#cw: implied cptsd

[badaziraphaletakes]

Making jokes and laughing about a frightening experience does NOT mean someone does not appreciate the gravity of a situation. Quite the contrary, in fact - it is a very, very common way of processing trauma.

In fact, I can't offhand think of any traumatized people I know who haven't make a joke about their traumatic experience/s. It's a deeply normal, human thing to do.

(And please don't try to tell me Aziraphale seeing Crowley be kidnapped and then being hit over the head with a crowbar (?), violently kidnapped himself, and dragged to hell, and then seeing the awful people and place Crowley had been stuck with for the past 100k+ years, witnessing the usher being murdered in cold blood before his eyes, and wondering if the same thing might happen to him, and/or if he hell was going to discover his and Crowley's secret, not to mention seeing for probably the first time what exactly the thermos of holy water would have done to Crowley if he'd used it, wasn't traumatic. First of all, that just is. Second of all, look at his irises. He was probably having a bit of fun - not surprising considering how relieved he was that the holy water didn't work on him and hell appeared not to have caught onto the deception; of course you'd be a bit giddy - but he was also terrified and scarred and angry and disgusted and I don't even know what else.)

There's a reason the rates of depression found among comedians are off-the-charts. And it's not because humor causes depression (we know it actually alleviates it). It's because traumatized people and people with mental illness (I mean, the Venn diagram between those groups is basically a circle, but y'know) gravitate to humor. It is one of the most powerful weapons we have to ward off despair. Humor can save us when nothing else can.

It can also stop you from wanting to punch someone when you're really, really angry. I propose that we can see smoldering contempt and fury and outrage and disgust on Aziraphale's face at the end of the scene, hidden just under that cheeky grin. It's some masterful acting work by Tennant, so many emotions going on at the same time.

Also - may I point out that Crowley loved Aziraphale's jokes about the whole thing. Aziraphale knows how to cheer Crowley up. A big part of the reason he was so sarcastic in hell was for Crowley, to score some points against the people who have been oppressing him for millennia without him ever being able to answer back. (And also he was acting that way because he figured it was how Crowley would act and he had to be convincing. If he'd gone in there and hadn't been 100% confidence and swagger, hell would have noticed something was off. They're paranoid, and Beelzebub, at least, is smart. No flies on that one. Heh, heh. Did Aziraphale overplay it a bit? Maybe. But the deception worked, so clearly his approach was correct overall.)

And finally: Don't tell me Crowley wasn't having a little fun with all this, too. His laugh on the bench was sincere:

He could arguably also be accused of overplaying it a bit with the neck cracking (which I don't blame him for; I would have done the same - but I don't see anyone getting mad at him for having a little fun the way they did with Azi):

And he LOVED getting to breathe fire at Gabriel & Co.

Which is exactly as it should be. :)

[evanhereonearth]

The Insidious Cycle of the Abuser Who Says They Love You: Mythal and Solas

Likely goes without saying, but Veilguard spoilers all under the jump.

I have been absolutely wrecked by the end scenes in Veilguard for weeks now, and I want to do a deep dive into Solas's relationship with Mythal and how it absolutely reeks of abuse. Long post incoming!

CW for heavy discussion of cycles of abuse, trauma response, and abuse tactics.

When I finished my first playthrough, this moment hit me like an absolute freight train. His visceral response to her presence and the way he instinctively retreats and flinches back/puts out a hand to protect himself is a full-blown trauma response.

And then she starts talking and moving towards him, and it gets worse.

Solas curls in on himself; his body goes even further into self-protection mode. His face is downcast, not the way he bowed to his vhenan moments before with a straight back and open posture, but shrinking.

And then as she advances, he cowers.

He completely folds inward. He crumples; he shakes, he hyperventilates, and the moment she reaches for him, he fumblingly offers her the lyrium dagger to kill him with.

Is this shame? Yes, of course, but it's far, far more than that.

For the sake of brevity, I'm going to limit this list to the four most widely recognised trauma responses:

Fight

Flight

Freeze

Fawn

As someone whose primary trauma response is fawn (wooo CPTSD), which is intensely common among people who experience complex trauma, especially through emotional and prolonged physical/mental abuse where their needs are discarded, pushed aside, or otherwise steamrolled, I felt this right alongside Solas. My own body responded to seeing it. This is, quite frankly, one of the most visceral and realistic (and extreme) fawn responses I've seen depicted in media.

Mythal in this scene is...phew, something else.

"She was the best of them," Solas tells us in Trespasser.

But she was not good, everything tells us in Veilguard.

Let's look at his regrets in chronological order.

Through Solas's memories of regret, we see this germinate in his foundational regret: leaving the Fade to take a physical form.

He does not want to do this. He tells her he does not want to do this. From the conversation, it's clear it's not the first time she's asked.

And the way she asks? Outright coercion.

"You have so long observed the world. Why not consider joining it?" [I want you to do this thing, so I will frame it as logical for you to make the choice I want you to make.]

"But I have no desire to live as humans. Besides, this talk of taking on a solid form. I think you underestimate the danger." [I don't want to do that. It does not feel safe to me.] "When you took the glowing stone to build your body, did the earth not shake?" [This is dangerous and selfish.]

"The lyrium gives us the strength we had when we were of the Fade; we are the best of both physical and Fade." [It makes us powerful, so I don't care about the risks.] "I need your wisdom, Solas, to withstand the louder voices like Elgar'nan's who would go too far." [If you do not come with me, a tyrant you abhor will make others suffer.] "I need you."

"This is madness. You must know that." [I don't want to do this at all. This will hurt me. I don't want this.] "I will always follow where you go." [Because I love you and trust you.]

Mythal's words in this part are classic abusive framing. When appealing to his natural curiosity does not work and he expresses strong rejection of her logical thought process (just because I have observed this place does not mean I want to go there, echoing his comments to the Inquisitor in DAI: "Many Orlesian peasants dream of travelling to exotic Rivain. But not everyone wants to go to Rivain!") and expresses that there is significant danger to continue to build bodies out of lyrium, she changes tactics.

Her second tactic is that it gives them power--she implies that he is limited and not enough for being only of the Fade. If he follows her, he will be the best of both, like she is. She clearly already sees herself as above him.

Her third tactic is pure emotional blackmail: "I need you. I will give in to the tyrants without your wisdom, and having your counsel in the Fade is not enough. If you don't go against your own nature and desires, people will suffer...and it will be your fault for not being by my side."

She doesn't say those things outright, but they are implied by everything she is saying. He says again he doesn't want it--that it is madness and that she must be aware of that despite her ignoring any suggestion that she actually is. All she is seeing is power and her desires: for Solas to do what she wants him to do.

So he agrees. Because she is his friend, and she says she needs him.

As far as core wounds go, this one is a doozy. It's absolutely brutal, because it's irrevocable. It's a point of no return. It's the first in what will become millennia of regret, of her ignoring the Wisdom she coerced out of the Fade to do what she wants regardless, to continue to push him to twist his nature under the guise of the greater good, to continue to cede to Elgar'nan and enable the very tyrants she promised him to balance.

This regret was deeply painful for me to watch. The nuance here is easily lost if people don't understand abuse tactics and how this sort of manipulation is used. It also serves to bind Solas to Mythal, an enormous sunk cost fallacy in the making--once he has made this choice, there is no going back.

And you see Solas curled in on himself in anguish and regret from the trauma of taking a physical form. It is in deep, painful contrast to his open, free wingspan as a spirit of Wisdom; he will never be the same.

"Have you created what we need?" From the outset Mythal is framing this as his idea as much as hers, when from everything he says, that is not true.

"With this, the proper ritual will sunder every Titan from its spirit. But you must know, those severed dreams will certainly be driven mad, a disembodied blight of pain and anger. It--is--awful what we are doing."

"And the only way to end this war."

Again, Solas offers the wisdom she claimed she took him from the Fade to listen to. He warns her, again, of the danger. He does not want to do this. Just like he warned her of the earth quaking when they made their bodies--they, the Evanuris, started this war by taking what they wanted regardless of who it hurt. He never wanted to participate in it, but now he is in the middle of that war. Mythal was one of the initial perpetrators of this war; she brought Solas into it against his will because he loved her, and now he's stuck. He is past his point of no return. And she is still using his heart against him. She has isolated him from everyone he knew in the Fade; he has no one to support him. He. Only. Has. Her.

This is another classic abuse tactic; if the person being abused has no one else, they will continue to enable that abuse even if it harms others, because they cannot see a way out. If you don't do what I say, it will destroy our children, our family. If you don't do what I say, this war will consume all you have, and you no longer have a home to return to. If you don't do what I say and hurt yourself and the Other, more will suffer, and it will be your fault.

Again, his posture, curled up and broken, appearing to cradle a now-tranquil Titan beneath him--and be embraced in return. This is an interesting artistic choice here, one that aches. It speaks to the depth of his own wound and how much it rent his own spirit to follow through with Mythal's wants here; that it sundered him from his spirit as much as it did the Titans.

