#but I think i made it sound like a candle is a metaphor

[kuchipark]

I stare at my candle, cupping it. “So this is it?” I manage to croak.

It lets out a meek cough. “This is it.”

“It’s my fault.” Despite my attempts, a tear manages to escape me; it cascades down my cheek. I can’t bring myself to wipe it away. “I should have never let you burn for five, consecutive hours while I took a nap.”

“Come on now,” it reaches up to wipe my tear. “Don’t say that, you needed that nap.”

Another tear spills, and another… and another, and before I know it, I’m sobbing. Tears gush from my eyes, with no dam to halt them. “I didn’t know,” I whimper. “I didn’t know I was gonna fall asleep, I just—” I swallow. “I just wanted to close my eyes for a bit…”

“Hey, you couldn’t have known. It’s okay,” the candle smiles with resignation. “My time has come.”

It has accepted its fate, but I don’t know if I can. It feels like just yesterday when I lit it for the first time. In a way, it was.

“What am I supposed to do without you? How am I supposed to make my room look cozy now?”

The candle flickers, its wick is almost gone. “You’ll be okay without me. You can always buy another candle.”

“I can’t…” I say.

“Yes, you can,” the candle assures. It flickers again.

I shake my head. “No, I literally can’t — I got, like, two bucks…”

Another flicker. Any second now it’ll die out, leaving me cold and dark, but not before it can share its wisdom with me, one more time. “Get… those… tea… lights…” it wheezes. “They… are… cheap… as fuck…”

And before I get to respond, smoke replaces fire, cold replaces warmth, dark replaces light. This was its end. My 9 bucks is now officially gone.

I never should have lit it, I should have just looked at it as it stood, idly, on my window sill.

But I guess that isn’t what candles are for.

They are meant to burn, no matter how badly it hurts to see your favorite candle die out. Burning is their purpose, if you never light it, you’ll take that purpose away. And after all, isn’t it better to have lived with purpose for a short while, than to live forever, with no purpose at all.

[azullumi]

"honey in your mouth when you say my name" ; aventurine

premise— happiest birthday to the man who had stardust on his wake and the sun for a soul; he was warm and he was everything you have ever dreamed for. this is a gift to the man who knew cruelty all his life but remained kind despite the cracks and blood on his skin.

content tags — 2.1 QUEST SPOILER, established relationship, soft aventurine (WE SAY IN UNISON), angst and fluff, a few metaphors, mentions of death and blood, birthday sadness (idk what u call that), NOT PROOFREAD I DID THIS ON A RUSH, 1.4K ; one-shot (bullet-form)

note — i have exams tomorrow and a lot of things due but the moment i heard it was his birthday, i wrote this for him AAAAAAAAAAAAA

AVENTURINE can still remember the smell of rain the day blood filled the line of his vision. It’s horrifying, haunting, sharp in all of its corners as it finds him in a sunny morning when he tries to look for the pieces of himself scattered on his floor, hidden beneath the carpet (and when he lifts the pattern, he’ll find torn and broken memories of when he was still young and loved). For this reason, he is not really into the prospect of celebrating his birthday, not when the day is intertwined with grief.

He avoids telling people of his day, avoids thinking of it by burying himself in hundreds of paperworks and cases to handle. He can’t think of that day without thinking of death, without thinking of his sister who laid lifeless in the golden sands (she probably thought of him in his last moments), without thinking of his mother who prayed even when her knees and hands are bleeding (the rain came to her as a blessing, but for him it has become a curse), and without thinking of his father who never got to hold his son (he never knew what he sounds like).

He’ll remember everything, that was his curse.

He never celebrated that day, not anymore, not even once. Perhaps he tried, perhaps he went into the bakery with the thought of getting himself a cake and lighting a candle, perhaps he tries to seek beauty on the day that he was born, especially when it coincides with the day of rebirth of his goddess. Perhaps he did and perhaps the cake was left rotting in his fridge because he can’t seem to enjoy the taste of it when its reminiscence of the bitter rain and fresh blood. 

(He can’t bear the thought that silence was his only companion either) He’d like to think that the meows of the critters as they approach him translate to words that greets him a happy birthday, but how could they? It’s a silly thought, it’s not like they can understand him nor any of these stupid traditions, and it’s not like he can understand them either. So he still remains alone.

But there, you came—unexpected, unwavering. When you learnt of his birthday, when he told you of his past and every line that exists in his being, a shell of determination washes on the shore of your thoughts. It didn’t have to be grand, it didn’t have to be extravagant; you only wish to make the day memorable for him, even just for once. You wanted him to let go of the thorns and feel how nice it is to have nothing that makes your hand bleed.

Although, you must admit, you were anxious, scared, nervous, everything while you were preparing for it. I mean, sure, it’s just going to be something simple with you and him only, and you made sure that in some aspects of it, he’ll enjoy it. You know that the burden he carries is heavy on his shoulders, and letting go is never easy nor simple, but for once, you wanted to do something for him to ease the tension that lies in his thoughts and bones.

Imagine the surprise and confusion on his face when he comes home to his apartment smelling like freshly-baked bread, tangled with the scent of lit candles and flowers, and the aroma of food. Surely, this wasn’t a burglary, right? What type of burglar would leave rose petals on the path of his doorway leading to wherever? What type of burglar would spend the time to bake a cake and even cook dinner? And what type of burglar would dress up so pretty and smile at him while their hands are trembling behind their back?

There’s the sound of his voice calling out to your name and soon, he heard something cluttering followed by rushed footfalls, and there you were, peeking behind the wall with a nervous grin plastered on your lips. You greet, “You’re home early, I thought you were going to be late?”

“I was going to be but I decided to bring some of the leftover papers home instead. I didn’t know you were going to come by, you should have told me.” He answers, taking off his dress shoes and placing it on the rack, “I could have come home much earlier if I knew.”

You laugh, emerging from behind the wall, “It’s fine, it’s fine.” You try to find the words to say in your trembling palms and fidgeting fingers. If he knew of what you were planning, surely, he would stop you and you didn’t want that. Albeit you don’t recall him saying he didn’t want nor like celebrating his day, but he did mention that he simply avoids it—does avoidance equate to dislikeness or hatred? It was plaguing your mind.

He hums, ushering you to come close to him so he can wrap his arms around your figure, engulfing you in a hug as he rests his forehead on top of your shoulder. “Why are you so dressed up? What’s the occasion? I don’t recall setting a date for the both of us tonight.”

“Do you not remember?”

Panic quickly shot over him like a bullet as he stood up straight from his position, “We have plans tonight?! There’s nothing on my schedule for today so I thought.” He’s quick to utter apologies, anxiety seen on his face as he spoke. It breaks your heart a little hearing what he’s saying—he doesn’t even remember.

“‘Rine, it’s your birthday.”

Silence.

Disbelief outlines the line on his lips, “What?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling like there is something that wraps and binds around your chest which suffocates you; It was your turn to panic, feeling it overwhelm the nerves of your body, “You mentioned it once, perhaps a few months ago. I wanted to make it a little special for you so I prepared something for us, for you. It’s okay if you don’t want to, I mean I can just—”

You were interrupted by him, your sentence cutting short, “Oh, love, you didn’t have to.” He cups your cheek, warmth seeping into your skin. You didn’t listen to his voice for so long to not be familiar with how it cracks and breaks when the words fall from his lips.

“But I did and I wanted to.” You answer, softly, reassuring him as you lean into his touch.

“Having you beside me already makes it all special.”

You laugh, eyes forming into a small crescent that reminds him of the moon, “And I want it to be more than just that kind of special.” And he sighs upon hearing your answer, it’s not one of frustration but it still has worry forming on your stomach as you swallow, “Are you mad at me?”

“No, how could I ever be mad at you? I’m just surprised.” He brushes the pad of his thumb across your cheek, gazing into your eyes with such affection and adoration as if the stars were born from his eyes. He presses a kiss on your forehead, whispering to your skin as if a small confession, “Thank you.”

How could he ever be worthy of you?

You hum, "I love you, Kakavasha."

Aventurine is grateful—it fills every gap and crack on his skin, soothing the scars of his flaws, and everything that sets him apart from his humanity. He never knew that cakes could taste this sweet, so kind and gentle as it melts on his tongue.

Slowly but surely, he soon let the warmth settle in his skin. The gray walls that surround that day are soon painted and drawn with different colors, with doodles that were made by your hands mixed with a few of his works. Perhaps the ocean of his grief will still haunt him but he won’t drown in it, nor will he find comfort in the cold embrace of nothing and everything that rejects him.

(Kakavasha, your sister would be so happy for you.)

And when the day comes once more, he’ll see and dream of the rain but not how bitter and heavy it was, but how it soon became warm and sweet, washing away the blood on his feet.

special mention to @toorurs, thanks for always being there for me even when i say the most nonsense of things or when my sheep genes are acting up 😔 i hope everything is going well for you and will go well for youuu!! sorry for being inactive AND NOT REPLYING TO YOUR TIKTOKS AAAA I SWEAR ILL BE MORE ACTIVE SOON I WILL REPLY EVEN WHEN YOU STILL HAVEN'T MESSAGED 👆 anyways this is a very short dedication note because gosh i still have to study hejsad ilyyyyy a lotttt please always remember that !!

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

[jozor-johai]

Sorcery is... a glass candle

This quote caught my eye recently:

Take a lesson, Bran. The man who trusts in spells is dueling with a glass sword. As the children did. (AGOT Bran VII)

That’s Maester Luwin to Bran, and it jumped out at me because it sounded so much like Dalla’s words to Jon, only using a different—still sword related—metaphor:

“We free folk know things you kneelers have forgotten. Sometimes the short road is not the safest, Jon Snow. The Horned Lord once said that sorcery is a sword without a hilt. There is no safe way to grasp it.” (ASOS Jon X)

Up until now, I never might have thought these phrases ought to be seriously connected. However… both of these comparisons alike describe the glass candle that Sam sees (finally!) at the end of his arc:

Sam found himself staring. The candle itself was three feet tall and slender as a sword, ridged and twisted, glittering black. (AFFC Samwell V)

The glass candle is sword-shaped, sword-length, and has no hilt. This tall, sharp, obsidian dragonglass blade is both Luwin’s “glass sword” of spells and Dalla’s “sword without a hilt” of sorcery. Both of these metaphors are not only speaking to the abstract idea of magic, but also evoking the shared image of the glass candle itself. Why might that be?

It might of course be thematic—the glass candle, too, is magic. Like we hear from both Dalla and Luwin, this must come with an associated danger; however, since we don’t have a good influence to hear from here, we have to realize this for ourselves. What better way than to give the object of this magic itself the appearance of these warning metaphors?

However… I often wonder about potential shared origins for these sort of half-remembered concepts, so I wonder if there’s an in-story reason why Dalla and Luwin might be unwittingly evoking the glass candle in their warnings.

Which brings me to an interesting thought:

The Children using Glass Candles

Luwin suggests that the Children of the Forest literally dueled with glass swords, because his line here segues into showing Bran and Rickon the obsidian arrowheads:

…The man who trusts in spells is dueling with a glass sword. As the children did. Here, let me show you something.” He stood abruptly, crossed the room, and returned with a green jar in his good hand. “Have a look at these,” he said as he pulled the stopper and shook out a handful of shiny black arrowheads.Bran picked one up. “It’s made of glass.” Curious, Rickon drifted closer to peer over the table. “Dragonglass,” Osha named it as she sat down beside Luwin, bandagings in hand. “Obsidian,” Maester Luwin insisted, holding out his wounded arm. “Forged in the fires of the gods, far below the earth. The children of the forest hunted with that, thousands of years ago. The children worked no metal. In place of mail, they wore long shirts of woven leaves and bound their legs in bark, so they seemed to melt into the wood. In place of swords, they carried blades of obsidian.” “And still do.” Osha placed soft pads over the bites on the maester’s forearm and bound them tight with long strips of linen.

Perhaps this is a… slightly misremembered idea, though. Clearly the Wildlings also have a cultural memory of the image of a “sword without a hilt,” because, as Dalla suggests, they remember things that the kneelers have forgotten. Osha seems to suggest the same: she also holds the belief that the Singers still carry “obsidian blades.”

I think we may see with Samwell, though, what these supposed “obsidian blades” actually are: glass candles; what Sam describes is, for all intents and purposes, an obsidian blade, sword slender and ridged.

Perhaps the Maesters have it wrong (as usual)—when the Singers “dueled” with “glass swords,” that did not mean literally holding it in their hands and running into battle, but rather some kind of mental, magical type of warfare using the magical capabilities of the glass candles.

