her grasp. He used the chance to shoot a Firebolt spell at her, which sent her flying backwards, unmoving.

Before he could celebrate his victory, an arrow whooshed past his face, just barely grazing his skin and taking a few of his hairs with it. It would've sent his heart racing if the poor muscle wasn't already working at full capacity.

He turned his head to the archer, who already had nocked another arrow and shot it in his direction. He just barely managed to dodge by side stepping behind a column. There was no way he could rush at the archer with his sword, and he was clearly outmatched with a bow. Should he just try to pelt it with Firebolts, or—

Suddenly, he remembered the new spell he'd just learned the night before. It was a risk trying it now of all times, but the adrenaline rushing in his veins made it difficult to rationalize it too much. He charged the spell, then ducked out from behind the other side of the column and cast it before the draugr could even release the arrow it had readied.

The second the spell hit, the draugr immediately pulled its arrow back and turned it's back, running in the opposite direction in the signature awkward steps that all draugr take. Now that the threat of being pelted with arrows was gone, Lucien rushed at the creature and grabbed it by the back of its thin, wiry hair. He stabbed his sword through its back with enough force that it jutted out of its chest. When the creature stopped moving, he released his grip on it and let its limp body fall to the ground.

It took him several seconds to catch his breath. When his heart rate finally returned to normal, a high-pitched squeal broke through the calmness and spiked it once again. Thankfully, he realized quickly enough, it was only Alexandria excitedly cheering for him.

"Good job, Lucien!" She applauded, rushing towards him from where she watched. "Oh, I knew you could handle it!"

"I... I did! Didn't I?" It was still hard to believe he could manage in a battle with her support, so to win two-against-one was inconceivable to him.

"Obviously," she laughed, giving him a playful shove. "See what you can do when you stop freaking out? When you don't have time to doubt yourself, your real skill shows."

He couldn't help but join her in the laughter as the reality of his accomplishment dawned on him. "Does this mean I'm now a proper adventurer? I never thought I had it in me!" He puffed out his chest proudly, beaming at his companion.

"I'm well aware of that. That's always been your biggest problem," she said. "Lucien, you've gotten so used to thinking of yourself as some weak little milk-drinker that no matter how much I trained you, you refused to recognize your own progress. I needed to do something to get it through your head."

"Not to imply that I'm not grateful, because I truly am," he replied, "but was throwing me to the draugr really the only thing you could think of?"

She gave a shrug. "It's how I was taught. Well, for me it was sabre cats. And fire. Oh, and also flowers, but that one's less exciting. And plenty of harsh lessons, really. How do you think I got these scars?" To prove her point, she lifted up both arms, showcasing a large array of scars, burns, and calluses that she'd acquired over the years. They moved down throughout her body, displayed for all to see under her Forsworn armor. The injuries had accumulated so much that it was hard to tell one from the other, let alone deduce what had caused them.

Lucien was curious about it since the day they'd met, but it felt rude to ask. But seeing as she brought up the matter herself, and she didn't seem to have any discomfort talking about it, he found himself asking, "What actually happened?"

"Oh, what didn't happen?" She chuckled. Pointing at the rough shape of a bite mark on her right arm, she explained, "I got this one when Auntie Ursula wanted me to get sabre cat teeth because I'd used up her entire supply when making potions. She wanted to teach me a lesson about recognizing alchemy as more than just mixing things together. Respecting the ingredients the land blesses us with, and honoring the Hunt as a crucial part of the life of an alchemist."

She then pointed to the burn marks along her palms and fingers. "I got these when Mother Helle was training me in Destruction magic. A lot of mages hesitate to progress their knowledge of the arcane arts, so she often pushed us to lean into the pain rather than fear it. Learning advanced fire-based spells results in plenty of injuries, but I couldn't have learned them if I didn't stop being scared of getting burned. After getting lit on fire a few times, it stops being so scary. And, more importantly, you learn to control it better."

"What about the flowers?" he asked.

She held up her fingers and wiggled them a bit. They were rough and calloused, and the state of them made him wonder how she could even comfortably hold a weapon. "These were the first scars I ever got. When I first started working as Auntie Bothela's assistant—I think it was shortly after my tenth winter, she made me dethorn every single flower that was in stock at the store until my hands bled. Then she made me use those same flowers to make a health potion to cure the cuts, and then I'd start over. I wasn't so good at it in the beginning, so my skin didn't end up healing very well. But once most of the skin was scarred, it stops hurting, and it helps when working with more advanced recipes."

"That sounds... quite harsh," Lucien observed. It was odd how she described such unpleasant experiences with a bright smile, as though they were treasured memories.

"All my teachers were Reachfolk, and usually followers of Lord Hircine," she explained. "It's part of his teachings—to suffer is to learn and all that. It's not exactly the nicest way to teach, but I always found it... kind, in its own way. They were with me through every step of the way. There was never a moment of my training that I felt alone or lost."

Then, her voice grew softer, a kind of uncertainty he hadn't seen in her before. "I hope I've been that kind of teacher to you. It may not always be easy, but I wouldn't put you in any situation that I don't trust you to handle, even if you may not always trust yourself as much. And, well... I know you're still making up your mind, but I do consider you a friend. I want the best for you."

The confession made Lucien's heart swell, and he wondered how on Nirn he ever doubted her intentions. And, after today, he couldn't doubt her results. "You have been," he said. "I'm glad to have you by my side, friend."

Her eyes lit up at his words, and the sight was reminiscent of that of an excited puppy. "Me too!" she said, her voice back to its cheery tone.

With that, Lucien drew his sword again and gestured to the path leading deeper into the ruins. "So, are you ready to press on?"

She gave a salute and followed his lead, drawing her own sword. "Sure thing, boss!"

[clarionglass]

tagged by @dheiress to post the first line of my last 20 fics (thank you! <3)

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 other authors!

aight my lads here we go, there’s going to be a few unpublished wips and other piece of dubious writing in here bc i doubt i have 20 stories but anyway, here we go (this is very long! press j to skip or just get that dash scrollin bc this might take a while :// ) in very rough chronological order going backwards, starting with the published work:

1. so i ran to the river (tma grifters au, unpublished yet but will be soon!): The sunlight feels different on a face fresh out of prison, and it feels even better to Jonathan Sims now that he’s truly home.

2. crowned by an overture bold and beyond (tma pretentious college au, based loosely on the secret history):  It was a cool, rainy day in late March when I first approached the Magnus Institute--one of those days that served as a reminder that the London spring, that fragile creature, was still all too vulnerable to the occasional strike from the claws of winter.

3. we should ride this wave to shore (tma chatfic where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts): Friday, 3:14 P.M. “archives research & statement envestigation” Timothy Stoker renamed the group “drinks drinks drinks” Timothy Stoker changed Sasha James’s nickname to saucy sash Timothy Stoker changed Martin Blackwood’s nickname to martini kart Timothy Stoker changed his nickname to stonked stonked: so how bout it lads saucy sash: oh god.

4. i am the maker of rules (dealing with fools) (tma chatfic, an elias-and-peter-focused accompaniment to wsrtwts): Monday, 7:39 P.M. Elias Bouchard to Peter Lukas Elias Bouchard: Peter, I need to talk to you. Elias Bouchard: I’ve had the most infuriating day at work.

5. An Optimistic Tragedy (good omens orchestra au that i swear to god i’ll finish one day): Three years ago Eve shifted in her chair, her mind clearly on things other than Milhaud and the music in front of her.

6. The Spaces Between the Stars (the Beast of a dw fic that i can’t even begin to describe; a mate and i have been working on this since 2015 and it’s a sprawling mass of writing that encompasses Many google docs--what’s on ao3 atm is a very small percentage of it,,,,): The Doctor clutched the TARDIS railing as if somehow, it could take the pain away.

7. Carol of the Bells (a chrismas chatfic companion to aot! i’ve always been a sucker for a chatfic but oof looking back on this one my formatting style sure has changed): [Friday December 13, 1:31am] Anthony Crowley to Angelface: u up? ;)

8. An Exploration into The Nature of Human Beings, sub. Homo Sapiens: A Research Paper by Milton Jones (british comedy rpf. this is my oldest piece on ao3 and it shows, but there’s a special place in my heart for this dorky lil fic about an alien researcher making a place for himself in british comedy. fun fact! i actually added the final three sentences to this a couple of days ago, and will post it when i do my next fic update): <<I knew you’d be down here, as per usual. Do you never stop working?>>

and now for the stuff that i like but hasn’t yet/will never/one day, if i get my act together, might be posted to ao3... please ask me about these bc i love them, even though i’ll probably never post them :)

9. untitled mitchell spy comedy (a show that @monimolimnion​ and i want to pitch to the bbc in which david mitchell and victoria coren mitchell are married spies who work for MI5 and MI6 respectively, and most of britcom pops up in one place or another. it’s nothing more than a Lot of planning and a few snippets, but i love returning to this doc): [David is sitting at his desk, shaking his head at an open file.] David: They’re taking the piss. That’s what they’re doing, they’re taking the piss.

10. In the Demonic Style (a good omens au of @teashoesandhair’s glorious smooching contest piece, which is the first piece of fiction writing in the reblog chain. i’ve promised a chapter 2 to this, which i’m halfway through, and feel incredibly guilty for not finishing. still, my quarter-year’s resolution is to finish something old whenever i post something new, so maybe it’ll get done soon!): “It’s the end of the world” was not a good statement with which to start one’s morning in any circumstances, but the angel Bryndael was in the middle of cataloguing his newest shipment of tea samples when said statement reached his ears, and he didn’t much appreciate being disturbed.

11. magpie (good omens canon-mostly-compliant fic based around the song magpie by the unthanks/the magpie folk song/nursery rhyme): Wednesday (approximately 11 years before the end of the world) From a bird’s-eye view, St James’s Park was beautiful at this time of year.

