#can you tell i have complex feelings on most things

[keferon]

This is such a complex and nuanced topic that I can’t stop thinking now about artificial intelligence, personhood, and what it means to be alive. Because golem!Prowl actually seems to exist somewhere in the intersection of those ideas.

Certainly Prowl does not have a soul. And yet, where other golems depicted in mimic au seem to operate primarily as rule-based entities given a set of predefined orders that define their function, Prowl is able to go a step further — learning and defining his own rules based on observation and experience. Arguably, Prowl is even more advanced in this regard than real-world AI agents we might interact with such as ChatGPT (which still requires humans to tell it: when to update it’s knowledge, what data to use, and what that data means) currently are. Because Prowl formulates knowledge not just from a distillation and concentration of the most prominent and commonly accepted ideas that have come before.

He shows this when he rejects all the views that society accepts — resulting in the formulation of the idea that Primus must be wrong. And in a lot of ways, Prowl’s learning that gets him to ultimately reach that conclusion seems a lot more closely related to how we learn. He learns from observing the actions of those around him, from listening to what the people closest to him say and from experiencing things for himself. And this also shows in the beginnings of his interaction with Jazz. Prowl may know things like friendship as abstract concepts, but he only can truly come to define what they mean because he is experiencing them.

In some ways then, what seems to make Prowl much more advanced in his intelligence is that the conclusions he ultimately draws — the way he updates his understanding of the world to fit the framework he’s been given — is something he does independently. And this is what sets him apart.

So is he a person? Given his lack of soul or spark perhaps not. But then again, what truly defines humanity, for lack of a better word? Because perhaps there is not a clear and distinct line to tell when mimicry and close approximation crosses over to become the real thing.

But given the way that Prowl learns and interacts with the world around him, it does not seem too far-fetched to say that he is alive. And further, that he seems a fairly unique form of life within this continuity. Therefore, is he not his own individual? In much the same way that the others this society deems beasts and monsters because of their unique abilities are also individuals.

It’s just really interesting to think about.

(But I will stop myself there, because I did not initially think this would get as long as it did and I feel like I’ve already written an entire thesis in an ask at this point!)

DAMN That’s a really really interesting essay you got here👁

If we take an artificially created algorithm based on seek a goal -> complete the goal but then give it learning capability of a real person. At what point it’s gonna just become one? And if it gains the ability to have emotions. Could they be considered “real” if it’s processing them in it’s own way completely unknown to us?

I love making stories that force me to question the entire life hahdkj

[theteablogger]

You may have already noted this, but Andy's claims on twitter about being able to understand what his sparrow is saying (and thus sparrow language in general) seem to be ramping up in unbelievability- apparently yesterday the bird was able to communicate that it didn't want its conversation with other sparrows recorded and shared. Andy makes mention of several of his followers who have apparently been having FaceTime calls with the bird. There's at least 5-6 of Andy's followers who consistently comment on the bird updates and show no credulity, expressing how much they want to be able to communicate with the bird like Andy does. It's probably not the biggest deal, but the whole thing has just been giving me an odd vibe. Feels like Andy once again making friends/followers by demonstrating abilities and knowledge no one else has.

Yes, his allegedly deep connection with sparrows has been getting weird for quite a while. He says he can understand some of their language, enough to relay things that the flock outside his house is talking about and things that Nuggie communicates to him. On top of that, Andy has written about things like Nuggie watching movies and musicals and following every emotional beat, to the point of showing the characters his malformed feet to offer encouragement when they're lacking confidence. Andy is anthropomorphizing the hell out of that little bird. Meanwhile, his followers praise him for knowing sparrows better than ornithologists do.

I've lived with a parrot before, for many years, and I bonded very closely with him. I agree that birds are much smarter and more emotionally complex than most people realize. But they're not humans. Their thoughts and feelings are not exactly like ours and we have no way to know exactly what's going on in their heads. Projecting onto them can lead to misunderstandings of their behavior and needs. Andy seems to be taking good care of Nuggie, from what I can tell--bearing in mind that we only have his word for it--but that doesn't mean he's right about everything.

Here's the thread you mentioned:

Here's Andy in November, writing about Nuggie's "phone flock":

Here's a thread from October, featuring Andy's musings on sparrow language. Friendly reminder that he is neither an ornithologist nor a linguist.

Note that at the end, he specifies that he's not Dr. Doolittle and doesn't speak or 100% understand sparrows' language...but he's still claiming a level of understanding that no one else has.

And here's Andy in August, wishing that he could communicate effectively with Nuggie and then having an actual conversation with him:

Those are some awfully complex ideas for a member of a non-human species to understand and respond to appropriately.

I'm not trying to suggest that Andy is forming another cult based around his bird, but like you said, Anon, it's notable that he is once again positioning himself as someone who has a special ability that no one else has. He's also repeating an old pattern in making himself the sole conduit to communicate with someone who holds a great deal of emotional significance for people. Back in the day, it was any of 160+ "others", and later, the DAYDverse/Harry Potter characters; now, it's a rescued sparrow with a disability, whom a lot of people apparently find inspiring.

[aggieharkness]

A garden of sorrows shall bloom into hope.

Pairing: Joan Ramsey x reader

Summary: love can never be evil. Love should never be cruel or selfish but listen and comfort. Love could never have a form or fit in a mold as it is a feeling so deep that it shapes one's very soul. Love was at Joan's feet and she was cradling it, on her knees.

Warnings: religious trauma, mentions of murder and death, grief, child loss, isolation, buuuuut things get better cause there's fluff

Author's note: I'm sorry it has taken me so long to post this, but I wanted it to be good because it's a Joan story and she's a really complex character. I hope you all like it and I do hope that you can all see it as a Valentine's story. Special shout-out to @bravewithacapitalb for being my Beta Reader when she's got her own thing going. I love you girl. Sorry @delusionalforolderwomen but it's not Libby (don't be mad 🥺) . As always, do tell me how it looks, if you all like it or if there are things I need to change. I accept constructive criticism. Also available on Ao3. Finally, let's thank Patti Lupone for giving us Joan Ramsey but curse the writers for not giving us more scenes with her. If she evil why shaped like such a cutie pie?!

Happy Valentine's!

Words: 12 K (No comment)

A garden of sorrows shall bloom into hope.

Say you’ll remember me, standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset. The radio never ceased its incessant pour of songs, most of them speaking of love and romance and futures that held no pain, only promises. Lies, all lies. Joan couldn’t help but scoff as the words went on, a goodbye to a loved one, someone who had meant something and who still held a special place in the singer’s heart, she thought, a foolish message that would fall on deaf ears. Or dead ears. The house was cold, silence creeping around every corner, making the wood creak and whine under its weight, curtains drawn and windows closed, not even a small breeze breaking into the house. She had no one to remember her by, not a soul left in her meaningless life that would hold her at night or sign with her in the kitchen while she cooked, only bitter memories and regret at her actions. The almighty had forsaken her, abandoned her in a vast land of sins and pain that she couldn’t escape from, and in the centre of all that fire and destruction that had become her life, she stood alone.

She laid in bed each night hoping she would not open her eyes the next day, unable to cope with everything that had happened, with the thoughts that she once had had a husband and son that she had loved more than herself and now only smoke was left, swirling in between her fingers, unable to grasp them, unable to fix what was broken. Joan barely ate, what little appetite she had vanishing every time she stepped into the house hoping to hear Luke, to even hear her late husband speaking on the phone to some client or other, only to be met by silence, that deafening noise that seeped into her bones. And today, was no different. She sat at the head of her oak dining table, a glass and bottle of red wine sitting in front of her as the radio played in the background trying to fill up the room with something that wasn’t the brutal sorrow that had overtaken her body. Her hair was piled on the back of her head, held by a black claw clip that dug onto her scalp, her bangs brushing her eyelids each time she blinked, but she showed no sign that it was bothering her, a few short random strands framing her face.

Months had passed since she had lost Luke, since she had let her own madness take him from her, the Devil’s work she had thought back then, and she was no closer to getting over it than the oceans were to drying up. No matter how much she tried to find an excuse, a reason as to why she had done all she had she could not, and it frightened her how lost she was, how little the scriptures she had once held onto as if they were oxygen to her meant to her now, only words in a worn book that brought no comfort. When had she stopped walking the path of the Lord? She had been His humble servant, and he had only put stones on her path that as the years went by, she had more trouble climbing, winning each trial he set before her with more difficulty each time. Had he been testing her faith all along or had he never cared for her? She was one of his children, and he cared for all of them equally and yet she felt… alone. Even when she had first gotten married she had felt alone, sitting in an empty house waiting for her beloved to walk through the front door to a warm delicious dinner and the sweetest, loving smile she could muster on her face. He had never truly seen her, pushing her aside without her noticing, or perhaps she had been aware, and she had been far too terrified of being left behind that she had let him.

The wine in her glass was sweet, her favourite kind, and it tinted her rosy lips as she took a sip, but as it slid down her throat it became sour, bitter on her tongue. Nothing tasted right anymore, the air around her didn’t smell as fresh as it once had, dusty, perhaps even musky and it clashed with the aroma of her perfume and shampoo, vanilla and sandalwood, in a nauseating manner that didn’t help her empty stomach. The song had ended a while ago, something different playing, raking in her ears like nails on a board, but she had no desire to stand and turn it off. She could not face the silence once more, it was poisoning her, killing her as the minutes passed by, the clock on the wall ticking in a perfect rhythm. So I'll dance with your ghost in the living room and I'll play the piano alone. What ghosts? The ones that she had caused or the ones that haunted her every second of every day? Could your eyes be considered a ghost? She had seen you arrive a few months ago, shortly after the incident with Luke, and as Joan’s big brown eyes had settled on your form, through the living room window, she could not help but admire the agility and grace with which you moved. It was a change from the way the girls in that school flaunted themselves, and in her heart, she felt a pang of sadness imagining how different you would be in only a few weeks. Probably condescending and with an air of superiority taught to you by Fiona, losing everything that made you so unique. She was proven wrong.

You had been warned about Joan, told about what she had done and how you were supposed to steer clear of her, but you didn’t. It had taken you several days to warm up to the idea of knocking on her door, a tray of homemade cookies in your hands, hoping your new housemates and teachers wouldn’t give you detention for breaking their rules, but there was something inside you that was curious, drawn to this unknown woman everyone seemed to hate. There were questions no one had ever bothered to ask to get the whole picture, and you intended to gather your own information and form your own opinions about her before you condemned her, after all she was nothing but a name to you. The instant the doors had opened your mind erased all preconceived ideas. She was beautiful, her perfectly straight hair framing a face of prominent cheeks and plump lips, a most exquisite pink hue tainting her skin, her features unique and utterly breathtaking. She had observed you quietly for a moment or two, curiosity glazing her eyes and she had not expected anyone to come knocking on her door, much less you, the new girl, but she could not say, not even now, that she was displeased by having another human being speak with her.