I’m tempted to end this here, because there’s already a lot to wonder about there, but seeing the glass candles as the “glass swords” of Luwin’s story prompts another connection:

The Glass Candles and Lightbringer

Perhaps the glass candle is also an echoed image adding to the Lightbringer mythology. If we recognize the obsidian candle as sword shaped, for all the world the image of a blade, then there’s another visual connection between the real glass candle and Stannis’ false Lightbringer—both of which Sam gets to see. 

Here’s his description of Stannis’ false lightbringer:

“It glows,” said Sam, in a hushed voice. “As if it were on fire. There are no flames, but the steel is yellow and red and orange, all flashing and glimmering, like sunshine on water, but prettier. I wish you could see it, Maester.” “I see it now, Sam. A sword full of sunlight. So lovely to behold.” The old man bowed stiffly. “Your Grace. My lady. This was most kind of you.” (ASOS Samwell V)

And here’s Jon’s description of Stannis’ Lightbringer:

The sword glowed red and yellow and orange, alive with light. Jon had seen the show before … but not like this, never before like this. Lightbringer was the sun made steel. When Stannis raised the blade above his head, men had to turn their heads or cover their eyes. Horses shied, and one threw his rider. The blaze in the fire pit seemed to shrink before this storm of light, like a small dog cowering before a larger one. The Wall itself turned red and pink and orange, as waves of color danced across the ice. (ADWD Jon III)

Compared to the glass candle itself in Marwyn’s chamber:

The candle was unpleasantly bright. There was something queer about it. The flame did not flicker, even when Archmaester Marwyn closed the door so hard that papers blew off a nearby table. The light did something strange to colors too. Whites were bright as fresh-fallen snow, yellow shone like gold, reds turned to flame, but the shadows were so black they looked like holes in the world. Sam found himself staring. (AFFC Samwell V)

Since we also see the glass candle as “slender as a sword,” we might look twice at the dragonglass “glass candle” as appearing to fit not only the criteria for “sorcery” itself, as described by Dalla and Luwin, but also as fitting the imagery of Lightbringer as well. If these “glass candles” are the very same “glass swords” of Luwin’s tale, then this is a sword that glows with an unnatural light.

This image is exactly what Lightbringer looks like… in Melisandre’s opinion, considering that she’s faking the glamour that produces the light for Stannis’ sword. 

Which is perhaps yet another thing that the dragonglass candle/sword might have in common with Lightbringer, if we trust Aemon’s final ramblings:

The sword is wrong, she has to know that . . . light without heat . . . an empty glamor . . . the sword is wrong, and the false light can only lead us deeper into darkness, Sam. (AFFC Samwell IV) 

If Mel’s sword is wrong because it is “light without heat,” then surely so is this glass candle, especially if we think it has something in common with the imagery of Lightbringer. This candle, too, is a sword imbued with the light of the sun… but not the heat. 

Might these glass candles also lead only deeper into darkness?

[more-better-words]

I know the cuddle prompts weren't an ask, but I'm asking anyway:

2. "You're my little oven." 😏🩵🩷

Oh, good, an excuse to write something I'd already been thinking about. 😂

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

Monica had begun to suspect that, despite his protests to the contrary, poetry lurked in Karveth’s soul after all.

It wasn’t just the incredibly romantic gestures he seemed capable of pulling from thin air at an instant’s notice – it was the metaphors. Whether in English or Andorian, he had an apparently endless supply of endearments at his disposal, comparing her to everything from candles to cake. Last night had been a new one, though. They had been in bed, having very enjoyably worn themselves out, and he’d tugged her close to his chest, curving himself on his side for optimal spooning.

“Little spoon reporting for duty,” she'd joked, and he'd nuzzled her cheek sleepily.

“My little sh'thayn,” he'd murmured. And soon they were both asleep.

She'd looked it up the next morning in the lexicon Commander Sato had given her, assuming she knew what it meant, and being very much surprised to learn she was wrong.

“You called me an oven?” she demanded. Karveth looked at her, confused at her vehemence.

“It’s nice to be close to something that radiates heat,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

“Well-”

“You give off a remarkable amount of waste heat, but I get to reap the benefits.”

She was about to take offense, but he wasn’t wrong. Andorian bodies had evolved to be extraordinarily efficient heat sinks – that was why he could lie next to her all night and his external temperature wouldn't rise by more than a degree or two. It made for extremely pleasant cuddling, because she never got too hot. She hadn’t thought about it from his perspective before.

“So I’m like your own personal heater?”

“Thermodynamics in action.”

She pursed her mouth thoughtfully. “Okay, I guess it's not so bad to called an oven. Everything sounds prettier in Andorian anyway.” He smiled in smug agreement. “I suppose that explains all the poetics,” she added cheekily. “Not much else to do on those long, cold nights.”

“Other than mating?” he suggested innocently.

“And that's why Andorians are better at that, too?”

“You said it, not me.”

[paradoxcase]

Chapter 47 of Harrow the Ninth

Commander Wake's last thoughts, I guess? It's interesting that she could have chosen to save her own life by killing Gideon and didn't, especially since in the last chapter Mercy was talking about how she didn't care about family and didn't want to be a mother, and she doesn't seem like a motherly person, anyway, and she literally refers to Gideon as "the payload" here. Was Gideon's mere presence on Pluto meant to bring the plan to fruition somehow? Mercy definitely doesn't seem to think that worked out that way, but I don't know what Commander Wake was expecting to happen after she died, exactly

I'm not sure if he's trying to say here that she was haunted by a literal ghost, or haunted by a metaphorical ghost, or that going through that much bullshit fucks everyone up and she shouldn't be so hard on herself. Because I'm very interested to know if all those experiences were just due to her being haunted by literal ghost, personally

This is fun to contrast to Cytherea's recounting of this story back in Gideon the Ninth:

She makes it sound like they had some deep Seventh House heart-to-heart and Dulcinea was totally fine with this plan and didn't object to being killed at all. I love that we get to meet the real Dulcinea and find out that she does hate Cytherea just as much as everyone else does

Also, Harrow doesn't tell her this for some reason, but her lying about who her friends were did help Camilla figure it out, I think. Just not before she'd killed a bunch of people and Palamedes had figured it out by a different route

Who is she getting revenge on in this particular scenario, though? I don't think she really has a horse in this race. Cytherea is not here, John is not here, she doesn't have anything to do with Commander Wake and I don't think anyone in this scene actually knows who the Sleeper is at this point. Or does Dulcinea think that the Sleeper is Cytherea?

Is all the blood in the River bubble not actually real enough? Yes, it's all just a fake environment made of spirit, but like, other things in the bubble have been real enough to use for necromancy - the animal fat candles, or Harrow's bone chips, etc.

Does Harrow not recognize the suit? Gideon at least remembered the suit, but since Commander Wake's death wasn't actually all that relevant to Harrow and happened before she was born, maybe she was just never told about it. Did Wake then just randomly possess a sword that happened to be in the Ninth armory, and just by luck that sword was requested for Gideon? Only, when they were going through swords at the very beginning of Gideon the Ninth, all of them were old and rusted and unusable, so it would be probably somewhat remarkable for an actual good one to wind up in there, so maybe it does have some special history? Commander Wake almost certainly didn't actually have it on her when she died, she very much seems to prefer guns to gigantic swords

And Harrow always sensed that the sword was haunted, but Gideon never did, Gideon thought it was the best thing since sliced bread. Is it just because Gideon has the necromantic ability of a brick, or did the sword being haunted by her mom actually draw her to it?

Is Harrow still interpreting her feelings about Gideon as just being like totally normal things to feel about you cavalier, and that's all that is, no romo, etc.?

It's definitely the sword

It's interesting that Wake calls them "wizards" and what they do "magic", you would think that BOE would really be playing up the evil necromancy angle here

So, I guess the ghosts can be killed permanently here, but since they're also imposing their own rules on the bubble, they can also survive things that should kill them in the real world with a strong enough belief, or will power, or something, like how Wake survived being shot multiple times by Marta?

This series sure does love long fights between people who technically can't die, I have to say it removes a lot of tension when so many people are immortal or otherwise unkillable

Can Wake actually exert her own rules on the bubble enough to make it possible to counter necromancy with guns?

I see. So Wake wants to take over Harrow's body, and presumably go kill John and end the whole war with a win for BOE. Or maybe she wants to resolve some shit with Mercy and Gideon the First as well, but I'm sure she also probably wants to kill John, and this book has been repeatedly promising that John will be murdered on every chapter header. I guess it was just perfect luck for Wake that the random sword she possessed wound up in Harrow's possession after she became a Lyctor and now she's on board the Mithraeum with everyone that Wake has unfinished business with?

I sense that Ortus is about to impose some hilarious new rule on the bubble, probably related to the Noniad

[needle-noggins]

She looks him square in the eye. "This dream wasn't meant for me, was it?"

He scoffs, flicking his cigarette and bringing it to his lips. His whiskey glass has disappeared. "Bold of you to assume that, Miss Stryfe."

"Oh, I have no reason not to assume!"

"Ya know, for an insurance claim investigator, I'd really think you'd be more observant." Wolfwood stubs his cigarette out and flicks it aside. Even in a dream, Meryl has to judge him for littering. 

"What is that supposed to mean?"

In her annoyance, she has failed to recognize that he's standing on his own two feet, stepping towards her. Closing the distance between them. Closer, closer, until the lights around them dim, the crowd hushes. The smell of the bar, the dusty wood and cheap liquor and burning lamps, is replaced with the smell of whiskey and smoke and salt again.

Wolfwood cradles the back of her neck and she looks up, meets his gaze. His eyes are slightly narrowed, squished by a faint smile, concern and care on his face. He looks far, far too soft for someone with hands as calloused and bloodied as his.

"Did you ever wonder?" he asks. "In another life, if things could have been different?"

She surges forward and grabs his black lapels, pulling him down to her mouth.

He staggers back, returning the kiss she started but losing his footing. He clips through the wall and down, down, down onto a mattress. A mattress in a dingy dark room with a single candle. Sheets kicked to the foot of the bed. Their clothes strewn across the floor.

He glows amber in this light. She runs her hands along his shoulders, his back, his chest, over the smooth, warm skin. It shouldn't be this smooth. He'd been shot so many times. Where are the scars? Where is the proof of what he endured? 

He shouldn't even be alive, but he's more alive than ever under her. Murmuring his ministrations, trembling under her touch. He's so sensitive, so soft. His little noises and sweet sounds make her melt. Make her wish she could drink him all in. Wish she could go back in time and take him like she'd wanted to. Like she thought she couldn't. Like she knew he did.

Maybe she'd have them both, so plaint under her touch. So tough and hardened on the surface, but just desperate for someone to show them a little softness, a little tenderness. Someone to tell them they're so good, someone to let them be as soft as they've always wanted in a world that has made the both of them so hard.

She'd want to give that to her boys. All that and more.

It's a kindness she can never give them. Not really. She can't fight the way things have already happened. Completely wrong. One of them scarred beyond belief, inside and out. The other, dead. Gone. --- For the Director's commentary. Yes, I am ass who just wants to hear you talk about the inherent mess of pining for the ghost of your lovers ex and being the ghost who recipricates the feelings. So sue me. This just lives in my head rent free. HER BOYS. And how blind she is to being wanted.

EEEEEE HI YES I LOVE THIS BIT

So writing a dream sequence was really fun - it made it easy for me to suspend disbelief and write whatever I wanted action-wise, even if it's still a pretty straightforward dream without a lot of metaphor.

I love this idea of Meryl being so smart and self-aware that she's really good at lucid dreaming, but not good at knowing why she's dreaming. Likewise she's very much in touch with her emotions, but still feels them so strongly that she can't control them often. She'll know how she's mad, or upset, or whatever, but not the why. Or she'll misplace or ignore the why because it's a hard truth. I think Trimax Meryl always saw Wolfwood as off-limits for whatever reason. I'm not sure why, and that's left up to hc interpretation. Is is because he was so much closer to Vash? Is it because he's a "priest" or just a dangerous man? Did they just... not spend enough time together?

I also love this bit because Meryl recognizes how hard Wolfwood has become in this world - his calloused, bloodied hands, and how he so desperately wants a reason to be soft. I wonder if maybe (and of course this is a headcanon) Wolfwood didn't get close to Meryl because he thought he didn't deserve someone that good, you know? Vash on the other hand is fucked up just like he is, but Meryl, in her perfect white cape? So in this dreamspace, when he's already dead and gone and there's nothing left for him to lose, he can wonder. He can ask. He can take that leap and he has nothing left to lose.

I also love contrasting Wolfwood's body to Vash's - since this is within Bluebells universe, Meryl is very familiar with Vash's scars. Wolfwood has none, but his life hasn't been easy either - there's some intense dissonance there. He had such a hard life, but there are no scars to prove it - just how much did the Eye mess him up? Just how bad is it? Meryl will never, ever know. She never got to ask.