12. untitled ficlet for tales of dwrwedd (a present for my writing buddy! the link is to her fic, i just wrote a bit of her two witcherverse ocs being soft as hell): The two women seated by the hearth didn't look old, either of them. But there was something about the pair--in their movements, or their mannerisms--that suggested an age far beyond what their unlined faces would suggest.

13: Tempo d’Attacco (an original bit of Light Crime a la midsomer murders, set in a university music department that is naturally a thinly-veiled copy of my own, hence why it will never ever be posted anywhere. i wrote this for my supervisor at the end of honours (her character is the sleuth) :P ) Dr Marisa Tan didn’t exactly start her morning well, on the day that everything seemed to upend itself.

patterns...... i’m not seeing that many, tbh? idk if i could call this in media res, but there’s certainly a good bit of plot starting without heaps of setup. 

my favourite? hmmmmmm i’d say my favourites would be crowned by an overture bold and beyond, and in the demonic style. i gotta say, going back to revisit a lot of my older writing has been nice! time and distance have been v kind :)

i’m hella bad at tagging things so if you see this and want to share your own writing please go ahead! i’m very shy when it comes to Fandom Interaction (tm) so i don’t feel comfortable launching myself into people’s notes (i loved this tho! i just need other people to make the first move lol), however i will give a specific shoutout to @monimolimnion whose writing i adore and who needs to do this!

[gayandfullofdismay]

Good!Adopted!Wen Wuxian Headcanons Ficlet Pt 4

(Bc I have no self control and I hate myself—)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Wen Wuxian was glad that people weren’t expected to smile when mourning such a recent death, because for once in his life he wasn’t sure if he could muster up even a fake one.

Wen Wuxian was not glad that their sect had to entertain every sect leader and their sons in this empty mockery of ‘mourning’ when it was all too obvious that they couldn’t be happier with his father’s death.

(His father, his father, his father, who raised him and loved him and-)

His father.

Every word of condolences from strangers (strangers he knew were smiling when his back turned, strangers he knew were grinning at his fathers death, strangers he knew were positively rejoicing at his fathers demise-) made him feel a little colder and emptier inside until he would have believed it if his brother told him that Wen Zhuliu had melted his core.

It still seemed to surprise everyone, himself the most, when he finally snapped and hissed, “Are you really even remotely sad,” at the next cultivator to approach him with empty apologies and tales of their own tears for his father dancing on their lips.

He supposed that it was just his luck that the one he had snapped at was Lan Zhan.

Regardless, it was too late to take his words back now, not when every eye in the room was trained on them, and certainly not when his mouth felt glued together, as hard to open as his eyes had been those first few mornings his father had been gone.

Lan Zhan looked like he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that and a small angry part of him whispered that was even more proof of how little he cared about his fathers death, how little he cared for him-

Lan Zhan opened his mouth slowly as if it was an effort to move it through the thick tension saturating the air of the room.

And, yet, for all the hesitation in his motions, his words were fiercely honest when he said, “I am sad if Wen Ying is.”

Just like that. He stated it as if it was something obvious, a fact that even a child would know and be able to recite in their sleep.

He said it with all the conviction that he usually used only when reciting his most serious of sect rules, things he had memorized and believed since he was old enough to understand them, and any fleeting animosity drained out of him at the bold declaration as swiftly and easily as the tension in his shoulders did.

Gasps rang through the crowd at his blatant disrespect and disregard towards Wen Ruohan and his death, though he was sure a fair number of them were also at his reaction to Lan Zhan’s words being to relax rather than fight.

Lan Zhan had a look of indecision and, dare he say it, nervousness, flash across his face as one of the biggest displays of emotion he’d ever seen the other man make before it was gone again. Then, as if he had planned this since waking over to him, he sat down beside him with the same self-assured confidence and grace that the Second Jade usually possessed when Wei Ying saw him from afar.

Wen Ying, on the other hand, showed no hesitation when he immediately plopped his head down onto Lan Zhan’s shoulder a moment later.

And if, nearly an hour later, when Wen Ying sits back up he has left a dark stain on the shoulder of Lan Zhan’s robe and has even redder eyes than before, well. His Lan Zhan had always done his best to follow his sect rules concerning gossip and reprimand others for unrighteous behavior.

In the privacy of his own rooms, however, he will wonder for years how much he truly holds the right to mourn his father when he had not bothered to stop his brothers from killing him.

- - - - - - -

(Tell me what you think! First time posting a fic for MDZS or even posting a fic on tumblr so pls tell me if u guys like it better in fic form or bullet point form so I can include more little ficlets like this sometimes if it’s not actually terrible)

(Anyway the next one will prolly be like Part 3.5 or smth lol but I already had this written in my head so as soon as I transferred it down to writing I wanted it posted bc as established earlier I have no self control—)

((Also does anyone know what WWX would call Wen Xu since he’s his eldest brother instead of just older brother or if he would just call him the same thing as Wen Chao. I tried to search it up and I still wasn’t completely sure))

[phanlight]

Twin Flame

 .                                       ✧                   ✵                  ✧                                      .    ✴      .                    ✦               .                        .                 ✦                  .     ✴ 

thank u so much to anyone and everyone who’s stuck by over the years had it not been for ur constant support i would not be doing this rn not in a billion years also i hope i still remember how to write

this is gonna be v slow burn [like a big ol sage sticc] so I apologise for the steady pacing for a first chapter but I wanna set sufficient enough ~ foundations~ so things will pick up soon i promise lol

I digress ANYWAY have some magic

I literally don’t know what to describe this as I guess artist/mage/psychic!dan (if that isn’t a thing i’m making it one), bamf!phil (gotta stay tru to the roots), enemies-to-lovers, semi-surrealism, ethereal-surrealism (I s2g this is gonna be about 5 diff genres wtf am I doing)

✴      .                    ✦               .                        .                ✦                            ✴

summary:

Dan isn't lost anymore. He's finally okay with being an explorer, not a seeker. Content with being a wanderer rather than a wonderer. His checkered luck often leads him to almost hear the laughter of Fate ringing in the sky, but he puts it down to entering the world on the Thirteenth night of June; a Friday full with the Moon. A time where forces higher than usual ripple through the atmosphere, through the night. But he’s okay with that. He’s become okay with that. He’ll look for the light in life, live for the sparkle on summer tides. He’ll find answers at the end of paint tubes and poetry books; get by on his own moral philosophies rather than those of a shattered system. But when he falls into a realm in even further ruins than his own, he himself shatters – and suddenly the cycle begins again. Seeking, wondering – lost down to the soul. But with destruction comes construction. With darkness comes light. With bad comes good. And to exist, they must co-exist.

✴      .                    ✦               .                        .                ✦                       .     ✴ 

actual plot bc that said nothing about what acc happens: 

dan’s a lonely ass painter who loves crystals and one day finds a passage in an abandoned lighthouse that transports him into a spirit realm where he meets someone more lost than him. they don’t get on but for reasons they’ll have to.

.            ✴.                                  .                                .                 .✴              .     

.✴     .                    ✴               .          ✯            .                ✴                      .     ✴.

opposing forces, they attract;

yin won’t exist without its yang.

a sunless moon, a silent act;

in idleness it hangs.

galactic compounds in the skin,

harbour chemicals and cells,

particles, atomic, sub-

vibrate with polar spells.

the grounding force attraction

it ties every single bond.

becomes the gravity,

of life; existence as One.

.✴     .  - Love                                                                                               .     

                                                                                          ✴               .          ✯            .                ✴

                                                  ✴[AO3 LINK]✴

Dan stares at the pale tornado swirling inside the china. Seagulls cackle outside, as if in response to the disgusting abundance of milk.

Fuck this.

The ruined tea goes down the sink with a steamy slosh, and he chokes on the eruption of vapour that partially enters his lungs. Great. The universe has now given him enough to decipher exactly what type of day today will be.

He calls them his Horseshoe Days. He’d had one once – a gift from his grandmother. At the time it seemed something strange to give to a seven-year-old. He was at the age where he wouldn’t know what a horseshoe meant if one came hurtling down from above, bonking the top of his skull.

And it did once – well, nearly. It was only while dodging the thing falling from the shelf, only milliseconds away from meeting his forehead, he realised they might actually be as lucky as she’d promised.

That was, until perhaps, he placed it back on the shelf upside-down. His parents were both blissfully none-the-wiser when it came to anything outside the ordinary – the superstition veining back to his occult-practicing grandmother on his mother’s side (and skipping generation in the process, it seems). They saw a horseshoe as nothing more than a crescent of iron that for some reason sits in the kitchen, whichever way up. It was only once events later that day began to unravel in an unfamiliar manner did a bubbling suspicion of a correlation arise. Dan had vaguely remembered something about the blacksmith Dunstan and how a shoe upturn drains its ‘powers’, but it was only a crashed bike, scraped knee and flattened football later did he actually pay any attention to why his day might have been going so badly.

Well, eventually.  

The entire exchange sits still at the forefront of his psyche, each detail in sparkling clarity. He sees it now, even hears the voices.

“That’s why!” he’d burst out over dinner.

His parents had jumped in unison, and his stepfather elbowed over a glass. The table shone with a thin spread of water, trickling across the mahogany.

The hardness of Gerald’s voice is still nailed into the back of his memory. He used to hate it when he shouted.

“Jesus!” he’d have yelled, scrabbling around the table with a napkin. Dan remembers the kitchen towel surrendering immediately, from sheets to soggy mulch in seconds. He’d then have followed with a favourite catchphrase of his; “Do you have to yell like that?”

It was nothing they weren’t used to. He had a habit of sneaking up on everyone. ‘Feather-Feet’, his grandmother used to call him.

Dan remembers ignoring him, stretching up out of his seat and reaching for the overhead shelf. He doesn’t reckon an upturned horseshoe has ever made anyone this happy but he remembers feeling nothing but delight. It’s a bit of a backward attitude. “I knew I wasn’t just naturally unlucky!”