And it had taken her completely by surprise just how kind you were, how softly you spoke to her, and how unbothered you seemed to be by what she had done. Perhaps you hadn’t known? No, she had seen the hesitation at first in those beautiful eyes of yours, the way you held yourself at a prudent distance as if she could cause you harm, but when she had greeted you, Joan’s voice hoarse from not having spoken a single word in days those doubts had melted into nothing, ice under the sun. Of course, she was aware of what you were, of the power you held within you, and she had been wary of what you might do to her if you changed your mind about how you felt about her in the middle of the conversation, but that never happened, not for an instant did your interest sway from her and only her, no past tainting your ever-growing opinions. After she took the plate of cookies, a quiet thank you slipping from her rosy lips, the aroma of chocolate and sugar making her mouth water, your semblance took on a more sombre aura and with the utmost respect words of sympathy left your mouth, falling of the tip of your tongue like rain on a desert. And for the first time she felt as if someone actually cared about her pain, as if someone who could see her grief and sorrow and not just the actions that had unleashed it all. Tears had gathered in her eyes at that, only managing a nod as a lump formed in her throat preventing her from speaking, barely hanging on by a thread, and thankfully you understood. As you turned around to leave, your hand brushed over Joan’s wilting roses and like magic they blossomed once again, soft pink petals gleaming under the warm sunlight.

That first time she saw you haunted her to this day, the way your hair shone under the golden light of the full sun, how your flowy dress swayed in lazy waves around your legs in the warm breeze, the way your eyes had instantly bewitched her with their honesty and their caring gaze. You had known nothing but horrible things about her and yet you had had the courage of meeting her and treating her with kindness. She hadn’t known such a feeling since she was a young girl, not even her church acquaintances had bothered to show her an ounce of mercy and care when everything had unfolded before her, when hell had broken loose in her life. If God was supposed to love her, why had he closed his eyes at her pleas and let her wander into a dark path that had no exit? Each day became unbearable, long, dragging out until her tired body could not remain awake a moment longer even if all she had done was sit in her living room and let her guilt pushed her to the ground and stomp on her. The only moments of joy she lived were when you made it your own personal mission to get her to walk out onto the porch of the garden, her dressed hugging her frame looser every time you saw her, her skin losing that healthy glow that had adorned her that first time. It broke your heart just how everyone had cast her aside without asking why. Things were so much more complicated that she let on, you could sense it, but you never pushed her into spilling her secrets to you, highly doubting she had faced those terrors since they had happened.

You were indeed the only ghost she ever wanted in her life, floating through the halls of her house and whispering her name in her ear as soon as the sun set on the horizon, her bedroom bathed in the cool like of a full moon. But she had pushed you away, like the coward she was, afraid of what was blossoming in between the cracks of her broken heart, shards of red glass spread inside her chest. She had never thought anyone would be able to pick them up and put them together again, that someone who take an interest in a lost woman like herself, and as you had held her hand for the first time a week ago Joan had crumbled like a house of cards. She had melted into your touch, your smile lighting up the entire city as you pulled her out of her house and down the street, laughing and talking a thousand miles per minute about nothing and everything. She had listened to your every word, the sound of your voice a balm for her wounds as she let you to take her to the ends of the world, but when she had realised what was happening, that she had fallen for you she had pulled her hand from yours, forcing you to halt your steps and turn to her with a confused look on your face. Had you said or done something wrong? Why did she seem so upset all of a sudden? Without a word she had taken a step back from you, horror painting her features before she had run back to her house. She had refused to turn back as you called out her name, each time with a more pained tone, because if she had she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have kissed you right there on the street, and she couldn’t be in love with someone like you.

What a joke it was now to think she had been so terrified of having something with you when the “Good book” was nothing more than a paper weight on her dining table. Verses about love sounded empty, just as hollow as was the void in her chest, the accusatory sermons she had heard over the years about what was supposed to be a happy marriage, how love should feel and look nothing more than poppycock as they echoed in her mind. I'm so scared that the moments we shared won't happen again. I don't want this to end. The radio had changed yet again, and it seemed to Joan as if it was connected to her, expressing what she could not bring herself to voice, terrified that if she opened up her heart all those verses that had been carved into her very being would crush her, punish her for not being who she was taught to be. But how could she carry on lying to herself? The Joan that had been blinded by God’s words had done things that should have made you run away, and yet you stayed, came back to her whenever she needed you without expecting anything but a smile in return. The Joan that now sat all alone in her big empty house, filled with demons brought by her own hand, could feel nothing knowing that the only chance at redeeming herself had been right there, in the palm of her hand and she had run away from it. You could have been the star that made her retrace her steps to the beginning of the road.

Like a leaf that falls from a tree, the cold breeze of winter making it sway from side to side, its broken edges slicing through the air, a single tear fell from her eyes, the crystal drop sliding down her cheek. It fell on her lap, sour and full of regret, and the once delicious wine tasted like a vile concoction the instant it touched her lips, but she forced herself to drink as if it could numb the pain of her past while her soft eyes stared at her bleak future, clouds only getting darker. No, it wasn’t God who punishing her, it was obvious he didn’t care enough about her to even do so, she was flagellating herself as if that could make the blood she had on her hands vanish, refusing to let anyone love her, crushing her own feelings as if she didn’t have the right to find happiness once again. She who is without sin, cast the first stone. The words stung her skin, fingers gripping the glass harder to the point where her knuckles turned white, the thin crystal cup threatening to shatter and splash wine and shards everywhere, but she didn’t stop. She could never pick up said stone, she could never throw it unless it was at herself, because she had done nothing but commit sin after sin thinking that they were justified, that she was being a good Christian woman when in truth she had strayed from the path long ago. Who was she following now? The Church? The Devil? Perhaps there was no one on the other side of those empty words preached every Sunday. Ain't it funny how time shows you, you know nothing.

The song finished, leaving a few seconds of complete silence to fill up the room, the flames of a few candles Joan had lit an hour ago or so the only source of light, casting wavy shadows onto the wood. When had everything gone wrong? With a silly voice the person doing the program on the radio spoke about the playlist they had ready for the next forty-five minutes, every song a message of love for everyone who celebrated this special holiday. Another scoff fell from Joan’s lips; it was Valentine’s Day, of course. She had barely left the house in the last three days, she had not seen the millions of flowers and balloons that filled up the stores, not the way your frame had been glued to your bedroom window hoping to get a glimpse of her, wondering why the sudden reluctance and fear of you. She hated the holiday, it felt frivolous, cold to her, and she hadn’t really had anyone to celebrate it with since Luke had been a child, her husband always busy, always emotionally unavailable, the house waiting for a bouquet that never arrived, a ring that remained at the store, a box of chocolate that went stale on the shelf where it rested. She had been s deep in thought that it took her a couple of minutes to hear the doorbell, the shrill sound almost making her ears bleed. She only wanted to be left alone so she could get drunk in her own sorrow until she could no longer breathe, but whoever was on the other side of her front door was not giving up, and after switching between knocks and that horrid bell for over five minutes Joan stood, the chair scraping angrily over her wooden floors.

She was angry at the interruption, and it showed in the way her heels echoed as she made her way to the door, grabbing the knob and throwing it wide open, the glass rattling as it hit the wall. Whatever she was going to say to whoever was on the other side faded into the ether as her eyes were met with the sight of a sea of flowers at her feet, a rainbow of colours gleaming under the soft light of the full moon that shone high up in the night sky. There were dozens of roses of every shade imaginable sprawled over the white pine wood, tulips, sunflowers, and what seemed a thousand more flowers resting in between. She was no stranger to gifts, small things that didn’t mean much like an old perfume or a silver bracelet in which her name was spelled wrong, but this was a whole new level. On the stairs, kneeling before Joan, you looked up at her, a lovely white dress subtly hugging your figure while a blue box rested on the palms of your hands. You had never looked so perfect before, smiling kindly up at her as your eyes held her gaze, something she couldn’t quite recognise dancing like stars on your irises, sparkling with a life that pulled her towards you like a magnet. Her brown heels took one single step forward, the wood creaking under her weight, her hand falling slowly from the doorknob and coming to rest on her side, her lips parted in surprise, a slight red colour lingering from the wine.  

-Y/N? – her voice sounded so raspy and raw, as if she hadn’t used it since the day she left you, and perhaps she had. No one had come to visit her ever since you had moved in next door, it would be no surprise, but that didn’t mean it was a pleasant thought.

-Hello, Joan.

-What are you doing here? What’s all this?

-121 flowers. One for each day I’ve known you, and all of them as an apology for whatever I did wrong the other day.

-This must have cost a fortune. – her feet brushed the soft petals of a purple tulip as her body moved closer to yours of its own accord, almost as if your skin was calling out to hers, her heart racing against her ribs nearly painfully.

-That doesn’t matter, you are worth this and much more, Joan.

-But why? – she had never felt so conflicted before, wishing you would take her in your arms and never let her go but knowing that whatever this was, if it was ever something and not just a hallucination of her mind, wasn’t right. But then why did she feel like you were her saviour and guide? Part of her would follow you blindly like Mary had followed Christ, sharing your burdens and kneeling at the foot of your cross ready to gather you in her arms. But the other held her back, keeping her in a prison that was her own mind, prejudices that had been taught to her all her life making her feel as if what her heart was saying to her, whispers spoken from in between the cracks, would condemn her to an eternity of pain. But wasn’t she already living like that? You had stood from your spot on the stairs, analysing the sadness that had laced her question as you stepped closer to her, barely a foot separating you, the blue box you had been holding now resting on the floor next to your feet.

-Because you don’t deserve what you are going through. I don’t care how many times Fiona tells me you are dangerous and that I can’t see you. I know you would do me no harm. I have heard your story on a loop from mouths that weren’t yours for months and it doesn’t seem fair. They have no right to tell your story.

-But they do, and people listen to them. Do yourself a favour Y/N and go home.  

Was she really about to give up on the only thing that had made her truly happy in years? Her hand hesitated to touch you, knowing it would be even harder to let you go the moment her touch starved soul caressed yours, but she indulged herself, at least one last time, and took your hand in hers, her thumb rubbing your soft skin. All the way from the dining hall a new song played, and it couldn’t have been a most perfectly cruel choice. Don't you know I'm no good for you? I've learned to lose you. Joan truly fought to keep her composure, to not break down before you had walked away, but you didn’t move and with the way you were looking at her as if she was the sun, the moon and all the stars combined her carefully crafted walls collapsed. Tears fell down her cheeks in quick succession, burning her flesh, and she almost expected you extract your hand from hers and leave her standing there drowning in her own grief the same way everyone else had, but your warmth never left.

