#eclipses are usually bitter and cruel

[starheirxero]

do you think there's some sort of intense isolation in being one of few kind variants of a mean character. and vice versa. bc i do

[endless-ineffabilities]

eclipsed (Aemond Targaryen x f!reader)

You loved him. He didn't feel the same. Until everything changed – but is it too late?

main masterlist ▪︎ word count: 1.7k

a/n: I envisioned modern Aemond as I was writing this. Also, the usual taglist is sadly not included for this spontaneous oneshot. I trust that the angst will find you if it's meant to be!

Aemond Targaryen was once everything to you. 

Your guiding light. Your sun and your stars. You knew you had a heart, you knew it was beating true, because it worshipped him with such a ferocity that would put a devotee to shame. Nothing and no else compared. You would have been content to simply exist in his orbit, to watch as he lived and loved.

He loved you too. You knew that. But as a brother loved a sister, as a friend loved a friend. 

And all kinds of love were meant to appear dim and pale in comparison to what he felt for Alys.

He doted on her. She was everything to him. She was his guiding light, his sun and stars. You could never compare. 

It was an unbearable truth, one you had tried for too long to ignore, but there came a time when you reached your breaking point. One evening, you asked to meet him. You knew you were about to ask for so much more – you were asking for something he could never offer.

You were asking to be seen. 

You could no longer sit idly by, watching the sun shine on the world while the moon was left in the shadows.

When you confessed, his reaction was as callous as it was predictable. Aemond laughed in disbelief, as though your words were at the end of some punchline. “Okay,” he said dismissively, “I love you too.”

“No.” You shook your head, looking away. You had to bite your lip to keep the tears from falling. “I love you, Aemond.”

“Yes, I know,” he smiled, taking a step closer, grimacing when you put your hands up to stop him from reaching out for you.

“I’m in love with you.” You had to take a deep breath before you continued. “I love you. Maybe you knew all along. Maybe you didn’t. But you have to know that.”

There it was, suspended in the atmosphere between the two of you, before the inevitable crash and crumble. 

“I don’t get it, darling.” He exhaled roughly, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You love me?”

“What don’t you get?” Your voice came out sharper than intended, but you couldn’t be anything but honest. 

“I… this is… but you’re like a sister to me!” 

“Oh, fuck off, Aemond.” You waved his words away, trying to dampen just how brutal they stung. Just how much they cut deep. 

“Well, then,” he sneered, his eyes darkening with a defensive anger. “Thanks for that.”

“Is that…” You met his eyes once more, that heart-wrenching shade of blue. “Do you have anything else to say?”

His gaze hardened. “I’m with Alys.”

“I know that.”

“I love Alys.” He spat the words out like they were meant to be a scolding. Didn’t you know this? What exactly were you expecting from him? That he would cry and take you in his arms? I love you too… I love you too… I always have…

“I know that too.” The first bitter tear fell down your cheek. You inhaled sharply, wiping at your face with the back of your sleeve. You began pacing in an attempt to get a hold of your nerves. You did not want to have a complete breakdown in front of him. But then again, the worst has already happened. How much more humiliation could there possibly be?

“I’m sorry, darling.” His voice softened as he reached for you again, and this time, when you resisted, he simply caught your arms gently and pulled you against him. “Truly, I am. You have no idea.”

He held you, however long you needed to be held. He was good like that, he always has been. But it felt like a cruel comfort – mere scraps of affection when you wanted the entire feast. 

“I do love you, you know,” he murmured into your hair, his voice soothing as it broke your heart anew. “Always, I promise.”

And he did. 

But it was never going to be enough.

You were the moon to his sun, forever watching from a distance, knowing you would never truly share the same sky.

Aemond rarely saw you after that night. A week passed, then two, then a month. The silence between you stretched longer than he had expected, but still he thought nothing of it. Perhaps you were simply giving each other space, allowing the awkwardness to settle.

But then, when he tried seeking you out, there were no responses. He found out from a mutual friend that you had moved to another region. There was a promising work opportunity, apparently, one that had been too good to pass up.

You just conveniently failed to mention this to him. 

You drifted from his life without warning, and Aemond was not prepared for how deeply it would hurt. How lost he would feel. He was out of orbit, reeling, mourning the ghost of someone who still lived, but seemingly no longer wanted anything to do with him.

Alys was not blind to it. But there was nothing she could do. She could only watch as Aemond’s light began to dim, gradually fading until it barely reached her. She had no choice but to stand by as he became a hollow version of the man whom she thought loved her so fiercely.

An entire year passed before Aemond saw you again. 

It happened by chance, or perhaps some cruel twist of fate. You were there, with your adorable flushed cheeks and smile as bright as the sun. He did not know what to expect, but there you were, hugging him like the long lost friend he had become.

You looked better than ever, while he was barely getting by. 

“You look like you could use some sun, Aem,” you remarked lightheartedly, noticing how pale he got. “I can’t believe it’s been so long.”

You appeared carefree, but all Aemond could feel was the weight of the past year pressing down on him. 

“You left me,” he spat out before he could help himself. It sounded like an accusation, like a wound that never healed. How could you?

“I did leave, yes,” you say tentatively, confused by the venom in his tone. “But I don’t think I left you.”

“What would you call it then?” His tone was bitter, bordering on desperate. 

“I moved away,” you shrugged. “It happens. Friends move away, they move on.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” he muttered. His hands clenched at his sides when what he truly wanted was to reach for you.  

“I had to,” you replied, your voice quieter. “It was the only way.” 

Aemond frowned, his gaze fixed on your face, searching for something he couldn’t quite name. "The only way for what?"

You spoke again, slower, “It was the only way to get over you.”

He was hanging by a thread, and right then, he became untethered.

“I loved you, Aemond,” you continued. “And I couldn’t just stay there and watch you be in love with someone else. I’m sorry, but I had to leave. It was the only thing I could do to save myself.”

Your words hit him like a blow. He stared at you, the one who had been everything to him once – his anchor, his confidante, the one constant in his life. If only he hadn’t been too goddamn stupid to realise it then.

You reached over and squeezed his hand. He looked down and without thinking, he interlaced his fingers with yours. He felt you hesitate for a moment – a brief second where you considered pulling away – before you gave in.

The old you wouldn’t have given it a second thought. The old you would have held onto Aemond with everything you had, believing that if you just stayed close enough, he’d realise what was right in front of him.

But you were different now. Everything was different – no sunshine, just grey – because you said that you loved him.

Loved. Not anymore.

The roles were reversed, and maybe he deserved it. The bitter irony wasn’t lost on him as you pulled your hand away, offering him a soft, understanding smile. 

“And Alys?” you asked suddenly, your voice gentle but curious. "How is she?”

He stiffened. A part of him thought that staying with Alys was his path forward, the thing that would make sense of the chaos in his life. But it hadn’t. Not really. 

“We’re not together anymore,” Aemond finally admitted.

You blinked, visibly surprised. “Oh. I’m… I’m so sorry, Aemond. I didn’t know.”

He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. It wasn’t… meant to be.”

You studied him, your brows furrowing in concern. “Even so, I know it’s hard,” you said softly, your voice full of empathy. “Breakups are… They’re never easy. But there’s someone out there for everyone. I truly believe that. I mean… I found someone, didn’t I?”

His entire body tensed, his breath hitching as his mind tried to process the full weight of your statement. You had found someone. You had moved on. There was the proof, hitting him right in the face. 

He had lost you. For good.

“You… found someone,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it out loud would somehow make it more real.

“Yes. I did.” There was a tenderness in your voice, but it only twisted the knife deeper. “He’s wonderful, Aemond. He’s kind, supportive. I didn’t think I’d find something like this after – ” you paused, glancing away for a moment before meeting his gaze again, “after everything.”

“Are you in love?” The words came out before he could stop them, his voice tight with something like despair. He hated himself for asking, for needing to know, but the question was out there now, and he couldn’t take it back.

“Aemond.”

“Can you tell me this, at least? Do you… love him?”

There was a long pause, as if you were choosing your words carefully, and when you finally spoke, the answer was clear. “More than anything.”

You had become someone else’s sun. Someone else’s guiding light.

And he was the moon, forced to watch and drift in shadow. 

For the first time in his life, Aemond Targaryen understood what it meant to lose everything.

[cece693]

Enemy (Edward Cullen x Werewolf GN! Reader)

Summary: Imprinting was supposed to be a good thing, not for you though. Fate seemed to be mocking you by having your imprint be a leech—Edward Cullen, to be more specific.

tags: gender-neutral reader, reader is a werewolf, post-Eclipse, Edward is your imprint, mentions of wanting to be dead, no established relationship

You were on enemy land, yet you didn’t care. Let them come. Let them do their worst. Maybe it’d be a mercy, a reprieve from the torment you’d been living. The trees around you stretched endlessly, their branches clawing at the sky like the fingers of ghosts, haunting you with every step you took into Cullen's territory.

Imprinting on a vampire—it should’ve been your death sentence. An abomination, they called it. The whispers, the disgusted glares, the sneers from your packmates. Your family wouldn’t even look you in the eye. So, why not wander where you weren't wanted? Why not provoke those you should be avoiding?

A snap of a twig echoed through the forest, and you halted, every muscle tensing. You knew he was there. You always knew. It was a curse, this damn imprinting, a cruel joke from the universe to force you to feel everything for the last person you should.

“Edward,” you spat, the bitterness in your voice impossible to hide. “I know you’re watching me. You may as well come out.” Silence stretched and then he emerged—graceful, quiet, like a shadow having been given a form. His golden eyes were fixed on you with such an intensity, it made your blood boil.

“You shouldn’t be here.” he said, his voice irritatingly soft, like he actually cared about your wellbeing.

A laugh escaped you, the sound harsh and bitter in the stillness. “And where should I be, huh? With my pack? My family?” You took a step toward him, your fists clenching at your sides. “Because let’s be honest, they’d prefer me dead. I imprinted on a vampire, Edward. That makes me as good as a traitor to them.” You forced yourself to meet his gaze, defiance burning in your eyes. “And you—you hate me, too. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

Edward’s expression tightened, but he didn’t break eye contact. That infuriating calm, as if nothing could shake him. It only fueled your anger. “I don’t hate you.” he whispered.