Being born on Friday the thirteenth certainly doesn’t help, despite giving every single birthday wish to a promise of better luck.

His grandmother used to say it was a good omen. Actually lucky; despite its reputation in amongst the ladders and scaffolding and cracked pavement tiles. The Thirteenth night of June, a Friday full with the moon, she used to muse, eyes bright with love. He misses her.

“What are you doing?” his mother had narrowed her eyes, watching her son reach for the horseshoe. When his elbow disturbed a spherical paperweight in the process and it began a bloodcurdlingly slow descent off the shelf, they flew open wider. “Careful! Mind my-“

He was already ahead of her, he remembers. Fingers clasped around the iron and flipped upright in a fraction of a second. In the other he outstretches his hand, feeling the paperweight plop into his palm in one piece instead of millions more. He‘ll never forget the sigh of relief from somewhere behind him.

He remembers the feeling. The weight of the crystal. The coolness of the cast iron. Saved antique in one hand, upright horseshoe in the other. The absolute thrum of electricity through his bloodstream. He remembers smiling and looking up. “See?”

“See what, exactly?” Gerald had then snapped, masking his panic with anything other than fear. “You nearly ruining our wedding present? A repeat performance of Aunt Nora’s teapot?”

He glanced to his mother, still completely ivory with shock. Her eyes are fixed on the swirled quartz as if it were seconds away from leaping off of his palm again by itself; under its own magic.  

“Did you not see that?” Confusion begins to seep into his initial delight. Were they even concentrating at all?

“I saw you being idiotic,” his stepfather had spat. Dan winces like he did fifteen years ago. The word still holds its weight, even now. He doesn’t know why.

“The horseshoe,” he’d tried to explain. “It wa-“

“I don’t give a shit about the bloody horseshoe!” he’d suddenly exploded. Both Dan and his mother jumped back in their seats.

“Gerald,” he remembers the softness of his mother’s tone, a diametric opposition of the echoes of steel his stepfather had the nerve to call an indoor voice.

“No, I’m sick of it!” he’s erupting now. Bubbling over the surface. A temper like a needle to an overfilled balloon. “He’s always flailing about. Knocking things over. Your mother told me about the vase, by the way,” he spat aside.

Dan’s stomach had dropped. She’d sworn not to say a word. She’d promised.

“You never know what the boy’s next move is going to be,” he continues. “I’m sick of it,” he repeats again, as if repetition be the highest form of emphasis. He snatched the paperweight but ignored the horseshoe, and Dan remembers how it had looked in his grip – the glass probably having more chance of shattering inside his big burly palm than the solid stone floor.

He vanishes and reappears two seconds later, marching back with a face of beetroot and a brow of iron, pressing a daggered glare into the back of Dan’s head. He could feel the warmth burning the nape of his neck, the stare scalding the skin.

“He’s not to be trusted,” he announced as if there were thousands of other ears also listening.

A delicate frown threaded its way across his mother’s brow.

“Wh-“

“Leave it, Penelope,” he’d cut her off before she’d even had a chance to finish the word, let alone the sentence. Dan used to hate the way he spoke to her. “If the boy wants to behave like a child, he’ll get treated like one. No more ornaments in the kitchen.”

Dan remembers thinking then it would kind-of be nice being addressed by name. Just once. Maybe. Gerald’s also about the only person capable of criticizing a seven-year-old for behaving like a child. Make it make sense, Gerald, he doesn’t say. And my name’s Dan, but you’ve probably forgotten that.

She’d thrown her son a quick sapphire glance; a gleaming silent apology. Dan’s heart had lurched at the glint of panic in her eye.

It lurches now. That absolute demon must have given her hell. He’d never been more thankful to see his mother out of a marriage. He was horrible.

And he couldn’t fucking cook. He even remembers what they were eating on the night because it was so inedible. He’s always detested mashed potato, and he’s certain Gerald knew this. He remembers stabbing the offending white lump on his plate during the sacred three seconds of silence His Lordship could manage before that cruel mouth of his opened again.

“Bloody cold, now,” he’d grumbled.

Dan remembers holding back a smirk. As if any amount of heat could make this cement any less torturous to ingest.

He’d briefly wondered if suffocation was in his hidden agenda all along. It wouldn’t surprise him. Death by potato has an interesting ring to it.

Anyway, the whole situation could have been history in under ten seconds. He could have had the horseshoe upright and the paperweight saved in three of those. Job done, panic over, back to dinner in the remaining seven. He imagines Gerald’s reaction had he spoken his mind at the time.

That was fifteen years ago, of course. Being seven, someone could have told him the sky was pink and he’d eventually believe it (maybe if it happened to be during a sunset). From that point onward he hadn’t exactly lapped up old wives’ tales, myths spinning into each other like silver silk, but his superstition remained a conscious glow in the back of his mind; going no further than avoiding three drains and ladders and watching black cats slink across his path with his breath held. Sometimes even whispering a quick wish when eleven lines up the clock (most days he misses, though).

He vowed from that very moment to save anything considered slightly out-of-the-ordinary for those who actually want to hear about it. Those who understand.

He looks at the horseshoe. It’s the same one – it always has been. Seeing three new house-changes and a hell of a lot of life, it sits, still – tightly nailed to the overhead beam of the kitchen. There’s no way it could slip now.

His eyes travel down from the horseshoe at the dazzling abundance of crystals lining and clustering every free available space surrounding the entire kitchen. He figures Gerald’s little ‘no ornaments in the kitchen’ law wouldn’t bode too well here. He’d scream in fear of the raw amethysts by the kettle. Sob at the sight of the glittering chunks of hematite by the sink. Shield his eyes from offending lines of onyx near the spice rack and the little malachite cluster by Rosa (one of many house plants). And as for the great big slabs of rose quartz and Himalayan salt on the windowsill, the glow of sunrise warming the atmosphere each morning; kissing the space with shadowy peaches and dusty pinks – well, his face would be an absolute picture. Priceless. He grins whenever he dusts, love bursting in his heart for each one and humming through every vein in his body. They make him feel like a proud father.

A short, sharp buzz on the countertop interrupts his thoughts. His consciousness snaps back into reality. Shit, how long has it been? Once he gets thinking about Gerald and everything he put his mother through he gets angry, and then half the day disappears and he finds he’s done little else other than stare at a drawer or a wall for the majority of it. It’s easy to get carried away. It happens when he thinks about crystals too.

You okay?

It’s Zema. Part-time housemate, full-time soulmate. It’s almost like he’d heard his thoughts; the voices so powerful they resonate externally. Part of Dan wouldn’t be surprised if he had – Gerald was certainly shouting loud enough in there.

Been better, he answers truthfully. Just made the worst cup of tea known to mankind

I wondered what all that clanking was

There’s a pause, followed by another quick buzz.

HSD?

Dan grins at the screen. Horseshoe day. He’d even remembered their abbreviation.

“H – S – D,” he’d once said. “It’s like LSD. But shitter.”

Dan had snorted. Zema’s about the only person who would compare having ‘one of those days’ to a psychedelic trip.

“Exactly,” Zema had said once Dan had told him this. “It’s not. That’s why it’s shitter.”

Dan hadn’t exactly agreed with him. He didn’t even think it was worth mentioning Horseshoe is actually all one word, but he’d gone along with it because HSD is a lot less effort to type and sometimes it’s good to have a code. Zema’s about the only person who knows about this. He doesn’t trust anyone else enough not to judge him when he tells them he’s basically superstitious, however blanket that definition may be. It’s probably not the correct term, but he doesn’t know how else to describe it. Drawn to the unknown? Like it matters either way. It’s not as if he’s particularly vocal about it. A twenty-three-year-old male, unusually innate occult-esque interests and a static, stagnant society don’t exactly fit together with jigsaw-like ease. Dan doesn’t know why. Dan doesn’t see what the harm is in allowing others to gravitate towards their own pleasures when the concept alone of interests and hobbies is entirely subjective. That’s the beauty of it, he finds. No two beings have exactly the same range, however similar.

Maybe the harm is that there’s no harm at all, and that scares him. The lust for destruction scares him. This planet scares him.

Something like that, he taps back, before pocketing the conversation. 

He gives up with tea involving milk and unlatches the wooden box neighbouring the kettle. It’s stuffed to the brim with teabags of spanning across the entire flavour spectrum.

He picks one up and presses it to his nose, inhaling. Ah, Jasmine.

He picks up another. Camomile and- something. He frowns. Lemon?

He puts it back. Can’t be. He finished the lemon last week.

He picks it up again and sniffs. Ginger, that’s it.

Nah, he tosses it back in for a second time. He only touches the ginger when he’s feeling jaded the morning after a night involving too much wine and not enough water (they happen more often than not).

He picks up another, inhaling the rich, fruity aroma. Red berries. It even smells like the colour red.

He puts it back nonetheless. Strawberries and- well, just about everything else with –berry tagged onto the end – just wouldn’t cut it right now. Ambitious Ribena, that’s what Zema calls it. It hasn’t really tasted the same since he said that.

He picks up another. Jasmine again, he rolls his eyes. He’s seldom ever in a ‘Jasmine’ mood. He doesn’t even know why they have so many – Zema barely touches it either.

He finally settles for a plain green tea. A bit of simplicity wouldn’t go amiss right now.

His phone buzzes again.

Don’t think I can’t hear that kettle. I’ll have a ginseng pls x

Dan huffs out a laugh. Cover blown.

We’re all out of ginseng.

Look under the sink.

Dan rolls his eyes and yanks open the door below him. Six boxes of the stuff stare back at him.

Six??? he taps with one hand, grabbing a box and tearing the cardboard open with another. Really?

Didn’t wanna run out is all that follows.

He shakes his head, but lets the grin tug his lips.

Panic-buying tea now, are we?