Soft bottom WW is like, probably one of my all-time favorite hc's. Just so you know. And I just loved the phrase "Murmuring his ministrations" because it had such religious connotations, I couldn't resist! We can suspend disbelief that Trimax Wolfwood would probably be fucking terrified for his first time in bed with Meryl, or that he'd really do anything at all, because this is a dream. It's Meryl's dream. Time doesn't matter and he can be as soft as he wants. He's already dead, it doesn't matter. Again.

"Wish she could go back in time and take him like she'd wanted to. Like she thought she couldn't. Like she knew he did." -> Meryl admitting to herself that she maybe did want Wolfwood, and she thought he was off-limits too. I wish these idiots got to communicate more. Also, Meryl knew Vashwood was happening, and I can imagine she'd sometimes think about Wolfwood while looking at Vash and selfishly wonder, you know? Jealousy or yearning for both, she never really figured out - until she thinks about it in the paragraph after.

And then - oof - she thinks about both of them being soft, about her allowing them to be soft, which is all they want. But she remembers this is a dream. This is a tragedy. Vash is hardened by everything that happened and Wolfwood is dead.

And then the memory that Wolfwood is very much dead is what collapses the dream after the snippet you shared.

I am always sos sosososoosooooo happy to talk about this idea, I adore it and there is SO much potential in Trimax Stryfewood!

[sophieswundergarten]

you know I hadda do it, soph. You know I HAD TO!!!!

Fractal Patterns My Beloved <3

"Reynie was nine years old when he met Miss Perumal, and suddenly it was like a whole new spectrum had been added to the rainbow.

There was the soft, mellow tone of her voice when she first shook his hand, skin smooth like a sun-warmed rock. The high, swooping sound of her laughter, always bouncing from place to place like a sunbeam through a prism.

It was as if there were sunlight leaking from every inch of her, and he couldn’t help but drink it up like a starving flower. There was honey in her voice and her soft smiles felt like a puff of dandelion seeds. Most people at the orphanage called him “Reynard”, and it came with a thick, mottled green of disgust. He had been trying to get them to switch to “Reynie” for years now, in the vain hope that it would come with a slightly more positive connotation."

ALSO:

"Reynie was eleven years old when he learned that Miss Perumal was there to stay.

He had just been through the most harrowing experience of his life, and as terrifying as it was, he had his friends to get him through it. Bonds forged in fire are stronger than most other things, and even in the chaotic swirl of fear and anger and jealousy that had been on the island, the small light of his friends’ love and care and bravery had helped.

That tiny flame, the little flicker of hope that mimicked the sun, made him realize how much he missed Miss Perumal. The warmth she carried everywhere with her was absent in all the students at the Institute; in the Messengers and Executives and teachers and there was definitely none of it in Mr. Curtain."

BLESSINGS BE UPON YA *bows to your greatness*

Okay! *cracks knuckles* Here we go!

I wanted to use the style of repetition that you have in a lot of your stories, but the first bit of that that I wrote was actually the descriptions!

It was from "and suddenly" all the way to "through a prism", and then I spent a good deal of time mulling over how, as you've said before about these two, "they are each others' sunshine" and most of the second paragraph spawned in my Notes app. I was really happy with how the imagery was sounding at that point, so I just let myself go all out with the descriptions. Usually I try and hold back, but I was fully in "go for it" mode at this point, so that's where all the descriptions of emotions and words as colors came in.

For the second part, I had fallen into more of a rhythm so it was flowing a lot easier. This whole fic was an attempt to slightly mimic your own beautiful way of writing; in that almost fable or fairy tale way you have. So I was really happy to lean into the descriptions.

Your fic has Reynie thinking about what exactly the emotion that the others feel for him is, and I wanted to capture that while still likening it to the sun. So, I thought fire was an apt metaphor; flame and flickers of emotion being a candle in a dark and frightening storm.

There's also the way Curtain and some of the children are described (Thank you again for picking up on that, by the way) as smoldering and burnt out coals. People who once held love but are now bereft of it, maybe due to circumstances beyond their own control, maybe to protect themselves, being represented by something that could hold a small facsimile of the sun seemed to have a good poetic balance to it.

But the children at the Institute are all alone; either they don't remember their family or their family doesn't seem to care enough to come back for them. It just seemed as though it would feel like a vacuum to those who still held fire in their souls.

[boymage666]

I survived the

WIZARD RACE

Anyways I'm gonna talk about it now. no readmore because mobile tumblr is dumblr, sorry.

So, only slightly relevant to anything, but I did the entirety of the game during the school day. Started around 11:30, but I didn't find my first charm until about 12:45 (I had to go to an assembly then eat lunch)

Finding the charms was a pretty fun challenge, the only one I didn't get on my own was the heart (thanks for that one @wizardgoblin )

had to take another break after submitting the charms because I had to get back to school, by that time 3 people were already done. No big deal to me, all I wanted was top 13. So I do my work for that class and open Tumblr again to start phase 2.

This is a good point to say I love codes and cyphers, so I was very excited at the idea of the next part, only to metaphorically fall on my ass because I forgot that the actual question was on the main post about the game. Once I found that again I copied it onto a sheet of paper so I could write out the sounds as I figured them out. And so the teacher of my next class wouldn't flay and crucify and sous ve me for using my phone, but more so i could write my thoughts.

This bastard. (affectionate)

That symbol right there caused me the most trouble of everything, I thought for a moment I was going mad because I couldn't find anything like it in the sample text. But you know what? I think it's better that way. Made me think harder. I was kinda skipping around on words while translating, going for the easy words first then the words that I felt would be important. Decided I would hold off on this word and skipped back to the line above it to solve the big word up there. Catchphrase. And the last word was "Weekly". I realized then that this had to be "Wizard".

I'm glad that the "z" sound wasn't in the passage, it made me think harder about the puzzle, and that was fun in hindsight.

(please ignore the blatantly mistranslated word on the second row.)

Unfortunately I don't have timestamps for exactly when i entered the maze, but it was probably around 3:40, as I remember realizing school was about to be over, which meant I'd have to drive home before finishing if I didn't get through fast.

MAZE SPOILERS AHEAD. DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT TO HAVE IT RUINED FOR YOU. DO READ IF YOU'RE STUCK AND WANT TO PLACE. IM NOT YOU MOM.

On the first page of the maze there were three options to choose where to go. I translated the first option, If I recall correctly it was scoundrel. Did not want to deal with that, the second option I couldn't translate immediately, so I skipped to the third option. Merchant. Sounds safe enough, I should go there.

So I did.

Reading the options, and knowing I was at a merchant, I decided to barter, and got an item. Cool. Sick even. So I move on.

[something] [STRENGTH] [STEALTH]

Decided to go stealth, and remembering how the merchant went, I choose the stealth option. Made it out with a cool gem. Encountered the dragon. Decided I didn't want to give up the candle and tried using the gem. Back to the start. Same path with the merchant, chose the option i didn't translate for the monster, and decided to try and charm it. Sandwich aquired. Not a good offering, back to the start. Merchant and gem? Close but no. Finally, I decided to try and fight the monster. It worked, and the item visually matched what I got from the merchant much more that the other items, sure enough, it was a good enough offering, and I got to move on.

Last part of the maze. 14 options, one was correct, spotted it immediately. Escaped at 3:57 pm ctz, day one of the race.

Honestly, I thought the game was fun! The maze was slightly easier than the cypher, for better or for worse, but that also could have been on me by refusing to try the other routes at the start of the maze. I can't wait to see what future events have waiting for us! Thanks for hosting this @wizardweekly

[rosethornewrites]

T & G reading since 3/18

I was going to wait a few more days to post but it’s getting too long.

Finished

Teen:

Everything Is Solved With Soup (And Poison), by Love_Psycho (reread)

Waking up from a nightmare – that may or may not just be a nightmare – Jiang Yanli decides she needs to stop that nightmare from becoming reality.

What Is Holding Is Also Being Held, by curiositea

“Congratulations,” Song Lan says with a grin that can only be described as ‘shit-eating’. “You’re haunted.”

“What.” Lan Zhan and Wei Ying say simultaneously, one sounding significantly less excited than the other. Honestly Lan Zhan, Wei Ying thinks, how can you not be ecstatic?!

—

Or, Wei Ying and Lan Zhan are haunted by the powerful and lasting echoes of their past lives and maybe, just maybe, it’s fate.

(Halloween/Wei Ying’s birthday prompt from the fantastic @/wwxwashere on twitter: wangxian are haunted.)

The Best Soup in the World, by Nyatci (reread)

Lan Wangji wakes to his husband missing from their bed. He happens to find him in the kitchens, peeling lotus roots.

Possible Works 3 - What If Number 4, by Hauntcats

Things go differently at the Yiling Supervisory office when Wen Chao shows up early.

Possible Works 4 - Tunnel Vision, by Hauntcats

A night hunt turns interesting.

Stop, In the Name of Love, by weenakohi2 (🔒)

Artist/art teacher in training/volunteer crossing guard-Wei Ying saves A-Yuan from a road accident and gets hurt in the process. Lan Zhan and A-Yuan insist on taking him out as thanks. One things leads to another leads to domestic bliss.

General:

The Greed is the Unraveling, by nirejseki (4 chapters)

“Don’t cough blood on me,” Lan Qiren said, voice as prim and proper as it had ever been.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wen Ruohan replied, teeth clenched and brow furrowed as he fought off the pain. Blood leaked out from the corner of his mouth despite his words. “I suppose the stain of red on white is terribly hard to get out.”

His tone was bitter, angry, and he was probably making some sort of very clever metaphorical point, given the Lan sect’s white robes and Wen sect’s emblem of red and white.

But -

(Lan Zhan, Wei Wuxian said. Do you think we made it - worse?)

(no one else can) take me there, by azurewaxwing

In his recent article in Contemporary Theories of Cultivation, Lan (2019) sets out to study the correlation between instrument choice and outcomes in the liberation of spirits. While his main thesis appears sound, his decision to limit the study to the qin, dizi, xiao and pipa undermines his conclusions.

This decision falls prey to the fallacy that tradition cannot be questioned. It ignores, too, the fact that many practising cultivators will encounter spirits that will have no exposure to such “expectations.” In a small study comparing the use of a dizi with a theremin—undoubtedly a non-traditional choice—the theremin produced optimal outcomes in liberating spirits where: time since death was less than 6 months; spirit was younger than 25 and older than 17 at time of death; or spirit motivation included aspects of revenge. The conclusions reached in Lan (2019), while providing a foundation for future study, are therefore as yet incomplete.

Mo Xuanyu

Cultivation Studies, Center for East Asian Studies, Stanford University

Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian, and musical cultivation: a love story, told through academic articles, emails, texts, and videos.

just like glass, by sunflowersfield (🔒, 2 chapters)

Lan Zhan is grateful. Gratitude is a feeling that he can appreciate because it is not like the inky black guilt that runs hot through his veins. It is not like the dizzying paranoia that burns bright behind his eyes. His gratitude for Wei Ying glows like a flickering candle, and he hopes he can keep it alive.

Butterfly, by dragongirlG (🔒)

Lan Sizhui’s eyes widen. “Is it your birthday?” he asks, panic creeping into his tone. It occurs to him that he’s never asked about birthdays—Ning-shushu’s, his parents’, his sister’s—

“A-Yuan,” says Ning-shushu, his voice softer than normal, “it’s yours.”

Lan Sizhui blinks, stunned. “What?”

Lan Sizhui receives some unexpected gifts when he makes a visit to Wen Ning.

A reflection on family history, familial bonds, and identity written for Lan Sizhui's birthday.

Warmth in Winter, by rhysiana

Lan Wangji watches Wei Wuxian spend his first winter in Cloud Recesses.

(a song) greeting the dawn, by LadyKG (🔒, 2 chapters)

With a laugh he threw himself back over the seal painted on the floor, a hysterical bubble in his chest popping as he dug his hands into his hair. Of all the times to be sent back to. Of all the places he could have ended up. Why did it have to be now?

Unfinished

Teen:

Inchoate, by Marinelifeclub

“Where would you even go once you left? Wait a few more years before leaving." persuaded Jiang Fengmian,

“Will I live to see that long?” Wei Wuxian whispered under his breath.

Jiang Fengmian felt cold at those words. He always thought his children would be the ones to heal the scars left by their mother on Wei Wuxian, but just the concise way he spoke about them, he knows that wasn’t true. Now his best friend’s son sat in front of him, confessing to not thinking he will live to see himself become a man. Cangse and Changze must be furious in their graves as the sweet smiling son they raised endured pain because of a jealous woman and a cowardly man. Sighing, he did the only thing he could to make things right and accepted the boy’s wishes.

At age 14, Wei Wuxian left Lotus Pier and never looked back.

Wei Wuxian leaves Lotus Pier and while things change something’s are just set in fate.