“Oh, don’t lie,” you snapped, shaking your head. “I know you do. How could you not? I broke up your happy little life with Bella, didn’t I? You were supposed to be with her, not be tied to…” You gestured toward yourself with a bitter laugh, “…whatever this is.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—pain, perhaps regret—but it was quickly replaced by his usual composure. “Bella and I were never meant to last,” he said with great honesty in his voice, catching you off guard. “We loved each other, but things changed. We changed. It was my choice to let her go.”

“Your choice?” You scoffed, narrowing your eyes. “Then why are you even here, Edward? Why bother with me? I’m just a mess—your sworn enemy, for crying out loud. If you hate this as much as I do, then do us both a favor and end it.”

He moved so quickly that you barely registered the motion. One second, he was standing a few feet away, the next he was in front of you, his hand gripping your arm with a surprising gentleness that left you frozen. His eyes bored into yours, a fire burning in their depths. “I told you, I don’t hate you,” he repeated, his voice edged with a hint of frustration. “And you’re not a mess, not to me.”

“You’re…” He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he searched for the right words. “You’re my imprint. I didn’t ask for this, nor did you, but here we are. And I…I can’t stand to see you like this. I won’t lie and say it’s easy,” he admitted.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. We can’t change what happened, but we can try to make something of it. Maybe we start with being friends?"

You barked a laugh, though it was devoid of humor. “Friends,” you echoed, tasting the word like it was foreign. “You think we can be friends?”

“It’s a start,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “And maybe, in time, it can be more. If we both want it to be.”

The vulnerability in his words caught you off guard. You expected pity, maybe even indifference, but not this—this honest hope that things could be different. You let out a shaky breath, feeling some tension drain from your shoulders. “Alright,” you murmured, the fight leaving you. “Friends…We can try.”

A small, tentative smile crept onto Edward’s lips, and for a moment, warmth spread through your chest, easing some of the ache that had settled there. It wasn’t a solution, not by far, but it was a beginning.

[haunted-rose]

Rays of Sunlight Peeking Through the Thick Fog.

Hello there! This is my first time posting a fic on Tumblr, so please forgive me if I mess up any formatting. This is a fluffy SKK as parents one-shot. The premise is Dazai allowing his adopted daughter to draw on his bandages, after he finds her dissociating after a rough day. So please be mindful of that. This piece is also dedicated to the amazing @stinkyme who gave me the last bit of courage I needed to post this. Stinky is the absolute best, and there aren’t enough words to truly convey how wonderful she is!

Also in true BSD fashion, SKK’s daughter Halina gets her name from halina poświatowska, one of the most important writers in modern Polish lit. Also one of the meanings of Halina is sun-ray, which you will get as the fic progresses. I will also be posting this on my ao3! With all of that said, let’s get to the meat!

Walking through the door of his apartment, the ambiance felt off. Not in a way that would set off the alarm bells in his head from having survived this long, but something wasn’t right. Placing his shoes in the genkan, slipping off his sandy brown trench coat, and allowing the door to softly click shut behind him; Dazai was left alone with his thoughts. 

“Tadaima,” Dazai calmly calls out; with only his echo greeting him back. He patiently  waited for the soft bell-like voice to reply to him with an okaeri, but the response never came. He knew he wasn’t alone in the apartment, as his dress shoes had been placed next to blue canvas hightops with doodles drawn in pen. A text earlier had told him that she had gotten home safely, and that she had no plans to head out. Another text had alerted him that his Slug wouldn’t get home until early morning; something about needing to help Ane-san, and not to wait for him for dinner. 

Walking further into his home, he noticed traces indicating his Sunshine’s presence. Her shoes neatly placed in the genkan, her favorite slippers missing from its resting spot, and her bubblegum pink school bag leaning against the wall. 

Yet, for all that was there to show her presence, the apartment felt empty of it. Soft footsteps couldn’t be heard dancing along to cheesy American pop songs. No spontaneous melodic laughter was lingering throughout. The bitter smell of her preferred brand of Earl Grey wasn’t wafting, filling their home like something akin to perfume. 

Before panic could truly set in about the paradox in front of him; the mystery solved itself as he made his way into the kitchen. Sitting at their small table was his Sunshine; however, instead of being filled with relief at seeing her, worry washed over Dazai. Approaching his sweet girl, Dazai purposely made his steps loud, so he wouldn’t scare her. Yet, his loud steps caused no reaction from her; all he was met with continued silence. 

His Sunshine was now an eclipse. Or perhaps a black hole, a cruel entity that had drained away all of her radiance. 

The site before him filled him with sorrow, as he knelt beside her. Clumps of blonde curls surrounded her face like a curtain, looking as if they had been sharply pulled from her still existing pony-tail. Resting his hand against her cheek, he was met with the sensation of dried tears. Her vivid hazel eyes usually filled with so much warmth were glazed over; a fogginess indicating his Sunshine was dissociating. 

“Oh, my sweet girl, I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He stood quickly moving to get to the freezer, “it’s going to be alright Sunshine.” Dazai wasn’t sure if the affirmations were for him or his sweet girl. 

They were for him, as she wouldn’t be able to register his voice with how deep she appeared to be dissociating. 

Kneeling in front of her again, Dazai muttered a quick apology. Gently grasping her left wrist, he pried open her hand placing a few ice cubes in it. His bandaged fist swallowed her dainty hand covered in streaks of acrylic paint. The reaction was immediate, and he felt horrid for keeping the frigid ice trapped in her hand. He remained calm and unmoving, even as she tried to jerk away. Doing anything to escape the cold grounding her back into reality. Water began to pool in her palm, dripping in between the silvers of their fingers as the heavy fog began to slowly dissipate from her eyes. 

Minutes felt like hours, but slowly awareness began to shine in her eyes. 

“There’s my sweet Sunshine,” Dazai practically cooed as he began to rub smoothing circles on her right cheek with his thumb. “It’s okay. You’re safe sweetie. It’s okay.” 

“Tata? What’s going on?” Her voice hoarse further enunciating her masovian dialect. Vivid hazel eyes trail down to observe the scene in front of her. “I floated away, didn’t I?” She mumbled out, voice softening with each word. 

Dazai released his grip on her hand, drying off the water on his pant leg. “You were dissociating, but there is nothing wrong with it. There is nothing to be ashamed of.” She refused to meet his gaze, so Dazai turned her head to face him. 

“Halina, there is nothing wrong with you. I’m your Tata, it’s my job to take care of you. You, my brilliant Sunshine, are not and will never be a burden.” The firm but loving words were all that were needed to break open the floodgates. His Sunshine collapsed into arms, with sobs ripping out of her throat. All Dazai could do was hold her close, rubbing circles on her back, and mumbling affirmations of love and care. Her sobs wrecked through her small form, breaking Dazai’s heart as he was helpless to assuage her sorrows. 

The only thing he could do was hold her close. A naive part of him hoping that he could shield her away from the demons lingering in her mind; and the monsters awaiting her everytime she stepped out the front door. Dazai knew for all of his predictions and precautions, that he couldn’t always be there to protect her. However, he could be there to take care of his sweet girl in the aftermath; giving her sanctuary to be vulnerable.  

Eventually the sobs quieted and the tears ran out. Halina lifted her head meeting Dazai’s gaze. Her eyes were an irradiated red from the crying, but her light was slowly returning; bathing them both in the warm rays. 

“It’s okay sweetie,” Dazai softly murmured, knowing Halina was most likely overstimulated. “What happened? Did you have a bad day?”

“No, I had a great day actually. I don’t know what happened. I felt fine…” her voice trailed off.

“Did everything just hit you at once?” Dazai said, finishing what she couldn’t. 

“I think so,” she replied with a teary tone. She further leaned into her Tata’s embrace. 

Feeling safe within his arms, basking in his loving touch, and listening to his steady heartbeat to keep her grounded in reality. With her Tata, Halina didn’t have to be strong. She could allow herself to relax and let her walls down. She could simply exist without having to wear a mask. She didn’t have to worry about how anything she said or did could be used against her. She was safe, and had the freedom to just be herself.  

“Come on sweet girl, let’s go sit somewhere more comfortable.” Dazai said lightly, with his knees popping, and a firm grip never leaving Halina’s hand. He knew his Sunshine needed to have a physical reminder that he was here, that he wouldn’t abandon her.

 He led them both to the living room, and gently placed his Sunshine on their bright orange couch; it was a nauseating neon shade, with matching fuzzy vomit green colored throw pillows. It was something he had bought to annoy his Chibi; the thing was an eye sore and migraine inducing. However, it was here to stay as Halina sincerely loved it, and thought it was beautiful; only their Sunshine could find beauty in something so revolting. So, the second youngest executive of the Port Mafia, half of soukoku, Nakahara Chuuya was stuck with the ugly thing polluting his living room. As he was unable to deny something that truly brought his Daughter joy. 

Dazai was broken out of his thoughts, as he gently wrapped Halina’s favorite blanket around her. Though he made sure her arms were free, as he knew she hated being trapped when she felt fragile. “I’ll be right back Darling. Tata just needs to grab a few things, and then I’m all yours.” He waited until Halina nodded, as he knew the constant touch was one of the few things keeping her from dissociating again. 

Dazai returned a few moments later with a box of fabric markers and sharpies. He placed the box on the coffee table, and turned on the television; putting on Mama Mia. He and Chuuya couldn’t stand the movie, but their Sunshine absolutely adored it, and that was enough for them. He sat down next to her, and gently placed his bandage arm in her lap. He handed her a random marker, “do you mind Darling?” 

Her reaction was instantaneous, a huge grin broke out on her face, and Dazai was blinded by her contagious mirth. “Is there anything you want in particular?” His Sunshine was practically vibrating in excited anticipation.

“Surprise me. Anything you draw will be incredible.” Dazai barely finished his sentence, before Halina began to draw on his bandages; Mama Mia forgotten as the blank canvas in front of her was demanding her full attention. 

When Chuuya finally made it back to the apartment he shared with his Daughter and Mackerel, it was four in the morning, and he knew it was pointless trying to be quiet. His Mackerel would wake up immediately when someone entered their home, even if it was just Chuuya; and his sweetheart could sleep through an earthquake. 