"You cannot do this, Elgar'nan! You swore we would give up our commands when this war was over!"

"Our people need our leadership. If you are unwilling, leave."

From Elgar'nan, this is expected. From Mythal?

"Our people must rebuild. And we must help unite them."

Solas, once again, betrayed. He put his trust in Mythal and in the other Evanuris to follow through with their promise. Everything he has done thus far is poisoned in this moment; had the Evanuris indeed stepped back rather than stepped on necks, perhaps Solas could have healed, found a way to live with what he had done, maybe even to make amends. But this starts his war anew--and Mythal is standing with his enemy despite her promises, despite every wheedling word she's used to get what she wants from him over the centuries and longer, despite him turning from everything, everything, he loved to love her. This is the moment where he understands that he has only been a tool to her all along.

"So we did not fight for freedom, but to conquer this land and our own."

Let's pick apart Solas's words.

So we did not fight for freedom: He truly believed that he was fighting for freedom, that no matter how bad it got, that he could bear it for freedom.

But to conquer this land: Literally the land, I think, because of the Titans. To subdue them at all costs. This was not what he came for, but he believed Mythal.

And our own: Our own, our people, more spirits we gave bodies for this war, more who may not have wanted to leave the Fade. Our own, our people. To Solas, he is one of them. In this moment, he realises how much Mythal holds herself above all of them.

Elgar'nan's words are all too telling: "We fought to win. And now the Evanuris are as gods. I do not answer to Mythal's annoying lapdog."

They all--all--see him thus. As her pet.

Because he is. She has, until now, controlled him utterly with her manipulation and "need" for him.

"The people are afraid. They must believe in something." Mythal does not even stand up for Solas here; she does not reject Elgar'nan's perception of him. All she does is further distance herself.

The people are afraid: The Evanuris made them. They are as controlled as Solas and more.

Elgar'nan asserts, "They need strength."

"And wisdom." Mythal has the absolute gall to attribute this to herself, when Solas is the source of the wisdom she "needed" for so long. (Belated addition: And another level here: she may also be saying again that she needs him, but doing so in a way that doesn't require her to stand up for him directly. Honestly, fucking gross.)

"They need gods who can protect them," Elgar'nan continues.

"We are not gods. You will learn that." Solas's voice here is pure defeat. The scales are falling from his eyes.

"Every lapdog holds a wolf inside," says Elgar'nan.

Solas knows that Elgar'nan's "protection" is hollow, based on subjugation. And I think in this moment, he learns that Mythal's is based only in her belief that she is better than those beneath her, who cannot possibly handle themselves.

So her lapdog becomes the Wolf.

"I was not certain you would come."

Solas's opening words in this regret show the distance between them already and how much he has realised he does not know this woman who called herself his friend.

And her response is to instantly blame him.

"You are the one who walked away. I never turn my back when my friend needs me."

In putting this post together, this line absolutely sucker punched me. I've watched these several times already, but the absolute audacity to blame him for standing up for his principles for the first time against all her manipulation? Hoo.

She blames him for doing just that, "turning his back when his friend needed him." She needed her enabler, and when he stopped, she turned bitter. Just like any abuser.

That he goes straight into "The Evanuris seek the magic of the Blight" instead of engaging, honestly shows that he's still Wisdom. That is one battle that is unwinnable, trying to stand up against an abuser's bullshit like that.

"Impossible," she says. "The Blight is safely sealed away forever."

Gaslight, girl boss, gatekeep.

"Though I wish I could believe you." [You have lied to me so many times.] "I have sensed the breaking of the wards."

And her answer is patronising. "I will investigate your claims." [I don't believe you.] "If they forget the danger of the Blight, I will endeavour to remind them."

Solas knows this is futile. "What if, instead, you left the Evanuris and remained with me? Do you not wish for freedom from this struggle?"

He asks her, again, to veer from the dangerous path. He desperately wants to believe he was not completely wrong about her, I think. If she were to leave, he could heal somewhat, for not having so thoroughly misjudged her character.

Am I enough for you? Was I ever enough? is the unspoken question here when he asks if she will remain with him.

And in return, he gets back even more patronising bullshit and hubris. "Be at peace, love. I will stop them."

(Can you tell Mythal pisses me off?)

She calls him love. What an unbearable insult after everything, to go on telling him she cares for him whilst ignoring his wisdom--the very wisdom she coerced him into leaving the Fade so she would have by her side--and consolidating her own power at the expense of his people.

"As you must," he says. "The Blight is our mistake."

Might be unpopular, but I do not think Solas bears a split fifty-fifty custody for whose fault the Blight is. Could he have said no about the dagger? Could he have pushed then? Maybe. But by this point, he'd already had probable millennia of complex trauma and a deeply abusive codependent relationship, probably also a level of magical bond. Like, sorry, Trick and BioWare, if you want to retcon everything you shared with us in Inquisition about being in service to the Evanuris ("You have given yourself into the service of an ancient elven god! You are Mythal's creature now. Everything you do, whether you know it or not, will be for her.") AND Mythal casually overriding her servants' will and Solas burning her vallaslin off his face and leaving a scar and devoting himself to freeing the elven people from the Evanuris's domination, fine, but I don't buy it. Even if there was no magical compulsion on him all this time, that is immaterial.

Complex trauma literally rewires the brain to survive. She spent lifetimes programming him, isolating him, stripping from him every bit of agency he had. This man did not have the capacity to say no.

When our no is trampled even for a few months or years, we stop trying to use it. We comply. We, as mortal humans, cannot begin to comprehend the compounded trauma of millennia of this happening with the stakes of worlds in the balance. Solas, quite simply, has lost the entire ability to consent. No one of us can even imagine.

Yet he managed to walk away from her somehow, when she chose Elgar'nan. This man is stronger than anyone gives him credit for.

The dagger was clearly Mythal's idea. The plan to sever the Titans from their dreams, clearly her idea. To end the war. For there to be "peace". For there to be "freedom". Except that never came.

His loyalty was to her and to their people; hers was only ever to herself.

And again, she walks away and lets Solas suffer.

What a good friend.

[screaming from the general direction of Scotland]

She put her trust in monsters instead of her oldest friend, and the monsters ate her face.

Anyone surprised? I'm surprised. (I'm not surprised.)

And on top of this, Mythal finally, finally giving Solas one tiny breadcrumb that she had any principles remaining? I think that cemented his bindings to her forever. Not just that the Evanuris killed her, but why they killed her: because after millennia, she listened to him.

For someone that deep into trauma and abuse? Well. We know what happened.

It cannot be overstated that with his imprisonment of the Evanuris and the Blight, Solas saved the entire world. The entire world. Every living being in Thedas had a chance at life because of him. Only because of him.

Morrigan says it early on in the game, that for all the consequences of the veil (which, it also must be said, was not supposed to be global!), "his imprisonment of the Evanuris was just. Had he not done so, all of Thedas would have fallen to the Blight."

And the world has hated him for it.

He woke after sleeping for millennia, exhausted by this immense act of magic, to discover that not only had it gone horribly wrong, but that it had cost his people everything. That Tevinter had come in and enslaved them, released a trickle of the Blight after breaking into the Black City, used so much blood magic that the veil itself all over Thedas has been in tatters--not least because in releasing the Blight, the survivors had had to face down and kill the dragon thralls (archdemons) of the Evanuris, rendering five out of seven of them mortal, and with their deaths over the intervening centuries, the veil had grown threadbare with only two Evanuris sustaining it.

The risks were catastrophic, the price unbearable.

Everything he'd ever done to protect the world could still come crashing down...and in a sick twist of fate, he would be alive to see it.

And, shockingly, so would Mythal.

Mythal, whose fragment has just been chilling in a swamp for centuries in human form. Mythal, whose abuse of him lasted through the entirety of the world's history. Mythal, who, due to the Evanuris's betrayal and her abusee's abandonment, has become little more than retribution.

Mythal, who could have set him free at any point in all this time and didn't, because he was hers.

Mythal, who is the only remaining person with the power to do what he feels must be done.

I find it interesting that they chose not to use the post-Inquisition dialogue at all. Interesting also that they used Mythal's voice actor and not Flemeth's. This feels like a retcon, but we'll go with it. Whatevs.

"I knew that you would find me soon enough. You need the power of a god, the strength that I alone still carry."

She's still asserting her own godhood.

He's not having it. "The blighted Evanuris will soon break free from their prison. I must make a stronger one that can contain them."

He's not wrong. Not even a little bit wrong. And he's also right that she won't help him. Why would she? She never has.

"While the prison is important, it is not the only goal you seek."

"Why should I not tear down the veil? And bring back immortality to all the elven people? They deserve it."

And this is where I get even more raging, because Mythal's answer is this: "The elven people of today do not deserve to see the world they love torn apart to salve your conscience."

I'm sorry, what?