Rabbit Charm, by aoeros (🔒)

“You gotta promise me that when you’re back home and settled in, I’ll be the first you come to see. Because I’m going to miss you more than anyone else will, Lán Zhàn. Except your brother, of course.”

“Of course. I promise to come find you first after I’ve settled back in.”

“Great! Then I promise to call you whenever I can. And, I will definitely not forget you.”

until only the mountain remains, by idleorbitals

Sizhui had asked why he wore it, and Lan Wangji had said something about restraint that sounded mysterious and grand, and Wei Wuxian had said it’s a no-fun ribbon. Once you put it on, you have to promise not to have any fun, and Lan Wangji had said Wei Ying, in that voice he had.

Can I have one? Sizhui had asked, and Lan Wangji had looked strange and fond, and Wei Wuxian had said, does no one listen to me around here?

- - -

The one where the Burial Mounds timeline gets expanded and Sizhui grows up a Wen.

Echoes, by LadyCrowned

Wei Wuxian heartbreak was so deep that broke time itself. Now, back in his youth, maybe this time around he can set the things right... But, how to change anything without knowing you have the chance to do it?

Your soul remembers what matters the most, even if your memory can't.

Something Warm and Safe, by Winxhelina

"Rich-gege!" A-Yuan exclaims happily.

"You can't call him that," Wei Wuxian admonishes gently. He puts an arm around Lan Wangji just as his knees give out, "Hey! I'm holding a child, you can't pass out on me like that. Oh. Oh, your back is covered in blood. Is that - is that your blood, Lan Zhan?!"

"Mn."

"Oh. Oh, you're bleeding a lot! Hold on! I'm putting A-Yuan down. A-Yuan, walk on your own for a bit. Can you also hold the basket for me? You're so mature and responsible! Okay, Lan Zhan, stay with me. I've got you."

"Is Rich-gege hurt?"

Lan Wangji doesn't hear the rest of that conversation.

In which Granny Wen manages to convince Wei Wuxian to take A-Yuan and hide away from the world. Lan Wangji manages to find them.

Shed Their Blood And Sealed Your Fate, by Eternal Scribe (Shadowcat)

The end scene at Guanyin Temple goes a bit differently...

General:

Pulled Against the Grain, by youleeyeah

“We found him walking injured just outside the Jingshi. He said-” Sizhui paused for a moment and then lowered his voice before continuing, “he said it was Young Master Jin who did this.” The boy couldn't look into Lan Wangji’s eyes as he spoke and turned his head to the side.

“You know,” Wei Wuxian started again after the pain subsided a tiny amount, “if I had my old body, I could've had intestines falling out of my gut and I’d still be able to fight for a few more hours.”

Lan Wangji furrowed his brows.

He has heard this before.

-----

Wei Wuxian wakes up in Gusu with a fresh stab wound he claimed was caused by Jin Ling. Lan Wangji is confused because the last time that happened was three years ago. Something is wrong with Wei Wuxian.

he, who died, is ignorant, by Maxciel_99

Jiang Cheng is thirteen when his eyes lose the shine that has always mirrored Wei Wuxian’s wild spirit. And then no longer is he a shadow of anyone but merely a shell of himself.

Here is a man who is served the world, for once, but he has turned a boy who finally stops wishing and wanting all at once.

_

Or basically, JC time travels but it's not your typical time travel fix-it.

By the River I Sat Down and Wept, by naolbedo

Wei Wuxian, while in the burial mounds, kept a small paper scroll. It is in this scroll that he filled his happiest memories.

When he eventually passes away and Lan Wangji arrives at the burial mounds, he finds only A-Yuan, clutching onto a qiankun pouch close to his heart as though he was holding on to the flickering warmth that once graced the burial mounds.

When the Hills Are All Flat, and the Rivers Run Dry, by stiltonbasket

Wei Wuxian feels her blood run cold.

Yu-ayi’s right. He really is going to choose me, she thinks. Oh, no. Oh, good Heavens, no!

She nearly bursts into tears on the spot; but just as her eyelids begin to sting, she remembers what her aunt said only two minutes earlier and breathes a sigh of relief.

The moment Huangshang lays eyes on you, he will know what choice to make.

In that moment, Wei Wuxian realizes that she can only be certain of evading the Empress’s throne if she ensures that the emperor never lays eyes on her at all.

Or: in the second year of his reign, Emperor Lan Wangji yields to the wishes of his ministers and holds a bride selection to find his future empress.

[sunfaggot]

What music does Copper and Travis listen to and what kind of music will you add to their playlist and why??????? Or just talk about your thought process when making them idk go crazy

What music they listen to: hmmm... let me think of music from the 80s..... Travis definitely listens to Queen and The Smiths. Copper maybe listens to Bon Jovi and Survivor? In a character playlist, Travis would have a lot of religious themed stuff, while Copper would have... violent angry sounding music.

Think Hell's Coming With Me and Take Me To Church for Travis and... Skillet songs for Copper, just anger issues.

Thought process for Travis: at first he was just Copper's love interest, and then I thought about him more, what kind of impact he would have on Copper, and realized he was kind of... Boring? I mean, he didn't have anything that made it really feel like Copper needed him in the story. He wasn't his own character, he was just Copper's accessory, and I didn't want that anymore. So I added more character qualities! He's Copper's opposite – he's a nice church boy who the other children around him admire, including Copper. Then I thought.... How else can I make him interesting? How do I make him compelling as a character? What if the kindness was a facade for something else, something resentful, something terrified? Travis is a nice church boy who is completely terrified of the people around him and resents them all, every single one of them, except for Copper – who he worships almost like a god in this crappy little town where monsters haunt the forests and houses shake in anger. Travis loves Copper because he's everything people are afraid to show. Copper is rage, dirt, blood, sin, and the inability the hide how you truly feel, and Travis adores that about him.

Thought process for Copper: ok... so Copper Davies, right? He's the main protagonist here. He's the guy you're supposed to root for and follow around and his main goal is to murder his abusive uncle in cold blood and bury him in the forest where nobody will find him. The house shakes because of how angry he is, forests burn when he bares his teeth, and he's wounded like a feral dog. His uncle's blood is on his hands and he sniffs it, hungrily and hungrily, before biting off his own hands, that's how hurt he is because of his uncle; biting the hands with his abuser's blood stained on them is the only way he'll have ever been loved by him; by consuming him until there's nothing left. That's just a metaphor, but who knows, with my fucked up mind it may actually happen in the story atleast once. Copper's only place of comfort would be his best friend, Travis, who he thinks may just be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. In a way, Copper worships Travis like a god too, because sometimes he's the only thing that can heal the hurt. Copper is the only one who genuinely sees Travis for who he is (something broken and terrible and utterly disgusting) and he doesn't mind as long as he gets to hold his hand. Maybe when this is all over he'll actually ask him out on a date. Just the two of them while the sky opens up and fire rains down on all of them. It's the end of the world and he's setting up a candle-lit dinner for Travis.

they actually have very similar goals that parallel each other. Copper wants to kill his uncle. Travis wants to burn down the church. They just want to get rid of the things that hurt them.

(they both have unhealthy mindsets but they'll unlearn it post-story... or try to.)

[justsomeectoplasm]

Was it you??? The one with the sky x bloodborne au??? (is looking for the post but cant find it qwq)

Yup! That's me!

But tumblr is being a whiny little shit and won't even give me the original post even when I look up bloodborne but luckily I wrote it on a notepad because I hate that tumblr does this on mobile and makes it impossible to find on desktop.

Anyway here it is!

So for skykids in this world, I would think their origins are unknown, but it would be hinted at that they are children of some great born that had died much like Kos. However, they were lucky and the hunters did not find the great one before they were born. Now they roam across the world, seeking to find souls trapped in the cracks of walls and the rubble of buildings. Is it for the great ones they are doing this for, or is it simply part of the eldritch knowledge they posses? Who knows. But they will be gentle with each soul they find.

Skykids are more skittish in this world. Instead of being the friendly little guy (gender neutral) who gives you candles, they scatter like doves when someone who is not a skykid approaches them and honk fearfully or threateningly when you walk near them. They are made of clay and bleed a golden substance that's as hot as magma, completely different from the old blood that's found so much in this world. They remained hidden from the church and Williams scholars, until the very end when the church of healing and Yahrnem fell.

They only appear when everything is truly dead and no living soul has touched a place in a long, long time. When the beasts have died, ether by the hunters or by some other cause, they immediately surround the body to find any soul that's been sticking around the place. They act almost like crows in a way, picking and scratching at ruins in hopes to find souls that are lost in the world and then proceed to hide any object that's already been freed from a spirit in a little nest or a hole they dug, similar to how we collect cosmetics. They adorn themselves with leather clothes nade from dead hunters garbs.

I'd like to think that if a player has completely killed everything in an area or city and decide to come back, they would see them in the distance. Approaching them would make them fly away like startled doves. Interacting them would make them scream a distorted honking sound. But if you manage to befriend one by giving them food, they'll follow you everywhere until danger approaches, honking normally and offering candles now and then. They kind of like a temporary alert system for you.

And if we go a bit into bloodbournes whole metaphors of pregnancy, blood and gods, I have two symbols for skykids. They are either the hope that despite how horrible the world has turned, there can be a light at the end of the darkness, to move on from tragedy.

Or if you like the grimness of the game, they could be a metaphor that our children will have to face and fix the mistakes that we made and ultimately be the bearers of the burdens that we caused.

[bloodluvver]

intruder

sure, ill stay in this labyrinth; hell-scape in my own mind. The pernicious world; dark with a proclivity and venerence towards evil. Ill never capitulate to this 'omniscient' god, these people working for him. I will never be a slave to the outside, to them. They cant get me.

there is no apt solution other than my own, in a corner; metaphorically and literally. What they would call me is 'agoraphobic' a troglodyte of sorts. But those they's now are nothing but fakes. puppets to this new world, an evil being taken over. I don't know for what purpose yet but I'm next. I believe now no one will understand me. ( If there are any real people still here, have read this something is wrong here. I must be dead. ) I am intelligent, if anything I am the omniscient one. They cant get me.

The aristocracy, the beings outside with flesh hides that lie- come up to my door with treats, greetings, through my mailbox. they lie. under the soft tone of voice, they want me. They need me for something but damn I don't know what for yet. They knock and knock and knock.

'Hello? are you doing alright? you haven't been out in weeks. hon.' Normal voices but each time I hear, something else is there, like a second inflection in their voice. I haven't been able to sleep because of it. Letters too. Calls, speaking through the mailbox.

I realized, they are out to get me.

Calls from my own number, letters sent from my own address, handwriting uncanny, as if it was slurred, someone who had just learned how to write was sending me these things. For the first times the mail was innocent in nature. the flesh hides; pretending to be my family, my friends. Asking me to come out, see them.

Eventually things got sinister.

The old letters, soft persistent subtle urgings to come out, to 'open my door'. Next, more persistent. Begging's started. And then demands. 'Open it.' The letters didn't even try names now. Just blank envelopes, stained at the front withy an odd smell, and then inside sloppy black inked demands. subtle threats that hurt me, made sharp pains erupt in my stomach and feelings as if something inside of me had died and sank.

'we need you. come out, we fear for your well being and what may happen if you don't leave soon.'

I've begun vomiting from the fear at the amount of calls, letters and knocks. There is an indescribable sink that has become a tearing inside of me. as if the fear is metastasizing and attempting to tear itself out, probably to let something in.

I have eaten the last of my food. My water has stopped running. My electricity has cut out. thankfully I have these candles, they were in the attic where my mothers things were.

Right before electricity cut, I was sitting in my kitchen, hiding under the windows from the knocking, I got desperate. Maybe something could help me? The fear began to become too much. I called my mothers number.

"mom? mom?"

she didn't answer for a bit and I had to re-ring her. The knocking didn't stop, my shaking fingers could barely click the green buttons again to call her, my tv and radio kept cutting in and out with this static, I couldn't stop it and it made my ears ring.

but finally she answered.

She didn't ask my name. Her voice sounded different too, faked. A soft, pernicious inflection that I would have picked up on if I wasn't in such a desperate state.

"hello? hi dear.. are you doing alright? You called so late."

I said no. That I think something was after me, a higher force. and I was afraid.

The knocking became banging, the static got louder and my stomach rumbled. I'm not sure if it was the anxiety or my hunger.

At this point I could barely hear her, the other sounds were borderline deafening but I closed my eyes and tried to focus on her voice.

"Would you want me to come over? I could make you soup. Like the old days." She laughed, It wasn't her laugh.

My stomach sank more when I didn't think it could, my mouth filled with saliva, throat threatening to purge.

"Mom? you never made me soup."

It felt like everything quieted down after that and the deafening sound that substituted was my heartbeat.

She didn't respond.

"Are you alone there?"

