#but the thing itself was not even worth it

[ghostlys-basement]

but another day means another dawn!

And another dawn means you should see it too; because it'll be similar to the ones you've seen before, but never the same. And things don't have to be. We're adaptable. So every new dawn is a new sunrise and sunset, a new thing we have to see. So stay around till the credits roll. I promise it will be worth it in the end, even for a minute of your name on the screen.

And remember that the universe gave you a song, specialized to you, that sings your life, future and destiny. So don't end the symphony early, even when your fingers hurt from playing so long.

But play, dance, laugh, love, *LIVE* because you can. And you should get to always. But we can't. So don't give up yet, the peice isn't over yet, and you haven't gotten your applause. And know, the universe will miss your song, your crescendo's in happy moments and decressendos in sad, if you don't play them.

Because the universe loves you, because you are love itself. So go and spread some. Don't give up yet. I swear it'll be worth another sunrise eventually. <3

[a1ecmcdowell]

coincidence — rafe cameron x pogue!reader!

part of the short n' sweet x obx collection, found here!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤincludes, pogue!reader. cheating. sad!rafe :(. i promise i love sofia.

❛ what a surprise - your phone died, and your car drove itself from l.a. to between her thighs! ❜

you and rafe were a bit tumultuous. he loved you in private, and he loved you so much that it sometimes ached, like the sweetest form of violence. 

but in public, he could never manage to switch off the part of his brain that rejected every pogue he came across like he did when you two were alone. it was like he was more concerned about what his friends thought of him and his relationship than he did about your feelings. 

he was pulling back. you could see the signs of it in the ways he started having excuses to keep you from coming over, how his hand would subtly slip from yours when you were out together. 

and you couldn’t just pick apart his brain and fix whatever the problem was, because he didn’t talk to you enough anymore to let you in. 

you didn’t know if you were even still together, but he wouldn’t just ghost you a year into your relationship. he couldn’t. 

you’d decided the night before that you were just going to show up and demand an answer from him. it would probably be a fight, you knew; but what could hurt more than being with someone that didn’t want you any longer? 

that next morning was cloudy gray and speckled with misty raindrops. it didn’t feel like a very good omen about what was coming, but it didn’t slow your footsteps up his porch.

your hand raises to knock on the door at the same moment that it pulls open, and out stumbles — a girl. short brown hair, pretty glossed lips, wearing nothing but a pink bikini top and denim shorts. 

and behind the open door, strong hand wrapped around the edge of it, is rafe. smiling at her like he hadn’t smiled at you in weeks. 

the smile falls the moment his eyes lift to you, and the girl apologizes as she dodges running into you, and it all feels like a big fucking slap in the face. 

he’d been the best part of your life for so long. this hope that you could be more than the cut. and all of this time, he was waiting for the moment that he could dump you back off on your side of outer banks.

“why didn’t you call?” he asks, like that’s the first thing anyone should say when they’re caught cheating. 

you can’t tell if you’re more angry or hurt. both emotions feel like a hot, heavy weight sat right on your sternum. “you don’t answer anymore.” 

“because i’m busy.” 

there’s no remorse in his eyes. actually, you can’t even tell if there is, because he’s looking away from you like he’s already cut you from the picture of his life. 

“what, screwing other girls?” you snap, your voice biting and raw. 

his jaw flexes, tongue pressing into his cheek. “it’s complicated.” 

“i don’t think it is, rafe.” you shake your head, your lips pressed into a tight line. “you were cheating, and you’re mad you’re caught.” 

“oh, you think it’s that simple, huh?” he takes a step closer, his frame taking up the entirety of the doorway. “y’think overnight i just started thinking about wanting to fuck someone else?” 

you falter. no, he’s not going to get away with flipping this on its head and blaming you. making you apologize. 

“you can’t just blame me because you don’t want to take responsibility—” 

his fist slams against the wooden doorframe, and you flinch, because this really was going to be as volatile as you thought. you’d hoped that you were wrong, but you were right, and he was angry that you weren’t just some stupid little pogue he could manipulate. 

“i am taking responsibility. yeah, i fucked sofia,” he seethes through his clenched teeth, “yeah, i’ve been sneakin’ around, what the fuck else do you want to hear?” 

your arms wrap around your chest, and you have to resist the urge to stumble backwards. sofia, sofia, sofia. it plays in your head on a loop, the girl he deemed worth ruining what you had for. 

“why?” is all that you can manage to say. 

his eyes finally drop down to look at you. they’re so blue in the dawning sunrise that you wish, wish, things were different right now, so you could smooth the creases in the corners of his eyes. “m’not good for you.” 

“bullshit.” you spit it out before he’d even finished speaking. “if i thought that, i wouldn’t have stuck around as long as i have. i wouldn’t be sticking around now.” 

“you shouldn’t,” he says just as violently serious as the last, “i’m— i’m trying to push you away, sweetheart—” 

sweetheart. 

it shouldn’t affect you like it does, after how he’d just hurt you like this. but it does, of course it does, because you loved him like the sun loved the moon, and even when he was trying to break this, you’d always be in his orbit. 

“you can’t,” your voice is small as it leaves your lips, but your words aren’t, “i’m not goin’ anywhere. this is one good thing you can’t ruin. not on my watch.” 

he stares at you with that intense blue gaze of his for a long minute. the seconds tick by like hours while you wait for him to say anything. 

and he doesn’t — not with his words, anyway. his arms move from the doorway and encircle your waist, tugging you into a tight embrace. 

you’d known about how much he struggled with wanting acceptance, craving validation that he never got. you’d never expected him to be so used to rejection that he tried to cause it himself, just to be in that familiar place again. 

“m’sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers into your hair, pressing his lips to the crown of your head and leaving them there. “don’t deserve you. i don’t.” 

“you will, and you do,” you push, your fingers curling tightly against his spine. “when you go wash her perfume off of you.” 

his laugh cracks, but it’s a laugh, so you feel better about this. about him. about where he’s at in his head. “of course.” 

“and delete her number.” 

his hands raise to your face, framing it between his large palms. “already did it, baby. but you’re real cute when you’re jealous.”

[thehigherseekerastro]

Astrology Observations: Non-chart Edition 💻

This is just a quick post, a short list of astrology opinions – my own –, about the world of astrology online itself, not the actual placements described, but that I think are worth noting to help better analyze and understand the astrology content found on the internet. Enjoy!

(♠) (♠️) (♠️) (♠️) (♠️) (♠️) (♠️) (♠️) (♠️) (♠️)

Beware of "roasting placements" posts –

regardless if it's on Tumblr, X or TikTok. Those are VERY broad "descriptions" (if we can call it that). Anybody who understands how astrology works would never generalize to such a level that they think they can roast an entire placement, as if there was only one possible manifestation for that placement. There's an entire chart that is very unique to everyone. Your (and other people's) chart can be set up in a way that makes you behave the complete opposite of that stereotype, so people can't just be accusing others of things without knowing them lol.

Not to mention that they are usually plain rude and ignorant for no reason, just to be spiteful.

Astrology is not "Projection Land" –

so don't use it to, nor fall for someone else doing it. It's nobody's excuse to trash their ex, their mother, the friend they had a falling-out with, through you, making you feel horrible about yourself, just because they are projecting their own feelings onto a particular placement.

So, yes, there are patterns to signs, placements and even elements, but that needs to be handled with a lot of responsibility. It needs careful analysis, and the person needs to be able to separate their personal grievances from the actual information before they vomit their disdain on the internet where anyone can see. I always make sure to include a blend of positive and negative POSSIBLE manifestations of placements, and I make that clear, so that people know it's a MAYBE, and also not about everyone. It's not to insult others, more so to inform them of what you should be aware of IN CASE THEY ENCOUNTER IT.

So the people who are like "X-Y-Z placements are TRASH!!!! I dated so and so and it went horribly blah blah blah"...

Keep on scrolling. Move along. They're bitter and they're either trying to make you feel horrible too or antagonize you against someone else. Remember: misery loves company.

Don't use astrology to save face either –

so don't be hyping up your own toxic trait that is in fact present to excuse yourself.

"Oh, Tauruses are stubborn," (stereotype) "but that's because they are consistent and see things through."

NO, BABY. Tauruses are consistent AND they can be annoying as hell with their stubbornness and acting a fool, but still refusing to act right. The two things can coexist.

If you happen to manifest one of the more challenging stereotypes of a placement, it's not there for nothing. It's a lesson for you to work on and heal as soon as you're made aware of it. So don't be using astrology to justify staying in your troublesome habits just because there might be a quality attached to it. That's not maturing and growing. Growing is realizing all things work in balance, and there's downsides and potential to most things. So hone the positive aspects of that placement, but continue to try to heal the challenging ones.

Avoid astrology content creators who use their blog/profile as their little Burn Book –

just attacking people and placements right and left. "This sign is manipulative!", "that planet in such house is a jealous and bitter person!", "females with such rising are fake!".