The world they love? The world that has offered them nowt but literal genocide for thousands of years? The world where in Tevinter, they're chattel slaves and worse, fuel for blood magic without a thought? The world where in the "civilised", slaveless nations to the south, they're either confined to alienages and subjected to repeated genocide (that's what a "purge" is, if anyone isn't clear on that) or the remnants of the Dales, who are the descendents of another enormous genocide? The world where elven magic has been pillaged but elven mages in human settlements are confined to Circles and abused or made tranquil or also genocided by Templars invoking the Rite of Annulment? The world where they're called "elf savage" and "rabbit" and "knife ear" and cannot participate in Thedosian religious life because the Chantry erases every instance of elves from even the Chant of Light? The world where it took the Inquisitor installing a perpetrator of genocide on the Orlesian throne (both Celene AND Gaspard fit this bill) and either having Celene reconcile with Briala (Briala and Celene's relationship could be a whole other post. Boak.) and blackmailing them to give a single elf lands and a title? That world????

What the fuck, Mythal, die faster.

I got real mad there for a second. I'm fine. I'm fine!

Solas, once more, simply says, "I must fix what I have broken. I am sorry."

More than she deserves, frankly. Man's a mess, but at least he tries. She's been chilling in a swamp and pulling puppet strings for ages and abusing her kids. Nudging history like it's some sort of hobby, because it has always just been pieces on a board to her. They have never been people in her eyes like they are in his.

"As am I, old friend."

Aye, get tae fuck. Friends don't treat friends the way you treated Solas. The closest thing to an apology Solas will ever get from her is that she pretty much just lies down and dies when he comes to kill her. And she still won't set him free before he does. Has to continue to twist her own knife.

This scene has me riled.

And this takes us back to the beginning of this post.

To her essence showing up to release him from her service.

In what is, to me, the least accountable, bare minimum non-apology (she never actually says she's sorry) I've had the displeasure to witness in a videogame, with Solas literally cowering before her and offering her a knife to kill him with since this is the first time he's seen her actual, non-Flemythal face since she died.

This was never a friendship of equals. Ever.

She got one thing right. She did break him. But she knew it all this time, and she never took a single step to put it right until pushed. Her corner of the Crossroads, which he built for her in the desperate hope that she would show a glimmer of the friend he believed she was, notably has a pair of wolf statues. Both beheaded.

She's spent all this time punishing him further.

He never went to visit her? I wouldn't either. I could not blame him.

This has gone to an angry place. So let's conclude with what is, I think, the entire point.

Grace.

"I lied. I betrayed you."

"I forgive you."

Has anyone--anyone--in all his long life, ever said those words to him?

I'll say that again: has anyone--ANYONE--in all his millennia of existence, EVER said those words to him?

I forgive you.

Mythal certainly didn't.

The world certainly didn't.

He has shouldered all the blame of an entire pantheon, a war that broke the world, a blight, everything, always, and while people have come alongside him to help him, I am not sure anyone (certainly not anyone he cares about) has given him the grace of forgiveness.

The beauty of this final scene for me wasn't just Ilaana, wasn't just Ilaana reuniting with the man she has loved for a decade who has spent all that time pushing her away so he couldn't--in his mind--inevitably poison the love of the only person who has seen his spirit and cherished it without twisting him.

It was the slow realisation that Rook trusted his love enough to try.

It was Morrigan, who carries all Mythal's memories and her own of Flemythal's abuse and machinations, who responds to Rook's question about her views of Solas with: "Or do you mean to discover if I would stand directly against the Dread Wolf, were there a need? I shall aid you in any way but that. What has passed between Solas and Mythal...I beg you: do not ask this of me again."

Morrigan knows. She will not raise a hand against him. She will not try to stop him. She will let the veil fall. She will not fight with Rook. Because she knows this being whose memories she holds has harmed him enough.

Solas, in these final moments, even before Mythal shows up to gut punch him, realises all these people have somehow, somehow, banded together to help him.

Not work for him.

Not be his agents.

Not worship him.

Not follow him blindly.

To help him. To help Solas. To help him, after all this time, take the first steps towards himself. Towards his own essence, so long twisted into something he never sought or wanted.

The Inquisitor and Morrigan certainly understand what it's like to be seen only as the symbol others raise in your image. Rook will learn that someday, but is still naive.

But even with that naivete, willing. Present. Able to put aside being a chess piece on his board. Able to see that they would never have succeeded without his help. Able to trust two people who know him better than they ever will.

Able to offer him grace.

And when they produce Mythal's essence, how that must brutalise him; to think that perhaps all this has been to let his abuser kill him back. He clearly thinks that's what's happening. He breaks. He fawns. He offers her the blade that has caused so much pain.

Her release of him is the bare minimum she owes him. I've already railed about that.

What is transcendent here, transformative--it is the mortals.

The mortals offering grace to a god who never wanted to be a god.

It's them together showing him a way out of an endless cycle of trauma and abuse. No one of them alone is enough. Without Rook, they wouldn't have Mythal's essence; Morrigan can't go get it, and she can't do what is needed because she's not actually Mythal, only has her memories. Without Morrigan, who can stand there with those memories but from the compassionate perspective of someone who has watched them in horror from the outside. She's far from objective, but she can do this one thing to help.

Without the Inquisitor (romanced or not, still someone he let know him as he most desperately wanted to be known--the Fade-walker, the Dreamer, the humble mage who desperately needed a friend). The Inquisitor, who kneels before him to comfort him. Who sees his hurt and responds.

If romanced, without Lavellan, who kneels to repeat back words he once shouted at the Nightmare in the Fade after Adamant.

"Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ema mar din." (Speak, traitor. Your victory was fruitless. Your pride gives way only to your death.)

To which Solas replied, "Banal nadas."

On the surface, nothing is inevitable, but can also be taken to mean that nothingness is inevitable, entropy, the final void. (Thanks to Dumped, Drunk, and Dalish for this excellent long post on this scene.)

And here is Lavellan, kneeling beside him with those words. "Banal nadas ar lath, ma vhenan."

Nothing is inevitable but the love we share, my heart.

I see everything you are, all you have done, and I love you. I forgive you for the pain you have caused me. I understand, see, and forgive.

No one has ever shown him grace like this.

Ever.

And Solas, this shattered man, sobs.

He sobs.

Someone has taken the trouble to isolate his voice in the video. This man has nothing left. And, after millennia of this trauma cycle repeating over and over, he is finally free to make the choice he wants to make. It's not the outcome he wants; that has to be said. He doesn't want to leave the veil up. He doesn't want to be bound into prison forever with no hope of seeing the world he fought for ever return.

But he is done.

In the Fade after Adamant, there is a cemetery with the worst fears of every companion scriven on shrines and stones. Solas's is dying alone.

After all of this, he is willing to face just that--and would, if not for her.

She knows his deepest fears. She has faced the demon Mythal made of the man she loves. She has given unwitting comfort to the spirit of Wisdom still within. She has seen his sweetest self. Nurtured him, cherished him, and has been nurtured and cherished in return.

Does she want to leave the world behind and spend eternity in a Fade prison? Probably not her first choice. It's not my Ilaana's; she has been on his side all this time, dreaming of a world where the spirits she loves can be reunited with the world in peace and ready to make that happen.

But it was not supposed to happen this way. It did happen this way anyway.

He has sacrificed everything--everything--including his own spirit self, his soul, his life. How could she not offer him what no one ever has? A friend forever, a lover willing to walk the din'an shiral by his side, a companion to ward off the forever alone.

Together, the two of them can begin to heal, with their counterpart who has always seen through the burdens of the world to the soul within.

This is the only thing I've ever had any faith in. Grace I know you carry us Grace And it was such a mess Grace I don't say it enough Grace You are so loved

[sknyuz]

afterglow — oh beomseok

synopsis — when you meet beomseok again under glowing neon lights, an unspoken understanding still hangs between you. now playing — no one noticed - the marias, afterglow - taylor swift pairing — oh beomseok x reader genre — angst, hurt/comfort, ex-childhood friends, set before the boxing ring scene, when he started to hang out with the delinquents at school cw — mentions of past child abuse (implied), cptsd, underage substance use (vape, alcohol), lyrics are not in order do not mention it i did my best to use them to the best of my abilities wc — ~2.7k part of the “i can fix him!” trilogy

masterlist | join the taglist | 400 follower event

note: finally got my last fic out for the i can fix him series <3 DECIDED to make it part of my 400 follower special as well last minute, so i am so sorry if the lyrics are not super accurate to the scene, it was a last minute decision to add it in !! ugh this has been in my drafts for so long and i am so so happy to finally present this to my beomseok girlies and besties that just want our pookie 2 be happy </3

reblogs appreciated !!

you’re not even sure how you ended up at the club in the first place.

your friends had dragged you out, something about blowing off steam. a little rebellion. just some innocent fun—maybe not all legal, but not dangerous either. fake ids, a connection to a staff member, someone’s cousin’s cousin who knew the bouncer.