Don’t start. You bought six crystals the other day

Ok that’s different. Mercury is in retrograde right now and we’re not taking any chances

What does that even mean

It means u need to stop buying so much tea

I’ll stop buying tea when u stop buying crystals

Dan smirks. He’ll be waiting a while, then.

He assigns Zema the age-old High School Musical mug. It was a gift from Axel one or two Christmases ago, and he imagines the Disney franchise probably didn’t have temperamental dishwashers in mind during the manufacturing process – the boiling steam had left the majority of the characters eyeless and Troy Bolton completely nose-less. He leaves it next to the kettle with texted instructions for Zema to leave the duvet cave immediately before it turns cold, but for what it’s worth, the other boy isn’t exactly famous for his pro-activity early in the mornings. He wouldn’t be surprised if it reached stone temperature before passing his lips. Judging by the lack of audible movement, he’d be safe in assuming he’s probably fallen back asleep.

He pads into the lounge with a steaming mug and a bookmarked copy of Le Fleur Du Mal; completely falling to bits and half of the pages contemplating a permanent escape. Despite his attempts, even the strongest duct tape couldn’t keep this copy together.

There’s something about a parallel translation that fascinates him. How meaning can so flawlessly transcend dialect. He wonders if Baudelaire had this in mind. Whether he knew his works would one day be read in languages far from his mother tongue. Did he know his own craft to be so acute, so fine, that whichever order, whichever laws of letters they’re under – the same meaning shines through? The same rhythm, the same senses, colours, emotions rippling through each sign and symbol? That’s poetry.

His eyes scan the neighbouring verse. Learning a bit more French would definitely help, that’s for sure. His own skill is rusted from years of neglect; having abandoned all hopes of igniting his love for such a beautiful dialogue after school had strode into his life and seeped all the joy and passion out of just about everything he once loved. He’s glad to have reignited that. It was years until he picked up a paintbrush again.

He’s only three words in before he’s interrupted by an all-too-familiar sound.

He rolls his eyes, peering over the edge of the pages. “What now?”

Two eyes wait for him. One emerald, the other azure.

“No,” Dan immediately answers.

The reply is longer, louder.

“Ugh,” his glance scours the ceiling for a second. “It’s literally been an hour, Vee. Where are you storing it all?”

The eyes answer with an innocent glitter, but Dan knows better. His eyes flicker back to the page:

What will you say tonight, poor lonely soul,

What will you say old withered heart of mine,

To the most beautiful, the best, most dear,

Whose heavenly regards bring back your bloom?

We will assign our pride to sing her praise:

Nothing excels the sweetness of her will;

Her holy-

Then there’s a gentle chirrup. He feels his heart turn to jelly. She knows exactly what that sound does to him.

“Venus,” he groans in defeat, elongating the ‘u’. He plops the book down next to him and hauling himself up from the sofa. “Only one, okay? No more.”

She slinks down from the stool, her stool – only about fifty years old and fraying at every single edge. What was once a delicate floral tapestry now existing as aged blobs in various shades of pastel. All four legs, previously smooth mahogany, are now a splintered beige from years of busy carving. He doesn’t understand how such soft paws bear such ceramic claws.

They’d tried everything. From cardboard and cereal boxes to actual climbing towers she would barely look at, let alone touch. Beds she ignored; choosing only Dan’s favourite satin pillow. And she’ll only ever drink water out of a specific pint glass.

“We’ve adopted a human, not a cat,” Zema had once said.

“It’s like she owns us,” Dan had agreed.

She’s trotting along the kitchen floorboards now, her tail high. She stops once she reaches the drawer under the crystal cabinet, throwing her human a demure glance.

“Alright, alright,” Dan catches her up, grabbing the bronze key. He’s thankful cats don’t have the power of thumbs. The world is already chaotic enough. 

He ends up giving her three. It’s those eyes, he tells himself in a small bout of self-justification. Those fucking eyes.

“Venus flytrap,” he mutters, running his fingertips along her silky back. “What are you like, eh? Where do you put it all?”

“Hollow legs,” a voice appears from behind him.

He almost leaves his own skin.

“Jesus!” he clutches at his chest. “What happened to the No-Giving-Dan-Cardiac-Arrest-Before-Noon rule?"

He whirls around to find Zema sat cross-legged on the marble surface just beside the sink, all silken robes and bed-beaten hair. A smirk gets bitten back under his teeth.

“I texted you."

Dan can’t quite believe the twenty-first century has come to this. Texting those who not only live in the same property, but are on the same floor.

They’re not actually too dissimilar in appearance – his head also home to a gigantic mass of thick brown waves, although in a darker shade to Dan’s own hair. His eyes stare back at him in a shade of gentle grey. Chameleon Eyes, Dan calls them; for they reflect their surroundings. He remembers how they looked when they’d first met that day at the beach – bright turquoise; matching the sky and the sea. He remembers how perplexed he been the second time they’d met and his eyes were suddenly a shining shamrock; sharing the glow of the grass. Then a gentle grey on the street under overcast clouds.  He’s always wanted to go into one of those rooms covered completely ground-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall, in mirrors. His eyes would probably boast galaxies.

He’s shorter than Dan (a rare occurrence among his friends) and about fifty times as agile �� something he and Venus have in common is their blatant disregard for actual furniture. Even she sits on a stool more often than he does. Zema the Lemur, he calls him.

“Because chairs don’t exist,” Dan mutters now, his tone soaked with sarcasm. “Christ, you’re worse than her,” he nods down towards their little family member, still fixated on the drawer.

She trots up to Zema, seizing the opportunity.

“Are you hungry, honeybear?” Zema coos, his eyes sparkling. He gets an emphatic ‘mew’ in response.

“Don’t be fooled,” Dan interjects quickly. “She’s had a bowl and two treats already today.”

“Those eyes,” Zema grins knowingly. Green flashes in his direction. They’ve noticed she responds to ‘eyes’ faster than her own name.

“Those fucking eyes,” Dan shakes his head in agreement. The eyes in question now dart towards him. Whenever ‘eyes’ happen to crop up in conversation between the two, she looks as though she’s watching a tennis match. Dan’s abdomen still aches at the memory of the night they’d made the revelation; both curled up either side of the room in tears of laughter at her light-like response. “How’s the tea, by the way? Not too cold, I hope?”

“It’s lovely,” he sips appreciatively. “Good mug choice. Always better when it’s from Troy Bolton’s brain. It’s like I can taste his thoughts.”

“I didn’t know Gabriella tasted like ginseng,” Dan says. “Cut her open and she bleeds the stuff.”

Zema smirks. He holds the mug up, examining the worn surface in all its glory. “Looks like someone already has. God, this thing’s falling apart,” he thinks aloud, bringing himself ear-to-lip with the partially eroded character. “What happened to your nose babe, eh? Did it fall off during basketball?”

“Troy Boldemort,” Dan mutters immediately. Zema all but chokes, droplets showering the countertop.

He loves mornings like these, mornings where neither of them have any prior academic engagements and they can just sit and talk for hours about – well, anything, really. The final year of University boasts a monumental amount of focus and preparation and just a general resounding ‘oh-shit-this-is-actually-real’ feeling that apparently never really goes away; not even after you graduate, according to one of his cousins.

For Dan, nothing has really felt real since he was about fifteen, so it’s not something that particularly bothers him. He could just do without that ten-tonne workload.

“So what are you up to today, then?” Zema swings his legs over the edge, giggling as Venus begins an attack on his slipper. “Anything exciting?”

“Not much,” he sips thoughtfully. What can he do today? It’s been so long since he’s had a free day he’s forgotten how he spends time on his own terms. “Might get another painting done.”

“Paint me,” Zema beams, carding a hand through his fringe.

“Oh yeah?” Dan raises an eyebrow. “How the fuck would I go about painting your eyes?”

“Paint me in a field,” Zema continues. “And a beach. I wanna see-…” he hesitates. “We need to go to, like, a strawberry field or something. I wanna see if my eyes would go red.”

“Just smoke some pot. Then you’ll be halfway there.” Dan says, before hesitating. “Anyway, if we went to a strawberry field it’ll be mostly green. The strawberries are only the berries.”

“A poppy field, then,” Zema says.

He literally has an answer to everything. Dan rolls his eyes.

“One day,” he finally affirms, and the other boy grins. “In Spring.”

“I’m glad you’re painting again,” Zema says. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you do anything creative.”

“Tell me about it,” Dan mumbles, taking another sip although the tea’s losing its heat. It’s always the case when talking to Zema – the rapid, quick-fire pace of every conversation leaves barely enough interval to drink (that is, of course, unless it’s alcohol). “It’s been so long I doubt I even remember how to paint.”

“I highly doubt that,” Zema fires back, gulping more tea and placing the ghostly mug beside him.

“How about you, then?” Dan gulps down the remaining liquid before it has a chance to grow any colder. “What are you doing with yourself today?”

“I’m off out,” Zema stretches, his voice slightly strained. “Need to be at Eddie’s by ten. We’re doing the bass today.”

They’re two of a wide circle of musicians playing in each-other’s orbit. Zema’s never anywhere without his guitar, Axel the same with his saxophone (Saxel, he’s often referred to as), and Eddie would be the same, he imagines, had he not chosen the piano as his instrument of choice. He bites back a smirk, picturing him struggling with a rope, trying to drag his enormous Bösendorfer Grand onto a train for a gig. Thank almighty Yamaha for the existence of keyboards.

Dan winces, his eyes flickering to the clock. “You’re cutting it a bit fine, then.”

Zema’s own eyes flash towards the time. “Oh, shit,” the remaining tea gets swallowed in seconds and the ghostly mug falls into the sink with a steely clatter. “I’d better go.”

“Nothing they’re not used to I imagine.” Dan smirks.

“Don’t,” Zema cringes, grabbing his bag and shooting down the corridor into his own room. “They brought up my punctuality only the other day,” his voice continues. “Fuck, Dan. Why do I do this to myself?”