You had never known of anyone who deserved love more than Joan, and at the sight of her tears, her very soul conflicted with who she was at this point in her life, unsure of what she wanted and what she felt she had the right to ask for, all translated into the tears that fell like sharp diamonds all the way to the cold hard wood under her feet you threw caution to the wind and gathered her in your arms. Her breath caught in her throat when she felt the palms of your hands on her back pressing her against your warm body, a sea of flowers and fallen petals in a circle around your feet, the sweet aroma enfolding her as much as your embrace did. Her thin dress was no obstacle for your heat to seep into her bones, easing all the aches that had settled deeply within her, listening to the way your heart beat slowly, almost in a perfect rhythm. But it was the touch of your lips, soft and tender, on her temple that had her sobbing into the crook of your neck. She could not do it, she could not watch you slip through her fingers after all the pain she had gone through, your presence the only thing she ever wanted in her life. My love, my love, my love, my love. Won't you stay a while? 

You would stay for all eternity if that’s what she wanted, if it meant healing her and seeing her smile as you shared the smallest of things, watching her find her own path, her own light and purpose out of all the teachings that had turned her into a woman she hadn’t recognised when standing in front of the mirror. Your fingers traced lazy patterns in between her shoulder blades as your other hand held her gently against your frame by the back on her neck, her tears leaving wet patches on your dress, though you cared very little about it. A chill drifted under the roofed porch, riding up Joan’s spine and making her shiver but she didn’t move, the grip her hands had on your gown making her knuckles turn white. If loving you, caring about you was such a horrible thing, a temptation from the Devil, why did it feel as if she was walking the heavens now that she was in your arms? Was she willing to risk eternal damnation in exchange for a lifetime with you? You had come back to her even after her fears and doubts had made her run away, and you had brought her a flower for every single day you had known each other; no one had ever done such a thing for her, she could not even recall the last time she had been given a single lilting flower, let alone 121.

-You don’t need to be so strong all the time Joan. Let yourself grief, I will be here to hold you and take what you can’t carry. Don’t believe for an instant that you are undeserving of love or understanding. Those who have not lived it all in your skin cannot see and feel the truths hidden in your mind. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Your voice was calm, soothing as each word fell from your lips like rain after a long draught and it filled every cell in her body with a sense of peace that halted her sobs and made her lift her head from your shoulder, red, puffy eyes locking onto yours. Were you an angel sent to her to return her to the rightful path, to the road built in the truths that were never written and therefor never changed, each stone an action that had no other witness but Him? There could be wrong in the way her heart raced as your words sunk deeply withing the cracks, no evil clouding her mind, making her stray for she was now exactly where she was meant to be, and your touch was nothing but glorious, a rejoicing song against her skin. Her face was only inches away from yours, your eyes counting every freckle that adorned her nose and cheeks, such an intimate position reminding her that that was the closest she had been to another person in years. The traces of a life she didn’t want to go back to lingered in everything she did and everything she said, habits that would take an entire lifetime to erase and yet she was willing to do so, as long as you were right beside her, reassuring her that everything would be alright every time those demons that haunted her came to claw at her free will, tempting her to fall back into the darkness she currently resided in, regret and fear her only companions.

Her chocolate eyes hid thousands of secrets, of untold stories that you wanted to hear, but not because you were a curious person or a gossip, which you supposed you were to a certain extent, but because they were simply hers and everything that belonged to her was, everything that was her, meant the world to you. You did not fight the feeling of your heart jumping a bit as you held her gaze, falling down rivers of sorrow and happiness that run underneath long oak bridges, their path taking you to where Joan’s broken soul laid, cracks running deeply from side to side as the light within her quivered dimly under the weight of everything that had happened. Your gentle hands could not heal the ill nor make the dead rise, but they could hold her steady as the wounds stitched themselves together, no more blood pooling in that void that had formed in her chest. The late-night breeze carried the words of song Joan didn’t know, sweet notes that danced in between specks of dust, floating lazily, twirling in a waltz that no one saw. And even though she was unfamiliar with the music, it somehow made your eyes glint under the silvery beams that bathed the pavement, moonlight casting a spell over the city, away from the yellow lights of the streetlamps. Now, I've thought it through. Crawling back to you.     

Over glass and burning embers, you would crawl on your hands and knees back to her, even if the world turned against you, even if there was nothing else worth living for, she would be the only reason you drew breath every morning as dawn broke through the horizon and as the thick veil of night covered the sky. The petals scattered on the floor glowed under the pearly beams, reflecting on Joan’s sun-kissed skin, translucent rainbows lingering on her cheeks, dripping over her full lips like honey, slow and perfectly sweet. Her hands didn’t want to release your dress, afraid you might vanish before her eyes and her brain realised that all this had been nothing but bitter dream induced by the lack of sleep and the wine, another punishment she was inflicting on herself, but she still did it, her fingers stiff as they released the warm fabric, discomfort building in her hands at the hard grip she had had on you. Your touch lingered for an instant longer, but when her arms fell to her sides you understood the moment had passed, and as much as your words were still echoing inside Joan’s mind, your fingers tenderly brushed the skin of her neck one last time before cold meet the spots where your warmth seeping from your palms had been.

It was a most odd sensation to feel a shiver running down her spine at the lack of your touch on her, wishing your hands were still on her. She could hardly recall when had been the last time her husband had held her hand, let alone kiss her on the cheek or look at her they way your eyes did, no fear or disgust shinning over them. She could not remember if anyone had ever bothered to go to the extents you had to show her they cared, to do something with a meaning, not just to fill up the purpose of the holiday and get her off their backs, and make her feel like perhaps there was hope for her. Standing in separate circles once again, you took the opportunity to kneel at her feet and pick up a single flower, a most perfect pink lily that Joan hadn’t noticed before, a little trick you had had up your sleeve, and in the most gentlemanly manner you could muster bowed and handed it to her. Her lips broke into a giddy smile, unable to stop it even if she had wanted to, her slender fingers taking hold of the stem and bringing it to her nose, the rich floral accents that fell from its petals, bright and deep pink tones painted on the inside with the utmost care as the edges stood out in a pristine white, never overshadowing the other, only blending to perfection as pastel pink dots laid scattered over the soft floral leaf, filling her lungs.

-Its beautiful Y/N. Thank you. – her timid smile was partially hidden by the flower, resting gently over her rosy lips, but that didn’t mean you hadn’t seen it or hadn’t noticed the tint that was spreading over her cheeks, a most enchanting shade of red complimenting her doe eyes.

-I’m glad you like it, but I’m not done yet. I have a few more things planned for us. That is of course, if… you want to be my Valentine.

-Your… your Valentine? Me?

-Yes. There’ no one else in the entire planet that I would rather spend this day with than you, Joan. Not a soul. – you had rendered her speechless for a moment, the thought of you actually asking her such a thing never having crossed her mind, which was foolish really. You had done all this because you wanted to spend this holiday with her. She was aware that her smile was that of a shocked by lovesick teenager now, her heart fluttering like butterflies trapped in a cage begging to be released, using the lily as a shield to hide her ever-growing blush from your piercing by kind eyes.

-I… I think I would like that. Very much.

-Then please, take this as a token of my affections for you.    

She had completely forgotten about the blue box that rested next to your feet, a white ribbon tying it closed so its contents wouldn’t be spilt all over her front porch, Joan’s eyes watching as your body quickly bent over to pick it up. She still held the flower in between her fingers, cool under its touch, as you presented yet another gift to her, curiosity peeking for the second time that night, but she didn’t want to let go of the lily, and so with quick hands she placed it on the side of her head, the smooth petals caressing her temple as the she secured the flower by threading the stem in between a few locks of hair and the claw clip that held the silky strands on the back of her head. She would wear it all night long and put it in a vase with water next to her bed when the day was done and sleep began to creep up on her, wishing to close her eyes to its sight and wake up to it as well, the gesture forever engraved in her mind. With both hands now free her fingers made quick work of the bow and ribbon, the rough material resting over your palms, and with shaky limbs, anticipation building quickly within her, she pushed the top off.

-Oh, Y/N! – wasn’t it a most melodious sound to hear her laugh? Those loud tones, unapologetic as they echoed in the night, sweet as happiness poured out of them in quick succession, her smile only growing bigger as sparks shone in her eyes. One thing was to hear her chuckle, maybe even be granted the honour of hearing a soft laugh pass her plump lips, and another far more magical and sublime was to hear that rumbling sound sliding with easy from her throat, being you and only you the cause and the benefactor of such a sound. There were no gold necklaces or platinum bracelets resting over expensive layers of velvets, no seas of diamonds or rubies that could adorn her collarbones or her fingers, not even a unique bottle of scotch waiting for her inside that box, and yet what was presented to her held a much deeper meaning and an aura of love and care that she appreciated far more than all the jewellery money could buy. Twenty small doughnuts were neatly placed on top of a pink sheet of parchment paper, white melted chocolate displayed on top of the spongy dough as red icing spelled “ Happy Valentine’s Joan”, purple, red, white and pink sprinkles decorating each pastry to perfection, the last doughnut of the batch being the only one shaped as a heart, covered in ruby chocolate and with what looked like some sort of jam spilling from its insides.

-I made them myself. The first batch burned because I didn’t hear the oven go off, but I think these ones turned out pretty good. I hope you like them.

-They are wonderful. And beautiful. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me you know?

-It’s no trouble, at all Joan. Anything that I make for you is never a chore or a task. I enjoy it, trust me. – she did, she could not find a single reason not to do so when your intentions shone as pure as snow, no hidden requests or lies masked as innocent compliments. There was no venom in your smile, no evil behind your beautiful eyes, only genuine care for her that made her all warm and fuzzy, a feeling she had forgotten about, a sensation she wondered for a moment if she had ever truly felt. You took one step towards her, the edge of the box barely an inch from her bosom, the chill breeze that had been lazily twirling around the both of you now picking up slightly, goosebumps and shivers making you shake on your spot. -Could I come in? It’s getting colder and I still have one more thing to give you.

-Another present? Greed is not a friend that one should engage with Y/N.

-It is not greed, I assure you. I did not buy it, and in truth it’s more of a necessity. – her narrowed a little but her smile never faltered, not for a minute, the lily in her hair matching the blush that painted her cheeks.

-Alright, come on in. – she took a few steps back until her heels clacked over the wooden floors of her entryway, watching as you made your way to her door carefully as not to crush any of the flowers under your feet. She would figure out tomorrow morning what to do with them all, for now, she liked to think they were simply guarding her home. You picked up quickly on the musty smell that floated in the air, clinging to the drawn curtains, darkness spreading through every room like a wildfire, a pang of sadness slamming you on the chest as you made your way to the dining room. The candles Joan had lit hours ago barely had any wax left, the flames dimming with each passing second, the lonely bottle of wine along with the half-drunk glass resting and glistening under the flickering light. You had no taste for such a drink, but it was obvious that the burgundy liquid was a common guest in Joan’s house, a hint of shame in her eyes as you looked at her over your shoulder. Carefully not to make the glass tumble and ruin both the table and the floor you left the box of doughnuts beside one of the silver candlesticks, white wax embedded in the crevasses of a swan engraved in the metal, checking that the pastries were all still intact before turning to face Joan, a bright smile on your face to overshine the downcast look that had taken her hostage.