He was led to the living room by the noise coming from the T.V, and the site he saw filled his heart with warmth; not that he’d be caught alive admitting that to his Mackerel. Halina was asleep with her head resting on Dazai’s chest, with his arms wrapped around her waist. 

“Oi, I know you’re awake stupid Dazai.” The bastard refused to open his eyes, even as he replied. “Mah, my Hatrack is so mean. Here I am just trying to rest, and I’m so rudely awoken.” 

“I’m rude, am I?” Chuuya replied with a soft kiss to Dazai’s cheek. “The rudest.” Dazai agreed, bringing their lips together. Chuuya’s eyes trailed down to Dazai’s right arm, the entire thing was covered in rose drawings. He was mesmerized by the vibrant colors and graphic lines, sharply contrasting Mackerel’s sterile white background. 

He slowly put the pieces together as he finally noticed what movie was playing on the television. “Rough day?” Chuuya’s voice was steeped in worry. 

“Everything just hit her at once. I came home to find her dissociating in the kitchen. I think she was more worried about us viewing her as a burden.” How Dazai kept the rage out of his voice, Chuuya would never know. “You can’t kill the dead Chibi.” Stupid Dazai said whilst carding his fingers through Halina’s thick curls. 

“I know that, Mackerel. Doesn't mean the fantasy isn’t appealing.” Chuuya replied as he sat down, and began to rub Halina’s back. 

“The best thing we can do is to take care of her when she breaks. We’ll remain a constant presence, so she knows we won’t ever abandon her.” 

“When did you get so wise, Bastard?”

“I’ve always been smart, it’s not my fault your slug brain can’t comprehend that. 

“If you weren’t holding our Daughter, I’d kill you right here and now.”

“Oooo, I’m so scared.” Dazai teased as he leaned over for another kiss. Once they had parted, Halina began to stir. “What’s going on? Is it time for school?” Her words were mumbled out in a mixture of Polish and Japanese. She turned to face Chuuya, “Oh, welcome home Papa.” Even half asleep her voice was filled with warmth. “Hi, sweetheart,” Chuuya cooed as he gently patted her head. “Go back to sleep Angel.” 

“Okay. G’night Tata. G’night Papa.” Halina murmured as she nestled her head in the crook of Chuuya’s neck and shoulder. 

“Goodnight Angel.” Chuuya murmured, as he held Halina tight and placed a soft kiss on her head. 

“Sweet dreams Sunshine. Your Papa and I will protect you from nightmares.” Dazai said, adjusting the blanket over the three of them. 

Fin. 

[catflowerqueen]

Today’s episode was sad in the implications, but funny in the execution. Moon and Earth were both just so earnest and adorable! And Moon without his trauma and memories really does act just like Lunar, if a bit calmer/toned down. Just goes to show how similar the two really are. And it’s actually pretty sweet to see Moon being so happy and excited about living life, even though there is definitely bitterness there considering the cost. I definitely loved how excited he got when he heard that he was a scientist, though. It’s nice that fascination and joy for the subject remained, even if he didn’t seem to retain the knowledge that goes along with it. But I guess that just means he gets to be happy at discovering things twice? And will probably get some good insights by reading old logs/notes, the same way he is willing to keep doing the show and go through some of the old backlogs. And it’s good that he is willing to form a new relationship with Sun.

I’m actually surprised at how well Sun took everything. He is obviously upset and looking for solutions, as he should be, but he was also doing his best to be kind/tolerant of Moon’s antics. Even telling him that he was fine even though he wished he could remember things, and being more than willing to explain things to him in the future. And he seemed more angry at KC than Moon—that whole “it should have been you” thing. Though if they do fix things—and I hope they will!—Moon is definitely going to be in for a scolding, at the very least. He owes Sun so much comfort and therapy for this stunt.

I’m a little disappointed that they apparently can’t actually use the Star as a solution. Or at least that it is “very unlikely” they can do it. And I also wonder what Eclipse’s plans are, because “making Sun’s life a living hell” is rather vague. And makes me wonder why he is now suddenly more upset at Sun than he was at Moon, since it seems like usually it’s the other way around. It does act as a sort of cruel call back to what Moon told Sun the first time they met, though.

Another callback is Moon’s vague recollection that “Eclipse sucks.” Sure, they’re playing it as that just being something so engrained in Moon’s body that it survived the wipe…but I also like to think it has something to do with Lunar shouting that to the universe shortly after they got their own body. Like the echoes finally reached Moon from their doing that a few months ago, or the universe just likes sending out that reminder periodically.

[starcunin]

Astarion’s initial reaction is instinctive, a sharp retort poised on the tip of his tongue. The smell of rot, bitter and cloying, wafts toward him from Gale’s bandaged wrist, twisting his stomach. His nose wrinkles in distaste, his usual charm momentarily eclipsed by the raw hunger gnawing at his insides. ❛ Oh, darling, as tempting as it is to sip from a festering wound, I think I’ll pass. ❜ The words slip out with more venom than he intends, cutting through the heavy air with a disdainful edge. He hears the bitterness in his voice, feels the way it lingers in the silence that follows…

Gale’s offer, despite its gruesome nature, was meant as a kindness. Astarion realizes, with a pang of guilt, how thoughtless his response was, especially when the wizard has so much more on his mind than merely being a source of sustenance for a starving vampire. His irritation is a mask, a flimsy shield against the fear that has taken root deep within him—the fear of losing Gale, of watching him be consumed by that orb or, worse, by his own despair. The world has been a cruel enough place without adding more cruelty to it. Astarion knows this better than most.

His expression softens, the sardonic smile fading as he forces himself to swallow his pride. ❛ Forgive me, ❜ he murmurs, his voice quieter now, lacking the earlier bite. ❛ I’ve grown far too cranky for my own good, it seems. ❜ He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s at Gale’s side, lowering himself to the ground with a languid grace that belies the tension coiling in his muscles. Astarion is not accustomed to apologizing, not sincerely, but the words come easier than expected, even if they leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

He leans back on his hands, his gaze drifting up to the oppressive gloom of the sky before it shifts to the man beside him. ❛ But tell me, ❜ he begins, his tone as gentle as the situation allows, ❛ how have you been holding up, truly? I can’t imagine Mystra’s demands have left you with much peace. ❜ The question hangs between them, laden with the kind of concern Astarion seldom shows. He hates how vulnerable it makes him feel, how it forces him to confront the gnawing worry that has been festering in the recesses of his mind. But it’s a small price to pay for Gale’s company, for the brief solace that comes from being close to someone who—against all reason—might actually matter to him.

open starter | act ii

Astarion prowled through the camp, his steps light but impatient, disturbing the dry, brittle leaves scattered underfoot. The shadowcurse had drained the land of life, leaving the air thick with a suffocating gloom. Not a creature stirred in the darkness beyond the fire’s dim glow, no eyes gleaming from the underbrush, no rustling in the trees. His hunger had grown into a gnawing ache, a constant, maddening presence that he couldn’t ignore. Stopping at the camp’s edge, he cast a wry glance into the desolate woods.

❛ It seems even the wildlife has the good sense to be dead, ❜ he remarked with a mock sigh, ❛ Honestly, if I don’t find something edible soon, I might just have to start considering the... local cuisine. ❜

He turned back to the camp, a sly smile playing on his lips as he met his companion’s eyes, ❛ Kidding, of course, ❜ he added, his tone light and teasing, though there was a glint in his crimson eyes that hinted at something darker. ❛ I’m far too refined to start nibbling on my dear friends—at least, not without an invitation. ❜ His chuckle was soft, almost playful, but there was a tension beneath it, a whisper of temptation he was determined to keep buried. The joke hung in the air, a veiled plea for something—anything—to distract him from the hunger gnawing at his will.

[eddiemxnsons]

INTRÉPIDE — Nate Fick

Requested by: @bbysugarpink

hello, i would like to request something for nate from generation kill :) with the fluff prompts: “is there a reason you’re blushing like that” and “i’m not a damsel in distress. i’m a damsel doing damage” thank u so much! 🤍

To whatever sexist douchebag termed damsels — women — as always being in constant, unwarranted distress, Y/N Y/L/N could run laps around them with her intellect, physical build, and sharp tongue. She was a living illustration of an army disciplinary booklet, the words alive in calculated steps she’d approach a soldier with.

The men of the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion of the Marine Corps vexed egos could attest to the goldenly shrewd behavior of their lieutenant. She was a great shot with her rifle, but her words walloped anyone with a more profound wound than any bullet could. Superiors would tease that if science could decipher the wonderstruck complexes of her mind and bottle it, they’d give it to every trooper to fortify some manhood in them that vanished with the diaphanous sand of the desert each dawn.

With the exception of First Lieutenant Nathaniel Fick.

The duo could forge a bickering storm within seconds of a misstep in strategy, a blazing crimson error of position that had a target pinned to their asses. The remainder of their platoon would settle in the beaten leather of their humvee’s, ears perked to open windows to listen to the rather amusing strings of hisses. They’d only interject if the woman was teetering on ripping the other lieutenant a new one, and it wasn’t for the paralyzed ego of their male superior, but for the sound discipline that should be happening.

Yet, as the cruel sun beat down on one afternoon, it's one malevolent eye unblinking, the sky it's co-conspirator with not even a wisp of cloud to obscure the unrelenting rays, there was no sound discipline to be enforced. Therefore, the feverish dispute erupting with a febrile existence as hot as the weather itself, was either eavesdropped by weary troopers or entirely disregarded by those who forced slumber.

Y/N stood in front of a glowering Nate Fick in a recognizable stance, arms folded sturdily across her chest and her jacket and pants littered with palpable burns from a imprudent stunt in the early morning. He was now ripping her a new one before a few other fellow lieutenants for the chaotic strategy that had her eluding a lethal shootout by her teeth.

“You were sent on a mission to collect intel, not engage in a fucking dogfight with Iraqi soldiers, Lieutenant Y/L/N. Lately, all you’ve been leaving is a trail of collateral damage wherever you go and I have to clean it up before any higher-up flames your ass,” Nate essentially snarled in her face, his gaze fervid with fluttering chaos and madness, whetting the edge of his cerulean eyes.