They don't know shit. They just want to air out their anger. If you absorb it, that's on you. So, if you notice somebody only has negative things to say all the time and never praises anybody... RED FLAG.

And yes, I'm also talking about the people who exclusively make content like "How will your relationship end based on your 12H in Composite", "Synastry aspects that indicate you will be cheated on", "Signs of a narcissist in a birth chart", and just overall fear-mongering and negativity.

Avoid astrology content creators who use their blog/profile as a space to boast and compliment themselves –

because it also happens often, and it's usually a combo with the previous one I mentioned above. They shit on everyone else, but the placements they love and praise are ~ coincidentally ~ their own.

If you see a take that starts with defending or praising a placement a lot and it is followed by "because we are...", I'd immediately log off.

It's one thing to speak from experience and empathize. It's another to be like "Virgos aren't judgemental, because I'm a Virgo and I'm the best person on the planet, you're the problem if we don't like you!"

Again, people who cannot be self aware should not be sharing advice or opinions on other people. They're attention seekers. And surprisingly, it's often NOT the people with Leo placements.

CAUTION WITH THIS ONE, as I'm making a broad observation that is not describing everyone, just a pattern I see often, but my perspective could be limited here –

like I said, from most problematic posts I've seen, and I've seen quite a few, it's not from people with the stereotypical "egotistic and self obsessed" signs, like Leo, or even other fire signs.

I've seen it most often happen with people over-praising their personal EARTH placements, and then attacking everyone else.

Which to me makes sense, because when an Earth placement is great, they're GREAT! But when they're not... Good luck convincing them that they are just a human being and aren't better than everybody else and always right. You'd have to be constantly hammering the cold harsh reality on their face 24/7 to keep them humble. (A job only fire sign placements are up to, bc they don't give a shit if you're offended, and don't get tired of having to fight to death).

Earth signs being preceded by fire signs means their need for validation and praise is often hidden from plain sight, but it's deep within them. And being opposed by water signs can mean falling into delusions of how they actually impact the outside world, often overestimating their value.

So if you mix that with the Earth practicality and pragmatism, it becomes very hard for them to see that they will not feel more in control if they criticize everyone else around. It's them judging themselves, but not knowing how to deal with that self-hatred, so they project it onto others. Just because one got a lot to say doesn't mean they should, nor that what they have to say is correct. People CAN be loud and wrong, and these types of folks over here on these posts often are.

The top 5 most judgemental and lacking self-awareness I've seen here on Tumblr are:

Virgo

Capricorn

Aquarius

Sagittarius

Taurus

Apply it to (rising, sun, moon, Mercury and Mars).

PS: This is very specific within the context of astrology content creators. I'm not saying all of the people from those signs and element are like that, or attacking them personally.

Women are not perfect. Men are not inherently bad –

so also be cautious of people who trash any type of men, regardless of their sign, planet or houses, but claim only the women of that sign are good.

Yes, we know that, systemically, our society is patriarcal and men's toxic behaviors tend to be encouraged, so it's not uncommon to run into issues with masculinity. Regardless of that, men are human beings. And so are women. Everyone has potential for good and bad inside them.

"Cancers - all the men are cheaters and manipulators! But the women are the sweetest people you will ever meet!"

No. Cancer when it's expressed in its most toxic side is highly manipulative and fake. Which is historically a "skill" used by women to survive in this world. So if you run into a "good Cancer man", he will be a light in your life. If you run into a "bad Cancer woman", that'll be even worse, because she will be a horrible person, all the while projecting an image of innocence and acting like she has no idea what you're talking about and is just a sweet victim.

(just look at Ariana Grande, for example, and her history of cheating on her partners with other men who were ALSO in committed relationships at the time, ever since she was 21, but she always tells her stories as if she's the one getting unfairly bullied and that people are making stuff up about her.

I'm not making personal judgements about her, because I don't know her personally. I'm just using her as an example of the same cheater-manipulator dynamic people attribute to all Cancer men, applied to a Cancer woman).

Use your critical thinking skills. Again, that's a projection. Specially if someone goes as far as making an extreme comment like "ALL MEN of the zodiac are trash"... That's clearly a lot of bitterness, hurt, and bad PERSONAL experiences, that they are now vomiting onto the internet.

Men and women are equally beautiful creatures, each dealing with their own sets of potential and challenges. Astrology doesn't pick and choose, and certainly does not care about hookup culture or the dissolution of human relationships in the 21st century.

Just because someone is talking about spiritual practices does not mean they are evolved –

anybody can talk about anything. That means nothing. Does not mean evolution. Does not mean maturity. Does not mean understanding. Does not mean knowledge. Does not mean awareness.

So don't think that just because someone has an astrology blog or they say they're an astrologer that means they are some evolved soul, wise beyond their years and with only good intentions. Oftentimes, people will obsess over analysing others to avoid taking a long hard look at themselves.

As I've given many examples here, many people can be using astrology to live out the most childish and troubled parts of their personalities and character. And instead of identifying those challenges in their chart – since they claim to be such fans of astrology – and working on them, they prefer to hop online and start pointing fingers at other people and their lives.

Now, let's also exercise our own empathy here and understand that sometimes those people themselves don't even realize their struggle. They're a human, after all. So it's up to you to curate what you consume and how you consume it. Don't discredit people's experience, but also, do a background check on the info before you internalize it, because a lot of the times people will be hurting you without realizing they're just looking for company in their sadness. They'll convince themselves they're helping.

Be conscious in YOUR OWN spiritual journey and learning. Know who YOU are. And then other people become helpers along your path, not the commanders of your destiny.

That is it, my dears. I hope this was clear to understand and it was helpful. Hopefully, it will aid in your understanding of things when you come across astrology posts online, leaving you less confused as to what is and isn't pertinent. And I hope it sends you on a path towards good and love.

Be well! ❤️

MASTER LIST

[2demondogs]

With Chrismas around the corner (not really but basically), i would love an Arthur x GN!reader where Arthur proposes to reader for Chrismas and they obviously say yes because, well, it's Arthur, who wouldn't?

Anon did you read my mind. I was just thinking about proposal fics when you sent this ask because I have yet to stumble on one somehow... I'm sorry this took forever btw T-T

Shoutout to my platonic boyfriend for helping me with ideas because I got writer's block <3

Words: 3k oh my good lord Tags: canon divergence (it's just people leaving the gang a chapter early), Arthur does not have tuberculosis, INSTANT spoilers for character death, cheesy shit

It's been too long, you're realizing, since holidays like Christmas felt like special things. There is a double-edged feel to this one — it is the first since Hosea's death, since leaving the gang — but it is the first, in a very long time, that you've spent in the so-called right way: in a warm house with four solid walls and someone you love, how those fanciful books Mary-Beth used to talk your ear off about always wrote.

The house is warm enough, anyways.

There's work that needs done on the cabin. Some of the wood is rotting out and chipped at the corners, forming into sharp splinters that you've brushed against one too many times, but it is a house. You haven't had this pleasure since before joining the gang.

Sometimes, with how content Arthur seems at baseline, you wonder if he's had this pleasure since early childhood. On quieter evenings, ones less reserved for happiness than this one, there has been clipped discussion about how Arthur has never had domesticity like this. Silently, it was an admission of how good it is to share this freshness with you.

During a ride into town, he'd admitted that he had never picked up painting because it was the sort of thing only steady folks got to enjoy. You'd gotten him a set of oil paints when no one was looking — he's worth much more than a few measly dollars, but that means little if you haven't got them to begin with. Some habits die hard; he was happy you remembered what he'd said only a few hours before.

Come the new year, Arthur plans to find work that will pay. New things are a luxury neither of you care much to indulge in, but the repairs will take lumber and maybe a few extra hands. Ones with more expertise, at least, because Arthur's houses usually have not had foundations.

You could simply move now that time has passed, yes. You could find somewhere much farther away, maybe even New York, and pack yourselves in alongside the other sardines bustling about a city, undetectable in uniformity. Shave beards, got jobs, change clothes, cut hair and color it, too, if paranoia strikes— but keeping low to the ground has worked itself out so far, and there is no more of that deathlike stagnation in the air of this place.

Sentimentally, you think this Christmas will seal off whatever makes this cabin yours. Shadows linger, there's been a few odd creaks that've spooked the horses, and maybe it's going to shit a lot quicker than either of you want to admit, but it's your shit-house and the shared stubbornness between you has always brought you nothing but closer to one another.

Arthur is tired of running, and so are you. Last week, he talked about writing to Mary-Beth and Simon, maybe checking if Kieran — the utterance of the man's proper name was a confirmation of the last of that stockholmlike regret having worked out of his system — had broken and followed his little girlfriend. It wasn't said with malice, just some amusement.

"Why do you think he would?" You'd asked.

"Dutch only saves people who don't ask for it," he'd said, and that wistful look in his eyes vanished before you could ask what it meant.