-Wait here a moment. I’ll be right back.

Like the perfect summer breeze your perfume caressed her face as you walked past her, your hand brushing hers, fingers timidly kissing each other for an instant that ended too soon, leaving a tingling sensation on her skin that travelled like electricity up her arm to her elbow. Watching you walking back to the front door, your dress flowing around your knees, she stood in the poorly lit room, cursing herself for the way the house betrayed her and screamed silently about her state of mind, long curtains refusing to let the cold breeze of February in. Hoping you didn’t think less of her she rushed towards the closet window, pushing the heavy fabrics to the sides and unlatching the frames, pushing the glass upwards until the cold wind of the night burst in unannounced but not unwelcome. Shivers ran down her spine, but she pushed through, repeating the motion for the other two windows that were left, that stale stench she had mentally complained about not that long ago losing the fresh crisp air that was now filling the room. It wasn’t that she hadn’t cleaned the house in months, she still woke up every morning with a task to fill all those dead hours that lay ahead of her, but she had neglected certain aspects that would have clashed with her mood, the need to keep herself secluded, detained in her own home as much as she was by her mind, preventing her from enjoying the simple sight of the sunlight breaking through her front door, or basking in its warmth by the window with a hot cup of tea cradled in her hands. She had no right to such simple things after everything, she thought.

But now the room was bathed in perfect waves of silver and platinum, strings of pearly dust floating along to the sweet voices that still played on the radio, the wind that now rushed through the house kissing the flickering flames goodbye as one by one they vanished into rivulets of smoke. Standing in the doorway your eyes raked over Joan’s frame as moonlight rained over her, her deep eyes holding your gaze, sparkling under its silvery touch. Never before had a person been more beautiful than her, her blue dress like an ocean enfolding her curves, her hair shining under the glow of the pink petals that caressed her temple, the soft breeze that came from the windows kissing her skin and twirling around her like currents, transparent foam around her feet. It's you, it's you, it's all for you. Everything I do. I tell you all the time. Heaven is a place on earth with you. Words had never spoken bigger truths. All for Joan, so she would grant you entrance to the Heaven that clung to her skin, your lips begging to worship the ground she walked on, the air she breathed, the clothes she wore and hoping that one day you would be able to cross the threshold on her bedroom and lay beside her in that bed that claimed her holy body each night. With slow steps you made your way to the table once more and placed two paper bags gently over the wood, eyes never straying from her form, fighting not to blink should you miss a single thing about her.

She walked towards you, her gentle movements a sight for sore eyes, approaching you as if she hadn’t noticed the way your sight lingered on her and drank her in, and perhaps it had been so. Joan was unused to being the object of people’s affections, it would be no surprise if she had mistaken your actions for nothing more than admiration, but inside the woman’s chest, her heart slammed against her ribs with each beat, a million butterflies fluttering inside her, thanking the darkness of the room that had kept her blush at bay from your beautiful eyes. Without a word each of you worked on a bag, a comfortable silence accompanying your actions as the song carried on softly in the background, a few containers with food lay on the table after a few minutes, the delicious aroma of well-cooked and homemade dishes reaching Joan’s nose, making her mouth water as she turned to look at you, surprise and a hint of gratitude painted on her face. It had been far too long since she had had something that hadn’t been a premade meal, her constant internal battle and continuous self-sabotage leaving her drained and unable to do one of the things she loved the most. Lifting one of the lids, the smell of rosemary filled the room, her eyes as wide as saucers as slices of a rotisserie chicken stood out from under what she was sure was a delicious sauce.

-You made and brought me dinner? That’s the surprise you had for me?

-I know it’s not as grand or greedy as a night in town or a diamond necklace, but I thought this would be much better for you. I’ve made enough so that you’ll be able to eat for at least a week.

-Y/N… I… You don’t know how much this means to me. You really are a blessing. – her hands rested tenderly on your cheeks, her smile as big as the entire universe and so bright that she could light the whole house, but her palms didn’t remain on your skin for too long, and you didn’t stop her when they left a cold spot over your flesh. It was obvious things would have to be done at her pace.

-I’m happy you like it. Why don’t you bring some plates while I open the rest?

Her steps were quick as she made a beeline for the kitchen, leaving you in charge of everything else. A most exquisite sea of aromas overwhelmed the crisp air of the dining room, salty condiments along with tomato and herbs dancing in perfect unison as you placed the main dish of the night, baked parmesan chicken on a bed of angel hair pasta with green beans and roasted potatoes as sides, beside the glass of red wine. You truly hoped to steer her away from the burgundy drink before dinner started, but at the same time you didn’t wish to make her feel self-conscious about it, as if she was doing something wrong when she was a grown woman who could make her own decisions. But there was no time to indulge in that train of thought as she came back with two plates and cutlery in one hand while she juggled two glasses and a pitch of water in the other. Of course, you rushed to her aid and were thanked with the sight of that tender smile she seemed to have reserved just for you.

-You really have outdone yourself.

-Thank you. I had the kitchen all to myself today, so I was able to prepare everything with all the care in the world. Where do you keep your candles?

-It’s okay, I’ll get them. – the radio rested on top of a set of drawers, Joan heading its way and pulling the first one open before returning to the table, two long white candles in her hand that she exchanged for the old ones. Just as she was about to head back to the kitchen, to get matches, you thought, your hand shot out to grab her wrist, the sudden touch making her whip her head towards you, a wary veil of confusion covering her features.

-Let me. – without letting her go, the grasp on her skin never too strong, allowing her to pry her hand away should she wish to, the fingers of your right hand touched each wick, observing happily how in less than an instant the warm light of a flame bathed the room, colliding with the cool tones that they moon cast inside the house, orange and silver fighting as they reflected on Joan’s pink cheeks. Her big eyes shone under the orange light, like melted chocolate that called out to you, her gaze glued to the candles as the flames flickered steadily, amazement hiding behind her perfect irises. You could not say that you were not proud to have rendered her speechless once again. She was no stranger to what people called magic, but the way you used it, you seemed to have a relationship, some sort of understanding of your own abilities that she had never seen before, didn’t make her feel fear anymore. She felt curious about what else you were capable of, but was too worried about you taking offense that she didn’t ask and simply basked in the beauty of such a domestic task. – Now we can eat. Are you okay Joan?

-What? Oh, yes, perfectly alright. Before we have what clearly looks like a delicious meal I was wondering if we could have one of those doughnuts you brought.

-Of course. Which letter do you fancy?

-I was thinking we could share the heart. One half for you and the other for me, if you are agreeable.

-Absolutely.       

 The cardboard made a scratching sound as you lifted the top, and with careful fingers you pried it from the parchment paper and placed it on one of the plates she had brought, the knife slicing through the middle as if it were butter, stains of pink chocolate and red jam over the metal. Joan took her half of the pastry, muttering a thank you, and slowly took a bite savouring the fluffiness of the dough and the sweetness of the chocolate, the flavour removing the bitter aftertaste the wine had left on her tongue. But the calm moment didn’t last for too long, the acidity of the jam hitting her as if she had just been run over by a car, not because it was too strong or bad, but because it was raspberry jam. She could recall as if she had done it that same morning, going down to the market with little Luke grasping her hand, holding onto her and looking up at her with his big adoring eyes, asking her if he could have some ice cream, the wicker basket she had in her other hand heavy with all the food she had bought. Every Saturday morning would be the same. She would get up and get ready for the day before heading to her son’s room, opening his teddy bear curtains so the sun could come through the window, drool falling from his mouth onto the pillow as he slept, one of his front teeth missing.

Getting him up and ready was her first task of the day, his groggy form sagging against her chest and shoulder as she picked him up and took him to the kitchen, a bowl of cereal waiting for him as she made herself a cup of coffee. She could hear his rumbling as the radio played, talking a thousand miles a minute about whatever he had done in school the previous day, mentioning his friends and teachers and speaking of how elephants were big and grey and hamster so small, cupping his tiny hands as to make his point clearer to his mom. Those morning watching him be so utterly excited about the most mundane of things lingered in her mind, memories that she had revisited so many times as her boy grew, feeling as if she was losing him, as if those moments had vanished into nothing. She would have done anything to go back to all that, to stumbling up the stairs to help him dress as she told him gently that he needed to pick up his toys, brushing his unruly hair before walking out the door with her basket, Luke trailing behind her sometimes with his fish plushie and sometimes not, her attention having to drift from the pavement to her boy and his friend Nemo. They would walk between each stall and Joan would tenderly answer and explain everything that her beautiful boy asked, not caring how many hours they spent out in the streets as long as Luke remained by her side, the warm sun rising higher and higher in the sky.

The feeling of his little fingers, soft and smooth against her palm, lingered on her skin still, as if she could look down and see him standing there with scraped knees, begging her to kiss his pain away, cheeks pink and fat tears falling from his eyes, after taking a tumble with a rock. She could almost feel him pulling on her arm as his eyes landed on his favourite stall, pounds and pounds of raspberries waiting for him, the boxes a few inches above his head. His excitement was always contagious, his toothy smile matching the one on her lips as they made their way towards the grocer. The first time he had seen them his eyes had been wide as saucers, pointing at the red fruits, amazed at the quantity and hadn’t stopped asking to have one until finally Joan had given in and bought a pound of them, knowing that even if Luke didn’t like them, she could still use them and eat them herself. He had fallen in love almost instantly and when they got home the bag had barely lasted more than a few days, so the next Saturday she had purchased more had told her boy that they would make jam with some of them as a treat for how well he was doing in school. He had been so excited that that night he had woken her up almost every hour to ask her if it was time, his thrilled tone preventing her from scolding him, strands of his hair sticking in different directions and his body dressed in a pair of yellow pyjamas with a big giraffe on his t-shirt.

A onetime thing soon became a habit, a special moment they shared every Saturday once they were done at the market, his steps jolly and bouncy as they walked down the street, Luke pointing at every single thing his curious eyes could see as if Joan wasn’t to used to them already, and she indulged him, because he was her little boy, her everything. And now she only had those, the bittersweet memories of a happy life that had turned into dust all because of her own selfish wants and needs, because she could not heal from a broken heart and let her grief and sorrow lead her in life. She had been so sure she was doing the right thing for Luke, following the scriptures her priest had provided her with, telling her that the only way Luke would grow to be the man she wanted him to be was by making sure temptation never entered her house, keeping him secluded with her and following the Lord’s teachings without question. She had not doubted that man’s words, too distraught to even consider that that was not the way, that God was love, not fear, that he was everyone’s father and loved each of his children without expecting anything in return. And yet she had followed him blindly, losing herself in the process and ruining her boy with each day that she punished him for not doing what she had been taught was right.