“If you’re going to chastise me for doing my job, I think you should be looking at yourself and everyone else in this damn platoon! We were ambushed and I merely retaliated to save the asses of my men like any lieutenant would do. I got the fucking intel for you and spared you from writing a few condolence letters,” she sneered in retort, beckoning an offending serpent of anger into their conversation with a spark of anger igniting in her chest, “And I would appreciate if you allowed me to do what I need to do to save my men—”

“And what if I had to write one for you?!” He interjected furiously, the rustle of the adjacent map indicating that his miffed outburst startled a few of the others. Their exasperation stood equal now, black marks on their consciousnesses. When it came to her — this brazen, shrewd female lieutenant — the stagnant, usually composed first lieutenant was easy to set off, almost like flicking the top off a grenade. Scrap the usually when it came to the woman before him now.

Y/N merely scoffed, a few sputters of laughter hissing from the rifts of her lips, “Besides a loss of a lieutenant, what is it to you if something happened out there? You could give less than two fucks about me, Fick.” She peered at him with frustration radiating, aghast that he would reprimand her recklessness.

Nearly everyday did he let Death almost beat the shit out of him, and it was always her that had to save his ass and dispel its clasp. The one day she didn’t duck for cover, demand them to fallback, had a momentary lapse of judgement was the day she was endlessly ridiculed. Her hand twitched at her side as she anticipated a reaction — an excuse — from the crimson-cheeked man, an identical grimace scattering out from beneath both of their helmets.

She sobered her tongue to her cheek for the sake of hearing this argument through and through, savor in levity the first thing the blonde could spare from his humiliated ass,

“Maybe if you pulled your head out your ass, you’d realize that there are some people in this platoon that give a shit about whether or not you live or die.”

“Like who?” she beckoned in challenge, true to her haughty dispotion, and her chest mere inches from seething against his own now.

She could taste the poignancy of his despair that fragilized in his light blues, the acidity of his wrath, and the blazing of his anguish, yet shook her head despite it all gradually soaking into her chest, “Like who, Lieutenant Fick?”

He was a man that knew no fear until he met this woman. He had met every dread of his in her heedless behavior. Certainly, she tends to sprint into danger on more instances than he could count, but managed to extinguish every flame of danger that lurked as a menace to her each damn time. Numerous wondered, even him in some moments, where Y/N’s tenacity emanated from, yet it could never really be pinpointed. Yet, that was just another aspect of the cumbersome girl he had spent his army career attempting to unravel.

And Nate Fick is a gritty man. He has strived for a while to not get his feelings for her entangled in the requisite of war. Love doesn’t belong in a war, where there’s a constant dance with Satan that would desecrate anything as vulnerable as love. Yet, there it was, keen as ever despite the uncertainty of the next few minutes. He loved her like there wasn’t a war occurring.

“Like me,” he admitted with his mouth abandoning all moisture for an arid wasteland of desert like his surroundings.

His whole mewl of a rant moments prior had fucked things up for sure. Even as he was blustering and calling into question her competence, he was aware how he was stirring an unspoken pot of exasperation between them. But she had scared him that morning. And Nate Fick thought himself a fool whenever he fussed in fright over something — someone. But, as he flanked position in the aforementioned dogfight with his own men, his peripheral — keen as always — had caught her dropping to the ground after a deluge of bullets mangled the metal of the humvee she had tucked herself behind. He had been certain that he had just bystanded her death and nearly got himself shot in the abyss of numbness that bittered his nerves.

“Well, of course, because who else would you bitch to about every damn problem you have?” she eclipsed his concern and amused the response, “Anyone else would simply kiss your ass and agree with your complaints — you’d never get your desired response and then the cycle repeats itself. I may as well be your therapist!”

“Would you just shut up?!” Nate let her have it, tearing into her steadfast role of a bitter disputer, eyes temporarily locking with her own.

Any other soldier at the brunt of his outburst would flinch, unravel in whatever mock confidence they tossed between them at the start of the quarrel. She was a pistol of a woman, and there is everything right with that as could be for regard to her character. You fired at her, you could be damn certain you’d get fired at in return.

“Are you issuing an order to me, lieutenant?” She ventured a step between their already existing close proximity, “Someone of your own rank that you’re belittling on account of your questioning of my sanity? Well, let me deal you back a taste of your own medicine — I question you on your clear defiency to keep a cool head whenever something, involving me, occurs and you lose your temper! The line between your professional life and whatever personal thing you have festering in your mind is blurring, lieutenant. And I question if you can execute your rank’s duties appropriately...”

“You make it rather difficult to when you stick your ass in every dangerous situation that comes wandering your way,” he ruefully sighed, abating his zealous tone and plucking her elbow to shift them into a quieter corner away from probing eyes. And, much to his surprise, she permitted the abrupt veering off and the linger of his hand on the bend of her elbow.

“And why is it so difficult?” she aligned her tone with his own, still a searing and acrimonious murmur in the shaded corner.

Nate’s frustration tensed with a clench of his jaw, eyes drowning with something deviating between anger and lust — the latter glimmer being one she regarded before he was even genuinely aware it had erupted to the surface. And her heart fluttered.

“You know why,” he indifferently stated, words slicing rather than tumbling through the dry air.

A hollow feeling bloomed at the center of her chest almost immediately as the words registered quicker than she would’ve preferred.

“Nate,” there was no agitation in her voice as if her heart beat so steadily now, the pistol-shot flare diminishing beneath a vulnerable facade. Certainly, she knew. She’d be daft to beat around the bush of his implications — the connotations of their intimate, clandestine relationship. “If the others — if our superiors — found out...”

“It’s been a year and they’re none the wiser,” Nate tread a few fingers through her messy, disheveled hair, her breathing almost instantaneously steadying with the slight yanks at the stray tufts of her ponytail brushing her neck. They rebounded to a silence with balanced inhales of arid desert air for a few moments, the din of adjacent soldiers in their makeshift tents curving around the flaps of the one they concealed behind. She glimpsed briefly through the heavy brush of her lashes, pressing a whisper of a kiss on his lips, lingering there with the ardor igniting her veins and no doubt his, defusing the ticking bomb of fury from minutes prior.

“Now, is there a reason why you’re blushing so profusely like that?” she mused with a curl of smirk in their departure from the kiss, her fingertips skimming the camoed cloth of the rear of his helmet while amused eyes adored the earnest crimson of his cheeks.

Nate chuckled with an eye roll spared for her radiating levity, his spur of mirth hindered by the dispute that anchored in the abyss of his stomach, “You could have died, you know.” He is vulnerable now, novel territory for Nate Fick to venture into, and he's found himself astray in the shallow waters of a defenseless position.

“You would’ve done the same,” she uttered through a throat she could’ve sworn was temporarily haboring jagged rock shards, “Besides, we both know that I’m not a damsel in distress needing you to swoop in as if you always need to do something to save me. I’m a damsel doing damage a majority of the time ‘round here.”

“Unfortunately,” Nate chuckled wryly, “And you leave it all to me to clean up.”

“It’s rather entertaining to watch — for everyone.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

[wildwcmen]

basic information

Full Name: Holly Marisol Villan

Nickname(s): Open to nicknames, but her first name is short enough that she rarely gets them.

Age: 23-29

Date of Birth: June 10

Hometown: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Ethnicity: Latin American (Argentinian) & White (Scottish, Spanish, British)

Nationality: American

Gender: Cis Woman

Pronouns: She/Her

Religion: Non-practicing catholic

Occupation: Hotel Concierge

Language(s) Spoken: English, Spanish, Italian, conversational Japanese, Tagalog and Portuguese

Voice: Soft, sweet, calm to the point of almost being menacing at times

physical appearance

Face Claim: Anya Taylor Joy

Hair Colour: Blonde. Wears a red wig for business dealings.

Eye Colour: Hazel

Height: 5′6

Weight: 120 lbs

Build: Slim

Tattoos: tba.

Piercings: tba.

Clothing Style: Vintage style, very much 1930′s-50′s aesthetic.

Usual Expression: Bored, annoyed.

Distinguishing Characteristics: Large eyes.

health

Emotional Stability: 7/10

Sociability: Very social for work, which leads her to being not-so-social outside of work. She needs time to unwind.

Drug Use: Rarely.

Alcohol Use: Rarely.

personality

Label: Coming Soon

Positive Traits: calculated, intelligent, adaptable, controlled, organized, charming.

Negative Traits: aloof, sneaky, dishonest, selfish, pessemistic, mistrusting.

Fears: she’s already faced her biggest fear (losing her father), which eclipses just about anything else that she could possibly face.

Hobbies: coming soon.

favourites

Weather: cooler weather, cannot stand the heat.

Colour: navy blue & maroon

Music: tba.

Movies: tba.

Sport: tba.

Beverage: smoked old fashioned

Food: tba

Animal: swans

family

Father: Martin Villan (deceased)

Mother: Sianna Forbes (location unknown)

Sibling(s): N/A

Children: N/A

extra

Zodiac Sign: Gemini sun, Scorpio moon, Aquarius rising

MBTI: XNTJ

Enneagram: The Reformer

Temperament: Choleric

Hogwarts House: Slytherin/Ravenclaw

Moral Alignment: chaotic neutral, maybe leaning toward chaotic evil (especially in supernatural verse)

Primary Vice: Wrath, pride

Primary Virtue: Diligence

Element: Water

flaws

moody | short-tempered | emotionally unstable | whiny | controlling | conceited | possessive | paranoid | lies | impatient | cowardly | bitter | selfish | power-hungry | greedy | lazy | judgmental | forgetful | impulsive | spiteful | stubborn | sadistic | petty | unlucky | absent-minded | abusive | addict | aggressive | childish | callous | clingy | delusional | cocky | competitive | corrupt | cynical | cruel | depressed | deranged | egotistical | envious | insecure | insensitive | lustful | delinquent | guilt complex | reclusive | reckless | nervous | oversensitive | avoidant | restless.

strengths

honest | trustworthy | thoughtful | caring | brave | patient | selfless | ambitious | tolerant | lucky | intelligent | confident | focused | humble | generous | merciful | observant | wise | clever | charming | cheerful | optimistic | decisive | adaptive | calm | protective | proud | diligent | considerate | compassionate | good sportsmanship | friendly | empathetic | passionate | reliable | resourceful | sensible | sincere | witty | funny.

skills & hobbies

art | acting | astronomy | animals | archery | sports | beach combing | ballet | bird watching | blacksmithing | boating | calligraphy | camping | candle making | casino gambling | ceramics | racing | chess | music | cooking | crochet | weaving | exercise | swordplay | fishing | gardening | ghost hunting | ice skating | magic | engineering | building | inventing | leather-working | martial arts | meditation | origami | parkour | people watching | swimming | puppetry | pyrotechnics | quilting | reading | collecting | shopping | socializing | storytelling | writing | traveling | knife throwing.

human verse

Her father was in a life of organized crime, but had the worst luck imaginable. He spent his life owing a lot of money, always in debt, and thus Holly was raised in a less than lavish lifestyle. Her father was eventually killed for his debt, which Holly is still paying off. She does not want to be involved with the criminal organization that her father was a part of, but she keeps the ties for her protection.

supernatural verse (chaos demon)

Coming soon.