"Yes, I-"

It interrupted me.

"are you sure?" Her tone changed.

"What?" I whispered out again, aside from my increasing heart rate it was deathly quiet, I was convinced something could hear me.

"You should let me in." The voice dropped.

That didn't sound like my mother. She didn't speak after that and then I stopped completely, my mother died two years ago. At this point I forgot what her voice sounded like But now I knew this was not her.

The moment I remembered my mother passed, whatever the hell I was calling started cackling, as If it knew what I was thinking, an intrusive disease. It was one of them.

I didn't bother hanging up and just ran, ran into the attic with my mothers things, throwing my phone in a random direction downstairs.

That was two days ago. I have no food. no water. I have a coin to play with next to me. I have counted 61 heads and 70 tails. I am hiding in a corner, writing this and hoping the dehydration is what will get me.

The banging is quiet but hasn't stopped, locking myself in the attic has muffled it a bit. I can hear the laughing, It hasn't stopped since two days ago either. I think it has me. I think they have me.

If there is a God, he has died.

[ltadoriyuujl]

you already know the drill annotation time baby!

Did you stop guarding Katsuki because you’re the spy Enji thinks or because not even the red wing captain could follow you undetected?

this is so funny WHO does that lunatic think we're spying for? the kingdom whose prince has spent like a quarter of his life in Takoba? nothing in that head but air and anger

All week, you growl through the effort of fastening garters to a stocking. Another. All week he has followed you and all week you kept his attention off your prince. If Bakugou had just stayed away, if he’d just hated you properly. You lean back to inspect neatly laced boots– Alderan dancing knots– boots so delicate they couldn’t be made for actual dancing. What will he wear tonight? You force a hand through wild braids.

give it up for girls with weird ass attachment styles they make the world go round

A prized hunting dog. You will be beautiful for one night and you can no longer avoid your job; assassins love to hide at parties.

god there are few things i love more than a good dog metaphor. don't mind the blood on my teeth its not mine but its there for you. many such cases

Prince Natsuo doesn’t have the energy to be surprised by you. He is not fazed by your drawn weapon and doesn’t flinch in the dark, but he remembers your name, “Captain Y/n?”

extremely nonchalant for someone who almost caught a blade between the eyes natsuo you will always be famous

Your Alderan senses are dulling in this kingdom. Your ghost never sounded so nervous.

I’m sorry, Bakugou’s heartbroken voice parrots. Don’t cry. He pleads with his hands on your cheeks. You can’t change what you’ve done. Bakugou Katsuki can haunt you til death, but you don’t get to hide from him.

this story's ghost/wraith motif may be secondary to the ocean theme and the hot vs. cold Aldera/Takoba dichotomy but it is no less dear to me

You smooth your hands up your hips and rest both palms at your waist where Bakugou held you, bleeding, poisoned, his forehead slipping off your shoulders with sweat and the lurches of the horse. A ten minute ride from the edge of the forest to the city gates, it was only the sky watching such desperation.

such an intimate moment and they were still in the enemies phase. bkg and eyes really did write the textbook on hate that loves you and love that drives you to the pits of despair

You would have attended and served quietly, you would have dreamed of home if the flame in that last pretty candle wasn’t flickering in a clear and lonely shade of blue.

you cannot imagine the speed with which my heart dropped to my stomach. chills.

Your prince will fight to the death, you cannot let him. Your prince will die for his friends, you can’t bear to lose a single one. Send me instead, you beg. Me, wait for me.

i really dont even need to say anything its right there man

“Highness!” You shout into the blue before realizing the silence of the ballroom doesn’t come from death. One thousand pearls startle immediately at the beast and her raised sword. Gowns of lace, suits of glass, feathers, freckles, masks and tiny shoes, bells, fans, crystal flutes of pink champagne, and not a single person speaking over a hush. Two hundred eyes watch the Alderan dog prepare to fire again into a party.

No one speaks. There is no laughter, there is a single violin playing from a fifteen piece band– did you scare the trumpets too?– weeping a waltz for the dancers who crane away from their partners to watch what you might do.

this is such uniquely freaky imagery i can't describe it. like me and eyes were on the same page the whole time what kind of party makes zero noise. we have GOT to get out of this kingdom man

The prince of Aldera climbs trees in the summer to reach the best apples. He likes to bathe at night. He is slightly shorter than his mother in her favorite boots and it bothers him, but never enough to say anything. His fingertips sparked when he kissed you.

MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN

“Won’t,” he rumbles, “won’t let you look crazy alone.” Prince Bakugou Katsuki steadies his palm just behind your waist and draws you onto the dancefloor, hand in hand. He is more than beautiful. Polished boots, white suit and golden embroidery– each button in his vest is flanked by a small Alderan sun. Dragons prowl along the hem. His red cape you thought lost, rocks you with homesick.

MY MAN PT 2 he's just so gorgeous it makes me ill

You, his war criminal.

They also invented matching each other's freak.

“The candles are blue at the queen’s request,” he rumbles, sacrificing posture to watch you properly, to correct you. “That must…I, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have let them.”

crazy place. intolerable place. rei my darling i love you dearly but my god.

“Mind your ears, dragonne.”

with every new epithet and moniker he adds one diamond to the wedding ring. the royal coffers are almost empty Aldera is going to go into a recession

Kirishima towers over your prince and barks with laughter trying to get the man to spin under his arm.

Your red pleats swell in the air and settle with your hips on his broad shoulder. The hidden sheath under your bodice taps his ear. “Are you armed?!” He hollers and spins once to make you squeal and grip tight to his hair.

I know this is bkg's story i know i knowww but the soft spot i have for kirishima can't be ignored he is so big and so full of love and one day im going to marry him

Peruro is a game and so when Sero Hanta and his cheeks tattooed with lipstick kisses, plucks you from your partner, Mina can hardly complain.

i imagined a cartoon style lip stick mark right in the middle of his forehead and i laughed for like 5 minutes

“Red suits you, dragonne!” Bakugou roars and you land square in his arms to the coo of a shepherd's pipe. You blink and his, him, he– he stares.

mhm mhm he's planning wedding colors

“Y/n, ’m sorry.” You fight yourself not to fight the closeness. It’s rotten work. Your gown matches his suit perfectly and pressed together you spin in the chaos and climax of a beautiful song.

its right there pt 2

A tall man shifts between rushing servants on the catwalks.

heart in my stomach pt 2

The impact of the spear shattered a chunk of floor beside your prince’s heart where it landed. Missed, you grin feebly. He’s okay. He is perfect and wide-eyed and beautiful, and the blade of your cherrywood halberd shines with blood from its home through your chest.

GROUP SUICIDE IN 20 MINUTES

head in hands pomme...pomme you've done it again...once this series is done im petitioning for it to be put in the library of congress

𝟏𝟕 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥 (𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 & 𝐭𝐰𝐨.)

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"He does not grab you by the collar or threaten you with his teeth and when you grasp his hand to steady yourself from an awkward step, he is the boy who makes magic for you in the dark."

slight cw panic sequence. (I) reader agonizes after yesterday's kiss and of course the ball is today. blue mages haunt you, red wing captains stalk you, the wrong prince finds your hiding place (II) bkg will not let you embarrass yourself alone. ballgowns, blue fire, champagne, pearls, a song from home, relief and peruro. dance my love, or die. 7.7k

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Captain Hawks has one job and you’ve made it so much more difficult than necessary. He’s had one job for fifteen years. Red feathers brick out southern wind from the hiding place he’s made above your window and he glares through gusts and goggles to watch you finally return to Prince Touya’s room. You crumple in a pile at the foot of the bed when the door clicks closed. You’re rotting. Sulking. The Alderan dragon everyone’s so worried about, you who his king assigned him to watch– you, the girl with wet eyes and hair full of hay.

You kissed your prince last night. He knows the feeling.

Hawks takes a sip of coffee and grips the barrel of his mug to keep ocean wind from throwing it off the roof. The king is right to worry about you. You have spent one week wandering palace grounds, greenhouses, pantries, walkways and stables and never once guarding your prince. Weird bird, are you the chicken or the egg? Did you stop guarding Katsuki because you’re the spy Enji thinks or because not even the red wing captain could follow you undetected? Because you know better than to keep close to your charge when something is stalking? Hawks winces in a particularly strong breeze. It’s the latter.

Two eyes burn suddenly from your gloom to the parapet fifty meters outside your window where the captain spills his coffee in a rush to stay out of sight. What he wouldn’t give to be warming a bed back in town but instead Hawks rolls his eyes, flat on his wings behind a gable wall. You rise and jerk your curtains closed, glare like black fire.

Princess Fuyumi runs clear through a ten foot portrait propped up in the hallway to be dusted. She’s cold, she’s sick of sending maids to find you and the ball is today. Master Aizawa is securing perimeters somewhere too far away to be helpful, Uraraka’s finalizing guest lists, and Bakugou is getting stitches because he’s good for nothing else. The princess shakes paint flecks from her hair. She rips canvas from her belt and throws the standing frame to the ground.

Kirishima has never dressed for a ball like this before because parties in Aldera usually require armor. What do you do at a Ball if not wrestle? Do Takobans dance Peruro? Sero and Kaminari assure him he doesn’t look silly in white. Todoroki sits outside beside the sea. Deku holds his hand tight to keep him from jumping in.

In the king’s rear guard, Shinsou nurses a broken finger. Enji derives gross entertainment from screaming at soldiers all dressed in blue and it smells like the king came home for this party. The queen cannot be found. Few people think to look for you. No one minds blue fire.

An already tedious afternoon dissolved when a boy crossed your path on turret stairs, your hiding place from prying eyes. You didn’t have the heart to bark when he stumbled through Excuse mes and My Ladys. The quiet wasn’t helping. You could trust Bakugou with his champion for a day but your prince’s hands still danced on your skin the longer you let thoughts linger.

The little footman continued, melting, as you raised your head from between your knees. He carried a box under his arm and waited for your permission to move in the tight stairwell, “From Princess Fuyumi.”

Inside the box under the arm of the boy on the spire stairs was a dress.

You spent last night between pickle barrels in the distillery and hid in the morning where you knew your prince wouldn’t think to find you, curled in the deepest sconce of the north wing watching staff fly past. Today is the ball. It’s why the princess ordered you a dress and it’s why you’re pulling gold lace through your fingers by candlelight. Aizawa’s training pit echos pretty like the sea when it’s empty and the uniform room has a mirror. It’s a dark little annex off the main ring without those Takoban windows Captain Hawks loves so much.

All week, you growl through the effort of fastening garters to a stocking. Another. All week he has followed you and all week you kept his attention off your prince. If Bakugou had just stayed away, if he’d just hated you properly. You lean back to inspect neatly laced boots– Alderan dancing knots– boots so delicate they couldn’t be made for actual dancing. What will he wear tonight? You force a hand through wild braids.

Soldiers can fight armed or barefisted, fire cannons and crossbows, deliver first aid, hunt, guard, salute. You would be the head of your kingdom’s army and so you must know one thousand more important things, like how to string a corset and when to use forks in a line on pretty tables. Silk the color of blood gathers all the heat of your chest and keeps it close. Does the heir of Aldera waltz Takoban? You take the buttons at the ends of your sleeves in your teeth to fasten them closed. What will he look like in their blue costumes dancing with their pretty ladies? Can you remember how to count rhythm in threes? Can you even look at him?

More important than a soldier, court mages, even more important than a champion, you are trained as Head of Royal Guards. You are poison tester, navigator, weaponmaster and seaman, you judge the safety of the room by the shoes of its hosts and you wear fine clothes at fine parties to accompany your masters like a trophy. A prized hunting dog. You will be beautiful for one night and you can no longer avoid your job; assassins love to hide at parties.

“Steady,” you whisper to the gods.

It’s been a few years but you know how to wear these clothes and you know how best to move, and you wince when the sheath of a dagger chills the skin under your ribcage where it hides. You sparkle unsettlingly in the gown and grunt through the effort of untucking stubborn skirts from hilts and scabbards. Wielding a candle to examine yourself more closely in the mirror, you judge the shapes impractical clothes make when they’re meant to fit only you. Pleats of red fall over themselves from your waist to your ankles and in your reflection a bit of fire stirs, because in a cold kingdom this gift was made of love.

You are blood red tonight from neck to heel. Gold tassels align themselves like military badges across your shoulders and the sleeves of the gown bleed to lace at your wrist where two green buttons wink. You can’t help staring. Jeanist’s dragontooth gleams on your breast.

This is an overstuffed week. Hedonistic, anxious like a blood clot heart attack. You are stalked, you are tested and attacked, you’ve pretended not to feel, you did half your best, you snacked instead of training and sat in pleasant company you love, why wouldn’t a ball punctuate this disaster? Something about preparing for war in the dark makes this bearable. Something about fastening a knife to your thigh keeps you from thinking about Bakugou Katsuki and the formalities waiting for you upstairs. Someone is watching you.