the bass hits like a second heartbeat. lights strobe overhead, too hot inside, drinks already sweating in flimsy plastic cups. you hang back by the edge of the crowd, eyes sweeping across the room, not expecting anything—

until you pause.

you think you recognize someone.

maybe i lost my mind

a lanky figure by the bar: jacket sleeves pushed up, fingers toying with a vape, flicking it up to his lips. he exhales slow, leans into the words of a girl nearby, all relaxed like he belongs here. and something about the way he moves catches you. familiar. almost.

but something’s missing.

you almost brush it off—but then he turns just enough, and your stomach twists.

no one noticed

oh beomseok?

no one but you

the boy who used to trail behind you with a book bag twice his size and bruises on his wrists. the one who hated loud noises and flinched too easily, glasses always slipping down his nose. his glasses, that’s what was missing. aside from that, this was definitely your beomseok.

but it also… isn’t.

oh beomseok is vaping, the cloud lingers near his lips as he nods along to whatever some guy’s saying beside him—loud, messy, clearly drunk. but he looks tired, worn-in, like a pair of shoes that don’t quite fit anymore. you watch him reach into his hoodie and pull out a wad of cash, handing it to one of the boys next to him. the kid beams and rushes off to the bar, probably to order another round for the whole group.

you’re already moving toward him, and before you know it, you’re grabbing onto his wrist.

he yanks back, eyes flashing. “what the fuck, man?” his voice is sharp, defensive. but you don’t falter.

may have lost it (i need a virtual connection) / i have lost it (be my video obsession)

you grab his wrist again—tighter this time. your grip says you’re not messing around. “cut the bullshit, beomseok,” you mutter, dragging him through the crowd before he can resist again. his steps stumble behind you, but he follows.

you find a quieter corner near the back wall, where the bass thuds dull and distant. red lights flicker overhead. the air smells like sweat and smoke and too-sweet liquor.

you shove him—not hard, just enough to get his back against the wall.

his eyes narrow, guarded. but you catch the flicker there. the hesitation. like something in him recognizes you.

“what are you doing here?” you ask, voice steady, jaw set. “what a reunion, beomseok-ah.” you add, sarcasm dripping from your tongue.

his eyes meet yours—and something in them falters. like recognition stumbles into him too fast, as if it knocks the wind out of him, his mouth parting just slightly.

“y/n…?” he says your name like a secret. like it’s been buried somewhere he didn’t think anyone would find, “w-what are you doing here?” hi s voice falters.

“don’t flip it on me,” you mutter, arms crossed. “i asked first.”

he hesitates, “i’m just—out with friends.”

“friends?” you scoff. “i just watched you pay for their second round of drinks. didn’t see them offering to chip in.”

he doesn’t reply, just shifts his weight from one foot to the other like the floor’s suddenly unstable.

you exhale through your nose and grab his wrist again. “come with me.”

if you believe me i guess i'll get on a plane / fly to your city excited to see your face

you take his hand, pulling him away from the pulsing speakers and sticky floors, past bodies pressed together and clouds of cigarette smoke, until you’re outside, his hand in yours, feeling the warmth of it despite the cold air surrounding you as you lead him out into the neon-lit streets. the city buzzes around you, but it feels like you’re in your own little bubble, just the two of you. the breeze hits you both, a sharp contrast to the heat of the club you left behind.

you walk for a while, not really knowing where you’re headed, but you’re not rushing. you don’t really want to leave him alone, not like this. somehow, you end up at a 7-eleven, the bright lights of the convenience store a welcome change from the chaos outside.

without thinking, you grab a hangover drink off the shelf—something to steady the night, to offer some kind of relief. you pop it open and walk over to him, pushing it into his hand.

his eyes avoid yours, his face turned away as if he’s trying to shut himself off from you. it’s painful to watch, but you’re not letting him slip away again. “here,” you say, voice softer than before, “you should drink it. you look like you need it.”

he doesn’t respond right away, the silence between you both stretches. beomseok doesn’t really push you away this time around, his fingers brush the bottle briefly, but it’s clear that something’s stopping him from facing you completely.

you watch as his fingers tighten around the can, but he still doesn’t look at you. the silence hangs heavy, and you can’t stand it anymore. you step a little closer, your voice a little more urgent.

“beomseok… talk to me. this just isn’t you.”

no one tried / to read my eyes

he finally turns his face towards you, his eyes avoiding yours, but his words hit harder than you expected. “it’s been years, yn. you don’t know who i am anymore…”

no one but you

you feel a pang in your chest, but you don’t back down. you step forward, placing a hand on his arm, more firmly this time, almost desperate.

“no,” you push, your voice strong and steady. “i do know you. the real you. and this—this isn’t it. you’re hiding behind all of this. i don’t care what’s changed. i care about who you are, beomseok.”

he flinches slightly at your words, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face before he quickly masks it again. it’s like he wants to fight back, but the weight of your words is enough to make him pause, just for a second.

come on, don't leave me it can't be that easy, babe

the silence stretches between you two, but you can’t let it hang there any longer. your voice softens, quieter now, like you’re afraid to speak the truth but know you need to.

“is it... is it your father again?” you finally cut through the quiet, your gaze searching his face for some sign, some clue.*

you see how he tenses, the tightness in his posture, and something inside you shifts. without thinking, you slide your arm over his shoulder, pulling him just a little closer to you. your hand gently rubs his arm, offering him a kind of grounding warmth that he hasn’t allowed himself in a long time.

hold me, console me and then i'll leave without a trace

“oh, beomseok…” you murmur, your voice full of quiet empathy. the words are more than just a sigh; they’re a soft acknowledgment of everything he’s carrying, of all the weight he’s been hiding behind that tough facade.

his body stiffens at first, but slowly, you feel him relax under your touch, just a little. the act is simple—just a touch—but it’s enough to make him stop pretending, if only for a moment. he doesn’t pull away.

beomseok breathes out shakily, and you can feel the weight of it, like he’s been holding his breath for far too long. he doesn’t say it out loud, but you can tell he needs this—needs you to be here with him.

i pinned your hands behind your back, oh / thought i had reason to attack, but no

slowly, almost as if he’s too exhausted to fight it, his head leans in to rest on your shoulder. his breath is warm against your neck as he buries his face there, gripping the hangover drink in his hand, the can trembling slightly as he exhales again, shaky and uneven.

you feel his breath against your skin, the tremor in his grip, and your heart tightens. there’s so much he’s been holding back, so much he’s been too afraid to show. but right here, in this quiet moment, you can feel the weight of his vulnerability.

it's so excruciating to see you low

you don’t pull away, just let him be, your hand still gently rubbing his shoulder, grounding him, offering the comfort he’s too scared to ask for.

just wanna lift you up and not let you go

and like for the first time that night, you finally recognize the beomseok you used to know, soft and unguarded, the one who used to cling to you when everything felt too heavy. the boy you always tried to protect. just like this.

“hey.” you let him pull back just a little, enough to lift his head. your hands find his shoulders gently, steady, coaxing him to face you. “look at me.”

his eyes meet yours, still guarded, still tired. but you hold his gaze like you mean it.

“i like when you’re like this,” you say, quiet but certain. “real. not all… tough. not pretending to be someone else.”

no one but you

your grip on his shoulders tightens just a little. grounding him.

“you’re kind,” you murmur. “maybe a little soft-hearted. but that’s not a bad thing, beomseok. don’t forget that.”

his breath catches, like he doesn’t know how to believe you yet. but he’s listening.

you pause, jaw tight, gaze unwavering. “the guy i saw back there? in the club?” you shake your head. “that’s not you.”

he doesn’t say anything right away. just stares down at his shoes, shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s bracing for something. you can see the way his fingers curl tighter around the bottle, the silence stretching between you.

then, slowly, his eyes flick up—not fully, just a glance from beneath his lashes. hesitant. almost like he’s scared of what he’ll find that he had already buried deep if he really looks at you.

like he doesn’t think he deserves to.

you feel your chest tighten a little. you keep your hands on his shoulders, steady.

i need to say, hey / it's all me, just don't go

“beomseok-ah,” you say, softer now. “it’s okay. i’m not going anywhere.”

you give his shoulders a light squeeze. not to rush him, just to remind him you’re still here. he still won’t meet your eyes all the way—just glances up at you from under his lashes, like holding eye contact would crack something open.

you let out a quiet breath. step a little closer.

“you don’t have to pretend now,” you murmur. and then—gently—you reach up and wrap your arms around him, loose at first, around his shoulders. your chin rests near his collarbone, the way it used to when things got bad.