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter 17; Highlands Part I

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-  

Masterlist-

Trigger Warnings: No warnings in this chap- slightly naughty bits

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

                                                      ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

Everything was soft, and warm. Her whole being is snug and safe and lost. Completely lost to sleep and rest.

Mellowness spreading out through each of her limbs like warm embers of an amber fire or a splash of spicy whisky. As if she’s laying in a bath full of silk rose petals and perfectly warm water.

Best sleep she’s ever had in her life. She owes it to the influence of his being near.

Fur pelts and blankets wrapped around her as she’s slumbering on the velvet bench. Curled up in a swathe of them, Kylo smiles, she’s all bundled up, like a little burrowing bug. Her head slumped onto his strong shoulder. Fine wool of his coat scuffing her pale cheek red.

He had his arm around her back and every now and then leaned over and nuzzled his mouth and nose into her hair. Breathing in the plain perfume that he so adored. Kisses her brow. Hints of salty lavender and sage peppermint soap pouring off her. Her skin and her clothes all amalgamated into the encompassing scent of his Iris. The one that he never could resist. The one he knows so dearly by now.

He’s so glad she’s here.

She’s in his arms. It makes him smile he just can’t help it.

He slept a little - in fits and starts mostly. When she’s so warm and sweetly tempting laying her head on his shoulder how could he not? Nestles his nose into her hair and falls asleep too, with a smile on his face, and calm peace taking up his chest. Spreading through him like clouding smoke.

Every muscle in her body coaxed into that sleepy calm lull by a gently rocking motion that sent her engulfed into dreams, like a newborn being swayed in their rocking cradle.

Its the gentle pitch of the coach as it tumbles over rocky highland roads that does it. Crackles and jolts over the stony lanes that cut through the miles and stretching glory of the emerald glens and the heather strewn hills.

He flickers the curtain back from the window his side with his free hand, and milky sunshine spills gold into the scarlet cabin from a clouded heaven.

He peers out the glass, clouded sunshine snatched at his eyes. Quite a stunning vista awaited his attention. He’s used to fish filled lakes, mountain scenery and the lush impossible green of Bavarian landscape under a searing sky. He was made and formed and still sustained, all these years later, by bitter snow and cold rocky climes. Inbetween layers of sinking crushing snow and pine trees was he was formed. Moulded out of such a savage ground as that of his Nordic homeland.

Scotland has a hint of this too: a savagely beautiful terrain. A vast portion of its wilderness remained.

Hulking mountains, the glitter of a loch in the sunshine. Catching like a cascade of sapphires and diamonds in the sun. Dense forest woodlands and rolling hills crested with purple-pink heather. A native plant, as hardy as the landscape and people it sustains.

The sun chips through the clouds and dapples over the valley of the brown-tawny green mountains they’re travelling between. The loch lies spilled and landlocked in the middle. The sky is clear but the wind is howling and icy, and he can feel it’s bitter gale wrapping around the coach.

Scotland is a land he can recall very little of. His previous tours of England over the years kept him mostly in the southern regions. But he remembers some viking settlements on the coasts, in a time when his clans and kin ruled the seas. Pillagers, plunderers and warriors claiming the land for their own like a wandering pack of rabid dogs.

He remembers being at sea, seeing these shores coming into view. Cliffs clearing out of the misty horizon. Stood at the front of the langskip as it rowed him closer to a new land. Some slithers of his memory can still recall.

The woven tunic rasping his cold skin. The taste of sea salt crusted on his lips. Cruel heavy rain pelting into his braids and stinging his head like a thousand needles. The studded leather cuffs and tunic he wore cold from the exposed elements of a ruthless sea. His usual black fur wolf pelt lining his massive shoulders. He can recall how long his hair was back in those days. Braided and knotted and twined with silver ornaments. Kohl smeared on his already dark eyes. He made quite the picture of a savage.

He was on this island a mere two months before he sailed back home. And fate would set its hand on the path towards him being turned by Draegan during that portentous battle.

How different it all is now. Being here, in these very different, yet same, highlands, all these centuries later. With his perfect love of his life, under his arm. On their path towards matrimony.

However dishonourable their actions to get them here. He would’ve slaughtered the whole county if that’s what it took.

He strongly suspected her mother would be in such uproar by now, she’d send for the police or the local magistrate. He can see it now: some six-horse phaeton being governed at impressive speed, by a stony faced police duty constable, haring it down the hair pin roads after them. Mrs Ashton will have painted him the perfect black hearted villain of the peace. Seducing away her eldest daughter to ruin.

Kylo’s smirking at the thought. How correct it is. Except he will not be such a Byronic blackguard as to seduce her and then abandon her like a stray.

He will bed her with such fierce passion make her his Lady. And by god- this wedding can’t come soon enough for his liking.

He admires the scenery a moment or two longer. Before turning back to her.

He nuzzles his mouth to her forehead. Her warm creamy skin against his mouth and he takes a gentle kiss of it. “Dove?” He calls to her through her sleep. His voice a rumbling hush. Chipping through her engulfing pretty dreams.

Her eyelids flutter and she gently comes too - his mouth a loving press on her temple. His lips are a silky wisp on her skin and it makes a beautiful thrum of conscious delight run through her. He feels it pluck along every nerve in her spine. Like a knife carving and picking through stitched thread. His nearness undoes her so brutally.

Her eyes peel open and he watches the sunshine catch in them. Oakmoss and honey. “We are in the highlands?” She asks.

Voice eclipsed under a husky tone that sleep still clings to. He smiles at her. Tucks a straying curl of hair back behind her ear. Her cheek so pink and warm from her slumber.

“Take a look…” He gestured to the window with a casual nod. Smile glowing with love of her, in such an adorably mussed state.

She rubs the bleariness of sleep away and leans across him to admire the prospect.

The breath is quite snatched from her lungs.

She never knew the scenery of these British isles could differ. For years she’d been the landlocked country miss. So used to the frosted green-brown fields and flat valleys of the genteel farming countryside of the south. The unexciting stretch of her home county.

She never knew a landscape could be this vast. Such huge mountains with golden and green grass and purple heather crawling up them. So high they stabbed into the searing grey of the sky and snow dusts their tips where the icy wind blazes. She’s never seen such colour and brutality in such a vista before. It’s quite a refreshing sight to her innocent eyes.

She cranes her head to catch a glimpse of the loch sandwiched between the mountains. The severity of the grey sky fills the waters. But it still looks like a great stretch of Prussian blue ink. She feels like she’s seeing the world for the first time with wide open and educated eyes.

“Goodness…” She gasps in amazement. Kylo smiles looking at her sweet creamy profile bathed in sunlight. The clouds are roiling in temper in front of the sun, Grey and churning, interrupting the light pouring down from the heavens. Kylo suspects there will be rain soon.

She sits back and unfolds some of her cocooning blankets from her legs. She was quite warm enough when she’s holding his hand. Fingers sloped and tangled together in her lap.

“Whereabouts are we?” She enquires.

“Near Kinlochleven. That peak there…” he gestures out the window with a pointed finger. “Is called Ben Nevis. The highest peak in all of Western Scotland.”

“Without meaning to take a liberty; I thought we were intended for Gretna green?” She asks.

He chuckles and leans over to pluck a sweet kiss on the corner of her mouth. He pulls back and rests his forehead to hers. Nose nuzzled against her cheek.

“Take all the liberties you should like, my love. You won’t offend me so easily.” He tells her.

“I must confess I had considered that if your mother is hateful enough to send someone to stop our union, Gretna Green would be the first place she’d look.” He smiles cunningly.

“I thought we had better err on the side of caution.” He insists. “Not that slobbering hounds from the very bowels of hell could stop me marrying you-“ He drawls lovingly.

“But I thought it best to avoid a nasty encounter if there is one to be had.” He tells. “You don’t mind? Do you?” He seeks with a frown.

“Mind?” She repeats. She leans close and kisses his cheek.

“You could tell me our wedding is being hosted in a ditch and I’d still be delirious with joy.” She tells him.

He chuckles kindly at her sentiments. Smile crinkles up his eyes and cheeks. She wants to follow those sweet dimples with her fingertips. Like trailing well-work paths and lines and dips in a map. Skimming over roads travelled.

“I had planned for a little better than a ditch. I sought out an Inn that looked most comfortable. Rather rustic. I’m afraid it’s not going to be a grand manor house overrun with servants.” He tells her. Preferring honesty over catching her in a lie.

She’s still smiling. “I’m not a grand kind of woman. Cosy sounds wonderful.” She insists. She had no qualms about his doing or acting upon anything that could make her uncomfortable.

“I’d take a cosy wedding with you - over anything cold and grand and proper. Like my supposed wedding to Sergeant Hux would’ve been.”

She could see it all so clearly; a stifling preconception of wedded life.

A big society affair - Maratella and Mama would invite every old matron and stuffy Lord of their acquaintance within a fifty mile radius. Anything to show off the grandeur of the match. They’d be wedded under no less than a hundred pairs of eyes, and the odious, foul-breathed, Reverend Potter, watching them.

With a tepid kiss on the lips and duty done, the party would retire to a wedding breakfast hosted at Cavenham - Maratella would insist. They’d spend the wedding night there before setting off on honeymoon the next day. If there was to be one. Probably some boarding house in Brighton or something that wouldn’t remove them too far away.