Maybe it's the hard work that makes it feel like a real, true holiday. Pearson and Grimshaw stopped working everyone harder in the winter over the years, once the familial glamour faded with each new addition to the gang. It was no longer a tight-knit group, but a posse, more or less, of runaways and strays all against a big, evil thing like the rest of the world, or whatever it was that Dutch grew to fear.

Since November, Arthur has been saving the best catches to be salted and stored for Christmas dinner. Each addition is cleaner skinned and cut than the last, and the newfound worst of them ended up being ate upon his return from hunting. You've both been saving back herbs since summer, dried and ready to be crumbled into the heated up pot come time for a real feast. Cornbread was made by hand for the first time since you settled down here, drizzled with honey from the general store a ways out.

The latter was Arthur's only specific request for a fancy dinner. If you hadn't gotten him a single gift save for making it, he'd still be happy as a clam.

He's been putting that goddamned honey on everything. You're glad he seems to be enjoying things again, not as tightstrung as he was before you'd made off with him. That's how it feels, anyways, after the long and struggling conversations that were had before the decision was made. Family or life? It's a hard question for someone who has such little concept of either.

Now, the grey hair in his beard is catching the light from the fireplace where he's sat himself on a chair before it. They'd sprouted through the sun-bleached blond atop his head has been looking lighter and lighter in recent months, grey finally catching up to the discoloration and giving him some malcolored sort of tabby look. It's a good one on him, as much as he complains about looking old as dirt and that it's all formed by stress.

For all the lacking color, it adds a ruddy warmth to his face. Daydreams of growing old together find you when you focus on it, or on his wheezing laugh that's gotten worse with the cold weather. Despite the woolen vest he's been sporting, his fingers are as chilled as yours whenever they've brushed. Idly, you wonder if he's gotten whatever Hosea grew into, then remember they were never by blood.

Arthur hadn't wanted you to get him any gifts. When you asked if he would get you something, he'd flushed and changed his mind, apparently already having done it.

Whatever it is, it's good-sized, wrapped in one of the dustcloths you'd gotten him alongside the paints. He's been spending more time painting, lately, tucked in the treeline and looking over the cabin or deeper into the woods, studying something plein air the way those professionals do. He'd propped it against the wall this morning, and once you've settled on the floor before the fireplace — too cold outside not to crowd close to it — after dinner, he looks between you and the cloth like he isn't sure what to do.

"D'you wanna do the honors?" He asks, and grins although the twitch of his eye tells you he's covering timidity with faux cockiness.

"You go ahead," you say, half because he's closer. Tormenting him in small ways must be part of any good gift.

The painting is an image you recognize. A photo that one of the girls took for you months before things went down the hole, using the camera Arthur was loaned by some feller in town who wanted photos taken for a book. He never returned it, and it more or less became something he tucked beneath his cot and let the elements beat around. You can't remember, now, who it was or where he went to get it developed.

The little inkling of pride you felt knowing he kept putting off getting the negatives developed — not enough money, not enough time — yet was gone the next morning to have yours developed returns, now.

It's a much nicer rendition of it, your clothes not dirty and his arm around your waist, the other holding his hat to his chest. It's clear he preferred to give your portrait more detail, his own lagging somewhere behind in clarity and looking closer to the photo. You suppose it's easier to look at someone besides himself, but there's a clearer enjoyment in the lines of you, more care taken in the color mixes.

Ignoring the dense joy of the implications of that, of how obvious it is, proves difficult. Your cheeks twinge some from the wide smile before you realize you're even reacting.

"You'll be a big name someday," you say, and he may as well shrink in on himself beneath the praise, although he's heard it plenty of times before.

"Naw," he waves a hand. "Quit that."

"Really, Arthur." Scooting closer, laying your hands over his knee. He's moving his jaw when your eyes meet his, lays a hand over one of yours, heavy and warm. "It's beautiful. I love it."

"Good," he says. His jaw clicks. "I— uh, I love you."

The hunting knife you got for him seems small, though relatively equal. Arthur looks as pleased as ever studying it, half-mumbling appraisals of yeah, nice and sharp, sturdy to himself that likely would've stayed inside his head, if it weren't for wanting to show you he liked it.

A bone handle, which he feels over with his fingers before noticing it's engraved, fits easy in his palm. You were afraid you push your luck with maintaining its quality too far adding the tiny, vague bear shape next to the deeper cut of his name. Already impressive was the fact that you hadn't ruined it with the letters, being one of your first expeditions into anything of the sort.

"I would've gotten you one of those folding knives," you explain. "But they don't hold up as well, and I know you have one."

The army knife was Hosea's.

"Needed me a new huntin' knife," Arthur says. You know, because he's complained about his current one being close to snapping with all the skinning he does anymore. He squints at the handle, turns it over in the light from the fire. "Did you engrave the handle?"

"Yessir."

He smiles. "It's real nice," he says, pats his palm with the blade softly. It makes a dull noise, sturdy metal on skin. "Why a bear?"

"They remind me of you," you admit. Really, you'd spent a long time considering what else to add, because only his name seemed so plain; although he wouldn't be opposed to flowers or vines, they are a little more intricate than a simplified bear head. "Big and strong. Hairy, too. I'd like to hug one."

He snorts a laugh, but it seems thin. His eyes are fond enough on you that it couldn't be any rejection of your words, and so you brush it off. "You wanna hug a bear?" He asks.

"In a perfect world," you amend. "Don't they look warm?"

"You'd better stick to me," he says, smooths a palm over the thigh of his jeans. The nicest pair he owns, he promised you, because he feels ridiculous in slacks and seems to think you care what he wears.

Beyond thinking everything looks well on him, at least. You often find yourself concerned with that thought.

"I got you somethin' else," Arthur starts, running a finger over the bunched inseam at his own knee. "Well, uh— it's f'both of us, really."

Isn't that intriguing, you think, but your silent, undivided attention seems to make him outright nervous, so you say: "Oh?"

Some conflict happens over his face as he pulls his vest collar away and reaches into the inner pocket, takes out a stack of thin papers that he glances over before apparently relenting to something. Confusion finds you, until he takes a deep breath and holds them towards you.

"Read these," is all he says, and he sounds like it's almost painful.

He's written much, much more than that. Your stomach turns, once or twice, realizing they are pages from his journal. Uncertain why, until the first entries which are skittering on affectionate fade into ones much more flowery. They are all about you, days you'd spent together or times you hadn't, the things you've given him over the years and the things he wished he could've given you.

Each page makes your chest feel tight with a panicked joy, as if his hands were not fiddling with the new knife to occupy — distract? — himself but clenching hard at your heart.

One, near the beginning, says he thought of pickin' a pretty lil' flower, God bless it, I feel ridiculous; on the back of the next is pressed a variegated tulip, crumbling with age but holding firm to whatever adhesive glues it to the paper. Again, that creeping smile, like thyme. Another entry is entirely about your hair, because it had brushed his arm. Only a few sentences made up that page, below the cursive a choppy sketch of your horse.

Certainly, Arthur stays busy in his head. You've always known as much, but never figured any of it was about you. Not like this, anyways, though the dates spread from the week before Blackwater and you can only wonder what laid in that journal he lost before.

"Oh, Arthur," you start, looking up from a third-way through, feeling giddy but not wanting him to watch you so intently while you finish them. No wonder he was shy. It's his heart. "You're so sweet."

"Finish readin' 'em," Arthur says, doesn't meet your eyes at first. When he does, they're gentle. "They get sweeter, y'know, better finish 'em. 'Cause of that."

He is nervous. Hardly moving, besides the tongue running over his teeth beneath his lips, and the rambling every time he opens his mouth. You don't mind, never have. He's endearing like this.

Outings you'd went on infrequently, the dates of his favorites underlined, you're noticing, based on the tone of his words in them; his worries and fears about courting you, and some of what you mean to him though, with its succinctness, you have a feeling he wouldn't dare put all of his genuine love to findable paper; things he likes about you, and one page where he admits that he cannot keep himself from documenting you in every other entry, which tells you this small collection is hardly everything. The previous entries turn over in your mind again, and you are struck on a random page for a moment as their meanings take hold, realizing they were especially sliced from his journal to show you.

The entries leading to the last are what set your mind and pulse ablaze. From the first appearance of the word marriage, you swallowed your idea of what may be coming — Arthur's breathing changing beside you doesn't help any, and it certainly does not help that he leans down once you've reached the last page, plucking it from your hands. Before he does, you notice quite a few crossed out lines, scribbles as if he were frustrated with not being able to find the right words.

"Think I've got the balls on me to read this one aloud, at the very least," he says, voice laced with a chuckle. Breath comes uneasy, but you collect yourself enough to gather the pages back into a neat, ordered stack in your lap. "Unless you'd rather spare me," he adds, nudges your knee with the toe of his shoe.

"No." Your voice sounds strange, even to you. "Do me the honors."

Arthur bites his cheek, nods and lets it fall as he smiles. Still, his hand finds the back of his neck, the page held between two fingers that remain surprisingly steady. The knife lingers in his hand beneath it, and isn't it just like him to propose holding a weapon.