A man clears his throat outside the doorway, careful not to stand where you might see him but you are too focused to be caught by surprise. “What do you want?”

“Apologies, Captain.”

At that, air falls loose from your nostrils. Your lips don’t dare part to make a sound. Your self-important posture doesn’t have time to settle before red pleats freeze and the candle cracks like a knuckle in your palm because the horror of this hadn’t occurred to you. That voice will never leave.

“Y/n?” the flame mage murmurs again.

Why would Aldera want you back? Playing princess instead of posting sentinel. Knowing you’re spied upon and letting Bakugou find you, day after day, letting him help you house spiders, letting him spar, letting him smile, letting him sit beside you– you knew what was watching you– something worse than flying captains. It’s why this horrible place remains horrible and the cold like frost can never be shaken off the back of your neck. It’s why the queen hides in stables and why your blood runs black in the instant you understand yourself through your reflection.

Your two shoulders fly through the doorway first so that when the blue mage attacks your legs will be spared enough to carry you upstairs. You can outrun him, you can outrun anyone. You should have paid more attention to ball preparations this month instead of languishing in your prince’s backwards attention. You should have killed yourself to kill him before his body hit the water. Why wouldn’t an assassin slip through the cracks of your distraction? And why wouldn’t it be him? Unkillable.

The candles inside the changing room are doused and shattered so that you are the only possible flammable thing in this dusty arena and you pull the knife from your hip as you soar over the threshold.

It would have flown hard when you released it– might have even killed a ghost– if you hadn’t seized up as the figure came into view. White hair, tall with sunken eyes, only slightly shorter than his father. You right yourself to land on your new dancing boots, and their heels wail two lines through the sand at the edge of the arena.

Prince Natsuo doesn’t have the energy to be surprised by you. He is not fazed by your drawn weapon and doesn’t flinch in the dark, but he remembers your name, “Captain Y/n?”

Like a cat your eyes go wide and your knife clatters to the floor. Half-fresh braids fall over your shoulders in a deep and rigid bow. Your fists bunch the soft material at your hips and you consider dropping to your knees in the silence and dust of the sparring pit so far away from any party he should be attending. Your heart beats to a new fear, “Highness,” you stammer to the ground, “I–”

“Do you dance, Captain?”

You do, and you quirk an eyebrow at the floor. It’s becoming increasingly clear, for how threatening this country is, that its eldest princess actually took all the reason at birth. Swallowed it from the room with her first cry and left kings and countrymen to stumble on their words, for even when you are not threatening him at knifepoint there’s a dread just behind the prince’s every word. Your Alderan senses are dulling in this kingdom. Your ghost never sounded so nervous. “I’m sorry, sir,” you lift only your head from the stiff bow, “I don’t understand.”  

Prince Natsuo’s suit is blue trimmed silver. He is white trousers and shining bells, military honors, rope tassels, broad like his father, beautiful like his mother and dressed like a blue glass bottle. He’s never spoken to you and seems to have trouble even looking at you now, like a rabbit the dog runs past in a hunt.

You soften, “May I escort you to the party, sir? You’ve made a wrong turn,” rising fully as the prince gathers his thoughts and keeps well away from you– no. Less away from you and more just to himself. Like pouring a cup just full enough to tease the tension at the rim, Prince Natsuo is bursting with nothing to say.

All week you hid from spies and all week Alderans made it their job to find you, to be near you. Today you hide from just one man and suddenly every person in the cold kingdom knows exactly where you are. Winged captains weather the winds to watch you and squire boys can retrieve you from tall towers. Maids predict which hidden paths you’ll take from the kitchens to ask if you’ll need a bath– intercepting you without issue or sweat. Are you that predictable? Unsubtle? Obvious and lacking, or does horrible Takoba deserve a little more credit? Her skittish prince can track you down to the darkest corner of his castle like it's only natural to hide from festivities instead of attending them.

“Please excuse my being started.”

“It’s your job,” he musters just as you scoop up your blade and tip it back into its sheath amongst skirt folds. “Thank you– for your job.” He’s fidgeting, not murderous, and his voice no longer sounds like a monster. The prince scratches gently at a bauble on his chest as you peer through the dark, “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry, Bakugou’s heartbroken voice parrots. Don’t cry. He pleads with his hands on your cheeks. You can’t change what you’ve done. Bakugou Katsuki can haunt you til death, but you don’t get to hide from him.

“Your Royal Highness, it would be my pleasure to escort you upstairs.” You square yourself to the blue bottle prince, “Humble Y/n, apprentice to the Captain of Her Alderan Majesty’s Royal Guard. My apologies. You had to come all this way just for a proper introduction.” And extend your hand to him, a polite smile on your lips. To death then. You’ve survived worse than a party.

Natsuo does not take your hand. He pops something off of his chest, drops the something in your hand and straightens his suit jacket, content with or oblivious to the fact that his sister inherited all his good social reason. You eye him first and then study the metal on your palm that glints in dim moonlight– candlelight– and tense as the room’s circle of sconces suddenly blink to life one by one.

Of the fifty candles in the training room ring, the first five from the entrance miraculously catch bright warm fire. Six, then the seventh, one by one around the edge of the room. Natsuo rushes to pat out your panic, “Magic candles.”

“Magic candles,” you repeat, which makes much more sense than a drowned magician. You exist at the edge of complete catastrophe, always prepared to fight that man who was too bored to kill you, but magic candles make sense. When have you ever seen a servant in this cold place spend their time lighting candles?

“And a medal,” Natsuo continues. You follow his line of sight to the object in your hand. It’s silver. It fits right in the cleft of your palm. The inscription around the edge is in a language you don’t know but what is clearly the moon sits in the center. A comet streaks across it and together they make the emblem of the House of Todoroki. “The medal of honor.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s yours.”

“It certainly is not,” you say, the air sort of floating from you instead of being pushed out by your voice. Eleven, twelve candles, a quarter of the room is lit. The badge warms in your fingers but you no longer look at it and extend your hand back to the prince in a gown that already makes you too ridiculous to breathe. He shakes his head and you push your open palm a little farther like a plea.

“I’ve seen you. I heard about…my father’s arrival in your training exercise and I, I didn’t, I don’t think my sister’s champions would have been fast enough to stop him if you hadn’t. You kept my mother from the mad magician and I doubt anyone has thanked you and I, I just– my father wouldn’t allow honors on your gown and mine is more than I deserve.” He straightens his jacket again and continues to struggle with eye contact. Twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-seven candles come alive in the cold arena and the ring of light reaches the pair of you at the far end. “It’s much less than you’re owed.”

Prince Natsuo bows to you deeply and turns so quickly that arena-sand clouds his feet. He does not accept your escort and he doesn’t turn around. He only strides across the room, thirty-three candles, and out the dark but open doors. It’s easy to imagine him judging his own performance just where you can’t see him; he exudes the nervous energy of someone who cringes when they turn your back to you. You’re smiling before you realize. Fourty.

It’s slightly warmer than you’ve felt all month, in clinging red skirts and candlelight. Aldera is always bustling so Takoba is loney in comparison, but maybe there is comfort where you have never looked before. Comfort in red gowns. Comfort in sweaters beside the sea, comfort in silver soldiers and a training room where you are not their commander. That thought is a shock and you clutch the comet in your hand at the edge of the room. Forty-five.

Aizawa’s training pit warms by candlelight under its glass ceiling. Oppressively tall and so much like drowning, the stars blink down at you from their thrones like dappled moonlight on waves. You fasten the comet pin to your bodice with eyes tilted to the sky. Your first night here the sky was the only one who knew you. You smooth your hands up your hips and rest both palms at your waist where Bakugou held you, bleeding, poisoned, his forehead slipping off your shoulders with sweat and the lurches of the horse. A ten minute ride from the edge of the forest to the city gates, it was only the sky watching such desperation. There was comfort in that, under the threat of death. Comfort in your loss of rank here, in anonymity.

Rescued from a crowd, rescued from punishment, rescued from the sea, from cliffs, from sickness, from solitude. Saved by magic, saved by strength, by yourself and by your prince, over and over again in this wet kingdom.

There is comfort in teaching strangers to fear you and you blink through the memory of your cherrywood halberd soaring through a dinner party. The loss of its weight at your back makes you ache and your ears start to itch as the rest of the night replays itself. Forty-seven. Bakugou pressed close between your legs at the lip of a table. His thumbs smoothing your cheeks over like parchment and his cheeks flashing red at a realization– at everything you now realize he was trying to say, to show you. You’re grateful for the privacy of the stars again so that no one can ask why you smile in an empty room.

Forty-eight. Dying for a person is so much worse than dying for a cause. You thought it might be the end when the blue flammed mage forced his hand around your mouth or when a garden screamed in ashes under his boot. When he– he took you by the shoulder and branded the shape of his palm to your flesh, when your arm was relieved of its socket– everything, all of it came so much easier than the moment your prince stepped forward to face him. Easier than Bakugou collapsing in a burning clearing, easier than counting the decline of his heartbeat through the clothes on your back, easier, so much easier than retching up seawater together on the sand.

Prince Bakugou is agonizing. Forty-nine, he’s upstairs, gilded, waiting for you.

You shake your head like unnecessary thoughts might come loose with the movement. For one night your worry can be in not staring after your charge– not tasting his lips when you wet yours at the edge of the party– and not in hallucinations of murderous mages. A comet and a dragontooth remind you of the weight of a heart. The last candle around the glowing arena beats to life beside the first and it is time for a ball.

You would have smoothed your skirts over the daggers hidden among them. You would have checked your hair again in the mirror and tested the fit of your boots with a few secret skips. You’d have imagined the warmth of Bakugou’s hands and his magic, to ease the ache of watching pretty blue ladies waiting to dance with the barbarous and beautiful prince. You would have attended and served quietly, you would have dreamed of home if the flame in that last pretty candle wasn’t flickering in a clear and lonely shade of blue.

Fifty.

“Find cover!” you hiss at the squire who collapses to the floor rather than get knocked down the stairs in your charge, “Douse the rugs!”

You call over your shoulder and hurdle the staircase railing rather than waste time sprinting to the bottom. If all of your training boiled down to a single skill, if there was only one chance, one thing you could be trusted to do in the blink of an eye it was arming yourself.

A shortsword shines in your fist as you sprint, its wall hooks worse for your wear after being ripped from the armory on your warpath. The scabbard is fastened sloppily to your left hip. Cruel images of half-scorched bodies, croaking victims that need both your hands to carry them to safety, your prince– they necessitate the holster which whips your thigh as you tear through a quiet castle. Quiet, so quiet, too quiet for a ball, idiot, you should have known. Every single light in the castle blinks to life in the very last lilacs of sunset, and every single one of them quivers with blue fire.

Seed-sized wall carvings flow through their forms, animated by your speed. Stone does not creak when you step over it, hardly any servants linger in empty hallways and the thought that one squire boy will be the firefighting force for the whole castle is horror compounded by horror. “Captain Hawks!” You bellow with the last bit of air between strides.

He’s watching you, he didn’t abandon his assignment for a party. You burst from servants’ paths onto the exact blue rugs you knew the stairs would lead to; your Alderan senses might be dulling but this castle is no longer a maze. Takoban cluelessness can take over all it wants. All it needs to do is get you to the ballroom in this stupid fucking dress. One by one, sconces yawn in innocent blues and burn so hot and so quickly that wax weeps to the floor.

A window in the line takes your pommel to its pane as you retch the sword’s hilt through the glass and shout, “Hawks!” louder, between flying shards, into the night, “Fire!”

Candles instead of your dress, a candle instead of your flesh. He could be anywhere, nearby, outside, straddling corpses, you don’t know the rules his magic follows and every step you take without bursting into flames is a second you can’t waste. Your prince will fight to the death, you cannot let him. Your prince will die for his friends, you can’t bear to lose a single one. Send me instead, you beg. Me, wait for me.

You soar down two flights of twisted stairs and lurch at a tight corner before colliding with a laundryman and his blue candlestick. “Run,” you seeth without stopping, vaulting over both the man and portrait strewn across the floor beside him, ripped at the center and trailing flecks of paint. The last turn is towards the right leg of the grand staircase, entryway and ballroom dead in your sights. Red wings don’t appear and so you hook your hips, and your gown with it, over the lip of the banister.

Hardly a breath escapes the closed ballroom doors. Why are there always too few guards here? What ball makes no noise? What kind of monster could kill a room of people without making a sound? There are clicks, you panic as the banister ends and dismount the slide into a sprint. There is the bone chilling image of the blue mage clicking over corpses with the heels of his tall black boots– the body of your prince lying charred and bloodless before he could even let loose a spark.