Iris shudders at the merest intimation of bedding Hux.

He wasn’t repulsive but if his conjugal manner was as alike in every other cold attitude that he treated her. She was in for an uncomfortable procedure in consummating their marriage. It would be very polite, and sharp and quick. A fumble and an insulting rut and she’d be done with him.

He wouldn’t kiss her. Or lay into her with glimmering affection and wildly consuming love in his eyes. He’d do his duty and then she’s damn certain he’d have retired to his own bedchamber. Leaving her there, sore, bleeding and sticky-warm between her thighs. It completely crushed her heart to think that may have been her existence. Loveless encounters until she was beget with child.

He would never hold her. Never kiss her for pleasure. Never walk into a room she’s in, and not dream about taking her in his arms and kissing her like he won’t possibly survive if he doesn’t. He won’t take her hand and hold it the way Kylo is this very moment.

She doesn’t regret her choice. She’ll never regret her choice.

“I shall defer the grandeur until we get to Ranlor. And you will be cherished and spoiled and treated as a Lady should. As well you deserve to live.” He pledges.

Thoughts and the prospect of her new home fill her with giddy desirous joy. She blushes a little at the warm tone of his words.

“What’s Ranlor like?” She beams.

Oh, they’ve had many a courteous back-and-forth in ballrooms with every matron in the world breathing down their neck. Here there is no pretence or cautiousness;

She needn’t be worried she’ll be remarked upon for gazing at him too long. For smiling too much when he talks to her. He need not show less than what he feels for her. Here, like this, their love is unconfined.

It’s no one but the two of them and he’s absolutely full up of delight to remark upon it.

“It’s the one place I’ve had that’s ever felt like a true home to me. The downfall of an existence like mine. I’ve drifted through so many fine houses and châteaus and dwellings. Such a rootless way of spending life.” He begins.

“You would not want me should you have seen where I grew up. I was raised in a dim timber hut no bigger than ten metres square.” He chuckles lightheartedly.

“I can safely assure you. That wouldn’t deter me.” She tells to the handsome man who owns her entire heart.

She tentatively reaches up to skim her palm down his cheek. Can’t quite fathom that she can touch him like this- adore him. Admire him. All those things she never seemed able to do. Now they are all within her grasp.

He takes that dear sweet hand of hers and holds it to his lips for a second. Kisses her knuckles and a shiver of delight crosses her whole being. Rubs his fingertips along the smooth pink oval stones of her neat fingernails.

“Better finding a home at last than years of living in a place that never quite agrees with you.” She tempers softly. Her whole happy childhood spited and soured by her mothers greed for a good marriage.

He feels that comment deeply from her. “She was very wrong to take that feeling from you. Of your native land. Your centre of being.” He explains. “I should hope she is paying sorely for her mistake of you, and no less.” He observed spitefully. And he means it.

Iris doesn’t blame him for it - rather she empathises greatly. She smiles in her agreement.

“I hope Ranlor Castle will serve well. And in time that you may think of it as your home. Because I would want nothing less than your being satisfied and happy with it.” He hopes.

“The way you speak of it- I don’t see how I could not adore it already.” She tells.

“How long have you been in residence?” Fully expecting his answer to be of a shockingly long timeline.

“Since the late 1500’s.” He casually offers.

“Ranlor was an impulsive purchase of land. I admit. But I was sick of war. Of moving with army encampment from country to country. Sick of living in dirt and wet muck and fighting. I bought it because I wanted to wake up each morning and be the master of the land where I lay my head. To know the view I wake up too, is the same one I shall be greeted with at sunset.” He tells her very poetically.

“I’ve lived in attic garrets, huts made of straw and mud, and postage stamp sized rooms. But by that same token, I’ve stayed as a guest of honour at Versailles. Lived with princes and kings and queens and been a companion warrior to many number of emperors in my time.” He offers. “But in Ranlor I found I appreciated having a place to return to where everything surrounding me is entirely my own.”

Iris is blown away by the stories he must have to tell. “When we sup tonight, I absolutely insist you tell me about some of the places and the people you’ve seen. I am my fathers daughter after all. I am an unabashed glutton for history.” She chuckles.

He takes her chin and brings her face closer to his. Melts their lips into a slow bruising kiss. Passion sparks at her skin and it feels like it bruises her.

“How can I possibly deny such a request?” He drawls against her lips. Breath rasping against her scorched cheeks. Her blood simmering hot under her skin and the smell of it is beautiful-

“I want to know every intimate thing.” She begins. He bites back a groan. Good god, how she’ll have it…

“Keep kissing me like this Iris and I’ll give you anything you want…” He sighs in desiring agony into her lips and wraps his big fingers around the back of her head. Completely dwarfs her skull in his grip.

She clutched at his shoulder - otherwise she’s sure she’d simply float off up to the moon in bliss.

“Kissing you is more than enough. I am wholly satisfied by that alone.” She says when they break away. Not able to deny how alluring he is in this way-

Impassioned to the point of fever. His eyes as dark as storm clouds above them. Calls to mind things like granite, and crows feathers and black leather. Dark but light touches so deep. His lips are a raw sweet-cherry pink and he looks like the starving wolf about to gobble up a baby deer.

“We’ll be near to our Inn soon.” He comments. “We are but ten miles from it I believe.”

She smiles and lays her head on his shoulder. Happy to watch the scenery roll them by. Joining her hand with his again in their lap. He takes up a vast proportion of the velvet bench but she cuddles nicely into his side. He kisses her hair again and then turns and watch their coach rumble along the roads.

She could happily drift away again. The scent of him calmly infused into his clothes. His cologne and the soap and sandalwood oil he uses. Pine from the forest, thorny tumbling brambles full of rich, tart fruit, and an undercurrent of eucalyptus and mint. Rich delicious and earthy. And he is a man sprung from the salt of the earth. She adores how his roots are humble, and he’s come so far as to rise into a Lords title. It’s a quality she admires.

Not before long, houses to start to crop up out of this beautiful Scottish countryside. Low little stone houses and then suddenly a fine granite clad town is before them. A promenade of wooden shops socketed into grey brick buildings above. Full of wares and goods for sale.

It’s quite a bustling little town and the outcrop of the splendid mountains is it’s backdrop. The loch nearby for fishing. The land for hunting game and meat. This was a rich land in so many ways. Bursting with scenery and culture. So different from her sheltered upbringing.

The coach takes them along the centre of the road. Up the slope of a hill a little way. Past some more shops and dwellings and there it pulls onto a lane that leads them to a small brown stone building. Set back from the road with a swinging sign on a post announcing its name. A silvery depiction of an animal hangs on that signpost. The White Stag.

She smiles as the coach follows the curved road. Leading to a modest wooden porch. The place was tavern like in appearance. A small and long, squat stone building. Burrowing into the earth after many years of standing. There’s a pretty wilderness of garden surrounding it. Crumbling stone walls sprouting heather. Every window peers out across the wide plain of the glen before them. It’s an open terrain. Bare to the expanse of the elements. But when a place is so happily situated, Iris can’t think it could look anymore handsome.

The coach lumbers to a creaky stop. They gather themselves and step out. She puts on her bonnet, pulls her coat up her arms as he steps out. He turns back to offer her a hand down.

Their driver - a very obliging young lad from Hellford, Sampson was his name - was kind enough to see to their luggage. Even her meagre carpet bag.

He was a nice boy. Kylo had said he was eager to drive a coach, even in the driving snow and frost. Kylo wouldn’t want such an uncomfortable job but he seemed keen. He had a way with the horses. Had the touch with them. And Erland even likes him so that’s as high a praise as can be bestowed.

He was a beanpole lad with muddy hair and jug handle ears. Poky shoulders and a towering stature. Two reed thin legs shoved into his tall boots. Coat swathing his lanky body.

When they broke their journey to take luncheon at a roadside inn near Lancaster, and to feed and water the horses.Kylo insisted that they all seek some sustenance to keep them going.

The pair of them sit in the sunny window in the small, dim pub and share a platter of succulent honey roast leg of ham, cut into thick wonky sliced chunks of juicy meat, with golden roast potatoes and buttered leeks. Served with mugs of sweet crisp apple cider on the side.

The food was splendid and they smile and talk intimately - she found great joy in the fact that no one around them censured or took interest in them like back at home. With every pair of eyes watching permanently it seemed. They sit opposite each other, in the window alcove, around a wobbly pub table and she couldn’t be happier. Nor could he. The smiles on their faces reflect this fact.

Before they ate, Kylo excused himself and quickly went to the bar and said something to the kind serving maid. Slipped a coin into her hand. And came to sit back down next to her. She raised a brow. She knows what he’s just fixed.

Sampson seemed most grateful that they sent him a plate of meat stew, roast ham and a flagon of cider out to the mews for him. The dear boy stumbled and blushed and wrung his hat on his hands and told them it was most kind when they returned to the coach to continue their journey. He told Kylo his last employer wasn’t nearly so generous.

Iris overheard all this as she stood feeding oats to the horses - even though Kylo told her not to spoil them.

Erland was shifting with excitement that she’s fussing him. The silly old thing. Kana was still a reluctant girl. But she seemed fond of Iris all the same.

Kylo smiled at the young boy. Told him he was looking forward to what the young lad would make of the stables at Ranlor. For he was pledged to make the crossing with them.

He wouldn’t be staying in the inn with them. Kylo booked the boy comfortable rooms closer to town. Told him to have a rest whilst he and Iris get on with proceedings of marriage. But he’ll be there at the weeks end to take them to the port to make the ship.

He gathers their luggage. Manages easily even though he looked about as tensile in strength as a lanky wet rag. Kylo takes her arm and leads her into the Inn. She’s getting rather used to the dim glow of these places of late.

He holds the door for her and she ducks in first. He has to swoop low to avoid stubbing his head on the doorframe. Her boots and his clack on the clean flagstone floors. Recently swept she guesses. Every table was wiped and adorned with little vases of wildflowers. Framed pictures and etchings hang straight on the lumpy stone walls. A fire crackles gently in the open fireplace. Horse brasses pinned to the bar glimmer as if polished. Thick plum and grey tartan curtains float poker straight on the brass curtain piles above each window.