Propose. It takes its first toll on you, rolls over your back in shards of tingling.

"December twenty-fifth, eighteen ninety-nine," he starts, eyes flicking to your face every other word until the intensity of your gaze must make him too anxious. "It's a nice little life, livin' with the one I love," — rubbing his mouth, sighing some — "Jesus, I always gotta be sappy." You laugh, though it comes out more forceful than you intended, and relax some until he continues. "The thought of another day where anythin' could happen 'n' we ain't bound is somethin' I hate."

Arthur pauses, stands up and places the journal entry on his chair. You take his hands when he holds them out to where you sit, grunting when he hauls you off the ground with more force than you expected, feet shuffling into place to stick all-too-close to his. His hands are burning, skin feverish when you grab his wrists, as if you'd ever want to stop him as he eases onto a knee before you.

And his eyes throw you off balance, too, catching the light just enough that you can tell they are stinging. So are your own, now that you think about it, but intelligent thoughts go out the window once you sense him about to speak.

"I wanna be 'til death do us part," Arthur confesses, fumbles to catch both of your hands in his in an awkward, squeezing hug of a hold.

The way your bones catch on one another, well— it's not a sensation you'll forget, like the first time he kissed you and you felt it still a week later, warm pressure on your mouth if you got too lost in the memory. He looks as good, looks so nice, and you know your fingers would be shaking if he weren't crowding them together, steady.

When he says your name, the blood is rushing through your ears too loud to hear it clearly; you almost want to ask him to do it again. "Will you marry me?"

Nodding, face slack before it spreads in a grin. "Yes," you say. "Of course I will."

His is hidden by how he lets go of your hands, catching them before they fall in stupid, limp joy back to your sides. He lays kisses along the knuckles, all three rows of them. It's so awfully saccharine and yet you could never tell him to quit being sweet— not now, not as he stumbles to his feet after you pull him up and shake off his hold to grab his face, tugging him into a kiss.

Arms come around your waist, squeeze tight enough to hurt, or to hold in place. Arthur runs a hand over your back, breaks the kiss to slide a hand into your hair and press your face to his chest, caging you in his arms. He smells warm, like good cologne, and you know he's been planning this.

[bananafire11]

How Jax ripped his ear

Drabble below based off said drawings

Jax’s paws thumped across the tiles of the old Candy Castle, beelining it for the nearest window. The distorted growls of an abstracted bounced off the lengthy hallway and the fur at the nape of his neck stood on end.

He’d used one of these windows to enter the castle, so despite the medieval-esque bars covering them he knew how to get 'em open. The digital world wasn’t nearly as reliable as he could hope, but there were little things that came in his favor.

He skidded to a stop in front of said window, bag jostling against his hip. He hoped the trouble he went through for this ammo was worth it. He gripped the metal bars and yanked them up until he heard a *click*, locking the rusty bars into place.

His ear flicked at another grumble from across the hall, so he vaulted himself over the window seal. He pulled his palms away from the grimey surface, just registering a creaking groan and a sharp ching, before a searing pain cut through his left ear.

A strangled scream made it past his teeth before he could even think to stop it. His hand clenched over his lips and he tilted his chin, trying to see what had happened.

Despite his spotty vision he could just make out how those damned rusty bars had pierced his left ear, successfully trapping him to the window. His hands shook, reaching for the metal and clasping his dirty hands around the poles. Fuck, he was trembling.

Through the zinging pain a glitching roar called from within the building and Jax’s breath hitched. Of course it’d heard him. Of fucking course. Peering in, he saw the black mass of multi-colored eyes rounding the corner at the end of the hall, careening straight for him. Fuck.

His trembling arms shook the bars, yanking and yanking but they wouldn’t lift no matter how hard he tried. Shit, of all times, why now?

The abstracted was nearing closer with every passing second, and if he could just get his ear loose he’d be able to make it to the car he’d parked out back.

Another booming growl, and he realized he’d have to yank it out.

He grit his teeth and only took a moment to prepare, muscles tense, before he swung his head back. His vision blurred, black dots dancing along and his head pounded. Blood spurted to the ground and his hands hovered around his ear. His legs wobbled and involuntary tears breached his tear ducts.

He stumbled backward, only thankful that he wasn’t a rabbit caught in the snare anymore. The abstracted hurled itself toward him, clanging against the wall and shaking the metal, and so Jax swiveled toward the car. His legs carried him faster than he’d even realized because next thing he knew he was inside the vehicle.

He fumbled for the keys, shoving them into the engine and cranking them until the thing rumbled to life.

In a blur, his paw was on the pedal and he was racing for the gates.

[thinkblotted]

A Little Treat

We're all allowed to have one.

-

So. Things happened. Are happening. I will continue posting about stupid 80s vampire boys until I'm physically unable. Speaking of which, this drabble was inspired by something @enquiringangel mentioned a good while back (as in like. Two months lol)

The final draft doesn't have any Micky-Ds in it, but it does have Paul being the most annoying thing in the space at any given moment.

Enjoy!

Paul’s digging into his pockets before the blood was even dry on his face. 

Hand still smeared with gore, claws barely retracted, Paul rummages through first the front pockets of his jacket, grumbling when he only pulls out crumpled receipts, a broken pen, and twenty three cents worth of pocket change. He goes for the inner pockets next. 

The receipt drifts in the slight breeze blowing in across the waves and catches under Dwayne’s nose, still pressed to the body as he drinks. He snorts, startled at the intrusion and pulls off.

“What the fuck?” He growls, licking his fangs clean. Paul just shakes his head. 

“I know it’s here somewhere, I swear I stashed ‘em in here…” 

Now Marko comes up, finished with his own meal. The flesh around his bite is ragged, still needing a few tries before he finds the best spot. “Dude, you gotta kick the habit.” 

Paul throws him a scowl. “I don’t <i>gotta</i> do anything.” 

“It’s candy that’s older than my grandma, Paulie.”

“Your mom is older than your grandma,” Paul huffs, starting to realize it’s a losing battle. 

David finally speaks up. He’s further away, down the shoreline where the sandy dunes meet real dirt, among a grove of scraggly trees. He’d had his fill and gone to start making preparations for hiding their evidence. (At least, for long enough that identifying the body would take time.) He had stripped off his coat and overshirt, wearing only the thin black tee as he kneeled on the ground. Hands curled into claws and covered from fingertip to upper arm in sand and dirt. Digging, in only a way vampires can, a shallow grave. 

“First - nice comeback, Einstein. Second - I’m saving you your dignity.” 

”What!?” Paul yelps. 

David rolls his eyes. “A vampire eating candy? That’s a hill you’re dying a second time on?” 

“I paid for it!” 

Marko laughs. “You did not, you liar.” 

Paul finally abandons his search, now knowing his prize was never there in the first place, and stalks over to David. 

“Where’d you put them?” 

David shrugs and goes back to widening the hole. (If some sand happens to hit his packmate, then oops.) 

“Like I’m telling you.”  

“They’re mine!” 

David turns an icy glare up to Paul. “And keeping that shit around attracts pests. I don’t know about you, but I’m trying to avoid the place I live being more rat-eaten than it has to be.” 

“Or covered in feathers and bird shi-” 

“Hey!” Marko interrupts Dwayne and his little comment, laughter turning to a scowl. 

Paul for his makes a disgusted noise and about-faces, intent on going right back to the nest and finding his sugary prize. The blood will have settled in his system by then, and the sparkling, dizzying energy that came with drinking it will have lost that bright edge. Fucking shame. Food always tasted best as a chaser. Life remembering itself in his dead body, if for only a few minutes before the clock began ticking down again. 

His three packmates watch him go, grinning amongst each other. 

“Good ‘n Plenties aren’t even good!” Marko shouts to his back. 

“Fuck off!” 

-

Paul lays on the rim of the fountain, eyes idly watching the wind spinners and mobiles twirl around languidly in the errant draft. Scattered around him were tins and boxes and clothing that had been lifted and tossed aside in his hunt, but sadly, no sweet candy had been found for him to claim, no matter how he’d torn through the place. David must have either buried it, or just tossed it into the ocean, because there wasn’t an inch of the place he hadn’t checked. 

He sighs and flips himself over, laying on his belly now. Legs kicking up, one arm tucked under his chin while the other dangled down near the floor. A single finger traces idle patterns on the sand. 

If he imagined hard enough, he could practically feel the crack of their hard shells before sticking his teeth together with the softer insides. Like bone marrow. Mm. And the sugar would be so good - it slicked his tongue and the licorice flavor was bitter in the best way. It tasted like it was supposed to. Like he remembered. Paul’s tongue traces a tooth, wanting. 

But, even now, only an hour after the feed, the taste would have been getting muffled again. He’d be fine for another day or two, but any longer and anything but blood and meat would start to taste like the cardboard packaging the candy came in. His body didn’t want sugar. It wanted fat and salt and iron. 

Life. Powerful, sustaining life.