She had tried so hard to keep him safe, paranoid that temptation hid in every corner that she had forgotten who God was and what his son had preached, stealing Luke away from Nan as if she was the Devil herself all because she had a gift no one else she had ever met had. She had driven her son away, lost that little boy who used to fall asleep in her arms as she sang lullabies and with whom she used to make raspberry jam. The pain that crawled under her skin was beyond anything she had ever felt, as if millions of daggers were stabbing her, blood pouring out of each wound as tears fell down her cheeks, fire burning her flesh, guilt and disgust poisoning and rotting her blood in her veins. She had killed her boy, her reason for being alive, her very soul, because to her there had been no other truth but that of the “Good book”, her narrowminded thoughts having turned her into the biggest hypocrite and selfish woman she had ever known, refusing to believe her actions had been wrong until now. Her baby was gone because she hadn’t wanted him to be with someone like Nan, a girl she had called a servant of Satan, an abomination that walked the Earth, and who had taken her life now that Luke was no longer there with her. She wished to rip her skin off, to escape this agony that crushed her under its inevitable weight, but there was no way out.

How wrong she had been, her own mind betraying everything she had ever loved and cherished and turning her into a monster. How could you be there with her, speaking of love and bringing her gifts when she had killed her son? Her Luke. The name escaped from her lips as realization fell harshly over her, the fact that she was here with you, a woman, her feelings betraying everything she had ever known and been told about love, a most needed but agonising wake-up call. She had put her son through Hell in the name of a God that had forsaken her, that had abandoned her and left her in the dark when she had needed him the most, bringing forth a side of her that had not hesitated to claim her own son’s life so that the secret of her husband’s death would never be brought to light and to ensure that her perfect boy’s soul remained pure, untainted by the girl he had fallen for. How could pain be so raw, so overwhelming and vast that it caused one to want to rip their own heart from their chest? She had carried him, birthed him and held him to her as she told him that love would find him when the time was right, only to refuse him the gift of a happy life with her own bare hands. There wasn’t enough air in the entire planet for her to breathe, her throat refusing to swallow not even an ounce of oxygen, her lungs begging for it as sobs rocked her body.

A thousand emotions had rushed through her eyes the instant she had taken that first and only bite. One moment there had been the sweetest of the smiles gracing her lips and the next tears had begun to pour as her gaze became lost in a world of her own, the atmosphere clinging onto the regret and sorrow that seeped from her body. And then her son’s name had fallen from her lips and the last piece of the puzzle was finally in its rightful place. You had stood as fast as your body had allowed you and wrapped your arms around her trembling frame, the pastry forgotten on the ground by her feet. These tears were different from the ones she had shed a few moments before, they were harsh and sharp as daggers and they were accompanied by the grieving sound of a mother who no longer had a child, a mother who would never get to see her baby become an adult and have a life of his own.

-It’s alright, I’m here. I’m here.

-I… did it… Y/N… - her voice was muffled by her head hiding on your chest, hands gripping the neckline of your dress in despair.

-I know, Jo, I know.

-I didn’t… I didn’t want to… He was my baby! My only baby… - had the Devil taken reign of her senses and clouded her mind with false verses? She would have never laid a single finger on her little boy, not even to discipline him and yet she had caused him harm far too many times to count. She could not escape this pain, this feeling that she had no right to feel anything but grief, to let it consume her. Undeserving of your love and your kind words. Underserving of having you in her life, your mere existence bringing forth a happiness that she had denied to her own flesh and blood.

-I know, my darling. Let it out. There is nothing you could do that would make me leave you, so grieve. You have lost your son, there is no greater pain than that.

You had never heard a sound so frightening and yet so heartbreaking slip out of someone’s throat like the scream that was ripped from Joan’s chest. It came from so deep within her that it made her entire body shake and tremble, rattling her very soul, the sound vibrating through your skin like a thousand needles. It was blood curling and hellish in execution, so full of anger, regret, and pain that it mixed into the most agonizing sound a human could ever produce and yet should never hear. Nothing could have prepared her for the sheer emptiness that coursed through her veins, for the way she wanted to claw at her own skin to make it all stop hurting, begging in between sobs to turn back time, to return to how things had been once upon a time, when it had been her and Luke against the world. Before her mind had been poisoned by false words and her entire life had lost its meaning. She could have carried on screaming for all eternity, blood filling her lungs as she choked on her own remorse, but she was too broken to even hold the sound for too long, and after a few moments it blended back into sobs. It had been four months since she had lost the most precious thing in her little universe and it was only now that she was feeling all that anguish for the first time, all the grief slamming onto her at full force, knocking her off her feet and making her tumble and crumple to the floor.  There would be no more helping him with his math work, no more cuddling him to sleep when he was sick, no more Saturdays at the market. No more raspberry jams.

Her tired body melted slowly in your arms with each passing second, her tears pooling in the neckline of your dress leaving a cold spot on the skin underneath that the breeze was not gentle with, shivers running down your arms as it sliced through your flesh. You could not imagine what thoughts swirled in her head, what memories were haunting her as her boy’s name fell from her lips over and over, as if that simple action could bring him back, but the house remained quiet, cold, and empty, even the light of the candles seeming to have lost all its warmth as the flames flickered gently. The only sounds echoing against the bare walls, empty frames hanging over the floral wallpaper, were Joan’s sobs, or at least the only sounds you were paying attention to, rubbing comforting circles on her back as your other hand caressed her soft hair, for the radio carried on playing. I wish that Heaven had visiting hours, and I would ask them if I could take you home. The words floated around Joan’s head, begging her to listen, making a lump form in her throat as her heart bled inside her chest, the crimson liquid puddled on the floor under the shard of her completely shattered life. But a glimpse of light shone amongst all the darkness, your voice hushed and tender as you spoke the last verse of the song against her temple, the lily slightly crumpled but nevertheless beautiful.

-And I will close the door, but I will open up my heart. And everyone I love will know exactly who you are. Cause this is not goodbye; it is just 'til we meet again. So much has changed since you've been away. - An entire lifetime had happened since she had lost him, and not once, not even for an instant, had her boy left her thoughts. She almost expected still to see him walking down the hall or stealing a bite before dinner, to find him in his room playing that horrible music she despised so much as he did his homework, but he wasn’t even a ghost haunting her. She would have given her soul, as blasphemous as she knew that was, for one more day with him, to explain, to look at his face and engrave the colour of his eyes in her mind for all eternity. With tears still streaming down her face she lifted her head to gaze upon yours, a question on the tip of her tongue that she couldn’t bring herself to say. Would he forgive her if she could talk to him one last time?

-Y/N…

-What? Talk to me, Joan.

-Luke… I… Would he… - why was it so hard? Why did those words seem to weigh like a thousand rocks? Her grip was even stronger now, her eyes pleading for you to understand, to look deep inside her and pry the question from the very essence of her being so she would not crumble at your feet once again. Your voice did not hesitate to respond.

-He would. He would listen to your every word, and at first, he would be mad, furious even, but it wouldn’t be for the reasons you think. He would be angry because you were so deeply hurt, so broken, that your pain made you ask for help from people you trusted only for them to deceive you. He would not diminish your doings, and he would be upset at the extent of your own actions, but with time he would have understood that you only did it because you thought it was the right way. You are his mother and always will be, and you have repented for what you did.

-But what I did was evil, something so brutal that I fear has no possible salvation. I killed my own son, Y/N.

- “For you became sorrowful as God intended and so were not harmed in any way by us. Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret”. You have walked this path alone Joan, you have grieved and cried in remorse for what you have done, and He, who cares for us all has seen it and has forgiven you. Luke would do the same, because you are his mother and he would not want to see you like this, broken and battered by your own hand.

-But I deserve it. I am no better than all those people who drove me to this point and then abandoned me.

-You are Joan, you are the most wonderful person I have ever met, and one that needs to heal from all the horrible things that have happened to you. You are free from them, from the chains that held you down with false hopes and lies dressed in empty promises, and it is that, and only that, that would make Luke forgive you. You are deserving of love, and you must not think that your little boy would not be thrilled to have the mother he so loved back in his arms. “Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy”.

Your words, coupled with the tender, caring tone you used soothed her pain like nothing had ever before, and for the first time in years, she felt as if she could breathe, as if the air filling her lungs wasn’t rotten anymore. She would be forgiven. Her precious baby boy wouldn’t look at her like she was the worst human in history, pointing accusingly at her while telling her that it was all her fault, that she had brought this agony onto herself. There was hope for her to find happiness once again, to let the gentle rays of sunlight burst through her windows and for her to not run away as if her skin would blister at the feeling, the warm light bathing her house, the silence that had settle so deeply in each beam and wall fading as the sound of birds chirping and voices coming from the street filled each room. Her eyes glistened under the flames, orange and yellow tinges caressing her perfect chocolate irises, so full of hope and dreams she had not even dared to think about before, tears no longer falling but leaving wet paths over her cheeks. With a tender touch your thumbs wiped them away, and with that motion, your fingers ripped the weight that had been crushing her from her flesh, guilt and shame fading into acceptance and understanding as her penitence ended. She had taken accountability for her actions and in return she had been granted a second chance. She had been gifted with your presence and your love.

This time she didn’t let go of you, not caring if your face was only inches from hers, if she could breathe your sweet perfume, a blend of berries and vanilla, deep within her, its soft tendrils enfolding her essence the same way your hands were cradling her face. It would have been so easy to kiss her, to brush your lips against hers, but if you were going to do this, if you were going to walk this path with her, hand in hand, you could wait until she was sure, until her body spoke to you and asked in a silent plea for your touch. The radio was silent for a moment, only the sound of Joan’s sniffles filling up the room, her warmth seeping under your skin, and in an instant her hands released your dress, disappointment crossing your eyes, only to be delighted and surprised as she place her palms over the back of your hands, her heat wrapping around you like a blanket, shielding you from the cold that was breaking through the windows. At that moment in time, there was nothing but Joan and the blossoming lily in her hair, no past, no future, just her. Joan, wrap me up in all your, I want you in my arms.

Her hands were in yours, and with a gentleness she could not get used to you lifted her from her seat, pulling her body away from the table and into an empty spot where the carpet covered the wooden floors. Coming to stand next to the windows she let you do whatever you wanted, take her to the ends of the world if you so desired, because under the silvery beams that swayed in the night, she knew she would give you everything you asked from her as long as you never stopped looking at her as if she was the most precious thing in the world. Your hands guided hers to your shoulders, her fingers feeling the cotton of your dress around your neck, strands of your soft hair teasing her knuckles as your arms snaked around her waist, the gap between you vanishing as each of your bubbles became one, you in her personal space and Joan in yours, no fear or reservations clouding her mind. Oh, let me hold you. I'll never let you go again like I did. Never would you leave her, never would she have to face the world on her own, never would you let her go as long as your body drew breath, and your soul belonged to her. Slowly your feet began to sway from side to side, Joan’s frame molded to yours and following suit, her gaze never straying from your enchanting eyes.