“Alarms exist.” Dan calls after him. 

“It wasn’t even that,” he reappears holding a handful of guitar picks and a capo, shoving them into the front pocket of his case. “I decided to stop off on the way. Never in my life have I seen such a queue for the drive-through. It was ridiculous.”

“At least they got a couple of fries out of it.”

Zema stares at him. His expression speaks for itself.

“Okay. Well at least you got a couple of fries out of it.”

“Cold fries. And a melted McFlurry,” he mourns, hauling his guitar over his shoulder and looking Dan dead in the eye. “Word of advice, Dan. Never try eating ice cream while you’re driving. It doesn’t work. There’s a time limit.”

“There go my plans for the day,” Dan scoffs. “I don’t even drive.”

“And it’s about time you learnt, eh?” Zema grins. “Give your bestie a break from all that parallel parking. It’s doing my head in.”

“If it means getting you to places on time, I’m more than happy to,” his eyes flicker to the clock. “You have nine minutes, Zee.”

“Fuck’s sake!” Zema groans. “I’m doing it again. I’m going, I’m going-” he flusters around, filling both arms up with various belongings.  “Can you grab my keys for me? They’re on the plate.”

The Plate, Dan smirks to himself. Keeping vital belongings within reaching distance of the door, it’s the porcelain base to everything – keys; both car and house, cards; both debit and SD, alongside an ocean of lighters, loose change, semi-important receipts, and a Pizza Hut flier that had been there when they moved in. He remembers the delight they’d both shared upon discovering the possibility of five-pound large pizzas – crushed immediately by disappointment upon realizing the flier was from 2006.

It’s filled now to the brim with such a pile had it not been for Zema’s obnoxiously large keyring collection it would have taken him an age to locate them. He grabs them by the ‘Amsterdam’ pipe-shaped bottle opener.

“There,” he thrusts them into his hands with a jingle. “Now go.”

“Lifesaver,” Zema clutches them, slipping out of the door. “I’ll see you around five, yeah?”

“See you,” Dan grins, watching him jog to his vehicle. “Safe journey. Don’t drive through anything this time.”

The look he receives tells him all he needs to know. He watches the smaller figure amble up the road to his car; a battered blue thing with a collage of stickers plastering the rear. It was a seventeenth birthday gift; four metallic walls capturing four years of freedom. Despite having known Zema for only two of those four years, they’d already ridden up and down the country in it; halfway back home they’d had to make an impromptu visit to a tiny town somewhere along the south coast due to a faulty tire, but that ended up being one of the best decisions of their lives.

Because had they not set foot into the first tavern they’d walked past whilst the car was being repaired somewhere up the road; a crooked, old thing with bookshelves for walls and a resident cat asleep on the stool, they would never have been served by a bartender with a nose ring and hair the colour of moss (Dan remembers wondering how someone can suit such surroundings whilst simultaneously looking so out of place). They would never have stuck up a conversation about the clock on the wall and discovered it was an original nineteenth-century piece passed down from Germany, and the bartender would never have noticed Zema’s obsidian pendant and asked him about its origins. They wouldn’t have spent the remains of the afternoon sunk into the floral upholstery, swigging ale-upon-ale with this vibrant character as the sky loses the light before reality dawns and they realise they came here with a car that needs attending to.

He still can’t believe this was how they met Axel. All three of them have evolved so much since then, all grown in each other’s orbit.

(The rapid blossom of the butterfly effect has never failed to astound him. It never will.)

The fade of the engine introduces a silence he hasn’t heard since seven a.m. His smile seemed to have travelled along with the car; with Zema. Shit, has it always been this deadened without him? The quietness cuts into his eardrums, growing sharper and sharper the more he strains; searching for something, anything – a whisper of a tree, a yelp of a dog, a-

He paces away from the front door, finding comfort in the soft pad of his own footsteps. The floorboards groan with every movement, and he’s thankful for the noise.

He can never find his way back to sleep upon awakening on a Horseshoe day. It’s the tell-tale sign for him – if he claws his way out of a biting nightmare bathed in sweat, scrabbling around the duvet until his fingers touch cool amethyst, rough and raw, he knows there are challenges waiting for him.

He doesn’t know why it happens. Or how. He’s only ever tried to explain the whole thing to Zema a handful of times and even then he doesn’t really get it, doesn’t really understand how he can just know something’s about to happen before it does, just feels the flames underneath his ribcage, anticipation burning the embers red.

“You ought to get on those Beta-blockers,” he’d once told him through a mouthful of raw bagel. Several crumbs fell to the floor, something Dan viewed as a skill if not anything; uncooked bagels are near impossible to eat that messily. “They helped me when I started getting those anxiety attacks. No way would I have survived college without them,” as he took another bite, more crumbs parted ways.

“I don’t think the buckets of coffee every morning particularly helped,” replied Dan, before adding, “and every evening.” He’d stopped then, frowning. “And wherever else in the day you can- okay, that’s not the point. It’s not the same as anxiety,” he paused, the corners of his mind struggling to describe something so utterly inexplicable. “It’s-… different. It’s never constant, it’s not like that.”

As he reminisces, he feels the jolt.

Something’s going to happen tonight. Today. Sometime.

That is all he’s absolutely certain of. That an event is around the corner, and that it’ll happen sometime within the frame of the day. Good or bad, positive or negative, it’s the same spike in his gut, the same blade of intuition cutting into his senses. Such a skill sits somewhere on the fence between a blessing and a curse.

He makes every effort to swallow the feeling down, place it anywhere but the absolute forefront of his psyche, and treads upstairs. If there’s one thing he’s learnt during the years of having to contend with this (whatever ‘this’ is), it’s not to dwell on it, not to feel it too much. Whatever happens, will happen. No amount of thinking, feeling, sensing, will change that.

As far as superpowers go, it’s a pretty shit one to have, he thinks. Enemy, up ahead. Wait, it might be a friend actually. How close are they? Fuck knows. We might be waiting a while, but it could be any minute now. I know they’re coming though, trust me.

It would be useless.

He reaches straight for the art supplies as soon as he opens his bedroom door, grabbing as many paints as the laws of physics operating his satchel bag will allow. He relies on oil for today’s medium, seizing handfuls of small foil tubes spanning the entire visible colour spectrum, all thoroughly crinkled with use. A couple of sponges leap into the leather (stained, but he doesn’t have the capacity to start his cleaning ritual right now. Cleaning one art supply leads to another, and another, and then ‘just one more’ until the day sits partially behind him and all he’d have to show for himself is an empty canvas and two very wet sleeves), along with a healthy selection of paintbrushes, and the remaining dregs of his paint thinner (he really ought to get some more. He keeps forgetting.).

He releases a breath he didn’t know was taking up his chest. He’s actually ready for once. Wow.

Breakfast is crunched in seconds, accompanied by two planet eyes and a mass of black fur.

“Vee,” he mews through a mouthful of toast, his eyes rolling. “I’ve barely even started mine.”

Her expression doesn’t falter, her gaze only glittering more. He lasts two more bites before caving in and heading to the cupboard. Her paws are feathers; silent little things, but he doesn’t need to hear her (or even see her, for that matter) to sense she’s trotting along behind him – tail in the air and eyes to the sky. He awards her a third treat, internally self-justified by his forthcoming absence for the rest of the day, and watches as her nose delicately pokes the pea-sized thing before accepting it with much grace.

“What is it about you, eh?” he scratches the very top of her head, loving the way her eyes close in response and a deep purr begins rolling. “How do you do it?” his tone is weirdly devoid of rhetoricism. “All you domestic cats do is sleep and ask for food.”

He hesitates.

“I mean, that’s not all you do. You knock stuff over. Both solid and liquid. And scratch things up. And sleep on important documents. And make me late for things sometimes,” she purrs louder – almost solid confirmation cats can understand humans. Of course that would please her. “Yet we love you unconditionally,” his fingertips travel behind her ears and she leans into his touch. “All you have to do is exist.”

If only that were the case for humans.

His toast is cold by the time he returns to it, but he doesn’t care. He wasn’t particularly hungry to begin with – he doesn’t have Venus’s appetite. They should have named her Jupiter instead.

Binning the remains, he slings his art supplies onto his back and reads the weather through the net curtains. It looks fairly promising; the sky slightly overcast but showing no immediate threat of rain – they’d fallen victims to a heatwave not long ago and then a raging storm the following week.

September is often precarious; not quite summer, but not yet autumn. The sun smiles at him but he makes a mental note to pack an umbrella just in case.

✵

His concept of ‘perfect beach weather’ is a bit weird.

His perfect beach weather welcomes a threat of rain. Embraces stronger breezes. He doesn’t care if there’s a cloud bigger than the sky heading in his direction. As long as it’s comfortable enough to sit and paint without the wind claiming just about everything he arrived with, he’s happy.

When he looks out of his window towards beams of warmth, that’s forest weather. That’s lay-in-sunlight-pools-and-read-the-tree-trunks weather. When whites and greys cut the sky, that’s when it’s time for the beach.

This beach is his home. His sanctuary. The only surroundings that actually manage to cut through the thickening tar of anxiety coating his soul, the sound alone of the hissing waves setting him free of any spikes of fretful darkness still latching onto him.

Here he can think.

Feel.

Be.

His eyes match the horizon. Solitary. Still. He doesn’t understand how an element moving so fierce can appear as nothing but a perfectly straight line.

Then again; Jupiter’s a raging mass of storms and still the perfect sphere remains. As for Saturn.

He whips out his sketchbook, the A1 pages immediately making friends with the breeze. He eventually claws the pages into a surface at least half-sketchable, the paper sheets cutting through his gentle grasp as he tries to wrestle with giant flaps of paper, great white veils. The definitive opposite of a bat, he concludes decidedly. He’s probably a good ten minutes into this whole endeavour before the thought of whipping anything colourful out crosses his mind. His hands hurt now.