He grumbles low, undefined curses to no one, at everyone.

So it was a little old school. So what? Not like the rest of them didn’t have favorite things from eras past. (There had been a car show in town last year, and they’d basically had to tie Dwayne down to keep him from nicking a Packard ‘22. They were good little thieves, but disappearing a whole damn sixty year old car was something not even they were stupid enough to try. And don’t even get Paul started on the deep, dark hole where Marko kept his disco vinyls…)

Stupid body. Stupid David. 

Paul can feel him, and the others, in the back of his head, like watching pings on a radar. He knows David is feeling his annoyance as background noise that’s easily tuned out. He thinks about annoying him further by sending it to him more pointedly, but that would be a lot of work, and David could just shut him out all the way. 

Paul watches the firelight from the drums flicker against the cave walls, his finger languidly twirling. Letting the gears turn in his head. 

David had things he liked that weren’t ‘dignified’ or whatever. He smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish. Sure, it looked cool, and Paul could understand the itch for the nicotine or alcohol to smooth out the rough edges of the world, but it wasn’t the <i>vampire</i> part that wanted it. And the clothing! David and Dwayne had always been punks, even when the definition of the word was slightly different than it was now. They’d just traded in their cuffed jeans and slicked hair for grunge and dark eclectica. The rock and roll for…well, a different kind of rock and roll, Paul supposes. 

Whatever. Same principle. David was still such a hypocrite. 

The irritation seethes in Paul. His eyes narrow as he glares, wandering this way and that as though he were physically following the progression of some thought through space. 

Suddenly, as though striking a bell, Paul breaks out into a manic grin. His blue eyes light glittering yellow in the center and all in a rush he skitters away into the depths of the nest. 

This was going to get interesting. 

-

“Where is my hair gel?” 

David stands in the doorway of the main antechamber of the cave, expression pinched. 

He’s dressed in one of his usual ensemble - dark pants and shirt, but sans vest and coat for the moment. It was early, and they’d been planning on going out to see what Hell they could raise around the concert circuit, depending on who or what was playing, and like the person he was, David took just a little longer to preen himself. Part of which involved gelling the hair on the crown of his head. 

At the moment, it was damp from a wash, still in unsightly clumps that alternatively stuck up at the wrong angles or layed plastered to his forehead. Not exactly the most intimidating sight in the world. 

Marko snorted behind his hand at the sight, and Dwayne looked up from considering his own jacket and whether it would need some new stitching at the shoulder. 

“Your what?” He asks. 

David steps into the room, hands on his hips. “My gel. I had a new container of it right on the shelf and it’s not there.” 

Before Dwayne can assure David that he hadn’t moved it in an organizational fit, or Marko could deny that well, he didn’t use gel so it wasn’t him, there was a jingle and a thump, and Paul is landing with all the grace of a lion behind David, having slipped down from some hidden nook high above in the rafters. 

He rises from his crouch with a sinuous roll, hands never leaving the pockets of his own curated black jacket, the belts slung over his shoulder and multitude of bracelets covering his arms making music with every step. 

“What’s the matter?” He drawls. 

David flashes his teeth, a growl rising in his throat. “My. Hair gel.” He over pronounces each word, as though it needed to be spelled out. “Where is it.” 

Paul stands in front of him, shoulders back and relaxed, eyes drifting. He hasn’t indulged in anything tonight yet, but he’s slow in his speech, carefree in his words. He gives David’s hair a once over, and then the rest of him in a long look. 

“Why in the world would a vampire care about something like that?” Paul asks with a shrug. 

Before David can react, before anyone can react, Paul is skirting around David and up to the entrance, giving a jaunty wave and a jovial laugh behind him. “See you dorks topside! I wanna actually catch the music.” 

And he’s. Gone. 

Marko and Dwayne look from the place he’d been, to David. 

David, who stands there for a moment staring after their missing member with an expression on his face somewhere between gobsmacked and ready-to-smack. 

In the end, David doesn’t find his gel. He settles for using some old hair spray, enduring a night of looking a bit like a blond hedgehog had made a home on top of his head, and letting the others be front and center. All the while glaring at Paul, who remains just far enough out of his way that David can’t get a grip on him. 

-

The storm is rolling in, much faster than the weatherman on the radio had predicted. 

The boats in the dark marina bob in the breeze that had picked up significantly even in the past few minutes. It’s blowing in hot and humid, a taste of the squall that’s rumbling in just off-shore. They didn’t have time to fuck around - not if they didn’t want to have their meal while drowning like rats in a bucket. 

But they were still missing a member. 

Marko is further down the beach and out of sight, keeping eyes on their target. Dwayne is perched like a massive gargoyle on the prow of a beached boat, keeping an ear out for unwanted interlopers. David is glaring at the sky. Lightning cracks across the sea only a few miles out. He can feel Paul somewhere in the back of his head only insomuch as Paul was a member of his pack that existed, but not where, not how far off. Not if he was getting closer. 

Bright urgency streaks through the bond, Marko letting them know that the boathouse clerk was starting to close up for the night. Even stumbling drunk, the man was a functional alcoholic who knew how to drive in a straight enough line to get himself home - in town. 

David hisses, teeth on full display and leavers himself away from the side of the boat, having been leaning against it smoking himself hoarse to try and keep calm. 

“Easy,” Dwayne murmurs above him. 

“I’m going to use his scalp for a fucking boot cover,” David snarls, throwing his latest smoke to the rocky beach and grinding it to smithereens under his heel. 

“He probably just got distracted. Again.” 

Dwayne says it calmly enough, but even still, there’s a hard set to his mouth and his eyes get a little darker with every patter of stray raindrops that had started to fall from the sky. The storm was basically upon them, thundering inland as the unstoppable force of nature it was. Again, Marko basically screams through the bond that if they didn’t move now, they’d miss their chance. 

Something something, most predators miss nine times out of ten. David liked to think they were smarter than most animals, but at times, he had his doubts. 

A massive wall of wind hits the beach, bringing with it a wall of rain, hard and fast. The sea lashes at the shore and the tied boats next to the docks toss. Dwayne ducks his head against it, wincing as his hair lashes against his face. The tarp over the deck of the boat picks up, flapping against him, and he calls it quits, jumping to the ground to join David in the shelter on the aft, just out of the worst of the wind. 

“Think he’s got enough on his head for two pairs of boots?” He growls at David. 

Above, the sky lights purple and blue with a massive streak of lightning, the sound deafening. Close enough that they can almost taste the crackle of electricity in the air, hear the whine of it as it splits the atmosphere. 

Marko comes charging out of the darkness, head ducked against the wind, almost flung to the side as another gust brings the first proper round of rain with it. His own expression is pinched and upset, eyes narrowed into yellow slits as he glares at David. 

“What the fuck! We had this in the bag, David! What, were the stars just not in position for this or something?” He asks incredulously. 

David matches the searing ire in his head with his own, though it’s not really directed at Marko. 

Even Dwayne can’t seem to hold back the rumbling displeasure that they’d not only lost their quarry, but that they’d gotten soaked in the process. 

Another crack of lightning splits the sky, a little further off, and in the distance, like a whirling top, spinning about a bowl, a body surfs the wind. It’s lit from behind for a moment, arms outstretched, reveling in the beauty and danger of nature, how close it could come to complete destruction, but without fear that held any mortal back. 

Paul sweeps in on a blast of storm, his hair a cloud around his head and his smile and white as the lightning. He’s soaked through, shirtless, panting as though he’d gone through some exertion. 

“Boy, nothing like waiting for it to stir up just before the shit hits to go flying!” He crows to his pack with a boyish, gleeful laugh.

David is already moving. He makes a swipe at Paul, claws out, ready tor pull him in and make damn good on his promise of scalping - but Paul sees it coming. Keyed up from his flight, he nimbly hops away, getting a little more air one final time before setting down again. Still grinning, but there’s more of an edge to it, now. More teeth. 

“Aw, what, did you wanna come with?” He asks. 

“We were supposed to be here, at eleven!” Snarls David. “What in the actual fuck were you doing?”

And Paul guffaws. 

He laughs, incredulous, as though David were telling some kind of bad pun, of a story where there’s an unfortunate ending for some poor fucker. 

“What’s it look like I was doin’?” He asks, thumbing over his shoulder at the storm that’s still going strong around them. “Went flying!” 

“We were supposed to hunt tonight,” Marko hisses, not un-catlike. 

“We were waiting for you,” Dwayne says, with all the guilt sent right through the bond like an arrow aimed true. 

Paul’s grin slips off his face. It doesn’t disappear however, simply sinking into something else. A new, subtler, more simpering smile. Which he sends right at David. 

“I don’t see what the problem is. I was just enjoying being a vampire.” 

And just the same, before anyone has any chance to react, Paul is kicking himself up. Back up into the gale above, to ride the wind currents, tossed like a toy boat on a violent sea. His howls echo across the water, distorted with each wave of wind. 

There’s a twitch under David’s eye. 