“we can go through it again,” you whisper. “just like when we were kids.”

he doesn’t move right away. but he doesn’t pull away, either.

you shift your arm a little, meaning to hold him tighter—and that’s when you notice it. something hard presses faintly against your ribs, caught between you. your fingers reach down, curious, and brush against the edge of plastic.

you pull back slightly, just enough to glance down—and there they are. tucked halfway out of his hoodie pocket, half-crushed but unmistakable: his old glasses.

your chest tightens.

he brought them. he’s still carrying them, even if he refuses to wear them. like some part of him can’t let go.

you don’t say anything. you just ease them from his pocket with careful fingers, slow enough that he barely stirs. and then, without asking, you guide them gently onto his face. he flinches a little at the contact—like he thinks you’re going to push him away—but you don’t.

instead, you adjust them on the bridge of his nose, the way you used to when they always slid down. the frames sit slightly crooked, lenses already smudged.

your hand lingers at the side of his face for a beat longer than it should. then, quietly, like it’s second nature, you ruffle his hair.

“there,” you whisper, “now you look like my beomseok again.” pulling him back into your arms.

he doesn’t say anything.

chemistry 'til it blows up, 'til there's no us

and then—quietly, without meaning to—his vision starts to blur. tears prick at the corners of his eyes, sharp and sudden. he tries to blink them back, but it just makes everything worse. the glasses fog a little—like they remember him too, the edges of the world softening, slipping out of focus.

and all he can see is you. or maybe not even really you—just the curve of your shoulder, the messy strands of your hair, close and steady in front of him. the warmth of your body against his. you’re the only real thing in his whole line of sight.

he swallows hard, his throat tight. and then—slowly, like he’s scared to even do it—his hands come up, just barely brushing against your back. he holds you like you’ll slip through his fingers if he’s not careful. but then something snaps inside of him,

went off like sirens, just crying

his fingers twist into the fabric of your clothes, and suddenly he’s clutching you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright. his shoulders shake. the sob hits his chest first, then his throat, and then he’s just—crying. really crying. a full-body kind of ache, like he’s been holding it in for years. like he didn’t know he was allowed to fall apart until now.

it's on your face, don't walk away, i need to say

his shoulders tremble under your hands, full-body shakes like he can’t keep it in anymore. “god, y/n...” he whimpers, voice cracking as his thumbs dig into your back, desperate. like if he lets go even a little, he might fall apart for real this time. you lift one hand, slow and steady, and thread your fingers through his hair, brushing it back gently, soothing him the way you used to when you were kids. like muscle memory.

hey / it's all me in my head

“you’re okay,” you murmur, voice barely there. “you’re okay. i’ve got you.”

tell me that you're still mine / tell me that we'll be just fine / even when I lose my mind

and that night, beomseok doesn’t go home.

if you can even call it that—home.

he hesitates at the thought of it, like the word tastes wrong in his mouth. like it doesn’t quite belong to him. he doesn’t go back to that house—the one with slamming doors and cold hallways, where bruises are worn like silence and silence weighs heavier than words. the place that still smells like fear and waiting and things left unsaid.

instead, he goes with you.

i don't wanna lose, i don't wanna lose this with you

no questions. no second-guessing. just your hand holding his, steady and sure, like a lifeline he didn’t know he was allowed to take.

it’s quiet in your room. the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel heavy. beomseok lies on his side, curled up with his head pressed gently to your chest, right where he can feel the steady rise and fall of your breathing. like a grounding rhythm. like safety.

i need to say, hey / it's all me, just don't go

your arm stays wrapped around him, thumb tracing slow lines over the curve of his shoulder. his glasses are gone—left on your nightstand, lenses smudged and forgotten. his eyes are swollen and tired, puffy from all the crying, but they’re finally closed.

he doesn’t say anything. he just lets himself rest there, breathing in sync with you. after the blinding glow of the club and the alcohol, the neon lights and too many people who never looked close enough—this is what feels right.

meet me in the afterglow

and for once, beomseok feels like maybe he’s safe, maybe he’s allowed to stay, that he finally belongs somewhere—loved, protected, not needing to put up an act. that someone sees him.

if you liked this, i appreciate a reblog as well :3 it helps my works and writing spread to other ppl very effectively !!

💬 do u guys ever think that maybe, just maybe, if beomseok had this type of support system in the show, he wouldn’t have ended up that way? just someone to hold him, console him, and just see him, yk?

note: will be one of my last uploads before i go on a short break (to work and finish requests lol) so i will be back very soon, just no new fics released for a couple days ^^ i aim to be back by tuesday or wednesday next week (may 13 or 14) so thank u for giving the blog so much love and see u again soon !! and if ur still reading this, reblog with a photo of ur favorite whc boy <3 (hehe i might use it for something ;p)

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[2demondogs]

Can I request headcanons of Arthur in his teen years? I was looking at that photo of him and Mary and just, wow,,, he is a whole baby.

YES I love the little guy... Hate to be the buzzkill (no I don't, that's my hobby) but I can think of exactly zero happy things to write. This kid was going the fuck through it. My hands are tied.

Also only tangentially related: The wiki makes it sound like Mary came before Eliza which doesn't make any sense to me, I always thought Eliza was first. I was like "teen? Mary? what is anon on about that grown ass man had a 401k" lol. I know R* was lazy and used the in-game models for the "younger" photos of everyone but IDGAF I will happily live my lie.

CW for past child abuse, implied CPTSD, malnutrition, questionable parenting decisions, canonical parent death.

Everyone is emotionally fucked up between the ages of fifteen and seventeen, but Arthur is truly everywhere. All emotional triggers make him angry or scared, which in turn makes him angry. He was in the streets for a couple years between his father's hanging and going with Dutch and Hosea, and there's little probability of surviving that without being a mean bastard.

Arthur is already fairly scarred from petty fights and other trouble, plus Lyle. The scar on his chin is from his father, same as Lyle's was from his father. Once he's been with Dutch and Hosea for a while, he's also formed many stretch marks from being fed regularly and well; even if they fed him too well at first, and he spent most of those initial months sick to his stomach. The lankiness was stubborn to shake until he was healthy enough to put to work hauling things around camp and ransacking places.

Patterns formed in childhood can end up persuasive life-long issues. When Lyle taught Arthur anything, he taught him how to steal and stick people up, how to look bigger than he really was, how to win an argument. His mother wasn't alive long enough to teach him much at all. Arthur could care for himself at a young age — partially because he was taught to, rest because he had to — but anything past keeping himself alive was for him to figure out solo. Now, he's emotionally stunted in a lot of ways on top of the baseline disconnect he feels with other people.

Arthur goes through an extremely stubborn phase. In comparison, John's bullshit at age sixteen is going to be relaxing for Dutch and Hosea. You can't even tell this boy the sky is blue without a rebuttal. John mostly insults and spits, but Arthur actually makes arguments, which is a hundred times more annoying and likely to get him shot if he starts it with a stranger. Dutch started it but Arthur is lowkey the reason Hosea went full gray.

His memory from before Lyle's death is pretty much darkness. There are places, pet dogs, single summer days from each year after he began remembering anything at all. It only comes to him with concentration, though. The rest is gone.

He has little idea who Lyle was, less of an idea who his mother was, and no idea who he is himself. All he has left is his father's hat and photos he had the foresight to take from the house before the bank claimed it. It leads to him to a life-long habit of keeping things from people he cares about in case they die, too, or other immortalizing them. It frustrates him, because Dutch and Hosea can recall so much of their childhoods and yet they are much older. He's not mature enough to understand that sometimes men lie to avoid questions, even ones from friends.

Arthur never takes to hunting, at least when he's young. In truth, he feels bonds build themselves much easier with animals. Out loud, he lies and says he doesn't like all the guts. Hosea teases him for being soft, while Dutch projects and teases him for being easy to squick out. They can both say what they want. Arthur knows how nice it feels to not have to talk to his horse, or to Copper, or to the stray cat outside the general store; to be judged on whatever it is that only animals pick up, which is apparently much more flattering than whatever it is that's made other people dislike him so much all his life.

[ficbrish]

Chapter 3 - Shar's Little Helper

Rating: Explicit 18+ only!

[Ao3 link] | [Previous chapter] | [From the beginning]

[[TW/CW: Alcohol, drugs/opiates, drug use, implied drug habit, domestic violence references, cptsd, suicide ideation, masturbation]]

Summary: Vistri wasn't expecting Mr. Ancunín to be her dear friend's cousin, but life is always full of bitter surprises.

Mr. Ancunín kicked off his boots and laughed heartily at the full irony of his life. He'd finally retired to his chambers late in the wee hours of the next day and threw himself backwards onto his bed with exhausted abandon.

Astarion had no idea that his encounter in the woods had been with the baroness, his only remaining family’s dearest friend—Not that his lineage had all died out, leaving just himself and the Shadowhearts as the only leaves of a withered tree; pretty much everyone was still alive! They just refused to lend him lodgings. Or answer his letters. Some even refused to meet his eye… He quite literally could not afford to fall from Jenevelle’s grace.

At least, not a second time.

Maybe he could make things better, marry the blasted widow and run off with some—not all (he wasn’t that cruel)—of her large fortune. Thinking that was rather a good idea actually, he made a mental note to ask Jenny for further details of her friend’s estate.

Her estate… Gods! Is that why they’d met in those woods?