Dancing lazily with her made your little heart leap with joy, a petal suddenly falling all the way from the tall ceiling, oscillating gently as its pristine white colour shone under the moonlight, blending into the same shade of pink Joan’s lily wore as it touched the ground. Then another fell as you pulled her closer, her chest against yours, her fingers twirling your hair in between them as the palms of your hands held onto her waist, a soft touch of sandalwood reaching your nostrils as her hair brushed against your check, her head coming to rest on your right shoulder. Her chin dug gently onto your flesh over the cotton of your white dress, her eyes watching in amazement at the way the room filled with the floral aroma of roses, petal after petal filling the room, a most perfect sight to match a most perfect you. A couple of flower leaves soon turned into a gentle shower of them, dozens swaying in the chilly breeze as the two of you danced, the top of her head resting against your cheek, the moonbeams never faltering in its glow, the flickering flames never ceasing to shower the room with their warmth as a sea of petals laid at your feet. In your arms Joan came to one last conclusion: God had never forsaken her, he had seen her lost in the dark and had sent you to her, to guide her and love her the way she had never been before, to return her to the right path with you by her side, her son’s forgiveness her banner and your love her shield. From now and for all eternity.  I would never fall in love again until I found her. I said, "I would never fall unless it's you I fall into".

[durgeapologist]

Omg your blog is such a relief. Every day I feel more and more like I want to distance myself from about 80% of the Solavellan community bc I am telling you it is ROUGH being into the egg and wanting to talk about him but being surrounded by people who think that everyone and their mother is out to get them. Meanwhile someone can come up with valid criticisms about how Lavellan's characterization was handled in VG and get swarmed with unsolicited opinions about solrook shippers and accusations of misogyny. I also see them running around in posts that are clearly marked as "Critical" And half the time when I CAN talk to them about Solas it's like they aren't even talking about the same character I am? They want him to be some helpless little abuse victim who isn't responsible for anything he does??? Why are we redeeming him if he did nothing wrong? What would be the point? We love him because he's fucked up and a manipulative bastard but also complex???? Did we play the same game girlies???

i have been staring at this ask since it came in trying to find a normal way to respond to you anon i will be so fr rn so i am so sorry it's taken a few hours

i’ll start with this:

“Why are we redeeming him if he did nothing wrong?”

full stop. this. so much. (i am in love with you anon) why is there a atonement/redemption ending if he did nothing wrong? (you’re literally so real) solas has done horrendous things. like genuinely abhorrent. (i crave to be your friend so bad anon) he is a genocidal, serial killing, manipulative lying cunt. to say the least. AND THAT IS WHY I LOVE HIM. he has such complex characteristics that make him so intriguing. he wants to be a good person. but he doesn’t really know how to be genuine. he is riddled with guilt and regret. he feels BAD about the things he has done. but he doesn’t want to face his mistakes. he knows he has done absolutely terrible things in the name of his people and their liberation, things most of them never asked him to do. some even asked him to NOT DO THOSE THINGS. did he listen? of course not! this is solas we are talking about. arrogant, prideful, calculating solas.

“They want him to be some helpless little abusive victim who isn’t responsible for anything he does.”

yes. yep. THIS SO BAD. (genuinely let me be your friend pls i am on my knees begging) the dynamic between solythal gets convoluted by most solasmancers because of three things: misogyny, jealousy, and ignorance. was there abuse? yeah. not denying that. was there only abuse? no. mythal was a victim of abuse herself. the way she learned to love, she passed down to solas. BOTH were victims of abuse who did terrible, no good, awful things. BOTH were also extremely powerful, omnipotent, and power-hungry individuals. mythal's hunger for power showcased differently than solas' and was amplified (IMO) by elgar'nan whispering in her ear. solas had felassan to keep him in check.

i am of the UPMOST certainty that had solas not taken down the evanuris the way he did and went to sleep after creating the veil, he would have become another tyrant ruling over the elven people. (THE MASKED EMPIRE ANYONE? HELLO? HELLOOOOO?) also anyone who says she was his MOTHER or SISTER?? god please drown me. put me in a tub and hold my head under water. that was his PARTNER AND HIS LOVER. i cannot with the takes that she raised his ass COME ON. i have sooooo much more to say about this dynamic and the themes of abuse AND how solasmancers twist it to make her this most evil, vile, horrible woman; but i would like to keep some of my followers tbh (anon i am frothing at the mouth if you want to discuss this further i beg you to dm me) so we shall move on.

"...valid criticisms about how Lavellan's characterization was handled in VG..."

yeah full stop i will never forgive them for making her one personality type. sorry, i just won't. my lavellan egg-mancer was a strong-willed and angry proud dalish woman who told solas off every chance she could! i am genuinely so happy people who wanted the dynamic we got in VG got that, because that is how their lavellan is/was, but what about the lavs who punched him? who told him to stop being an asshole about elves, and just farmed approval for the romance by asking questions? i chose to hunt his ass down BECAUSE I WANTED TO HUNT HIS ASS DOWN! my lavellan would not be so understanding or forgiving, she just wouldn't, so it feels like my girl's personality was ripped away from her fr. now, i DO NOT agree with some of the takes on how she was presented because those criticisms are in fact riddled with misogyny and most are just downright vile. but i do agree with the criticisms that not all lavellans would have been so kind to that bald man.

so anon, TRUST me when i say i feel you so bad. i was in lots of solavellan spaces before i started shipping dreadrook, and even then i was looked at SO funny for my takes on the romance and called plenty of terrible things simply because i didn't hold solas up on this pedestal and make my lav worship the ground he walked on. even as a dreadrooker, the same exact takes that i couldn't get behind in solav spaces are very prevalent in dreadrook spaces. solasmancers have a tendency to simply agree with solas on everything and refuse to acknowledge how bad of a person he really can be.

i am a proud solasmancer AND a proud solas hater. #1 solas hater, in fact. i rarely have positive things to say about his actions and behaviors outside of a joke setting, and even in a joke setting the things people will say to defend him RUB ME SO BADLY THE WRONG WAY. also heavy on the perusing the "critical" tags and getting offended when my takes are, in fact, critical LMFAO. anon i am literally a beggar sitting on the side of the street waving a metal cup at you asking for coins of your affection rn. i have maybe one other friend who feels like this and have hardly anyone to rant about these things with. holding my hands out towards you and begging you to dm me fr. PLEASE. we can be critical together <3

[zombaebitez]

I have an idea but if you don't like it you can discard it!

Maybe something like Ellie x reader where reader is a runner?

It's 3am and that's the only idea that came to my mind haha. Love your writing btw.

-🌮

I Love You (Too)

ellie williams x runner reader

synopsis: it went too fast, you got bit; now she’s alone again.

zom’s note: im so glad you like my writing, tysm! since there was no specifics, i wanted to branch out and write smthg angsty, bc why not. i lowkey feel bad… my shayla.

word count: abt 955

warnings: angst, death (ellie shoots reader), just pure sadness not gonna lie.

Love

noun

A deep feeling of adoration and affection. Complex and utterly fucked.

—

God- It wasn’t supposed to make this turn, literally and figuratively. It was supposed to be a simple scout… in a foreign area. Red Flag. It was quiet, Green Flag? No infected, right? Fuck no. A major fucking fuck of fuckest nos. Open street, Green Flag, Houses… Red Green Flag? It all happened way too fast. One minute you and Ellie were walking, chatting quietly, still alert, but not as sharp as you both should be.

First came one, round an abandoned truck. Then came another… then another… that alerted another. Then before you know it, A WHOLE DAMN LOT OF THEM. Two people against what felt like hundreds, constant moving, running, dodging, shooting, stabbing.

A means for survival, you had Ellie’s back, Ellie had yours. Well for the most part… Ellie split from you just for a second? A minute…? Three or seven. It was a frenzy, her mind was running miles. Yours also in a panic until then last infected.

—

She had an arm around you as support, holding your waist with the other. Both covered in grime and blood, that was hopefully not your own. With an effort you both managed to huddle inside a safe house, deemed that way by Ellie’s check through. Green Flag. It's okay, everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t… that’s when Ellie noticed the copious amount of blood near your calf, running down your to your ankle like a fucking river, splitting into streams. Red Flag. Ellie damn near felt her knees buckle, immediately drawing your attention to where she blankly stared. You assured her it was nothing, before turning your leg fully to reveal the ripped fabric of your jeans… a few scratches littering under the rip… then a bite. No that was fucking obvious…

“Oh…” was all you could muster out, before glancing back at Ellie. She stood there, frightened as you tried to console the situation. She was gonna puke.

—

That was almost a week ago. Maybe a week. Ellie couldn't be certain… a few days definitely. You told her you weren’t going to let her see your certain demise. You both knew what was meant to happen. That was days ago, She didn’t let you. She said… she’d do it, so you two can savor each moment left. Red Flag.

‘Ellie, pull the damn trigger’, is what she’d tell herself.

She wouldn’t… not now… not on you.

So here we are, Ellie sitting outside the house you ultimately turned in, because she couldn’t do it. Reminds her of that couple that ran from Jackson some time ago. She understood… well related.

Life was a cruel mistress. The amount of times she held the pistol to you, your cordyceps infected brain not caring, body working on instinct. She knew you were gone… but the moans and cries felt a little too human each time.

She grabbed her journal, scribbling in the worn book, scratching your face… a face that made her feel more sane… especially after Santa Barbara. Or maybe she never was. She felt the same as she did on that goddamned beach.

Broken down, lost without him, or her... Or you. Alone again. No one. Just her mind. Cruel.

Did you feel alone in that head of yours too? Was sitting prisoner in your own body as your last bits of sanity where taken from you by a fucking fungus petrifying? Did Ellie being the last thing you could grasp mentality give you peace… or sadness?

It didn’t bring her peace thinking about it. She found it hard to even think about you without the fear in your eyes, a primal fear that sinks deep into your bones. You unknowingly clawed her down with you once you turned, or maybe it was the other way round. She knew it was fucked up, keeping you here… she knew it was wrong. It was selfish. You aren’t even you anymore, yet she still holds onto the thought of you. It's twisted. It’s sick… it’s the second time this has happened. One time too many. Melancholic.

She tossed the journal down next to her; thinking was too much. She couldn’t, her hands shook, her body trembled. In, out. Inhale, exhale, she reminded herself.