-

”So what if those girls saw us? We could just hunt them down, we’re vampires, remember?" 

”Hey, I thought the rings were really pretty, they make good additions to the decor, right? Don;t do no one any good sitting in a glass box. We’re immortal, crime doesn’t mean shit.”

”Yeah, I invited them back to the cave, it’s Friday night, party night! If they ever try to come to the nest again, we can just off ‘em.” 

David sits in his wheelchair, head in his hand. He was staring, unblinking, at an unremarkable spot on the ground, some feet away. Marko and Dwayne were nowhere to be found. It was just him. 

And Paul’s fucking music. 

The boombox had been placed up on one of the makeshift tables, where the acoustics would ring best across the huge atrium. To the sides, Paul had broken out some amp cords and had plugged it into two speakers, the pornographic, screaming metal doubly loud. And to top it off, he’d slid a curved sheet of plastic siding behind it. To direct the sound right out where he wanted it. 

So he could dance to it. 

Paul scoots across the floor of the cave, digging his heels into the stone and sand so that when he moved, it flung up, scattering like glitter and getting into just as many nooks and crannies. He was humming just off-kilter with the beat of the music, and mumbling the wrong words, mincing the chorus with the verse. It sounded awful. 

And no matter where he went in the caves, David could hear it. 

Dwayne and Marko had cleared out, a while ago. At the low end of the season, the Boardwalk was slower, but it beat this. Whatever Hell this was. 

Paul shimmies up to David, that fucking <i>glint</i> in his eye. David goes still, and his eyes flash a yellow so dark it made them look like two coals glowing in the burn barrels at the end of a long night. 

He leans over David, hips still swaying. 

“What’s the matter? Too loud?” 

David didn’t say anything. Paul pretends to pout. To think. 

“Too…much?” 

The hand that’s clutching the armrest of the wheelchair tightens, and supernatural ears could hear the groaning of the cast metal. 

Paul tilts his head. Slinking that much closer, until his lips were practically brushing the tip of David’s ear. 

“Too…whatever I want?"

David explodes up and out of the chair. Without a word, he’s slinging around and begins digging at it. Clawing off the teeshirt over the backrest, ripping out the cushion of the seat. Under which is part of the wooden carriage, a little box to settle the seat, supported by the lower crossbars. 

David wraps his hand around a little cardboard box, crushing it in his grip to the point it almost rips in two as he hurls it at Paul’s head. It finds its mark with a rattle and a scatter of the little purple and white candies as it bounces off Paul’s forehead, onto the floor. 

Without another word, he flies off, outside, to find some shadowy hidden place to plot some revenge so dark whatever lived in the Mariana’s Trench would be scared of it. 

Paul watches him go, rubbing at his head. There’s a little cut there, from the edge of the package, which Paul swipes a finger against and then sticks into his mouth. There’s an odd haze to it, the consumption of one’s own blood. But that’s fine. He’s got just the chaser. 

Paul scoops up the box on the ground, torn in half, but still plenty of the candy inside. He pops three into his mouth, and slowly grinds them between his teeth. 

“Sweet,” Paul giggles. 

[mythalism]

ok im going to try and parse through my feelings on the entire game in the hopes that expelling these thoughts from my brain will allow me to actually sleep because i am running on about 3 hours right now

i will start positive with the things i absolutely loved:

solas. whos suprised

just kidding i will elaborate further of course. genuinely, from a (mostly) objective writing perspective, he is the best part of this game. like hands down. his writing is bonkers insane. he has the best lines and the most complexity out of any character in the game (besides mythal perhaps). i was so so so afraid they were going to completely woobify him into someone who was right all along and never did anything wrong in his life blah blah to make him sympathetic to a new audience. they did not give a fuck however and i could not be more glad. he is exactly the dread wolf and bringer of nightmares of legend. he is so wonderfully in character, even if that character is not someone we saw in inquisition (we saw solas, not the dread wolf!). there are moments that solas shines through, like in his mentions of varric in the very beginning, when he mentions his love for the inquisitor, his convo with a rook he respects (which i do believe was genuine, even if he betrays them anyway. we know that he regularly betrays people that he likes and respects lol), the way he helps the shadow dragons and saves the dalish, and of course in his final scene with the inquisitor. he manages to retain that perfect back and forth, mask on and mask off, solas vs. fen'harel dichotomy with a different balance than the one we saw in inquisition. in inquisition, we saw solas with hints of the dread wolf peeking through. in veilguard, we see the dread wolf with hints of solas peeking through. ok i need to move on or i will talk about him forever. but they nailed the moral ambiguity with him. they nailed the theme of forgiveness being hard. i loved when harding said something along the lines of "there is no one who doesnt deserve forgiveness" this is one of the few consistent themes that this game was successful in exploring. ok ok moving on now i promise

i also loved mythal (fragment mythal, not morrigan mythal who was a flop). admittedly i am a mythal stan, but her integration into this story was a highlight for me. she haunted the narrative in such a great way. it added so much complexity to solas. hearing him GROWL at elgar'nan in rage "you have lost the right to say her name" made me scream in glee. i loved talking to her and having to prove my worth to her. i love that it was hard and she would kill you without hesitation if she found you unworthy. i love that if she does find you worthy she is instrumental in changing solas's mind. i loved her dragon appearance even if she was useless in the damn fight lol. morrigan mythal sucked tho but thats for later

similar vein but the main quests were fantastic, with a few caveats. but overall every main quest had me hooked, having so much fun, at the edge of my seat and screaming and flailing in my chair. weisshaupt was incredible, BLOOD OF ARLATHAN WAS INSANE (the solas elgarnan bitch fight will go down in history as a moment of all time for me) and of course the finale was some of the best writing ive seen from bioware. the way suspense was built was well done, the stakes felt high, and the twists were interesting.

choice and consequence was absolutely banger. i gasped when i went back to dock town after leaving minrathous to fend for itself and saw a gallows with bodies hanging from nooses and piles of bodies in the streets. i gasped when harding died. i gasped when bellara got blighted. definitely the best choice and consequence in the entire franchise and it was very satisfying. i feel motivated to play again to see different options play out.

the environments are fucking insane. genuinely insane giga brained genius. i have never been so gagged by a video game like this. not only were they beautiful but they were well-designed, interesting and diverse. i rarely got bored anywhere (except treviso lol) and i was regularly picking my jaw up off the floor. some highlights for me were the anderfels area where you first meet davrin with that amazing vista, kal sharok, the docktown catacombs, pretty much anything in arlathan, the deep roads, and honestly so much. absolutely beautiful.

this game felt incredibly cinematic and the direction was fantastic. the cutscenes were so well done and they transitioned so smoothly into gameplay. the animation was fantastic, and everything was so engaging to watch. my favorite cutscene has to be when solas is about to switch places with rook and you see him in the background out of the corner of your eye twice, though rook doesnt know. i was literally screaming it was so fucking cool. it genuinely felt like watching a movie a lot of the time

i genuinely enjoyed the gameplay loop of exploration. i had a lot of fun just exploring around docktown and arlathan, there was always something new to find, i loved the puzzles, and i loved finding codex entries. this is a crazy thing to say but it actually reminded me a lot of genshin impact LMFAO. which i know a lot of people would probably consider to be a negative but i thought it was engaging and fun.

combat fucks. it got a little repetitive by the end, mostly because i think i just wanted to find out the end of the story and fucking darkspawn were in my way, but it was a huge step up from previous games and i think action combat was a good choice.

this game has an incredible amount of genuine heart and soul put into it and you can feel it in every facet of the game. i can tell that the devs were passionate and their creativity was genuine. i could feel their love for the characters and the world. this game is unflinchingly sincere and not afraid of being cringe (though it definitely is cringe at times, i respect the commitment to it so i dont mind it). it genuinely does not feel like an EA cash grab, which is a huge win considering how likely it was for years that a cash grab was exactly what we were going to get.

i enjoyed the varric ghost twist. i knew something was up with him but i didnt fully call him being dead until right before the reveal. i get why people are going to be upset about it, its a pretty fucking crazy decision, but i think what saves it is the quote he gives rook in the fade about his choices being his own and still encouraging rook to try to get through to solas despite being KILLED BY HIM.... fucking crazy. it ties in enough to the overall theme of regret and forgiveness that i think it works.