Your dancing boots make the loudest sound in the entire palace as you run your legs harder, to carry you farther, until finally your hands are flat on the ballroom doors and your biceps scream under orders. The elven silver budges only slightly. There should be footmen outside to let guests in and the anxiety of their absence gives you an unnatural strength, enough to force one gilded door open a crack and slip into the destruction with your weapon raised.

Find him, find him, find Bakugou first, soft sunny hair and pomegranate eyes, the boy who barks laughter, he who wields the magic of old gods, your heart, find your prince, get him home.

Silver foot bolts shriek over marble as you force your way inside. You are a cacophony always. You are blood splattered across the edge of the dancefloor when you burst into the party.

“Highness!” You shout into the blue before realizing the silence of the ballroom doesn’t come from death. One thousand pearls startle immediately at the beast and her raised sword. Gowns of lace, suits of glass, feathers, freckles, masks and tiny shoes, bells, fans, crystal flutes of pink champagne, and not a single person speaking over a hush. Two hundred eyes watch the Alderan dog prepare to fire again into a party.

Balls in Aldera breathe life to the city. Any comfort you felt for Takoba dies with your entrance. Waiters roll between guests with trays of cake and wine, and the winter floral decorations must have cost a fortune for petals to be sewed and draped and weeping from the walls because this certainly was meant to be a ball. Your fingers ache for the weight of your halberd for the first time since you lost it in the sea.

There is no mage when your heckles fall. No mage when your shoulders droop and your sword with it, not when you search the ballroom for your Alderan sun, not a single shock of white hair taunting from the windows. Every candle in every abra, every chandelier, sconce, cup, spike, or lamp, is a melancholy flickering blue above the sea of silent guests.

Your weapon falls slack. You exhale as the swordpoint chips the floor.

The queen sits on her throne beyond leagues of distracted dancers and servers and bards, with her hands folded and her husband beside her tense, hunched, and licked by fire where you startled him out of his seat. The great ballroom window blinks with its audience of stars. Just outside and over the cliffs, the maws of the sea applaud.

You jolt, as do the guests closest to you, at the sound of metal crush but it is only Uraraka in her uniform, catching the tray of a server who panicked at the sight of you. Shinsou’s hair isn’t hard to pick out from his post beside a waitstaff door and he thins his lips instead of speaking. No one speaks. There is no laughter, there is a single violin playing from a fifteen piece band– did you scare the trumpets too?– weeping a waltz for the dancers who crane away from their partners to watch what you might do. Their every gown is white, blue, green– silver like sea foam. Their hair obeys them and folds into smooth shapes at the tops of their heads so that their noble throats can be struck sick by the air of a room above the sea. You are the only foul red thing here.

The flame of worry collapses in your chest along with your heart. Quietly, blue fire watches back without laying a finger on anyone.

Oh.

“Y/n?”

There you are.

The ring of dancers at the center of the room curl around in their timid waltz, revealing new faces from the back of the crowd. Kirishima in a fit white suit, too focused on not crushing his Takoban partner to even realize you’ve arrived and then Mina, full of worry with her hands in Fuyumi’s and both perfectly placed in the seaside painting with their layered dresses of white. She makes to break away from the current, to rescue you, but her prince beats her to it.

The prince of Aldera climbs trees in the summer to reach the best apples. He likes to bathe at night. He is slightly shorter than his mother in her favorite boots and it bothers him, but never enough to say anything. His fingertips sparked when he kissed you.

He is cloaked in red. An abandoned partner jingles angrily as he drifts through the tides and calling your name is the easiest thing in the world, “Y/n.” He glows. You have hidden from this all day, and tonight his war cape arcs sanguine circles around him. 

The Sun approaches, he glides to you like picking up a stray is part of this dance. He takes up your swordhand in his, weapon clattering to the polished floor and with a magic-heavy hand at your waist the scabbard belt falls away. Hair pushed straight back and two red earrings dangling, Bakugou rolls his eyes, “It’s a dogshit party,” and a few pieces of hair fall over a stitched gash on his cheek, “but I doubt a swordfight will fix it.”

You don’t understand and you don’t try to speak through volley after volley of embarrassment. 

“Won’t,” he rumbles, “won’t let you look crazy alone.” Prince Bakugou Katsuki steadies his palm just behind your waist and draws you onto the dancefloor, hand in hand. He is more than beautiful. Polished boots, white suit and golden embroidery– each button in his vest is flanked by a small Alderan sun. Dragons prowl along the hem. His red cape you thought lost, rocks you with homesick.

“Highness,” he steps to a rhythm in fours, heel toe, toe, toe heel forward into the fold of your dress to guide you back into the stream of dancers. “I didn’t– I–” Your feet barely make the proper shapes to keep up for your Alderan heart is a grease fire not a hearth. Bakugou holds his head high to the side with the posture of a king. His pupils occupy their lowest corners so he never need take his eyes off of you.

You, his war criminal.

“Sir,” you manage and wince when you dare a peek past his shoulders towards onlookers.

He is embers, “I have a surprise.” He does not grab you by the collar or threaten you with his teeth and when you grasp his hand to steady yourself from an awkward step, he is the boy who makes magic for you in the dark. Bakugou Katsuki’s ears are scarlet even as he stares ahead, sweat pearls between your fingers and he sweeps you close, albeit awfully tight, through the steps of a Takoban dance. His face catches light from the candles above and the shadow of his pale lashes sweeps over both cheeks. 

A corded thigh slips between yours and back again to the tune of one sad string. The rhythm doubles for four steps and calms again. You could dance the continent around for all the etiquette training you’ve endured but something about the lack of ghosts here, something about your heart beating out of time with the song, about red eyes and a clenched jaw, the hand fingering notches on the small of your back like it might a cello– you are suddenly on the catwalks again with your lips smiling into his, you are holding back tears, you are clicking teeth and stumbled steps and hands cupping cheeks, and your heart bleeds all over the dancefloor. Your voice cracks, “I’m so sorry,” and it is the loudest thing in the room.

“The candles are blue at the queen’s request,” he rumbles, sacrificing posture to watch you properly, to correct you. “That must…I, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have let them.” Bakugou raises his right shoulder in invitation for your hand to rest there but your fingers lift from his arm as he turns you both, and settle on that small new wound at his cheek. You breathe deeply as your chests slot together, no fight in sight. Your relief almost comes in tears.

Party guests do not stop staring, especially now that the foreign royal has spirited his beast to the dancefloor. At a distance, familiar faces train gazes your way. Little doctor Shuzenji and Aizawa beside her nursing a pink champagne flute, both ribboned in their bests. Uraraka offers you a tight lip at the edge of the dancefloor. Fuyumi boxsteps in line nearby, the lonely violin picks up pace, hand in hand with her youngest brother and attempts to lean in to whisper to you before Bakugou cages them both out with his shoulders.

He clears his throat, “Captain,” the second-loudest thing in the room, “will you dance with me?”

It’s not your best, admittedly, but the thought your four-step is poor enough your partner needs to clarify does lighten the mood, and you nod. Half your focus is sacrificed to keeping calm in such a full room and the other half is completely at his mercy.

“Peruro?” Bakugou raises those flaxen eyebrows, his lips led by yours. The dance peruro. Destructive and certain to give the Takoban King an aneurysm. Something like comfort slips in. Your eyes widen suddenly and your prince with you. What does he see? you wonder. You nod again.

The waltz will reach its climax soon and Bakugou leads you through a perfect Takoban rhythm until the second he dips forward to whisper, through your hair and over the silence of this cursed party, “Mind your ears, dragonne.”

You shudder immediately at the name, hand in hand, chest to his. Something in your perfect center bursts in white flame and you throw your eyes down to your skirts.

“Dance!” Bakugou’s voice cracks like a whip of thunder above the soggy party and he lifts his chin over your head. The vibration of every syllable rumbles from his ribs to yours and his growl is smoke on water, “or die.”

The next second a horn howls one crescendoed note and every hair not squeezed into your silk dress, prickles. You jerk your gaze back up to Bakugou, unsure what expression you might be making, “How?”

But your prince is still grinning wide so you must be too. “Bribed em,” he leans close and as one confused violin trails off, another trumpet joins the fray. Dancers look around distractedly and onlookers whisper, louder, slightly louder, to be heard over the addition of percussion to the building swell of tuning instruments. A pair of cymbals crash like earthquake, a waitress topples over.

Shinsou shakes his head in the corner of the room and rubs his face, fondly entertained. The king is out of his seat again. Suddenly a fifteen piece band is making the sound of home. The band vibrates under an arc of camellias and the small woman seated at the front pulls a flute from her suit jacket. The herding call of her shepherd’s pipe gathers the cacophony and just as quickly as the group disrupted the peace, they hush behind seventeen beautiful whispers of the pipe, clear and bright as stars. It is the quiet start of Mitsuki’s favorite drinking song. Fear of crowds melts from you like bedtime stories.

faire of the fields

the girl who plays for me

dance and i will watch you

dance and i will join,

you who

teaches beasts to love

send us all to war

She draws the final note long and low, violins become fiddles, trumpets repeat the tune, a drummer growls, two pipes build, and the flute cheers back atop a flirty melody of three before the brilliant song erupts. Bakugou clasps your hand tight and throws you from his grip so that you might twirl and glow under his arm but the rules of peruro dictate a little more focus than that.

The closest dancers to you shriek when Mina barrels through them and pulls you out of his hold. She squeals with two gloved hands on your waist, “Miss firelight!” Her dress envelopes yours and the spinning doesn’t stop until you’ve tripped a man at the edge of the dancefloor and very nearly toppled over yourselves.

Over the curve of her shoulder you snort, shocked by your own glee, as Takobans try to adjust their waltz to the Alderan rhythm and inevitably four-step themselves into a fervor. Kirishima towers over your prince and barks with laughter trying to get the man to spin under his arm. Shinsou is no longer brooding at his post. He is hand in hand with Kanminari, flecked all over with petitfour cream, who has led him into the fray.

“Lady Mina!” you bellow and take up her hand in yours. You fasten your waists together and both of you fly into the tide. When was the last time you put the blue mage’s voice away? How long has it been since you last danced Peruro? Singing while stepping, laughing, diving for bystanders and squealing when drunk guests toppled over themselves to be the one to lift you into the air. You steal your partners in peruro, and fight to keep them. It keeps the room from feeling small, from crushing you. When you are thrown whoever catches you gets the next dance and the songs never end.

Euphoria threatens to spill over the fire Katsuki started in your heart. Flame mages are far from your mind under blue candlelight.

The queen does not move, but she might be smiling. Fuyumi yelps when her champion scoops her up from behind and places her on her shoulder. Even the youngest Todoroki and his freckled champion tut about together to the rhythm. You hope no one tries to steal the blue prince; he might not survive it; and make eye contact with Natsuo while you completely butcher Mina’s three step dips. He stands at the base of his parents’ thrones, unmoving, but pink with excitement.

Takobans, even servants, lingering at the edge of the crowd cannot outswim the rip current. They belong to a quietly stubborn nation who will attempt their delicate hop skips even to the bleat of an Alderan horn. Only cowards leave a dancefloor and it is the first respectable tradition you’ve seen here.

In a flash of red across the room, your prince takes up two stiff women in each arm and you almost spit in laughter as they go purple under the instruction of the barbarian prince. The polished floor vibrates. It’s too loud to think, a mix of happiness and screams of indignation as pretty lords and ladies are pulled into the fray by those countrymen only slightly drunker than they.

Peruro is a game and so when Sero Hanta and his cheeks tattooed with lipstick kisses, plucks you from your partner, Mina can hardly complain. The flutist roars her approval and her fiddlers breathe life into the happy song behind her. Trumpets pluck, bleat, and howl complex harmonies that prove you’re Alderan from the sheer intoxication of the sound.

Sero’s long arms wrap behind you and you’re off your feet before you can speak. “Return of the Red Captain!” His grip on your sides is more ticklish than hell and you giggle and squirm as you fall into a dip. His palms hit something hard, the dagger concealed in your gown, “Are you armed?” He chuckles and tugs you up and close, back to chest.

“Me? Never.” You peek over your shoulder, both laughing, and he peels you from him so tight you spin away three times fully and far enough away from him that Kirishima poaches you without difficulty.

His Alderan fire rolls off the warm parts of him in waves of pine smoke and happiness. How many yards of fabric it must have taken for Takoba to stitch his suit– the cost– you can’t imagine. He hoists you onto his shoulder before you can think a moment longer.

Your red pleats swell in the air and settle with your hips on his broad shoulder. The hidden sheath under your bodice taps his ear. “Are you armed?!” He hollers and spins once to make you squeal and grip tight to his hair. Princess Fuyumi covers her mouth to hide laughter and you beam at each other from your shoulder seats, over the sea of Takoban heads. The champion shrugs you into his arms and back onto your feet. The new heels of your dancing boots click like bells every step you take.