Standing, Ellie looked at the house behind her. Quiet… Red Flag. She wanted to hug you, play ignorant to the fact you got bitten…

She went inside, your reaction is always immediate and hostile. Could there be guilt lying somewhere in your brain…? Maybe she was personifying you too much, you weren’t human anymore. She watched you attempt and attempt to reach her, bound by some old rope she found in the garage of this stupid house. Inhale, Exhale. She grabbed her handgun, trying to tune out your screams and snarls, struggling.

She adored you, she tried to hold on to what she had of you… she couldn’t. Red Flag. All she could grasp is your last words, before the day your mind wasn’t yours. The sobbing, and the denial.

“Ellie, you know meeting you was amazing…

She steadied her hand.

…I wish we could have had more time together, you’re so so special to me…

Ellie aimed towards… the runner? you.

… don’t worry too much, and please don’t lose yourself…

Ellie fired ???

… I Love You, Ellie.”

—

She slung her backpack on her shoulders, walking outside. Her movements— mechanical. Ellie crumpled, she sobbed. Alone, scared, tired. Her own type of infection clawed through her body. One that didn’t kill her, not physically. Dissociated… it all went too fast, yet too slow, like trudging through tar.

Ellie took a deep breath, shaken up and ragged.

“I Love You Too.”

[maxdibert]

Personal view, as someone who grew up in an abusive environment and is hyper-reactive to seeing children in distress or being mistreated by adults, including in fictional depictions, I never felt the kids in Harry Potter were in any danger from Snape. He’s bitchy and snarky, yes. But no more so than other teachers in Hogwarts. And from what I’ve experienced in the fandom, a lot of Snape fans are abuse survivors in some shape or form. He’s a complex character, and unlike a lot of fictional abuse survivors, he can actually be angry and rage. It’s very cathartic for people who have had to mask and suppress their negative emotions in real life.

It's curious how most Severus fans tend to be survivors of bullying or people who see themselves reflected in him because they went through similar experiences in school, or people who have experienced violence at home. Meanwhile, the haters are simply kids who have a terrible teacher and project that onto Snape, so they hate him.

If we're going to play the "I had terrible teachers, so I know how it feels" card, then I can use that too. Not only did I have terrible teachers—so bad that what they did was absolutely reportable and punishable—but in university, I even had professors who LITERALLY made students cry with their critiques. And yes, I’m very angry with those teachers. Even though I wasn’t always a direct victim, thinking about the teachers from my old school fills me with rage. And yes, whenever I’ve run into some of them on the street, I’ve made sure to say something to them in a super passive-aggressive way.

But the thing is, I don’t see any of them in Severus. Not a single one.

Severus has always reminded me of a literature teacher I had in my last years of school. He was a guy who taught classes to make some money while finishing his university doctorate—clearly, his goal was to be a researcher or teach at a university level. And you could tell from a mile away that he HATED having to teach teenagers. But hey, the school paycheck was good, right? I’m not going to blame him for that. The thing is, he had a degree in Philosophy and Literature and had a level way above that of a regular high school teacher.

I remember he was young. At the time, he seemed like an old man to me because when you're 16, anyone over 20 seems ancient, but he probably wasn’t even 35 yet. The thing is, he had no patience for nonsense. He hated childish antics in class, got annoyed by dumb questions, and if he explained something and someone asked the exact same thing two minutes later, he would clearly get irritated. I remember once a kid told him he had just read the latest Dan Brown novel, and this guy, with the most cunty smirk, said, "Well, I wouldn't know about that, Mr. X. I don't read mass-market literature." And it was like… lol why so mean? But I found it hilarious.

He was the only teacher who called us by our last names and never used informal speech, which was shocking to us because it never happened with other teachers. He rarely attended staff meetings or team dinners (a teacher who was actually abusive and spent entire classes physically humiliating 15-year-olds used to complain about that a lot). You almost never saw him interacting with other teachers because, honestly, I’ve always had the feeling that he thought his colleagues were idiots—and I don’t blame him. If I worked with that bunch today, I’d think they were idiots too.

Now, this guy was strict. Very strict. If you got a 4.9, he wasn’t giving you a 5, because you didn’t get a 5. He wasn’t going to be nice to you unless he thought it was strictly necessary. He wasn’t going to be warm, he wasn’t going to be friendly, he wasn’t going to be funny. He despised mainstream literature and bestsellers, believed certain books were absolute garbage, and thought people who only read that kind of stuff didn’t actually understand literature and lacked the braincells for it. You could agree or disagree with him, but his behavior wasn’t abusive.

Was he sometimes too blunt? Did he have incredibly sharp, sometimes unpleasant responses? Yes. And, funnily enough, this teacher was widely disliked precisely because he was one of the strictest ones. He was hated even more than the guy who groped female students or the one who called kids fat, gave them weight-loss tips, and told girls they dressed like prostitutes if they wore certain tops. But those guys used informal speech, gave you a 5 if you got a 4.6, and weren’t that strict, so people didn’t hate them as much.

That’s why Severus always reminded me of this guy. Ironically, I really liked him because I appreciated his sardonic, sharp humor, and he appreciated that I had read One Hundred Years of Solitude at 12 lol. But above all, he liked that, even though I never paid attention in his classes because I physically couldn’t focus on a lecture for more than 10 minutes, I never disrupted anything. I never got caught talking, never caused trouble—I was just drawing my stuff or reading things unrelated to the lesson, but I wasn’t bothering anyone.

And honestly, I think that’s all Severus wanted from his students: for them not to be a pain in his ass. And if he was an even bigger jerk to some, it was precisely because they got on his nerves the most.

The Weasley twins were total chaos and constantly acting like fools, yet they never have a bad word to say about Snape throughout the saga besides that he was kinda mean sometimes. Why is that? Maybe because they didn’t put the whole class in danger? Maybe because, while they were insufferable in the hallways, they knew they had to tone it down in Potions?

Only two people have a real problem with Severus as a teacher throughout the saga: one is Harry, who disrespects him from day one, constantly challenges him, talks back, breaks the rules, and does exactly the opposite of what Severus tells him. The other is Neville, who basically exists to give Severus seven consecutive nervous breakdowns in a single class.

That doesn’t make you an abuser—it makes you an adult who is sick to death of two pain-in-the-ass kids.

[not-poignant]

Hi,

I'm not sure how to approach this without sounding like an ignorant asshole, but I'll give it a go.

I'm from a country where the Trans movement isn’t very visible, and most of what I know about it comes from the internet. I’ve never truly understood gender dysphoria. I’ve tried to listen and put myself in others' shoes, but I struggled to be genuinely empathetic. Instead, I just tried to be supportive because it was expected of me, without really getting it.

It might sound silly, but reading Underline the Black made me stop and think… Wait, is this what I think it is? Reading Efnisien’s internal monologues and introspection made me feel something—maybe not from the same circumstances, but in a way that something inside my brain clicked, and I finally saw where the pain was coming from.

I guess what I really want to say is thank you. Thank you for helping me begin to understand and for broadening my perspective. It might sound small, but it’s something I deeply appreciate. I’ve been trying for a long time.

I do feel a bit foolish realizing that it took an ABO fanfic for me to get it… but at the same time, I was also reading about your real-life experiences. Or at least, that’s how it seemed to me. Forgive me if I’m wrong.

You have an incredible talent for expression.

Anon, until you know otherwise, everyone has to start somewhere. This applies to unlearning our biases and prejudices, which we all have for something, or many things, until we unlearn them. The fact that you've even tried to be supportive of something you don't really understand is still important, and still matters. It's a step into understanding, even if you don't have it yet.

I don't think it's foolish that it took you a story to realise what you've realised! This is actually exactly why representation of diversity (in gender, sexuality, culture, race, etc.) is so important in fiction. Because it's in fiction we can be free to explore concepts that are different to our own, or that challenge us, or make us see the world differently. This is why it's so important to know it's possible to identify with a trans character, or a POC character, or a character from a different culture to ours etc. Because that's when we humanise what we previously saw as like, different, Other, hard to understand. We go 'oh that's...really relatable actually, I think I'd feel the same way if that was my experience of life' or 'I don't know if I'd feel the same way but I really understand where that person is coming from.'

Gender dysphoria is complex, and different for different people. Being able to write it metaphorically through Efnisien's journey has been really interesting for me personally, because I've been able to depict both the inner conflict of knowing that your being is not...automatically going to be accepted as normal no matter what, unless you stifle or suffocate yourself, alongside the true euphoria and joy that can come with living as your best life, or your very self.

I have once seen a good analogy which is simply: Imagine from tomorrow onwards, everyone uses the pronouns you don't associate with yourself. You are bullied and mocked unless you wear clothing that is opposite to how you want to appear to others. You are put down and treated as psychologically abnormal for finding joy in true expression, even when that expression doesn't actually hurt anyone else at all. And now tell yourself that even your loved ones, when you desperately try to explain how wrong it all feels to be treated as so different to your true self, they explain that it's just mental illness, or that you're just confused, or that you don't understand yourself, and condescend to you, and treat you like they somehow have always known you better than you know yourself. And that's when you realise you might have to choose between your true self, and your family and loved ones who don't understand, or worse, hate you.

And then imagine that's the rest of your life, but it could change in an instant, if all of society just accepted that you are who you say you are! That all of your depression, and oppression, and suffocation could literally just vanish, if everyone was like 'oh sure actually, you want those pronouns? Cool! You want to wear this clothing? I like it!!'

And that journey is very tough in the real world, even in more accepting places (the US is clear evidence of this). In Underline the Black, I get to put Efnisien in a very specific space, and show the journey in a kind of specific way that isolates it and speaks through metaphor.

My experiences are different to Efnisien's, though I am trans, I never actually started out wanting to write a 1:1 trans narrative. Like, in this universe, "conventionally" trans people exist too. Efnisien's experience is a new thing, and a separate thing, but still - as we can see - a very good metaphor as well. I like telling parts of my story, but only small parts. I am more interested in...telling healing stories where I can watch a character heal and go 'oh I would like more of that for myself, as well.'

(Also, it's better to just say omegaverse, or AOB, etc. because a/b/o without the dashes is a slur in Australia, and while I know most people don't live here! We try to avoid slurs from other countries when we can. And we can only know to do that once someone tells us!)

But yeah, no, you don't sound like an ignorant asshole at all. You sound like someone who has learned something, and has gained more understanding, and was open to doing that, and honestly anon if more people came to something they didn't understand from your perspective, acceptance and love would be a lot easier to teach people.

It's so important to read stories about characters who aren't quite like us, or aren't like us at all, because that's when we realise just how much we actually do share so many similarities, and why our differences matter too.

Anyway thank you for sharing your message with me! I really appreciated it.

[bobopeebo]

Helloo~ I love reading all your headcanons because I feel like they're very accurate and fun. Similar to the Ayato ask but any Headcanons on the type of girl Shuu would like, pshycially and personality.