The place is clean and tidy and not full of rowdy drunks with straw and ale spewed across the floor. She simply adores that it’s a tavern that takes pride in its neat as a pin appearance.

A few men sit around some tables enjoying a drink in the cloudy milky sunshine of the window. There’s some chatter and laughter in the din of the room. It’s beautifully warm and the air smells like ginger and oats. Something delicious being baked in the kitchens no doubt.

A matronly woman, very pretty with a tumbling shock of frizzy greying red hair greets them from behind the bar. A beige wool dress and apron tied around her middle. She was very beautiful in her late age. A warm face with ruddy cheeks and a complexion that had seen just enough sun. Eyes were a healthy moss green. Her weight lay entirely in her wobbly plump hips. She carries herself proudly.

She’s wiping down the pristine oak bar surface before her. But she stops and smiles when she catches sight of them. Kylo in all his sheer dark mass was impossible to resist or ignore, after all.

“Good Morning, Sir. Miss.” She beams and nods at the both of them. Handsome scottish brogue in her voice sounds kind. Iris likes such gallantry. Most people didn’t bother greeting young ladies when men were present.

Kylo smiles at the woman. Doubtless she was the landlady. “I’m looking for Mrs McCormack, I’ve written to secure lodgings upstairs.” He asks her.

“Aye.” She smiles fondly. “You’d be Lord Ren and Miss Ashton, I presume?” She asks. Looks to the both of them.

“The very same.” He confirms. Stroking Iris’s hand where it lay resting on the crook of his arm.

“How wonderful it is to see you both. I must welcome you the highlands.” She smiles. Laying aside her cloth.

“You have a beautiful Inn, Mrs McCormack. I’ve never seen the like.” Iris smiles at her.

“You’re very kind miss. I thank ye. I take great care to keep my threshold clean and presentable as possible. Everyone here calls me Mrs M. So don’t you be afraid too. If you’d come this way I’ll show you to your rooms.” She nods. Moving behind the bar and out to the stairs set into the alcove of the wall near them.

Kylo lets Iris walk up first. Of course. Watches her smile as she eyes the frames on the wall and asks the kind Mrs M about the White Stag’s history and it’s stories as they all alight the creaky wooden stairs.

He listens to them talk as they walk along a creaky landing with cream wallpaper studded with scarlet roses smeared all over the thick walls. Candles and heavy curtains in every window. Shutters ready to block out the harshest of Scottish winter nights.

Mrs M leads them to a door with a worn gold handle and opens it for them, guiding them inside. Iris instantly sees what he meant about the rooms being cosy rathe than grand. It is cosy and she’s take this handsome room over any gilded grand manor bedchamber.

The walls are tumbling exposed gold bricks. The floors are ancient groaning oak. Worn and bleached an old grey from years of heavy treading boots. The double bed is the centre of the room. A huge soft mattress and downy pillows, foot of it laden with blue and green tartan blankets and a sheep’s skin draped across the end. The mahogany headboard cresting in waves at the foot and the head of the bed is carved and ancient and so very elegant.

There’s a ginormous fireplace at the end of the bed, across the room. Already lit. Popping sparks and blazing heat out into the sunny room. There’s an alcove of a window seat stuffed with cushions and another wool tartan rug. Juniper green cloth armchairs reside by the far wall surrounding a small end table. The room is undeniably snug and home-like. Emphasised in earthy tones of blue and grey and green. Very much like the dazzling highland hills in which it sits.

Iris is so quietly giddy with contentment. She also spies a door to a yet unseen anteroom.

“There’s a private dining room for your particular use through here. Though you’re very welcome to come down and fast in the tavern if you wish. We serve three hot meals a day if you should like. Our cook can make anything you fancy.” She promises.

Her keen eye then spots a crease in the bed linens which she frowns and steps across to smooth out. Iris can see she had a very discerning eye. Kylo lingers in the doorway behind them. Hands folded as he watches her take it in.

He observes as she walks across the room and peers through into the dining room Mrs M spoke of. It’s charming too. Red covered chairs, a long mahogany table. Candlestick of brass shines in the sun. Fire blazing by the dining table.

“Your washroom is just here too. For your convenience.” She moves towards a door opposite the head of the bed and opens onto a small chamber. Installed with a copper bath and a side table with a jug and basin and a screen. “Bessie is the chamber maid and she’ll attend ye’ with any water you’ll be needing.” She tells.

Iris loves it.

“It’s an exquisite room. Mrs M. We are very happy with it. Aren’t we, Kylo?” Iris smiles. Unlacing her bonnet.

He smiles at his intended. “We most certainly are.”

Mrs M seems fascinated with his first name. “Aye now that’s an interesting name. Your lordship.” She puts a hand on her aproned hip and surveys him with friendly curiosity. “I’d wager there’s some Scottish somewhere in your family tree wi’ a name like that.” She nods.

Kylo smiles. Iris’ slate and honey eyes glimmer warmly at him across the room in the cloudy light. Slight beams of it coming though the window are twirling lazily with dust. “There is some Norse I believe. Lingers far back with my ancient ancestors.” He tells their landlady.

“I would’na be surprised mi’lord.” She wagers with a fond grin.

“Oh. I’ll forget me own head next.” She explains. Rummaging into her apron pocket. Drawing out a heavy iron key. “Your room also has its own entrance. Though of course you may always come up through the tavern if you wish. Thats the key to door at the end of the landing there.” She points out the door. Hands the key over to Iris.

She then nods politely to them both. “It is nearly noon. Can I fetch you both a tray of tea? Cook just baked some shortbread I believe.” She smiles.

“That would be heavenly. Thank you.” Iris concludes. Setting her bonnet down on the bed.

“Might I also request you send your maid up to have the bath filled? My fiancée has had a long and tiring journey.” Kylo asks.

“I’ll send her up right away. Your lordship.” Mrs M insists. Moving to the door and shutting the latch softly after herself.

Kylo turns back to her after she leaves them. Iris has her back to him, slipping off her shabby blue coat.

He’ll have to get her another. She’ll be his Lady soon. She’ll need a finer coat than this beaten old thing. It gets stuck on her elbows. He walks across and aids her. Grips the back of her collar and helps guide it down.

She blushes when he leans down and holds her shoulders delicately as he kisses the join where he neck meets spine. A tendril of lose hair curls at his nose. He smiles against the back of her neck. Arms slipping down to draw her into an embrace. Big palms crossing at her stomach.

She places her hands over his. Savours the silence and the feeling of his solid comforting weight at her back. Enclosing her in love.

“You truly like the room?” He seeks. She conceals a blush - rather poorly - when she reflects that the bed she’s now looking at that they will be sharing. On their wedding night. He will bed her in this room and that thought makes her knees weak.

She twists in his arms. His palms rasp over her wool dress. Slides to her hips. She smiles sincerely up at him. “Truly. And I adore its surroundings. And especially its occupant at present.”

He smiles and leans down to claim her mouth in a sweet kiss. She’s so sweet. Sweeter than brown sugar and cream and tart fruit. He drinks of her lips like the greedy pillaging viking he absolutely is. He sucks and nibbles her bottom lip and holds her close when her knees wobble with it. Smiles and breaks the kiss remarking how weak his kisses make her.

“Have a nice long soak, and that cup of tea, my love. You’ll be stiff sore from sleeping in that coach on my shoulder.” He insists. “I may ride Erland into town to fetch a few things…” He tells her.

He had to take care of her, after all. He will not fail in that duty as others had. He was far too gallant. And in love-

She can’t deny how heavenly a soak will feel on her aching bones. And she did have a stiff neck- And although his coach was most comfortable, she is clad not to be in that jolting rumbling box for another night.

“To approach the subject not very delicately-” She starts. Wringing her hands for distraction. “When is the wedding ceremony?” She asks.

That makes him grin. “Four o’clock today. My love.” He smiles.

He wishes there was an artist here with a palette of oils and a bare canvas to hand; for her face is a picture.

“I had the banns read three weeks ago. Paid out a considerable sum to secure the church. All we need do is turn up to the chapel in our best, and the Reverend will wed us. Then and there.” He smirks.

Iris laughs. Smiling in disbelief. She places a hand to hold her middle. She feels almost faint with happiness.

“I think then, that I had better take to that bath.” She chuckles and blushes. He crosses back and kisses her cheek. Cups her neck and gives her a kiss that leaves her shivering long after he pulls his mouth from her.

“I won’t be long. Dove.” He promises. With one last kiss to her hand, he strides for the door and ducks out. “Drink your tea. Wallow in your bath. Make ready to marry me.” He smirks and winks.

Leaving her reeling with the force and memory of his insolently handsome smile.

The room feels doubly empty and so lifeless without him in it. There’s more oxygen without him. And she means that in a sincerely loving way.

When he’s here she’s aware of every smile, every move. Every touch he gives her is magnetic. She’s a bundle of blushes and nerves when he’s near. A giddy silly girl who trembles at the touch of his hand. Who hears the pounding of her heart hammer furiously in her chest when he’s near.

She does as he instructs. Mrs M sends the kind Bessie, the chamber maid, up with a tray of tea and then a big steel jug of hot water for her tiny copper bath.

She drinks the tea and nibbles a biscuit as she unpacks her meagre clutch of things from her luggage that Sampson brought up. As crimson appeared to be Kylo’s preferred colour; she chose accordingly. Hoping her gown wasn’t too crushed from it’s journey in the trunk.

She brought one good gown and a handful of plain cotton and wool ones. The one she would marry him in was a plain ruby-wine red. French Burgundy was the colour name.

It had a ruffle of demure lace stitched all around the scooping neckline and the brocade silk is gathered and stitched intricately at the back. Forming a beautiful slight train and cutting a severe figure. Her mother would have made a comment about it being a red dress. She couldn’t fathom the energy to care.

It makes her in such a passion she wants to pen a letter to her mother right then and there; tell her she’s marrying Lord Ren in a red dress. Like a harlot. See what she makes of that. She wants to watch her face crumble and her rage come snarling forth when Iris signs the letter as Lady Ren. See what her termagant of a mother makes of that…

She hangs it up to ready it for later. Smiles at the sight of it hung on the wardrobe door. Ready. As she should be- she hastens toward her bath.