ok time for the negatives

its hard to pick my biggest issue but i definitely have a top 3: the lore flopped majorly, much of the writing felt juvenile, and there was an overall lack of nuance to everything about the game except for solas's storyline that did feel very not-dragon age to me

i actually dont give a fuck about lore retcons, especially if they are explained well. i think they are often necessary and can be pulled off. but this game literally just pretended to answer decades long questions about the lore and then does not. which would be fine if we didnt have someone who knows all the answers to those questions hanging out in our brains and willing to answer them. we did not learn what exactly a titan was. we did not learn what they were like when they were alive and before they were blighted. mythal called them monsters. harding suggests they might have been violent like the elves. we literally dont know anything about them except for what solas and mythal did to them. i dont think anyone even actually gave a clear answer on what the blight is. ok it was the titan's severed dreams but what the fuck does that mean? it was their rage and pain? then why does harding say the red lyrium manifested by her rage and pain was not blighted, just red? if blight equals titan nightmares then that lyrium should have been blighted? so what the fuck is the blight that ghilan'nain cooked with? red lyrium? how did the original darkspawn get made? did she start injecting people with red lyrium? but we know what that does to people because we saw it in inquisition. it makes them red lyrium freaks but it doesnt make them darskpawn. WHAT ARE DARKSPAWN? WHAT IS THE BLIGHT? did i miss this in a codex entry or something guys im so serious. how did we play this whole game and not actually learn what the blight is. we also learned almost nothing about the forgotten ones, which is fine except we literally met one and all they really had to say about it was "evil spirit" ? ok. also um. where are the rest of the evanuris. ok they are gone but where did they go. we know where their archdemons went, but where did they go? ghilan'nain exists separate from her archdemon so its not like killing an archdemon kills the evanuris, it just makes them vulnerable. should they not all be still alive in that prison together, just mortal and archdemon-less? they literally just say "they're gone" and expect us to be like ok! WHAT THE FUCK??? WHERE ARE THEY?? WHERE ARE THEIR BODIES??? WHAT??????? also the explanation for archdemons was boring. it felt like the team literally did not know the answers themselves (and didnt feel like calling up david gaider) so they just gave us vague non-answers hoping we wouldnt notice. I NOTICED.

similar vein; we learned nearly nothing about elgar'nan and ghilan'nain, and they overall felt cartoonishly evil and one-dimensional. and this is a greater problem that ill talk about next, but they were afforded none of the nuance that solas and mythal were given, and it feels glaring in comparison. why was elgarn'nan evil? was he just born fucking evil? we know thats not true. he originated as a spirit, what kind of spirit? what was his relationship with mythal like? what was his relationship to the other evanuris like? he calls ghilan'nain "sister", were they always close? did they become close in their prison? what are his goals beyond tyranny? or do you actually want me to believe he is just full stop evil? if he was one of the original spirit born elvhen what virtue did he embody and what polluted him into something so terrible? why does ghilan'nain love the blight? why is she obsessed with creation? we only get a single codex about she and andruil (that i found). what was her and solas's relationship like before she ascended to godhood? he calls her "the best of them" but we never see anything about their relationship. neither of them has any nuance. they are just pure evil, corrupted by ???? something ??? power??? i guess. and we are supposed to just be fine with it lol. what are even their motivations? why do they want to cover the world in blight? what is their emotional connection to this pursuit??????? we get such an exploration of this for solas and just NOTHING for them. they feel so one-dimensional in comparison, literal comic book cartoon character villains.

similarly, this game lacks nuance overall. bioware is known for its exploration of grey morality on both personal and sociopolitical levels. this game has that only for solas and literally no one else. qunari antaam? evil (super fucking racist depiction as well). venatori? evil minions. elven gods? evil. forgotten ones? evil. meanwhile, crows? suddenly good. its okay. just forget the MURDER, child slavery and abuse. seriously its fine. caterina dellamorte is a sweet old lady :) dont worry about it :). every faction is good and every antagonist is bad. its genuinely insane coming from the studio who gave us dragon age 2 to now give us something so fucking boring and black and white. they got SO CLOSE with the wardens and isseya and in the end davrin still kills her. why does solas get a chance at redemption and no one else does? here we are with an entire story centered around this morally grey character, interrogating whether or not his actions are justified, whether his intentions matter, whether his abuse informed his atrocities, asking ourselves if he deserves forgiveness asking if he deserves to be saved, where do we draw the line? what is the point of no return? why do people do the things they do? its fantastic. and then you go and do a faction or companion quest and its just like, these are the good guys and these are the bad guys. dont ask questions. have fun! WHAT???? FROM BIOWARE??????????

this issue bleeds over into the companions as well. i genuinely liked all of them. they are likable. but holy shit they have no flaws. all of them are genuinely good people and their problems center around others rather than themselves. there is little to no complexity, to the point where honestly they did not feel like real people to me. harding is sweet and perfect and her worst trait is being *checks notes* TOO AGREEABLE? davrin's worst flaw is raising his voice at his pet too much. emmrich's only flaw is FEARING DEATH LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING? neve is kind of cold. thats it. bellara never does anything wrong. lucanis doesnt sleep enough? taash is the closes they come to any sort of complexity and i did genuinely enjoy their identity struggle and i loved seeing their complex relationship with their mother. but none of those are flaws. like these characters are cookie-cutter perfect. we used to have companions who committed acts of terror and blood mages and mean jealous little brothers and did horrible things and said horrible things to each other and struggled with things like internalized racism and complacency in violent corrupt institutions and addiction and facing your fucking war crimes and they are some of the most beloved of the franchise because they feel SO REAL. like genuinely going from characters like anders and blackwall to these companions was so jarring and disappointng. i LIKE them all, dont get me wrong. but they do not act like real, complex fully fleshed out people, and the writing overall suffers greatly for it.

again connected, the writing in terms of literal dialogue but also what i mentioned above comes together to feel incredibly juvenile. i know some big reviewers beforehand said that the game feels like a pixar movie at times, and unfortunately i dont think thats inaccurate. a little harsh maybe, but there are moments that are truly written in such a way that it feels like the audience is children. and that doesnt mean its bad, because i am a lover of childrens media and most of my favorite media of all time is actually for kids (avatar the last airbender, fullmetal alchemist, etc), but this game oscillates back and forth so violently it will give you literal whiplash. it reminded me a lot of the way young adult fiction is written. GOOD young adult fiction, where its well-done, but its deliberately written to be simpler in both diction and theme and focuses on concepts that young people can identify with. this is how i felt during much of the companion quests during this game. again, it was GOOD young adult fiction, but it had the narrative styling and lack of nuance and complexity that is characteristic of such things, and that is just literally not what the game is supposed to be like. and there are great writing moments that do feel appropriately mature and complex, but they are mostly in the main quest and their presence makes the lack of maturity in the rest of the writing feel even more jarring. i have no idea why they wrote it this way.

morrigan's mythal flopped and was out of character. i missed flemeth's crazy ass. they literally nerfed her. i think this is connected to everyone being nice and good and perfect (no abusive mothers allowed!) which is crazy because the other mythal fragment got to be a crazy bitch. so what the hell

the lack of world states is still a major L. it felt like things were missing that should have been present and had no reason not to be other than just no worldstates. well of sorrows needed to be there ESPECIALLY considering the solas/mythal/lavellan dynamic.

this one is self-indulgence but solavellan could have benefited from better pacing. packing so much into act 3 made it feel rushed. i loved the scenes themselves, but there could have easily been more build-up with a few codex entries.

no fenris. i will never forgive

ok im running out of steam and actually feeling more able to sleep now (thank god). i know i said a lot of negatives but i actually believe this game is very, very good, especially within the context of its development. i think a lot of the issues likely do stem from their fraught development cycle, and overall they did a great job of identifying their priorities and pursuing them to the fullest. i dont necessarily agree with what they prioritized or what their vision was at all points, but i respect the clear direction that this game had. i do not believe it will stick with me the way the previous games did, and while playing i often found myself just missing the characters from 2 and inquisition that i love, and the writing that so often had me screaming crying throwing up and/or giggling and twirling my hair. however, this game gave me the #1 thing i wanted which was a satisfying solavellan conclusion, and though yes it could have been done a bit more... artfully, i think its incredible considering where we were just a few years ago with this game. i will play it again a few times, and the fact that it has sold well enough to guarantee bioware gets to stick around and make new games is a major win. 7.5/10 thank u for listening

[mesetacadre]

How did you start your political life or more specifically, how did you learn about communism and made it part of your life? I'd love to learn more about communism and how I could help the world and people but I feel like I'm too stupid for that and I just generally don't know where to start, especially since I'm afraid even socialism will fail and hurt people more than help. Sorry for this message but thanks in advance if you decide to answer!

Around the time I began to come out of a year-long+ depressive period, I began to seriously "get into" politics. I suspect one of the reasons which triggered such a long and severe depressive period was the beginnings of a political consciousness, I intuited something was wrong with the world in a fundamental way, especially the education system, but did not have any knowledge or will to get at that more concretely. I did latch on a lot to that "don't go to school" viral video, especially the part about how it hadn't fundamentally changed since the industrial revolution.