Eijirou is a wonderful dancer, and difficult to burgle. He throws his hands above his head and the pair of you clap, kick one leg out and turn, eyes always locked and teeth shining. With your next kick, your hip checks a short man attempting to dance Takoban and knocks him into another pair. Eijirou’s next clap, behind his back, startles a woman so badly she covers her ears and the whole room reeks of home. Drown in it Takoba, dance or die.

Your friends are safe. There’s nothing to fear from shitty parties and you spare a thought for the servants you must have traumatized on your rampage down here. Wers and mers, the window you broke– Kirishima’s hands are at your waist because you are distracted, you are searching, and before you can brace yourself he has thrown you clear into the air.

No matter how much you hate it here, the ballroom is beautiful and Natsuo might be a wonderful king. His decorations shine in the queen’s candlelight. Early winter flowers are strung by the thousands to garnish balustrades and window frames, they erupt from iridescent vases and hang in an arch over the howling band. Bundles of pearls dot every corner and swallow the moonlight. Silver shells and whistles, inlaid cuffs, white wigs, Takoba is most beautiful by moonlight. There’s no sun here. Did you ever think you’d hate him? That you’d miss him? Where is he? Your prince likes plums best because they’re sour and he blows on dandelions when no one’s watching and he works construction with his men when the city needs repair and he hates how dry paper feels on his fingers. The daggers at your hip cool in your descent.

“Red suits you, dragonne!” Bakugou roars and you land square in his arms to the coo of a shepherd's pipe. You blink and his, him, he– he stares. He is terrible at piano and walks with his head down after rain to keep from stepping on worms. He mends his own clothes because his father taught him how to sew. “You,” he attempts to speak, “Captain, you,” but the high of the dance dissolves from him even as the music swells because you stare and bring your fingers to the wound on his cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” you breathe. He does not find his words in the space between your faces. Your prince goes pink. Enough of the room is dancing now that you need to read lips to truly hear anything but he understands your every thought without effort as he lets you down. There’s a hand on your back to keep you close. I’m afraid. It hurts to be so close to you. He presses his forehead to yours.

“Y/n, ’m sorry.” You fight yourself not to fight the closeness. It’s rotten work. Your gown matches his suit perfectly and pressed together you spin in the chaos and climax of a beautiful song.

The prince rolls figure-eights against your forehead with his own. Two much less focused dancers jostle your duet and Bakugou sweeps a foot forward to trip the leader before lifting you over the pile of men and returning to the dance. You glow red in his arms above him, halo of the moon.

A tall man shifts between rushing servants on the catwalks. Your prince beams below you, king of the sun. It's a pretty party. It is perfectly loud. A polearm is readied on a scarred arm in the dark and no one minds blue fire.

The flutist picks up speed, spurred on by the tambourine, and each note from each instrument cuts itself off to make time for the next. Every place you touch one another aches. If it would just stay like this forever, dancing, knowing without speaking, you could kill any enemy. The sky would learn to kneel, if only you could keep the adoration of winespilt eyes.

A series of gasps, a yelp, and Kirishima’s sweet laughter punctuate the thought. Bakugou was meant to wear fine clothes like these. Sparks like fairy lights twinkle where sweat beads on his jaw and you would have given nine lives to kiss him one more time. He will be a good king too. There is a scream.

Your hand on his shoulder bunches the fabric of his cape, and you lurch forward to lock your other hand around his back. Your foot is dead behind his before he can blink and with a surge of momentum from the dance, the last swell of fiddle, a prayer for old gods, luck from the sea and something like love, you knock the prince over your shoulder and onto the ground into the thickest thrall of dancers.

He laughs the whole way down and holds you where he can to keep from knocking your heads together. The sound is molten gold. You would sin to hear it always.

He is still laughing, howling, bursting with joy when he hits the ground and you with him in your perfect dance peruro. He doesn’t notice the whine of dropped instruments or revulsion of the crowd because he cannot look away from you. On his back, on the floor, beneath you, Prince Bakugou lifts his arm to cup your face and freezes in the new and sudden silence.

The impact of the spear shattered a chunk of floor beside your prince’s heart where it landed. Missed, you grin feebly. He’s okay. He is perfect and wide-eyed and beautiful, and the blade of your cherrywood halberd shines with blood from its home through your chest.

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tagged angels ! @ltadoriyuujl / @cherripunch26 / @chandiewashere / @sakurarr1122 / @ihavefixations-and-onehiccup / @juni-does-art / @romiinlove / @todorokiskitten / @zukowantshishonourback / @phoenix-draws77 / @starryparkrr / @misscaller06 / @420mitskilover / @kalulakunundrum / @the-omnipotent-phlowr / @butterscotch-ripple-icecream / @cutiepatoodie / @catsoupki / @acid-rain27 / @sky-angel101 / @flyhighinthesky

[archive-double-knots]

@dragcns-den said:

❝ you don’t know what this means to me. ❞ Miya snaps as they yank their skateboard from the bushes where it had been unceremoniously thrown by some of the other campers. Not that Miya can entirely blame the others; the conversation beforehand— or passing of insults —hadn’t been the friendliest one. But how can Miya be expected to play nice with all these losers? These overconfident, overbearing, obnoxious SLIMES who make an already terrible place a literal Hell…

Especially TJ.

Aiming a glare at the fellow camper, ears on Miya’s cat hoodie seem to fold back, as if they were a frustrated kitten feline baring claws and teeth at the one person who came to check on them. ❝ What skateboarding means to me. It’s my entire life. My FUTURE. My chance to show I’m not just some- some stupid kid playing pretend like everyone else here. ❞ Irritably brushing dirt off their board, voice grows quieter, far more serious than anyone their age should sound, ❝ I can’t afford to waste any time… ❞

❝ I have to keep getting better. ❞

Has to prove that they’re worth all the fuss. — (( *shoves a lad with way too much pressure put on them @ TJ* ))

TJ can almost feel their own body get shoved back with the intense pressure of that glare. But at the same time, they can't help but scrunch their own nose at how...

Well, how much of a woodscout Miya sounded like. It almost made their skin crawl.

"Have you ever actually heard yourself before?" TJ asks, moving to stick a piece of candy in front of the other's face, practically forcing it into the other's mouth. A sour lemon drop. "Like, I mean, you are a kid. NOT stupid. But..."

"It's okay to be a kid sometimes." TJ says, with a shrug. Choosing to ignore every insult that was thrown at them, anything their dad had said had been worse anyway.

"I know it doesn't feel like it, especially when the adults talk but..." Tj trails off, offering a half hearted shrug, "It is. It's not like everything you've done up to this point is gonna just go away cause you take ten minutes to have fun."

"David says you can only work so much before you burn your wick down. And a candle without a wick can't light up a room." TJ quotes, although they're pretty sure that they messed it up a little. "So, like, you gotta let your wax cool before you keep burning it, right? I'm...I think I'm losing the metaphor here. but uh-"

"Taking a break is okay! Good, even. Makes you better later."

[miss-galaxy-turtle]

Random Encanto Headcanons

I finally got to see it and I’m hardcore hyperfixating

SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT

Mirabel may not have a "gift" but her unofficial one is mending the family. She's the one they feel most comfortable talking about insecurities (Luisa, Isabella, etc) and I think her sewing is a metaphor for mending. She's even the one who suggests rebuilding Casita themselves. SHE’S EVEN THE ONE THAT OPENS THE DOOR AND RETURNS THE MAGIC??? LIKE???

Isabela is gay. Mariano knows this and it's another reason he feels guilty and wants to back out of the engagement

Side note Mariano is such a himbo and I love him

When Dolores said she associates Bruno “with the sound of falling sand," it made me think that she has a sound association for each of the family members. Mirabel is the sound of her sewing machine, Abuela is the flickering of the candle, Luisa is straining muscles, etc

Pepa and Dolores are both autistic. Their powers give me overstimulation vibes. Also I'm autistic and I say so

Antonio doesn't actually name his animals because they tell him their names themselves

The other family members will have sleepovers with Mirabel so she isn't always stuck to the nursery

Luisa loves animals and she and Antonio bond over this. I don't even have a justification, I just get that vibe

[cosmos-dot-semicolon]

Ooh I'm SO glad to hear from you on this, since I didn't go in blind on it; the only reason I bought Dicey Dungeons was because I spoiled myself on the plot and realised the dialogue was really well written. So it's really cool to hear somebody else who loved the game come from the opposite perspective discussing that!

Yeah, one of the best things about this game is its pacing. I've had ideas about it for a while, but you've just made me realise how well the gameplay and writing work together in this aspect:

Everybody's dialogue is upbeat and excited in their introductions, with Lady Luck sounding interested in and being encouraging towards their desires. Even her sinister slip-ups sound more like game-show banter - just like with the wheel-spinning you've mentioned.

You get to the gimmick episodes (2 and 3), and you see everybody keeping up their spirits, but it's clear they're slightly more worried. Lady Luck pokes more at their insecurities, but backs off and just lets them take it. And you make it through those just fine, probably. It takes a little longer than the beginning episodes, but you can make it, even if the number of levels left seems daunting. The wheel still doesn't land on any winning spot…

Then, without any warning, you get hit with the elimination rounds. There is no dialogue for them and no preparation. Story-wise, it's a difficulty hike for no justifiable reason. Gameplay-wise… it's built well enough. But, well. It's hard. Also Witch 4.

Then in Parallel Universe, Lady Luck shifts everything completely. Everybody is aware she holds all the cards and you really feel the pan boiling as she starts handing each contestant a personalised option of surrender.

It's fantastic. I'm aware that 'slow-burn' is usually used in reference to romance, but I think it really fits your description of the plot progression and also the 'oh' feeling wash over you more than the word 'twist' does. The candle was lit the moment the contestants entered the dungeons, and it stays burning at a constant pace. The realisation of both the characters and the player that the fire won't stop is just more horrifying than everything bursting into flames at once.

And yeah. God, it's been a while since I've seen a piece of media use a cutesy exterior design to hide "dark" revelations in a way that didn't feel like edgelord-signalling. I was not expecting it from a video game about dice of all things!

And yes! I'm a big fan of how Lady Luck does in fact have power over everything in the dungeons - even with her rules in Backstage - but thankfully doesn't touch its denizens' minds. And she does find it legitimately impressive that they manage to beat her at the end. It's a part of her (metaphorical) game that stops things from feeling entirely unfair towards the contestants, and it makes way for a really neat message about holding out hope and finding friendship in a chaotic world stacked against you.

also.

#i have to write the best dicey dungeons analysis so my mutual doesn't know i only just realized today that 'fixing the dice' is a pun #make sure you delete that last tag before posting

fine. apology accepted. also big fan of the way you sound like baby squid writing out those tags.

I remember you saying Dicey Dungeons has a strong narrative in one of your posts about it. I agree (and am in fact working on a essay on it) but I'm kind of curious to hear what you liked about it :O

Dicey Dungeon spoilers below:

The main thing that stood out to me was the buildup.

I went into Dicey blind (dev of Wandersong reccomended it on his twitter), so when it starts I was like "oh its a fun little game show", and "Oh ha ha, they're not winning that car, game show humour". Then, just as not-winning is starting to get kind of repetitive, all the hints towards the sinister nature of Lady Luck and the dungeons that had been slowly piling up start to really click into place, and the subtle "oh" feeling that's been building up washes over you.

It wasn't a plot twist so much as a natural plot progression, and yet the way it affected how the story is viewed was so smooth. I wouldn’t call it shocking, but that slow build-up hits better than a lot of the plot twists I've seen in other media. And the goofy tone and cartoony design don't initially incentivise you to go looking for that kind of "darker" undertone, which heightens the impact when it does hit.

And despite the realization of the immense horror of the situation the contestants are in, the game maintains the same tone it started out with. I didn't feel sucker punched, I didn't feel tricked, and it was very refreshing. The direction the narrative took made sense and led perfectly into the Lady Luck being the final boss.

Speaking of, once it's been established just how big of a power house Lady Luck is, her anger over Jester's betrayal is super intimidating, but it you squint it also reveals a chink in her armour. Lady Luck, who had hitherto been in complete control of everyone and everything in the dungeon abs maybe even luck itself, can apparently be bamboozled.

Does this mean we may actually be capable of defying her? It isn't going to be easy, but if we try, maybe we can climb out of this pit of hopelessness we seem to have fallen into.

Dicey doesn't try to do anything huge with its story, it keeps things simple and fun and moves slowly enough to let the game play shine, but keeps up the pace to keep the story evolving and engaging.

The pacing works really well for the game play, the characters are efficiently established and charming, the trapped-in-the-dungeon and Jester-betrayal are solid revelations, and things escalate in an appropriate and interesting manner.