Through his mind’s eye, Astarion saw the baroness on all fours. Her skirts lifted up over her waist, kneeling in last season’s pile of fallen foliage. An echo of that incredible feeling shivered through him, as real as if he were burying himself in her now.

He laughed some more. Gods! He must have drunk more than he thought! Astarion had quite forgotten his cousin’s penchant for sneakily strong punch. He closed his eyes, resigning himself to the fate of a massive headache come morning.

And there she was again behind them.

Blast it! he thought, his hands dipping into the fine breeches he was too tired to remove. Might as well enjoy the memory if it won’t go away.

On the other side of those woods, Vistri was just arriving at her estate; steeling herself to face her housekeeper’s nagging displeasure. But to her surprise, all Jaheira had to say as they greeted one another in the main hall was, “Are you headed to bed?”

Dragging herself exhaustedly up the grand stairs, Vistri answered sardonically, “To kill myself.”

Jaheira was so used to her mistress’s dark, hyperbolic wit that, over time, it grew beloved. Her mirthy cackle spread through the marbled hall, sounding like the war cry of a villainess in a children’s play. Its hearty vitality spoke of rising with the sun after a full night’s sleep. In contrast, her mistress struggled not to set.

Vistri couldn’t remember going to sleep that day, or any of her dreams. She just woke up to more darkness.

Realizing she’d passed an entire day in sleep’s grasp, Vistri flopped over and groaned frustratedly into her pillow. Her body ached for activity, but there was no point in leaving bed if the day was already ruined. Lost time disoriented all her senses.

Despite the rumbling in her belly, he was her first thought before food. That stranger in the woods. And then she recalled with creeping dread that she’d met him again at the ball.

The wrong person died! Vistri was still the same old baroness from before their encounter in the woods, and her anonymous lover, only alive in the secret of her heart, was no more. He was Mr. Ancunín now. Lady Hallowleaf’s bloody cousin!

Turning onto her back again, she grabbed another pillow and screamed into it.

At least now that she had something to grieve, the black she draped herself in every day wouldn’t feel as false.

Despite herself, Vistri relived the arrogance in Mr. Ancunín’s expression. All she could see were those eyes of his, red like a stab in the back, teasing her with the weight of their secret. Seeing them so clearly led to her feeling the weight of his hands from when they twirled across the floor. Her skin still burned, and she hated it.

But oh, how it burned! A slight parting of her thighs was all it took for Vistri to discover the wetness sticking between them. The loss of his anonymity slipped away from the grasp of her heart as a base excitement captured it. The fact that her stranger was no longer lost, just the estate over, turned her breath heavy. No longer unknown, but a relation to Jenevelle. Someone she would likely see again.

And for that moment, it didn’t matter that it was impossible for them to repeat their tryst. The very prospect of his acquaintance enthralled her with the idea that it could happen again. That his body was so close in proximity when it could have been anywhere else in the world.

If only he could take her one last time, maybe it would be enough to stop the poison in her soul. The salve of her own fingers was not enough to soothe such an ache. Even when she tried to mimic his touch, tracing his strokes, it wasn’t enough. Unsatisfied and spent; she worked at herself tirelessly until her skin and sheets were uncomfortably damp, and it was undeniable that only his hands could undo her so sweetly.

Having restlessly slept a whole day and night through, she rose early the next morning. Still without a proper lady’s maid, the old one of whom she’d fired at her late husband’s funeral, Vistri was dressing into her riding clothes with the help of a housemaid.

“Out of hibernation, I take it?”

Vistri’s mouth lifted at the corners. When she was a small child, Jaheira often referred to her as “Cub”. So anytime she slept too much, Vistri was always rewarded with some variation of, Are you done hibernating?

“Ready to seize the damned day,” she murmured before turning to the sound of her housekeeper’s voice.

Jaheira was standing in the doorway, all crossed-arms and smug.

“I warned you to stay out of Lady Hallowleaf’s punch bowl. The village doctor keeps some of it around for disinfectant.”

“Rest assured, then. My insides must be positively sparkling. Which… If you think about it, was probably necessary considering the late baron used to inhabit them.”

Jaheira cleared her throat, masking her evident shame. Fine ladies were not supposed to talk about such things! At least not outside of the confines of tea rooms in cheeky allusions. But her discomfort dove past Vistri’s breach of conduct and good sense, because her commentary was in regard to the baron. There was so much anger under the loyal housekeeper’s shame; crimson rage that flowed like hot blood at all she’d witnessed and that her lady had endured. 

“If you’re looking for a rise out of me, ma’am, I assure you, you will not get it,” she affectionately argued, “Look to the sun if that is what you seek! Seeing as you’re already moving about at the servant’s hour.”

Vistri smiled, knowing everything that lived beneath her companion’s complaints. It was the closest she’d ever gotten to experiencing a doting mother.

“But why would I do that when your own darling visage is blushing like the sky?”

“Do not think you can charm me,” Jaheira warned, obviously charmed, “I am the one who taught you all of your tricks!”

“Then they’re all perfectly tailored to your taste,” she smirked.

“All the pity to you.”

Suddenly, through an instant, silent truce, laughter was no longer a sign of concession between them, and they allowed themselves to share a bit of it.

“Baroness Harper of Reithwin,” the butler announced later that afternoon in the Shadowheart’s drawing room.

Lady Hallowleaf and her cousin sat lazily inside like a pair of lounging housecats. Vistri stepped in awkwardly next to the butler.

“Darling!” Jenevelle cried out, “How good it is to see you again.”

The overzealous warmth in her friend’s greeting turned Vistri’s smile into a grimace. The consistency of such greetings lately was a little unnerving. Exuberant affection was worn well on other people, but it clashed with Jenevelle’s temperament. Whereas others melted with comfort, a happy Jenny was a bitter Jenny. A true mark of contentment in the viscount’s daughter was a biting wit shining under a gloomy expression.

That's why Vistri loved her so.

Her friend’s change could then be accounted for in one of two ways: Vistri, in her unusual state of “grief”, was being patronized, or there was something deeply wrong with Jenevelle.

She stood up from the sofa to greet her once more unexpected guest, but her cousin didn’t do the same. He didn’t even look up from his book.

Just as their dance concluded, Mr. Ancunín began to shun her like the rest of them. The song ended; he’d bowed, she’d curtsied, and then when she looked up, he was already lost in the crowd. Later in the evening, she happened upon him and he appeared to purposefully avoid her company. It seemed now that whatever she’d done and however she’d offended him, he would continue to ignore her.

For some reason, that line of thought made the muscles in her face rather heavy.

Jenevelle cleared her throat.

Astarion's eyes languidly dragged from the page to drift upwards. Rather than looking questioningly at his cousin, they stared ahead and captured hers. Red like a heart. Vistri was determined not to meet them. She hadn’t been expecting Mr. Ancunín, but seeing him here now formed her resolve. One all too easily broken.

“Oh, hello!” he said as though he hadn’t just been giving offense, “What can we do for you?”

Indelicately, Jenevelle ripped his book out of his hands and smacked him with it.

“Ow! What in the hells was that for?”

“You are being very rude to our guest!”

Seeing anyone fuss over her comfort made Vistri so deeply uncomfortable that, even though it was from Jenny, she stepped in to Mr. Ancunín’s defense just to cease her dear friend's altruistic efforts.

“It’s all right, darling! Consider it retribution for my attitude the other night. What do you say, Mr. Ancunín? Shall we wave the white flag of peace? Or would you prefer we fall into an endless cycle of vengeance?”

He smirked in pleasant surprise and rose to his feet.

Bowing his head with a bit of a flair, he said, “Let us call a truce. For if my dear cousin is ready to assault me with a book for the minor infraction of not greeting you fast enough, I cannot imagine what your retribution would be for having slighted you.”

“Then it is nice to see you again, Mr. Ancunín,” she greeted.

“And I can say the same to you.”

Jenevelle looked a little annoyed, but sighed to mask it, “Well, now that we have that settled, shall we not take our seats?”

Whereas before Jenevelle had been lounging on the sofa with her cousin, she now joined Vistri on the settee.

But before she spoke, she addressed the servants in the room, “If you would please clear out, I would like to speak privately with the baroness.”

Vistri felt the color leave her face; from a blue-ish periwinkle to a silvery lavender, most like. She found that Jenevelle’s words had a similar effect on Mr. Ancunín. His usual pale skin turned a blanched white.

What reason could Jenny possibly have for speaking to them both without servants in the room?

A curious look, clear in one second and gone the next, flashed through Jenevelle's expression like lighting as she observed the discomforts of her friend and cousin. 

Once the three of them were truly alone, she addressed Vistri directly. Mr. Ancunín didn’t even need to be there apparently. It seemed Jenevelle only wanted to avoid the inconvenience of another argument. Like it would be too much of a bother to ask him to do anything and then have him whine about it.

“Why did you come to our ball the other night?”

Probably because she’d been bracing herself for other accusatory words, Vistri was completely shocked by the actual question.

“Excuse me?”

“Might I remind you that you have just recently begun—” and with that, Jenevelle noticed Vistri’s dress.