Shu’s Type Headcanons

shu wouldn’t like someone that’s his complete opposite

he prefers a fair balance of opposite and similar - or even if she had just a handful of similarities, it’s enough

he needs someone who likes relaxing with him as well

someone he can enjoy comfortable silences and beautiful music with

soft, fluffy curly hair would kill him.

he likes long, soft, flowy hair that smells like fruits and flowers that he can bury his face into and use as his personal curtain

but at the same it would become a nuisance if her hair kept getting stuck/pulled while they cuddled and she complained about it. plus, short hair would give free access to her beautiful neck

in terms of bodies, he likes petite, short women because they look cute, innocent and frail

tall and elegant women because they seem poised and gentle, seeming soft-spoken and not noisy, causing less of a disturbance to him

curvy women because they’re warm and soft; the perfect pillow to him (bonus points if they smell good) and he gets to make lewd remarks about their blessed assets

he really doesn’t care that much

soft clothes in soothing colors like pastels and dark shades are appreciated. hates eyesore colors like neons and if his lover were to be a fan of them, they’re sure to hear a few unamused remarks every so often

you see the amount of times soft is mentioned here? yeah he’s basically shopping for a human pillow

but shu really likes girls with big, bright, curious eyes. someone adventurous or bubbly would feel like a golden retriever to him; he would find them quite amusing and loveable

he doesnt mind a girl with a lot of energy; so long as she can also be content pumping the breaks to wind down and share headphones with him while they cuddle wherever he pulls her

he actually might prefer a s/o who can balance his nonchalance. someone expressive and empathetic; someone who talks a lot and would want to tell him lots of cute interesting things

he might not have the most compelling replies; but that doesnt mean he’s not interested, he’s just not one for talking much.

just knowing that she cares so much. that her perfect evening would be spending time with him.

he obviously would ‘complain’ about how noisy she is, but she wouldn’t be able see the faintest, soft smile he grows on his face with his eyes closed as she tells him about what happened in her class that night not knowing that she’s already told him this once before

speaking of, he would likely prefer someone with a melodious voice. Deep or soft and calm. He would have trouble adjusting to something with a loud or pitchy voice. In that case maybe he would prefer their quiet times more ^^;

if his girl knows how to play (the ‘good’) instruments, it would be amazing. maybe not so much for her because of how many times he would ask her to play-

after much begging, shu might even be so kind as to agree to have a duet with her (how romantic)

despite shu not being that picky with what kind of girl he’d be attracted to, he still has a few absolute donts

girls who are stuck up or snooty, with a superiority complex. the ones who care way too much about being perfect and proper: he would just get brought back to his aristocratic family. the one he’s trying to get away from constantly.

he just doesn’t like girls who are vain or egoistic. he finds them annoying

shu would really admire a girl who’s honest. someone who wouldn’t change her opinion based on whether or not others agreed. someone brave who would stand their ground to support their beliefs

that quality kind of also translates into loyalty

shu has a hard enough time as is allowing himself to connect to anyone, fearing he’ll lose them. if he does finally start to warm up to someone, it would kill him inside if they betrayed him.

> 𝕀 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕓𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕠 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕕𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕡𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟, 𝕒𝕤 𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝 𝕒𝕤 𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕦𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕔𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕚𝕤𝕞 𝕠𝕟 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕀 𝕔𝕒𝕟 𝕚𝕞𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕧𝕖. <

Your beloved, Bo.

[catstantin]

It's hard for me to call any character evil unless they're just... brutal and disgusting for their own entertainment. Deoksu for example. Or his side kick (you know the one he played marbles against, the one who was even more disgusting and slimy than Deoksu simply so that we'd root for Deoksu during the marbles game even though we were clearly supposed to hate him at any other point :'))

Like, I get what you're trying to say OP, but I (personally) would not call him evil because in my head he's not someone who's doing all this out of fun (as far as we're concerned since we know how Junho saw him, we know which books he reads and his reasons to join his game, which all don't point to him being a sadistic guy).

I think the whole point of the show is to show how there's something animalistic and rotten in everybody. And that especially despair will bring it to the surface, in one way or the other, but that there's ALSO always good. So much good, everywhere, so much kindness even during the most horrible of times. Ali, Gihun, Jiyeong, all the characters from 'our' group in S2... (suddenly I wanna blast 'savages' by Marina lol "we can be bad/as we can be good") So, yep I don't think it's unrealistic that he will get a redemption, but I also don't think this will end with the Hwang brothers happily strolling off into the sunset (there's a reason Inho did not go back to Junho. The games had a lasting effect on Inho). There will be some sort of consequences for sure.

I do hate people who try to explain away everything and maybe this is me doing that, but: once I start thinking about characters that intrigue me, especially 'open' characters, aka characters who aren't fully explained, they become so so SO complex in my head that I can't simply be like "he's not gonna get a redemption cause he's an evil villain". But I'm also not excusing his behavior. He's part of the problem and he's done truly evil things (like killing Jungbae, you could even pick up my argument from earlier and say him failing at spinning top on purpose is deliberately evil). He's a bad person. But I don't think he's evil, not in my way of defining that word. Evil as a character trait fits comic book villains or two dimensional characters that are written in a way which is supposed to make us hate them (like deoksu), or the bad guys in children's stories, but imo it's not something we, by now with more and more information being thrown our way, can use to describe Inho. Ilnam, sure. That guy is literally a comic book villain since he did not have (or didn't tell us) a real reason to start the games other than the extremely vague ones he gave us. He's an evil trickster with a brain tumor. He couldn't regain his humanity because he did not seem human to us in the first place. I'm starting to yap.

At this point I have a strong feeling that nothing season 3 will do will ever reach the potential this whole story has in the back of my mind haha. OP, don't see this as criticism, I really just wanted to analyze this character... Again. 😂

as much as I love inho I'm getting real tired of ppl underestimating just how evil he is and doing mental gymnastics to try and justify that he's broken and will somehow regain his humanity again

[inkskinned]

we were sitting on the floor and i was cutting out tiny pictures to make a collage for a friend's birthday. you were on your phone and you laughed about something, and i was still in love with you then, so i asked what had you giggling.

"sorry. i was just..." you took a moment and went back to texting. "i was telling someone about how you're afraid of the dark."

i'm afraid of the dark because something bad happened. "oh." i felt a little slinky of shame crawl down my throat.

you glanced up, and maybe it showed on my face, because you rolled your eyes and held the phone to the side casually so i could see the group chat. "what? was it a secret?"

i looked down to the scissors in my hand. "i just..." no, it's not a secret. it just felt like something private, something serious. saying why would you tell someone that just feels like an accusation. it's unfair. i honestly am not even ashamed of it, it's just a fact about my person that i don't usually share.

what a strange experience. is this a human thing or a generational thing? for our grandparents: did they need to worry about how quickly someone can just... share your personal information? again, i didn't even really have a true objection. what could i say? i want any person in my life to feel they can be honest with their friends. it's not like i said don't tell anyone this.

i cut out another letter to complete the rainbow happy birthday, started hunting for the exclamation mark. i heard you sigh dramatically.

"don't make a big deal about this," you said.

this entire conversation was a pattern for us, and this was when we got to my least favorite part of the pattern. i would get my feelings hurt in some oblique not-technically-terrible way, and then it would be making a big deal about something. you'd get frustrated for me for being soft, but i was born soft. you knew i was soft when you pierced me. it's one of the things that made controlling me so easy.

"i'm not," i felt my voice crack. the question came without my wanting. "why are you guys talking about me?" and why are you saying that thing? why not like - i'm telling them how you're generous and kind and pretty.

you let out this low, tragic groan. "oh my god." you tossed the phone away from your body. "there, see? i just won't talk to them if you don't like it."

the rest of the hour went the way it always went, between us: i said i don't actually mind if you talk to your friends but -, you found a way to call my minor expression of discomfort "being dramatic." you got upset that i had been offended. i ended up apologizing, even though i hadn't actually done anything.

afterwards, you picked up the phone again. after texting for a little bit, you snorted. "okay," you said, "but it is kind of funny you're afraid of the dark. i mean, when you think about it."

[bunnyboy-juice]

spent the first hour and change at work deleting some old files and am having a grand ol time laughing at myself for not realizing i was a lesbian sooner

[lith-myathar]

.

[bumblingbabooshka]

Worst Guy Ever - Also, Unfortunately, Very Homosexual Convo. (subtextually)

[bumpscosity]

too scared to go off anon but we are mutuals and i love seeing your posts about the disney rides and such. its like peeking in a window to something i know nothing about but enjoy seeing on my dash regardless

HAI MYSTERY MUTUAL!! glad ya like it! disney parks are a hyperfixation so it's always fun to post about for me :)

[a-dash-in-the-middle]

.

[mytumblogforgames]

Missing expectations by 50% lol. It's almost like making a fourth game in a franchise (and only direct sequel) without leveraging and relying on the franchise material that came before it leaves an audience feeling extraordinarily....meh. Why would I recommend this to someone who knows the world, and the older games, and wants that same experience of building a setting? On the other hand though, why would I recommend to someone new that they get involved in a franchise that has just decided to abandon all the previous material? Aside from the extreme disappointment they'd feel getting back to 4 after playing the others (if they even get the itch from the game itself, which could be a long shot considering it gives you no incentive for curiosity and would be relying on the strength of the setting itself, which is admittedly huge!!! and why the result we got here is so damn disappointing...), we all now know that Nothing Matters. What incentive is there to continue? What will they get next? Another excruciatingly limiting title that parades itself around as a "role playing" game while actually offering only a painfully narrow character with virtually no branching choices, and has little to no reactivity?

If I wanna watch a movie while I play my videogames, I'll play a quantic dreams title, thanks. Rug pulling an RPG is crazy lol. We can TELL when it's a lie, we're literally playing the game. Love to see a "she would not fucking say that" and it's my own player character lmao. And the rated M game is fun little jaunt where we all say "thank you for saying that," never have real interparty conflict (or really, any high stakes at all), can't express ourselves in any way other than Valid and Supportive, spend a not insignificant amount of dialogue ensuring we all know our pirates are good ethical hero folks, don't ever even get to sympathize with the villain because this is a rated M game and it very serious and not at all a Disney movie, and oh, you'll never guess this, but the rated M game is completely sexless -- we just blink at each other in three different convos before we go 😟😳🥹 I love you!!! My hero!! Like it isn't about the sex itself, it's about the willingness to be, idk, gross or uncomfortable etc (and in this case pacing lol). This game feels like it's hiding things preemptively so as to avoid causing "offense" like it's...pearl clutchy to me, in a way, or at least, trying to ensure that pearl clutcher is the most comfortable they can possibly be. And like I'm sorry but idc about them, this isn't about them, this is dragon age lol. Rated M for Misinformation smdh...