The first thing I found after I stopped wanting to kill myself so constantly was anarchism, actually, and specifically vaush videos. I know. but I did start reading some things, like the conquest of bread, and some more "competent" political theory content than vaush, I did really like the idea of market socialism and coops. To my credit, I also encountered georgism and even I could tell it was pretty stupid. Anyhow, I never really was convinced on anarchism, on a fundamental level. I knew the talking points, the common arguments, that jazz, but it was more a superficial belief rather than a core one. After like 6 months of this I decided to contact the party I am now, I had encountered them a couple months earlier but kinda chickened out. The will to do something more than watch vaush and be opinionated about US politics eventually prevailed and I contacted the party, and they were very patient in actually educating me, giving me some responsibility, and in the years since then I've continued to be educated in practice and theory. Generally I'm glad by trajectory wasn't like some other young people in my position that I encountered, who went from fascist to right-libertarian to US democrat in a matter of months, those people wear their lack of principles like a badge of honor.

Anyway, about your other questions, there is no such thing as being too dumb for communism, it's rather a question of a will to learn and a decent enough offline organization with which to apply some principles to your context. Theory is extremely deep, for sure, but there is no minimum theory requirement to start to get organized. This perception exists because often, the only communists who organize as such explicitly are, frankly put, massive nerds, and it gives off the impression that you need to have read all the basics before doing anything. That isn't true.

I get your concern about hurting people, I think it's a legitimate doubt to have, and one that can only really be resolved with an actual 1-1 conversation and not this format, but succinctly, I'd tell you that already, millions of people suffer and thousands die every day from causes related to the oppression intertwined with the capitalist mode of production, especially imperialism. It has killed throughout history exponentially more people than any army could ever do, even the most genocidal and cruel army you could imagine. Isn't the opportunity to end all of this worth the risk of failing? The capitalist class will oppress our organization regardless of what we do, a failed uprising is more of an excuse to clamp down on our class, and less of a cause in itself.

[invinciblerodent]

This, of course, is not to say that I wouldn't understand what is happening here. I can understand and be sympathetic to a character who I feel has done tremendous harm, and isn't acknowledging that the best possible thing he could do would be to stop hurting what yet lives.

(rambly thoughts after finishing 100% of the Crossroads under the cut- but with as few big spoilers as possible)

In vague and ever-changing terms, what I genuinely think (I, as a person, and not my Rook or my Inquisitor who are characters in this world and are -I believe, for their part in the story- rightfully angry) is that Solas' gravest mistake in the present is that he thinks that there is yet fixing the irreversible. That not only is there a way to overcome a change so fundamental that a mortal mind cannot even comprehend it (because of time, scale, and its foreignness), it is also he alone that is capable of deciding that it should be reversed. He thinks that because what he knew is, in his mind, so clearly objectively better than what really is now, it is worth sacrificing everything for.

But that's not right. That's the sunk cost fallacy at work, culminating in a belief both myopic, and egotistical of him.

Somehow I can't shake the feeling that Solas and his plans for the world carry some of the same threads and tones as the "Synthesis" ending to Mass Effect, in the sense that at its core it is about one individual, however good or powerful, thinking itself worthy and capable of making a decision that affects billions. And they may be acting out of benevolence, but they are nevertheless so focused on their own ideals that they have lost the ability to recognize that the very fact that any one creature can be granted the power to decide others' fate is immoral.

Benevolent tyranny is still tyranny. Recreating the world better after undoing it does not negate the loss of millions of lives- not if it was done in anger, and not if it was done in kindness.

I'll probably be gnawing on this thought for a very long time and I might change my mind or phrase things entirely different if I'm asked about this very same thing tomorrow (or even just an hour from now), but I swear.... I do not understand the people complaining about the writing in this game.

I've been just... enchanted, this past while, as I was doing this big main quest-adjacent quest, and while I've not yet finished anything, it's been feeling very much like all the other games to me: beautiful, complex, and immersive when it needs to be, and silly, goofy, sweet when it calls for levity.

I'm having a wonderful fucking time.

And realizing that I had dodged that fucking fight was like the most absurd rush of relief that I have felt in a long time, lol.

[A subtitle saying "Taash: Doesn't matter how sad you are about doing evil crap if you keep doing it."]

Man, the literal kind isn't the only kind of fire that Taash spits. That's probably the most succinct summary of how I feel about Solas that any character has ever given in this story yet.

[melon-dot-com]

bonking my head against desk.mp4

I wasted time on something unimportant and that I didn't even care about again!!!!! I'm gonna Lose It!!!!

[stars-obsession-pit]

So, fun fact:

John Constantine got a transfusion of some demonic blood to repair his injuries at one point (since the demon needed him healthy to complete a certain task), and it left some lasting effects on his body/soul.

I don’t yet have a single specific plot idea for how to have it contribute to the plot of a DPxDC crossover fic, but i feel like it could absolutely do something.

Like maybe it’s treated similarly to resurrection by Lazarus Water and leaves him a type of unhealthy liminal, but since this is demonic in nature, the corruption’s effects/treatment are way different from Lazarus stuff.

Or maybe it makes him just inhuman enough to fall slightly under the Ghost King’s control, leading to him being dragged into ghostly politics by that.

Or maybe he actually dies and becomes a ghost, but the blood makes him into a sorta half-ghost half-demon entity. Though the soul contracts would likely muddy the water even further with any “dying” stuff…

[ganondoodle]

i cant lie, im also beating myself up about not being able to get excited for the new game, or anything anymore it seems, while it can be fun to criticise things, some things you just dont like so badly that the frustration knowing it could be so much better but isnt and you not able to change it outweighs any fun- i dont like being a 'hater', i hate totk, but not bc i hate zelda but bc i LOVE it and want it to be better (though im starting to doubt my ability to do anything good with it too..)

and with the new game trailer (like, i still hope its better than im fearing rn) i feel similarly as when the next totk trailers dropped after the first one (which DID excite me), all of them gave me a sense of dread bc it seemed to go into a direction i wouldnt like, i tried to tone that voice down to enjoy the game, but then .. i was right

i dont want to be an annoying complainer about everything new, but maybe i am and i dont like that thought, i dont want to spoil anyones fun, i want to partake in it :(

[jacuzziwaters]

It's interesting seeing the common Asexual experience of being infantalized as a black person especially since because black people, especially black women, are constantly being sexualized for just existing. And it starts young too I remember being told that I couldn't wear red or certain shorts, or a 2 piece bathing suit at age 7.

I cannot exist without being seen as something to be desired.

[fuckdamn]

everytime i’m faced with wild overt misogyny that’s just platformed like it’s nothing i remind myself that people don’t actually have to feel this way about women. men are fully capable of treating women like human beings and viewing them as such. “but socialization but male fantasies but patriatchy speaks through us even when we don’t recognize it” sure but actually regardless there exist men who are fundamentally not raging misogynists and they generally seem happier and better adjusted. misogyny to me isn’t disappointing because “oh i can’t believe Men, as an essentialized category of person, are like this” it’s disappointing because people make the choice to be like this. “it’s my biological imperative as a man to dominate you” okay well it’s my biological imperative as a freaky bitch to dominate you so what now. what biological imperative is making you comment “onlyfans detected opinion rejected” on every picture of any attractive woman. i think i will always be understood by most people as a woman and i’m learning to accept that and trying to like it but misogyny makes me feel very trapped of course. but misogyny is a choice. which means some people make the choice to be misogynistic which is profoundly frustrating. but many other people choose not to be actively misogynistic and i believe anyone could choose not to be actively misogynistic if they wanted. so it’s a whole thing

[robo-milky]

(You're welcome to pick whichever, if one doesn't fit the gen. narrative/vibe you wanna go for)

AADESH S.: I hear the clinic is offering therapy appointments; It just so happens I'm certified in counseling and behavioral psychology, and looking to work in a position that better manages my...expertissse. Care if I fill out an application? I'd love to also sssee to it Dr Mors receives it personally.

Levi C.: Hey, ya, I had an appointment for a messed up shoulder? Some punk at work mouthed off to me and...well I did what I got paid to: Just wish he didn't yank me around that much, damn... [His shoulder rolls, the click of something inflamed almost audible in the waiting room]

[Ramshackle Clinic] (L: Aadesh R: Levi)

[another-clive-blog]

Thinking about the Clive and Bill parallels again...

Both started with pretty average goals (gaining money / getting closure). Both became obsessed with said goals to the point of going through with their plans no matter the cost. Both became consumed by the desire to pursue a goal that isn't actually achievable (You can get more money but it will never feel like it's enough. You can lash out in anger but it won't make the anger go away). Both ended up killing innocents.

And yet.

Bill getting rid of his humanity in the hopes of getting money. Clive getting rid of his money in the hopes of getting his humanity back. Bill claiming he despises people like Clive when he has himself killed innocents for his own selfish plans. Clive claiming he hates politicians and scientists but still using science to build a mecha and politics to justify its use. Bill hiding everything, hiding from Claire that the machine isn't ready, hiding his crime from everyone. Clive exposing everything, exposing his secret base to Layton, exposing Bill and Dimitri's crime by his staging. Bill covering up the incident while Clive broadcasted his crime inside the fortress.

I don't know where I was going with this. Maybe that prime minister Bill looks like a honest citizen, just your regular Londoner really, while Clive is so obviously violent and destructive : and yet, Clive is the dove and Bill the hawk. Funny.