It was not black.

It was somewhere between burnt orange and maroon, had no discernable style to it, and looked quite hastily made. More than simply drab and against all propriety, it was rather rancid.

“Good gods, woman! What on Toril are you wearing?”

Vistri sat proudly with her chin held high, her tone was lightly amused, “Curtains from the baron’s study.”

Mr. Ancunín choked on his sip of tea.

“Curtains?!” Jenevelle laughed, drowning out the sound of her cousin’s coughing struggle, “Curtains from the baron’s study?!”

“I had Jaheira throw it together just this morning. At first, I’d dressed myself up in riding clothes, but they’ve all been dyed black too!—How dreary! If I’m not allowed a bit of color now and again, I might as well be buried too.”

“That is awful!” her friend continued chuckling.

Basking in frivolity, Vistri accidently locked eyes with her unmasked stranger. The expression in them made her think she might never breathe again. They glistened with a reminder of their nakedness, like he was ready to take another bite and eat her up entirely.

“Careful cousin,” Mr. Ancunín warned, “It seems the baroness is trying to distract you from seeking an answer to your previous question with a bit of humor.”

Ungracious cad!

“I was meaning to answer it just now,” Vistri insisted. She wasn’t.

“Then pardon my poor judgement,” he said with casual violence, “Please do go ahead.”

Just like she’d told him in the woods, when he was but a stranger, the truth was too long, too complicated, and too deeply private to really explain. So, instead of descending into a puddle of wracking sobs while regaling a viciously haunting tale, Vistri simply answered, “I was desperate to get out of the house.”

Which was true. Just not the whole story. So of course, it landed on the other’s ears as something not quite true. But they were all too blue in the blood to press matters further, and thus had to accept it.

“And now you are here in a dress that isn’t black,” was as far as Jenevelle went to challenge her answer.

“And here I am in a dress that isn’t black,” she nodded.

Jenevelle took a sip of tea, processing that information.

To fill the silence, Vistri turned to make an innocuous comment to Mr. Ancunín, only to find him back in his book. Although, judging by the look in his eyes, he did not appear to be reading.

Turning back to her friend in frustration, Vistri suddenly blurted out, “There is nothing to mourn! Why should I be confined to a state of mourning when there is nothing to mourn?”

“Well, don’t go barking at us about it,” Mr. Ancunín commented insensitively, “We’re surely not the ones forcing you into it.”

He flashed her a mischievous look, just like the one he’d given her at the ball. Was that yet another reference to their tryst in the woods? Vistri felt a flutter in her stomach before it sunk.

“And yet the two of you are confronting me over breaching it—In private like you are my father setting me right!”

“I’m just worried about you is all!” Jenevelle shouted.

Mr. Ancunín shifted uncomfortably. Not only were both women undeniably in some sort of rage; it was the kind that could only occur between people who knew and loved one another immensely. The intimacy of it was too much for him to bear, like he was intruding on a private moment between a devoted husband and wife.

“Why is everyone so worried about me of late? It’s not as if you were all worried before!”

There was a vein pulsing in Jenevelle’s brow, “Because lately you have started acting rather rashly!”

A blush appeared on Mr. Ancunín’s cheeks. Perhaps a show of guilt, but Vistri was too jaded to believe such a man was capable of the feeling. Even if it was, Jenevelle seemed not to catch it. Whatever he was truly feeling, he himself paid no mind to. For the only internal state Astarion was acutely aware of having at the moment was a sudden need to leave the room.

Vistri tried to speak, but couldn’t. Every time she tried to form a word, her lips would start to quiver, and she would have to still them before they acted in some intolerable manner. Perhaps if it were just her and Jenny in the room, she could have unleashed the storm inside, but Vistri would have preferred to stop breathing over allowing Mr. Ancunín to bear witness to such a thing.

Jenevelle was too set in her mission, to save her friend from whatever ruin was obviously brewing within her, to take pity. Like a hound, she was unable to stop closing in on her blooded prey. So, it was left to Mr. Ancunín to try and change the subject.

“Oh, poor dear. You must be positively thirsty! Jenevelle, should we not let the servants back in to fetch the baroness some tea? It is not a very good show of hospitality to sit here and imbibe while our guest remains too parched to speak.”

His eyes glinted unusually with the kindness of his gesture. If Vistri wasn’t already dazed, she might have been quite thrown by it. He didn’t just rescue her, he’d given her time to pause. A polite reason not to speak until she’d had a bit of tea.

But why would he do such a thing? It forced to her recall the affection she’d had for her stranger and put together for the first time, truly, that he and the man who sat across from her were one and the same.

She had no idea her hands were shaking until after they’d been served and she lifted the tea to her lips. The cup clinked against its saucer, sounding out a high, nervous music from her lap.

“Are you quite all right?” Jenevelle asked, softer than before.

Vistri took time to empty her cup before nodding, and admitting, “I promise, there’s no need to worry. Although… Now you mention it, I am feeling a bit queasy for some reason.”

Mr. Ancunín and Jenevelle exchanged a look.

Then Vistri gave a weak joke, “Perhaps it is the late baron calling me back to Harper House.”

With a pitying look, Jenevelle placed a hand delicately on Vistri’s knee, “Why don’t I fetch you a tincture, petal? It should make you right again.”

She nodded, and Jenevelle reached into her pockets for said tincture. After pouring her another round of tea, she pinched a few droplets into the cup and stirred them with her own spoon.

“There. Now drink it up.”

Vistri’s questioning look met Jenevelle’s confident one. So she followed orders, and swallowed the remedy, pressing the rioting of her heart down with tea.

The bitter taste of it was made up for in a moment by an astounding sense of peace washing over her. Likely the tincture’s effect. Probably some type of laudanum. She forgot to ask.

Having observed the way Lady Harper went from wearing her shoulders as earrings to melting into the settee, Astarion insisted on trying a bit of it himself. Whatever those drops were, they were obviously not the typical household remedy, and apparently precious enough to be kept tucked away on his cousin's person.

Jenevelle refused, “You are not feeling unwell!”

“But I could feel better, and that seems like a good bit of fun,” he whined, pleading.

Their voices blended into a buzz, and Vistri found herself empty. For once, not caring about anything. So light. Free.

“It’s hard to come by!” Jenevelle bitingly explained, “So it must be used sparingly.”

The remainder of their visit passed by without incident. The cousins got over their fuss once Jenevelle relinquished where to procure her enticing elixir. Shar’s House of Healing, somewhere in town. Mr. Ancunín was new to the area, so the name was unfamiliar to his ears, but Vistri’s perked up. It was a place she was aware of solely through the dark whispers of servants when they didn't think anyone was listening.

That kind of information was something Vistri would usually ask more about.

But she was rather tired that day. Too tired to pay it any mind.

Let alone care.

She could hear the birds outside, muted through the glass windows. Vistri leaned back and shut her eyes, blocking out all else to better focus on their song. She was breathing deeper, slower than she had in years.

And then, much to the shock of her companions, and even more so to the servants in the room, the baroness drifted off to sleep. Teacup still balanced in her hands.

Instinctively, Astarion grabbed the delicate porcelain out of her slacked grip, sparing it the eventual ravages of gravity.

Upon turning back to his cousin, she gave him a rather far away look.

“Right. I forgot it does that.”

He watched her absently take another sip of tea.

[Next Chapter]

[playttimes]

Sttoner, and Severely menttally ill in the pan. i do ttheattre preformanceS att tthe main church in SoutthweStt altternia. tten SweepS. he/him.

I follow from @websitestar

This is an IC blog for Sollux Makara, a reboot of an old blog i ran back in 2018. He currently lives with his pseudo girlfriend, Aradia Serket, who I also rp @lucky7wice (i suggest following her, theyre a duo)

Rules + All other accs

CW: Sollux has a lot of intense religious trauma that will be brought up a LOT, he also suffers from intense CPTSD, psychosis, intrusive thoughts and Dissociative Identity Disorder. This blog will have a LOT of religious themes. He is not a perfect victim and can lash out out of fear, though that won't be super frequent. Everything will be tagged accordingly, but I can't tag things like religious trauma or implied parental abuse (this does not apply for more explicit things, those will be tagged)

[explodingsaturn]

sometimes i think my intense mental illness is something that only developed once i hit later teenage years but i just found my diary from 11-12 and that was. clearly not true (should've expected this tbh i was traumatised)

[justseveralowls]

I’ve spent over 16 hours in two different ERs and I’d like to vent

CW: Doctors hospitals, chronic illness, incompetence, female hysteria, humiliation, mental health stigma,

What follows is my original post made on Thursday, there is a update as of today at the end and the news is not all bad. This is made to spread awareness talk about an issue I feel is way too often ignored and most importantly let other people feeling this they aren’t alone.