He starts with the greens. He always does. Touches of evergreen, of shamrock and a blue-tinged teal make their way onto the palette first. He takes a tiny amount of the brightest and begins creating a dusty emerald sky, the bristles massaging the canvas with gentle strokes. He’s never seen a green sky before. He’s seen skies spamming across the entire palette of the planet’s warmth, all rubies and vermillions and even violets. But never green. Green seems to stay on land, he finds. Maybe the trees will be blue.

The trees end up purple. He’s painting what he can see right now; a thick smatter of bushes lining the top of the cliffside. The forest. His forest, he secretly calls it, already hearing ‘you can’t own a forest, Bezos’ from a mini Zema somewhere in his mind.

He’s painted this view, this vast stretch ahead of him, so many times he found the shades to be somewhat restricting despite the sun making all the difference – indigo in the rain and a glittering turquoise in the summer light. So he’d swapped the cool palette for warmth one day, and fell in love with the idea of a ruby ocean. The sands had become a dusty lilac; something that had later appeared in a dream of his. The sky he’d kept to its natural shade that day – a gentle grey; accentuating the heightened colour of the other two.

It was like a fuse had exploded inside him after that. He’d come home from the beach with armfuls of half-damp paper; all thoroughly watercoloured at first – before experimenting with the oils and the pastilles upon realisation that soluble paints and rain-threatened skies do not mix. He’d branched out; grasping at all ends of the visible colour spectrum; knocking on every door, pushing every possible boundary. Rockpools became crystals, the shores began to sparkle – really sparkle; once he figured out how to paint with glitter correctly, - and colours began to multiply. Soon there were three colours in the sky – the gradient fading one into the other and often bearing complete contrasts; reds eloped with greens and purples entangling golds.

He’d combined just about every colour; primary, secondary; tertiary – but never attempts to create the same shade twice. It’s more fun that way, he decides.

He reads the horizon. The line of beach huts are still just as colourful in reality as on paper, so he’d taken to embellishing each door with swirls of gold using his thinnest brush. The shadow of the overhanging clouds looks to have deepened the ocean’s bed, and he wonders just how far the floor of sand slopes down. How many miles of ink until he reaches the earth. He’d swum countless times (some while drunk, thanks to a team effort involving Zema’s persuasion and his own impulsive nature), but never dared to venture anywhere past the Lighthouse a stretch of metres away from the shore.

Dan doesn’t quite know when it became derelict. How long it’s been since a beacon pierced the night with neon light; guiding the lost and the found, the leavers and returners. There are no windows; only wooden squares where light once seeped through – but the Widow’s Walkway still remains weirdly open in the air, the iron cates curling up at the top.

Some say it’s been months. Others longer. Having only lived in this town for the generous part of two years, he has no real clue himself – but every new crack on the surface, every new splinter of wood or peeled paint, doesn’t go unnoticed. However long it’s been, it’s definitely no longer in use.

It’s taken many forms on his papers, behaving slightly different with each medium. He once even took to disregarding colour altogether and using only black ink and silver glitter; each curve, dot and line finely constructed. That one, he must admit, was a personal favourite. He’d turned every crack into a vein, pumping midnight blood into every inch of the tower. Every chip of paint revealed a crystallised surface underneath – its inner beauty begging to see the light.

He adds colour today – but always acknowledges its signs of time. If it’s cracked up there, it’s cracked on the page. If he strolls by one day and there’s a chunk of brick missing; a gaping hole in the surface, he wont lie to the paper.

He’ll just cram a million stars into the space.

His eyes sink back into his own page. The violet trees have a teal cliff to sit upon, and today the sea is a concrete grey – not too many shades off exactly what he’s seeing right now.

It’s another different combination of colours; a new one, but there’s something missing. He reads the page, eyes darting between his creation and his surroundings.

He looks up, bending his neck and staring at the clouds until his eyes water. They glide over him, over them, over everything, like glaciers in the sky. The beautiful thing about just a slight threat of rain, is the sheer metamorphosis they seem to undergo a priori. He sees one turn from Yoshi into an ice cream. One that starts off as a squashed Darth Vader before growing a tail and turning into a seahorse. Another that begins as a boot, considers turning into a palm tree, before finally joining up with another and becoming the Cheshire Cat. A couple that look like skyships. And one that looks exactly like Appa, much to his absolute delight. Even down to the horns.

An idea grips him with such force he jumps, elbowing his paint water into the sand. Punished by Karma for being creative. Great.

He grabs his lightest pastels and reads the emerald sky again.

One sweeping motion, and there’s now a moon; a glowing crescent against the green hemisphere.

Two soft strokes, and there’s a surrounding haze. He softens it with the very tip of his finger, and feels something flood through him. Yes.

Three quick dots of white, and a belt sits in the sky. After another dozen more, a shield. Then a bow joins.

He’s grinning now, inspiration thrumming through his veins like a current.

After seven more, there’s a plough (Trough? He can never remember which one it is. More like the fucking saucepan. Or square with a tail.).

Completing painting after painting in colour after colour, how has this idea never occurred to him before? He should even include a couple of planets, he thinks as his pencil scrapes in a suggestion of Saturn.

Two moons later he grins at the page, sparkling with new celestial life. He throws his eyes up to the sky, wondering how inhabitable the earth would be had his interpretation somehow become scientifically correct overnight one day.

He tries to imagine a sky with three moons. Scarily large asteroids. Comet trails scarring the atmosphere.

Then his smile vanishes and his eyes return back down to this A1 universe beneath him. Tries to chow down the growing realisation that inhabitability is probably inevitable anyway with the way things are headed, and that the problem is down here, not up there – and he dabs in a small Pleiades. Up there is safe. Under the watchful eye of the Seven Sisters; that’s protection.

Aliens are probably avoiding us on purpose. Who can blame them?

[stitch1830]

ATLA Q&A

So I got tagged by @mycomfortblanket​ and @dannyurl​ but it wouldn’t let me reblog on the thread so I made a new one lol. Never really thought about these questions til now, so good exercise!

1. What is your favorite character?

Toph Beifong. Need I say more?

2. What is your comfort character?

Hmmm, does Appa count? If yes, then Appa. He’s a good, chill pal. I’d snuggle with him.

3. Which element would you bend if you could?

Probably earthbending. I like the fighting style of firebenders a bit more, but I think that the element of earth has more opportunities and possibilities to adapt the martial art and then also bending the different compositions of earth lol. Plus metalbending is a dope technique and I would love to be able to do that as well.

4. What’s your favorite nation?

Probably Earth Kingdom. Idk, maybe because it’s the biggest nation, so there are lots of different cities to travel to. I can’t really explain why it’s my favorite lol.

5. What makes you love ATLA the most?

Probably just the established world. If I ever try to make up my own stories, creating the setting and space the story takes place in is always the hardest for me. So the fact that there are multiple nations, maps, cities, and cultures associated with the story, and those background details are fleshed out is pretty impressive. And even as a kid I noticed that.

COULD GET YOU ATTACKED QUESTIONS

1. Who is your least favorite character in the gaang?

I think as a kid, I didn’t care for Sokka or Aang. Sokka seemed useless to the team to me as a kid and then all of a sudden he was an expert strategist in my head. And Aang bothered me because he was a bald kid with tattoos lol. Weird for my 10-year-old brain to wrap around at the time. I love both of them now, obviously, and see my flawed thought process as a kid lol. Otherwise, I never cared for Mai or Ty Lee.

2. What character do you think is severely underrated?

Mmmm, idk. No one from the Gaang seems underrated, nor do the main villains. I’ll find realms of the fandom that tend to overrate characters, so I feel like a lot of them get the love and appreciation they need. Even Cabbage Man has support. Like, okay.

Maybe Freedom Fighters? Like, all of the minor ones. They kind of come and go as they please, and they probably need more backstory than they actually get.

3. What’s your least favorite nation?

Again, as a kid I never liked that all the Air nation people were bald and had tattoos. Not the smartest logic on my end lol. But idk, I still prefer the other nations now.

4. What is your controversial ATLA opinion?

I actually struggle to watch the show now as an adult and after reading some fantastic posts on Tumblr about the show’s flaws. Obviously I shouldn’t judge the show based on bad writing near the end or series finale relationships, but I can barely watch it now without seeing the hints of romantic relationships and cringe or just... knowing that the outcome of the show isn’t what I particularly want to see. It’s easier for me to just stay in fanfiction and read about fan theories and then come up with my own outcomes. 

The show used to satisfy me, but now? Not so much. I like, only watch season 2 now if I want to watch it at all, mainly for Toph and because there aren’t as many obviously displays of Aang crushing on Katara.

SHIPPING QUESTIONS

1. What’s your favorite ship and why?

Canon ships only.

JK. Taang. Taang for days. As a couple, I see them having a lighthearted relationship where they know how to balance each other. They are powerful and strong and independent on their own and certainly don’t need to be in a relationship, but they would choose to be together because they add value to their lives and want to be together. They’ve got that classic ‘opposites attract’ dynamic that isn’t like “I can’t live without you” feeling, but more like “You help me be better” feel. 

Before finding Taang, I never really shipped Toph with anyone, and didn’t even know she had canon kids until like... the pandemic started lol. I just thought she’d be a badass and wreak havoc on the world and be responsible for only herself. And if I did ship her with a character, it was usually Sokka bc of the angst and canon compliance it provided. But after reading a few Taang fics, there was actually potential for her to be in a longstanding and committed relationship with someone that made sense to me. It was cool to find a ship that opened my eyes to that, because otherwise, I would’ve never assumed or thought she’d ever marry or have kids or anything. 

Tokka is a close second because it got me into reading fanfiction, but idk Taang is just feels so right to me lol.

2. What’s your least favorite ship?

After reading lots of metas, I don’t like Mai/Zuko and Aang/Katara. They just rub me the wrong way now.

3. Do you sometimes self-insert?

As far as inserting myself into a romantic relationship with ATLA characters... No. Not my cup of tea.

I do sometimes create OCs that are just like... best friends with the Gaang and went through their own shit during the war. But they don’t resemble me at all. If anything, they mirror the personality of the character they’re close with, simply because I think friendships where characters have very similar personalities would be interesting. We see a lot of opposite duos, romantic and platonic, and I certainly do the same thing in my life (I have lots of friends where I am not like them at all, but we’re really close). But to see relationships where they act very similar... Interesting dynamic. They probably butt heads a lot and fight a lot, but also really understand what the other needs for help, and... yeah. Those friendships seem unappreciated to me. So I like to make those up lol.

4. What ship would you make canon if you were the creator?

I wouldn’t make ATLA about romantic relationships. If anything, I would emphasize the family aspect of the team, then let fans and audiences decide who works best with who ~after~ the show ends lol. I tend to like endings with open interpretation, and also, just based on my personal life/preference, I think it’s sometimes weird when really really close friends get together in relationships afterwards. Like, I’ll think of those friends as my family, and dating ‘practically family’ is sometimes weird imo lol. Of course, I know why those relationships tend to happen, mostly because those characters are the only ones that can relate to the war trauma they all went through, so I get that and love that aspect of it. 

I would certainly lean in the direction of the Big Three: Zutara, Sukka, and Taang, just by pointing out their dynamic, having them confide in one another, or something of the sort. But no one would like, get together at the end.

My thoughts on ATLA, and I’m going to tag anyone that wants to do this! I’m looking at you. ;)

[jeffhane]

dynasty live watching: an incoherent post so that i’m not spoiling people on the twitter tl (i doubt any of this will be chronological or coherent enough to actually contain spoilers but better safe than sorry!)

oh my god the “previously on” - i forgot abt fallon and evan....

Theyre at a FUNERAL??? this was actually predicted but oh my god. if its steven i am going to be so mad. what an unfitting end to the- WAIT WHAT SIX MONTHS? what was that font;;;;:; whes sueiwjwk

copper arch🥵🥵🥵

this is cute. this is cute i like faloon pretty women so true

BYE I FORGOT ABT THIS VASE

fallon is genuinely such a bad person this is so bizarre,,,, i think she needs to calm down about oiterally everything ever

“This wedding is our chance to break the cycle of craziness” babe ur literally the one making the cycle of craziness

w. was that an ikmenn of liam getting his head off

JEFF MY BELOVED HE LOOKS STUNNING IN THAT OUTFIT. WHYS ALEXIS HERW “POWER COUPLE” YOU WERID MANIPULATIVE PERSON GET AWAY FROM HIM LOL

alexis is up to no good. bad bad jpeg. why do they write her dialogue like this

adam is acted so well lmao he’s the most unhinged person to ever exist *screams*

ohhh dominique, i don’t remember much abt her 😭😭😭 this woman she’s with is beautiful

ITS LAGGING????? i cannot Believe tjis

~rebrand~ ok girlboss!!!!!!!!! can we ship this businesswoman i dont recall her name with fallon???? id like that i think

too many plotlines have happened in too many minutes, i’m already forgettint things that have happened... isn’t blake supposed to be in prisoj? no? Ok: sure

adam is constantly doing this expression that is like 👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁 HI SAM HI SAM HI SAM BEAUTIFUL MAN I LOVE HIM WHOS THIS MAN

raf is so stunning ughhhh i’m loving the costumes this season, everyone looks great! is this man a sam love interest? nervous? that is kinda cute. i miss stevej though. sadness. so many emotions

UHHHH hi alexis sure ig ur here

~OMENS~ babe that’s a tad dramatic don’t you think?????????? “Ignore the lore at your own peril” alright

WHOS THAT? WHOS THAT? OH HER OK

bye everything is going wrong for this......:..:::... *rubs hands together evilly* that will certainly be entertaining

credit scene!!! such a beautiful cast! where’s anders, oh how i miss him... i miss monica too wasn’t she supposed to be BACK🤔🤔🤔🧐🧐🤨🤨

its a commercial break... havent had to watch the show with these for so long😑😑😑. getting american ads is so funny bc the vast majority of them are Not at all relevant... at all

BACK TO DYNASTY!!!!!! was that a slinky? huh? oh ok that’s why the marriage is happening at the manor. #whenyouonlyhaveoneset oh hi ok monica so shes not going to be here?????😑😔😳

WHY IS SHE GETTING A CAR I FEEL LIKE THATS FORESHAWDOIWIJG FOR UMMMMM.... NOT GOOD THINGS ..... ITS LAGGING AGAIN 🤨

blake having dinner... ok hi cristal,,,,; is the priest subplot back? that was a weird one

adam???? how on earth does adam work his way into everything? NEXT GUEST? HUH? are you cheating on your wife? HI CULHANE! HI!

“straight people are exhausting” i mean yes, objectively, absolutely, but culhane is #notstraight .... idk how i feel about sam and this man. also what? huh? staying here? ok cool ig

OHHHHH he got married i see i see

“Haven’t you milked the carrington cow already” but....... she is literally the person who deserves the stuff..... k......... i don’t like dominique but she was given the short end of the stick also blake stop manipulating people just bc they tell u the truth😶😶😶😶😶😶😶

frustrated that we haven’t seen fallon in any non-wedding related stuff yet i always liked her more ~dramatic~ plots . like she’s a sweetheart but i do want her to evolve beyond thsi. idk if that makes sense. ok bye

“A relative’s happy marriage” uh???? we live in a society😔📈

who is father lynch<3333 oh he is in the hospital that’s not great oh adam upset that’s new /s

y is kirby dressed like an elf. god bless.

ughhhh i just think adam is not good for kirby. he’s not good in general. so true . what is he up to. ads again hhhhhhhhhh💯

omg we are back!!!!! blake wear the suit!! hi liz!!! i’ve seen pictures of this outfit, it looks nice. “I really want things to work out with liam” now that would be great but you’re in a soap opera so the chances of that are .... I DONT EVEN ONOW IF U CAN WEATHER ANYTHING W CRISTAL...)))))!$$ NOT NECESSARILY THE BEET CHOICE????

~technically it wasn’t cancelled~ alright love i feel as though you’re not telling the full truth here. ok his name is ryan . we know that now . cool . this relationship is awkward but it could be sweet

what the Fuck is dominique talking about this is so creepy😭😭😭 please do not market lingerie to ur niece 🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂 why does no one in this show know how to be polite

“You want me to stake my personal assets” i’m sure this would be meaningful if i knew anything about finance????? WAIT WAIT WIAT WAIT WAIT DHE REHEARING THE SAM DONS G THE SONG ALEXIS DONT INTERRUPT HER SINGING THE SONG🧐😔😔😔🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🥰🥰🤬😤😤😤😤😤😤

~duplicitous sham~ that’s quite a juicy phrase ms fallon. alexis i dislike your marriage. and you in fact. yes x . “We were just like any other newlyweds” except the newlywed factor........:

anders. oh my god i adore him so much. he reminds me of my grandfather . YES adam is dangerous. anders i love you so much. be my grandfather figure. top 10 cool old dudes of all time.

liz is so beautiful how am i suppised to “Focus” on the “storyline” kirby just went 🥰🥰 also hi culhane ily babe

“My father’s convinced adam is pure evil” you see, that is......... trueeeee...........:.::: im sorry culhane ily love

this dialogue unfortunately does not flow all that well LOL . people dont think up things like this on the fly “my love is like that boutineer” sir i guarantee that metaphors r not going to save ur relationship... HI sam. so true. hi ily. samhane? culsam? 😳😳

DONT STEAL ANDERS SPOT OH HI JEFF YOU LOOK STUNNING.......... BEAUTIFUL BOY ....... HI!!!! ~you are the only family you’ve ever needed~ shit none of this wouldve happened if the Carringtons werent so greedy ij the first place

~true love has many faces~ how many anti liam omens can they sneak in into the episode 😭😭😭😭 hi laura whats up

the poor waiters at this establishment...... why does laura look like a rlly young version of my grandma........: huh.... wont think abt it /... alexis bad mom.jpeg

“I don’t want to miss my sons special day” ok bye i don’t #care she’s kind of rude

fallon trying to avoid future drama is confusing to me as that used to be her ENTIRE THING? HUH??? everyones talking to their moms today what the heck do that many people talk to their moms???

jeff hiiiii <333 that maroon suit!!!!! love!!!!!