So. I have ehler danlos syndrome, celiac, endometriosis, fibromyalgia, and an (so far) otherwise specified seizure disorder. So basically I am a medical dumpster fire. Getting a or in my case several diagnosis has been a long terrifying and grueling for both me and my partner. We have enountered many doctors and nurses who were kind attentive willing to listen and knowledgeable about my Miriad of admiditally uncommon diagnosis. But today I am so incredibly hurt, frustrated, angry and scared and I want to put this out there because this is part of the many problems that chronically ill and disabled people face everytime they walk into a doctors office, emergency room or even out in public.

So I look sick, it’s obvious and it’s been obvious for a long time. I sit at around a six to seven on a pain scale most of my life, which sucks. I have chronic nausea and weight loss that makes me weak and thin in a sick way, which also sucks. But by far the hardest thing is hoe many people refuse to take my seriously. So today after three months on a waiting list I saw a gastroenterologist. I was scared, underweight, sick and tired. I wanted answers like always and let my partner drag me into a beige fluorescent room to try and make some sense. Overall the doctor was nice, but put heavy emphasis on my past of CPTSD from repeated abuse, and implied that my weight loss and severe gastrointestinal problems could be “just a side effect of my anxiety”. That was dehumanizing to say the least. Because I know I’m traumatized, I’ve sat in therapists offices and cried, I’ve pulled myself together, fought addiction and anorexia and I know that I’m healing. I know it’s his job to look between the lines but I also want to just have a chance to be understood, and not dismissed as a psych case.

Later today I had an episode of vomiting and loss of consciousness, over all not great stuff. So my partner in their amazing sense of love and compassion took me to th ER. Because that’s where you’re supposed to go when you’re scared, sick, hurt, in danger and don’t know what to do.

My experience there was by far the worst I’ve ever had. My vitals were highly abnormal (high pulse at rest, low BP, and low pulse ox). I was having neurological symptoms related to my seizure disorder and instead was given a barrage of tests that had nothing to do with why I was there, the condition I repeatedly told them I had, or the worrying vitals. So after two hours a head CT and useless blood work the ER doctor looked at me and my partner (who was forced to wait in the car in 94 degree weather) and told me I was fine and dehydrated.

I’m a nursing student, I’m new, I’m a novice at the most, and I have a lot to learn. But never could I imagine having a chronically patient, with abnormal labs and vitals with numerological involvement be given saline and discharged. My partner and I were terrified because we didn’t know what else to do. I needed help. I needed answers. I needed them to hear me. After me panicking my partner told me that we should try again. Because doctors are here to help us, and if your scared and there’s something wrong they took an oath to help.

So I called the nurse who was awesome, he went and got the doctor and I was ready to make my case. My partner at this point as well as me were terrified frustrated and close to tears. And this ER doctor after hearing our concerns, my history (with chronic illness and anorexia) proceeded to throw up her hand and as’ my partner “what they her to do”. This was shocking but sadly it doesn’t end here. The doctor proceeded to insist that I was fine and the situation was both non emergent and out of her hands. I responded in a passive way because at that point I was scared triggered and exausted. And I asked what she thought I should do”. And the words that came of her mouth hurt me and made more angry than any four syllables ever has.

“Psych referral”

Now let me something straight. I am a survivor, I am working in me healing, I am growing and changing for the better. I take my meds go to therapy and work everyday to get a little better. But this woman who obviously hadn’t read my chart which denotes not only my diagnosis, psychological history, and notEs from speacialists on the severity of my physical condition has just implied that I’m crazy. This was horrible but 8 could see how it would seem that I am overreacting but, due years of gaslighting, medication being forced on me to cover abuse and trauma, I hate being called that. It’s not a real term, nor does it help anyone, nor does it doing anything but make me remember the nights I spent wondering if that word was me.

In one visit, one person managed to dehumanize, humiliate dismiss me and maybe risk my life based on the fact that 8 wasn’t worth the time it took to read my chart.

It so incredibly weird to have to say this but I as a queer, gay, chronically ill, Latin person am in fact still a human being WHOS painand concerns deserve as much respect as anyone else. We all deserve to be helped and heard and people like this are one of the many reasons that I and so many others are scared to ge5 help, scared to tell the full story, or scared to speak up. This kills people. This is killing people. And this is why I in all my chronically glory and working so hard to advocate and move forward in medicine as a whole. Because nobody deserves that. Because I didn’t deserve to sit in an ER terrified and be told I was crazy. Because my partner doesn’t deserve to be dismissed and mocked for being scared. Because I nor anyone else have to prove I am sick enough or disabled enough to be worth someone’s time.

I hope anyone who reads this and understands even a little. Who’s been through it, whose family and partners have been through it know that this is not okay, that this not your fault, and that you are by no means crazy. That the people who make feel like burden or an annoyance are the problem. Because you deserve to be heard. I m hoping everybody’s doing okay, I’m hoping your journeys are treating you well. Because as always no matter who are, where you are and what you’re feeling you are not alone, you are worthy and I believe you.

***Update**

I later went to a larger hospital not in my home town, and through a long stay in the ER got a formal epilepsy diagnosis, given a anti convulsants drug, and overall treated like a human being. I now have contact with their epilepsy unit and have the tool and education I need to start this part of my chronic illness journey. I’m exhausted and getting used to knew meds but am highly grateful for the good doctors out there, the nurses who listen and the partner who was angelic enough to be with me through it all.

[explodingsaturn]

ahahaha so funny when abusers get to walk around no consequences in my vicinity and i get to dissociate 24/7 and want to be dead <3

[marauderswolf22]

and also, i hope you didn't mention that, the person writing this thinks that it was a 'humorous adventure' for aziraphale? that would mean that aziraphale was oblivious to the seriousness of the whole situation, so armageddon? please, can we stop forgetting his work? but also, please stop forgetting his trauma. i feel like some people really just see "good guys that are bad but it's the victim's fault that he doesn't escape", and aziraphale as the soft, silly guy while crowley is strong and 'had the courage to break from hell/he has fallen so he understood that heaven is bad'

people need to understand, that they are different, have different personalities, different stories and different circumstances, so (surprise) they will not to the same thing and act the same way

and also the last thing: the jokes and how they were acting in those scenes, were literally a part of an act. they wanted to match the other's type of behaviour. so how they were acting, is (again) literally how they think the other one would. so it's not like aziraphale doesn't respect crowley's trauma. he understands it to the point that he knows how crowley acts while being reminded (i couldn't find a proper word) of it

Making jokes and laughing about a frightening experience does NOT mean someone does not appreciate the gravity of a situation. Quite the contrary, in fact - it is a very, very common way of processing trauma.

In fact, I can't offhand think of any traumatized people I know who haven't make a joke about their traumatic experience/s. It's a deeply normal, human thing to do.

(And please don't try to tell me Aziraphale seeing Crowley be kidnapped and then being hit over the head with a crowbar (?), violently kidnapped himself, and dragged to hell, and then seeing the awful people and place Crowley had been stuck with for the past 100k+ years, witnessing the usher being murdered in cold blood before his eyes, and wondering if the same thing might happen to him, and/or if he hell was going to discover his and Crowley's secret, not to mention seeing for probably the first time what exactly the thermos of holy water would have done to Crowley if he'd used it, wasn't traumatic. First of all, that just is. Second of all, look at his irises. He was probably having a bit of fun - not surprising considering how relieved he was that the holy water didn't work on him and hell appeared not to have caught onto the deception; of course you'd be a bit giddy - but he was also terrified and scarred and angry and disgusted and I don't even know what else.)

There's a reason the rates of depression found among comedians are off-the-charts. And it's not because humor causes depression (we know it actually alleviates it). It's because traumatized people and people with mental illness (I mean, the Venn diagram between those groups is basically a circle, but y'know) gravitate to humor. It is one of the most powerful weapons we have to ward off despair. Humor can save us when nothing else can.

It can also stop you from wanting to punch someone when you're really, really angry. I propose that we can see smoldering contempt and fury and outrage and disgust on Aziraphale's face at the end of the scene, hidden just under that cheeky grin. It's some masterful acting work by Tennant, so many emotions going on at the same time.

Also - may I point out that Crowley loved Aziraphale's jokes about the whole thing. Aziraphale knows how to cheer Crowley up. A big part of the reason he was so sarcastic in hell was for Crowley, to score some points against the people who have been oppressing him for millennia without him ever being able to answer back. (And also he was acting that way because he figured it was how Crowley would act and he had to be convincing. If he'd gone in there and hadn't been 100% confidence and swagger, hell would have noticed something was off. They're paranoid, and Beelzebub, at least, is smart. No flies on that one. Heh, heh. Did Aziraphale overplay it a bit? Maybe. But the deception worked, so clearly his approach was correct overall.)

And finally: Don't tell me Crowley wasn't having a little fun with all this, too. His laugh on the bench was sincere:

He could arguably also be accused of overplaying it a bit with the neck cracking (which I don't blame him for; I would have done the same - but I don't see anyone getting mad at him for having a little fun the way they did with Azi):

And he LOVED getting to breathe fire at Gabriel & Co.

Which is exactly as it should be. :)