Dont hurt anders you strange little evil man!!!!!!!!!!! (Adam, for reference)

fallon likes to ~e n u n c i a t e~ her dialogue. Drama Teachers Love Her

FIRBY SCENE! WELL THEY R TALKINF! UWU ! UWU ! smiles:) smiiiiiles:) the height difference i cannot do this😑😊😊😊🕯🕯🕯 BYE

BueirHWIIDWJDIWIFJWIFJWJJFWJFJWJDJWJDJWIFJWJFJWJDKWJDJWDJJWHDWHDHWHEHWHDHWJDJWJRJWJEJWJDJQUEUWJEJWJEJW CRIES SOBS SCREAMS THIS OS SO FUCKING FUNNY

Kirby you dumbass😭😭😭😭😭 ALEXIS WUDIWNDJW JEFF CAN YOU NOT HEF FCANKREMTIWN WHY IS THIS DIALOGUE IM SCREAMIGNRJFJD

kirby babe you are the kist imorjri WHQT? HUH? when all the characters have the maturity of a 13 yr old <33333 DID THE SHOW JUST END?????? OK.... DAMN.... they were really 2 minutes away from the end and remembered that things are supposed to happen in tv show episodes.... i cannot tell whether it os over actually?????? huh??? going to keep watching because it would be so embarrassing if i missed a few minutes oh yeah theres more

IM SORRY WHYBARE THESE PEOPLE SO STUPID. every single one of them. ih my god l. ohhhh my god . “I never meant to hurt you” you cheated on him. both of them are bad people. 🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨 kirby darling what were you thinking . this dress on kirby is STUNNING ugh, she’s so charming . adam Shut the fuck up. He hasn’t said anything but shut the fuck up. OH MY GOD ADAM SHUT THE FUCK UP. OH MY GOD I HATE ADAM SO MUXH. OH MY GOD HOW IS HE THE WORST PERSON TO EVER LIVE 😑😑😑😑😑😑😑😑😑😑😑😑😑😑😑😶😶😶😶😶😶😶😶😶 HES SO EVIL

“I didn’t want to tell you because i didnt want you to think of me as a monster” why did you do that stuff then bro . Kirby you SHOULDNT trust someone after they say that? How naive? Huh ?

omg hello jeffs grandma!!!!! she deserves better than every shitshow in this family... god🤨 dominique being a good person? i like to see that. she seems so genuine. ok this is nice . wait... SAFE? 😳😳😳😳 💴 💵 #money i miss monica

why do they never have sufficient lifhting in WAIT..... HER?????? #dumbofass HI JEFF <33333333 HI you can scam and whatever ur allowed to i support u

ooohhhh GORGEOUS fallon outfit

“Such a fail” IS THIS 2012 . CRINE HEIDJWJFIWNDWJDNWKFJW ENJDJSDJWJNDJWJD they keep saying folklore and im thinking its some sort of reference to the album and i get confused. wheres scheming fallon. need scheming fallon. do a scheme. do it

“We are that lucky couple” press x to doubt .... wait who is this🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔 this seems cincerning im cocnentwd why did it zoom in on this random man

[tonyglowheart]

This entire thing is a rant, feel free to ignore it, but I saw your post about how destiel fans can’t win in this context, and yeah. So have some rambles.

I’ve been thinking about the fact we (current spn/destiel fans) can’t win all night... I’ve seen so many people talking about how homophobic it is - and while I would very much like to argue, as every point I’ve seen made by a non-spn fan has been wrong so far, if I did everyone inside the fandom would agree and everyone outside would either call me straight or pity me for believing it’s okay.

(Cas wasn’t even sent to hell lmao. He was sent to angel death (the empty), a place he has escaped in the past. Other points, like that meta about spn has been predicting exactly this for months, that Dean ended up sobbing on the floor because he was so upset, like that death means next to nothing on spn, like that there is two episodes left, etc etc. you feel me right? I just don’t want to post wank to other spn blogs atm, we’re getting enough frustration as it is, no need to add to it.

It’s also worth pointing out that the bar is very, very low. Spn is a prominent TV show - not a Netflix show, or indie, or whatever - and it just said “main character in gay love saved the world”. [insert gif of ghostfacers dude saying that gay love can pierce through the veil of death and save the day here]

I just saw someone saying that spn having Naomi try to brainwash Cas out of loving dean makes spn homophobic (it is a conversion therapy parallel). My first response to that is that Naomi was the villain lmao? I guess we can’t write villains doing anything homophobic because having villains do homophobic things makes, uh - checks notes - villains look homophobic, and clearly we can’t have that.

There certainly are legitimate things to criticise spn about, but this isn’t it lol.

Also now some people are unironically trying to cancel Jensen because “his acting was homophobic, and so he’s clearly homophobic”, nevermind that he’s an actor and his character struggles with understanding his emotions (which I think he played excellently, myself. That scene had a very Dean delayed emotional response), nevermind the support he’s given to us queers in the past. Like. Idek man.

We would have been laughed at if we got no destiel, too.

It would have been worse, had the writers pulled a dumbledore. At this point I also trust the writers not to pull a GoT - they have explicitly criticised that ending in spn’s canon.

Spn’s writers did that by making the main villain of this season, Chuck / God, say GoT had a good ending. To reiterate a previous point I had: villains do bad things because they’re bad. And the bad things they do make them bad. For the people out there not still following, if someone does something in a story and it makes them a villain, that is explicitly telling you the story (and probably the writers) thinks that thing is bad. In this case, Chuck likes to write things for him, and we the audience have been shown and told that is bad.

Apparently thinking a gay confession is good in 2020 makes me straight. Seems unlikely, but whatever. Sorry for the length, I guess I went overboard, I’ve been holding it in lol. Anyway, DESTIEL IS CANON 💚💙 hope you have a good night

Helloo supernatural anon I hope you are living your best life right now. Yeah I’m like..... skeptical and leery myself but having lived through some absolute garbage discourse that is general purity wank, as well as the C/QL greater fandom here and on Twitter I find myself... much more wanting to question the “general wisdom” of things esp in terms of negativity, bc a lot of the time I find.... it’s wrong? Like so wrong. Or at least presents such an incomplete picture of the whole situation and also presents it in such a removed context that words that have meaning and are operationalized in a certain way for a reason, no longer have meaningful usage.

Anyway I don’t... know too much about the specifics of Spn but someone I follow is into it and talks a lot about the Gnostic stuff and that all was very fascinating to me, and I also have been grappling a lot with cultural Christianity bc of cmedia and the way ppl just *clenches fist* unthinkingly or uncritically slap some Christian norms on it and call it a day 😩 help I’m Tired. My thing here being... I actually got tired of the uncritical “superhell”s at some pt bc I am, in fact, incredibly exhausted with cultural Christianity, and because it does seem like, even possibly(?) without the Gnostic stuff it’s different from a “hell” or other Protestant-derived afterlife concept, and also yeah that it wasn’t seeded out of nowhere, it was set up to happen, which then... lends credence to the idea that whatever the current era of Spn is doing, the current showrunners are doing it with purpose.

And idk I just... refuse to believe the concept that ALL of the fans of Spn - esp the ones who have been following it still, or got back into it and are following it currently, are acting under delusion or are fooling themselves into liking it or thinking it’s good or whatever. I personally find that kinda infantilizing and patronizing and playing into issues of dismissing things women and/or other marginalized identities like.

Plus I find the concept that (from what I think I’ve been seeing Spn fans say) that the current era of the show is quite actively grappling with itself, its past, its legacy. to be very interesting and compelling; it hearkens back to like an old lore kind of feeling, of a thing that has grown into a nigh undefeatable monster and realizing that, also realizing that the only way to defeat itself is through grappling with its own nature and transforming and transmuting itself into something else. I personally find that more plausible and compelling than “Supernatural has been actively and continuously queerbaiting for 15 homophobic homophobic years., so right now we’re all very sorry for you because this maybe is no longer queerbaiting but it’s still homophobic and it can never be anything different ever.” I’ve been sort of tangentially aware of Spn thru the years and didn’t we agree, around the time of that in-universe play about Spn and with the lil Destiel shoutout, that Spn has come a ways as far as coming to terms with its fandom and working to treat its fans better? Why the sudden regression into “oh no, Supernatural is and forever will be homophobic and a hate crime”? 🤔 

The rest under a cut bc the ask is already long and then my rambling will get longer-

But yeah I mean..... I get that the legacy of Supernatural has been certifiably Rough, but I think people also forget how different of a time 2005 was? Hell, how different of a time 2015 was, even, prior to, say, Obergefell v. Hodges. Now I’m not saying that to blanket-excuse Supernatural, but like, you look at mainstream shows from the era and... there’s a lot of shit lmao. The fact that Supernatural has existed this long seems to me like.... maybe we CAN look at how it’s developed through the years vs just insisting it is what it was 15, 10, hell, 5 years ago. Especially since, to my knowledge, there’s been showrunner changes? Which seems to me like it would... affect things? I mean honestly, I remember back when I got into Spn for a hot second because of Castiel, I remember watching panel, Q&A, etc vids thru the years, and like... I thought we agreed that... it was the fans who were going a bit far pushing the shipping question like literally ALL the time to the actors, who are not in control of the show and.... like at the time.... that could have had personal implications for them? And yes homophobia bad, and people can still be allies despite that, but again like.... I do feel like - from what I’ve seen - that these guys were NOT ready to deal with a lot of that but they’ve (okay Jensen I’m talking about Jensen here) genuinely grown and learned? Also how many years ago was the essay autograph thing that people keep trotting out, like what year was it in and what year of spn was it, and what were the prevailing opinions on LGBT issues and bisexuality then.

I’ve been seeing some murmurings of identity politicsing surrounding ppl who enjoy Supernatural, and I’m sorry that that’s happening to you, it really fucking sucks and it’s also the dumbest way to “make” or “win” an argument because it shouldn’t ever be a final determiner, just factors to consider when considering what life experiences might have informed someone else’s PoV and views as well as maybe how you can better communicate with them. Instead of it being a “weapon” or “tool” to either dismiss someone or de facto validate an argument.

Also yeah I get it that you don’t want to send discourse to spn blogs bc I imagine you guys ARE actively grappling with all the bs rn and it’s a lot. Even just from like, the stuff I see around, I’m like tired of it. I’m genuinely having more fun with ppl who are having a good time with Supernatural than the ppl who are hating on it, even in this sort of backhanded “oh we’re not clowning YOU we’re clowning the writers and showrunners who think you should be satisfied with this,” when... yeah? the people who HAVE been watching the show and therefore... know what’s up.. DO seem to be? And all this based on *fake gasp* context. And that’s where the backhandedness becomes kind of poisonous to me, because it implies that it IS bad, and that you SHOULDN’T be satisfied, but poor little you are but don’t worry, we’re not making fun of YOU for liking garbage, you’re just the hapless victim who is consuming the garbage bc... idk, whatever reasons ppl are coming up with ig.

idk man it’s 2020. Fandom isn’t activism, performative or otherwise, it’s okay to let people enjoy things even if you think they’re “objectively” bad, and like... I don’t know if people can call something bad when they’re not even working with the whole context and instead are dealing with rumor and reputation.