The kind chambermaid was even so good as to leave a little organza pouch of dried heather and lavender on the side for her. With a little white pebble of honey and oat soap.

Iris catches sight of it as she unlaced her gown and rugged away her stays. She thinks it’s most kind of her to spare the expense of a little trinket. The steam of the piping hot water is muggy and sluggish in the air. Clouding up the mirror behind the jug and basin.

She sinks into the water. Lavender that she sprinkled into the tub spices up the air with its plain floral hint. She smiles gratefully as she submerged fully in the milky cloud of delicious heat. Rubbing the cake of soap along her arms and legs and sudsing up every inch. She does the same with her hair. Wets it and combs through a little oil. Scrapes her scalp with her nails and rubs the soap in and then rinses it.

She scrubs and scrubs until her skin is pink and every inch of her has been kissed and rubbed with soap. She climbs out and dries. Combs her hair out and rubs it. Repeating the process sitting by the small bath chamber fire until it feels significantly more dry. Ready for her to manage pinning into a coiffure. She could manage one on her own; Meg had taught her a few tricks over the years.

She pulls on a new chemise. A sleeveless one that would fit under the dress she’d chosen. She’s rubbing her hair with a flannel towel and takes her silver hair brush with her to go sit by the fire in their chamber. She brushes and brushes until her muddy locks look less and less like a wet soggy puddle.

She hears his treads on the cracking creaking stairs as he comes back.

The afternoon shifting later as the sun slides along behind the clouds. The door latch lifts from the other side and her handsome fiancé comes back in. Nudging the door open with his foot. For his arms are laden with boxes. His hair flounced by the wind and his cheeks pink from it too. His eyes were deviously bright with the exercise- it’s also because he’s caught her sat there in her shift with damply drying hair like some tempting forest nymph.

In all his dark coated glory, he completely fills the doorway to their chamber. His white shirt peers through the gap in his unbuttoned coat. A black cravat is knotted up his neck. Moulding into the stretch of his coat and his big polished boots peeling out where it ends at his calves.

Bessie comes after him. Carrying more boxes. Kylo gives her a coin and a smile of thanks. She bobs and scarpers quick and silent from the room.

Kylo looks across to his intended with a frown of confusion. Had he scared her? Or maybe she found their engaged state sharing a room to be shocking - some people were very strict on such matters.

“I think she is perhaps a little shy. And-“ she leaves her explanation there.

She merely gestures to how tall and big, and handsome, he is. He made Iris tremble in her skin with his smile, and she was years older than the serving maid. To an impassioned young girl prone to crushes and passing fancies, Iris imagines he’s an Achilles heel of blushes and furtive glances. She thinks of her sisters’ reaction to him. All lashes and rosy smiles. Like gardenias coming into bloom for the sun.

He makes a noise of agreement. And that’s when he brings around his arm that had previously tucked behind his back. He brings around a bouquet of flowers. Tied with a grey ribbon that reminded him of her eyes.

“I cannot allow my beautiful bride to be flower-less on her wedding day.” He explains. Setting them before her in her lap as he crouched in front of her.

She is touched beyond words. She grips the flowers and lifts the blooms up to her nose to drink in their scent. Purple thistles, pink and mauve heather, bluebells and wild violets. Harebell and myrtle and a Scottish primrose. A beautiful clutch of green, white, purple and blues.

“They’re beautiful.” She comments. Stroking her fingers along the frail petals. Their nectar and greenery spicing up the air.

“Thankyou.” She sighs onto his lips as he leans in for a slow kiss. He stays on his knees for her - the only way she could reach his lips.

“I fetched some other things for you…” he explains. Taking her hand and pulling her up. He leads her to the bed and her heart thumps a tad faster - thinking they’ll be doing this later on tonight, in a handful of hours, for entirely different reasons.

He shows her the collection of items he’d purchased.

Save for two gold wedding rings - it’s all for her. She is speechless.

There’s three new exquisite silk and lace gowns. An entirely new Scottish-wool coat. Parchment, ink and quills for any letters she wishes to write. Some ribbons and hair pins and pretty silver baubles and combs to decorate her hair coiffures. Five pairs of embroidered stockings, and some round little cakes of oat soap.

Her mouth gapes as she looks to him. He shrugs and offers an explanation - Looking deuced too smug. “You deserve trinkets aplenty to remember your wedding day by.” He explains handsomely. She holds his hand. Quite stunned and not knowing what to say.

No ones ever told her she deserves to be spoiled before. It’s quite a new sensation for her to fathom.

“It’s not a day I’ll be forgetting in any hurry. Believe me.” She tells him.

She sees his eyes dart across the room to where her wedding dress is awaiting being worn. Hung on the door. He smiles fondly at her choice. Looks back to her.

“I can help you with your gown fastenings if you’d like?” He asks. Voice uncharacteristically husky.

She rises to meet his challenge. “If you’re offering.” She smiles. Bravely looking him in the eye.

She turns away and breaks the spell his eyes cast. Walks across and fetches her dress. Steps over to him and he encloses it around her after she steps into it. The fastenings already loose.

He slides it to skim over her hips. Up past her waist. Rests it at her waist and pulls the two sides together over her shoulders.

The way she tugs her hair aside makes his mouth water. Throat bobs where he swallows.

Lovers have done that for him before- countless times and countless lovers- But her doing this, nearly undoes him.

He focuses on his task. Tugs on the hidden laces at the back of her dress. Laces her into it, closing the ties at her shoulders. Eyeing the curve of it that cut around her lovely shoulders. Ruby red against her creamy skin. It’s too tempting to even indulge that certain route of his thinking-

He works efficiently. Fingers brushing the brocade silk and her back. The scent of lavender and spicy oat soap tantalising him as he laboured in this favour for her. He gets to the last tie and he mourns being able to be this close. Parts by stroking his hands down her back, the span of his fingers meet her waist easily. He kisses into her tumble of still drying hair. Inhales her. Cherished the moment of him being pressed against her back.

He called for the bath to be refilled when he came back- and honestly the chambermaid was too damn efficient. Her knock rattled the door and kylo blinks and nods her to come in. Their lusting spell is broken again.

Iris flushed and steps away to round the side of the bed to fetch a pair of stockings. Holding her skirts aloft.

The sight of the curve of her ankle sends his mind reeling into the squalid plains of Male frustration. He swallows and lets the maid fill the bath for him. He was in need of a scrub too. Not exactly covered in the grime and dust of the road but he’d relish the chance to run some soap over his skin before his wedding ceremony.

When he looks back to his beautiful intended, she is sat in the window alcove that’s stuffed with cushions and a tartan rug. Framed by sunlight. Hair turned into spun bronze and gold. Eyes sparkling like polished moonstone. She’s looking down in her lap, with two ivory embroidered stockings in her hands. Running a thumb over the garter ribbon. It was a soft blue. He likes blue on her.

He tries not to envisage that particular part of her anatomy that the stockings will rise up to, too much. He waits for his bath to be drawn and counts down the frustrated and rife minutes as they pass, like the truly impatient Lord he is.

[aurivore]

“ how far will you go? “

“HOW FAR?” a wry laugh bubbles up from the brassy depths of his throat, ancient and vicious. “Far beyond what you can conceive from the helm of your self-sacrifice called Kingship.” Heaving lacquered breaths of brandy-soaked air, Gilgameš presides gloriously before her as the sun upon the earth; lordly, scorching, exquisite. He looks as if he could either gore or caress her in the most delightful and amorous vivisection. Both was violence. “I would usually not bother to explain myself to the rabble, but I shall delight in you, Saber.” The slow, deliberate rolling of her class off of his tongue is salacious, debauchery-drunk; yet his brooding turns to a nightless growl, the finer points of his gaze sharpening to a glare both hyper-scarlet and lecherous in its implications. This core of him is voracious, virulent, and vicious, a chasmic rage bubbling up from crux of the earth, a hellish indignation that could make Irkalla appear heavenly and far less admissible in what it engenders — for the righteousness in what the King enacts is unimpeachable, absolute. It does not give requests. It does not falter in its execution. It demands despite revulsion. 

      Gilgameš gestures to the masses writhing below them as a lion does above his pride, and yet of this cowl he holds no great esteem of its living. The open arms with which he motions to the world is not of embrace but ownership, an authority that cannot merely be called Godly. How his gaze looked to devour up the world and it’s beastly, luscious pearls called Mankind, this insatiable hunger for the human animal. His heart is a vast mouth, and this is a sanctimonious act of consummation wherein everything is transformed through the rite of his jurisdiction, his devouring. His palate has withstood all the evils of the earth, and even this left him with bitter, rancorous parageusia. An utter disgust rests with acrimony in his gaze, and it seems as if his look alone would be enough to raze the earth. Enough to be its salvation. Which he knew himself to be. “Humans — writhing upon the Earth like leeches. And far too many of them now. Brilliant stars they once were, such so that one could appreciate how they illuminated the surface of the Earth. Now they have proliferated to such a degree that not even a single glimmer has any worth, and everything is filled with a nauseating blindness.” A darkling flashes across his retinas in all the searing coronae of a solar eclipse. A poignancy with no name. “Tell me. What beauty is there in a sleet-white sky?” 

      And yet through the blindness, there is clarity. To see though this repulsion to the clear and clinical solution. To see the end, and grin at the brilliance through which radiant results are gained. To reign through the blood which would be spilled to obtain it. “Despite having freed man of the divine shackles which bound them into the cowardice of sheep, they have become swine who delight their own rot.” For years he was their witness, and he’d placed his jurisdiction. Mans’ most base and beastlike compulsions have coalesced into an altogether repugnant appendage protruding from their everyday lives, and Gilgameš would ready his pruning saw. “So far they have gone that they have regressed, reproducing without limit, yet failing to flourish. It is utterly hideous, and will be corrected.” He is King as well as reaper, he is shepherd as well as judge. This is the will of the Supreme Arbiter. He applies pressure so the diamonds can gleam, he devours stars so they can shine again. Here is his vast will, his ready maw. 

      He turns to Arturia, his gaze brightening once more in its cruel, kindling vigor. He is staring into her eyes, but he is not looking at her. In his eyes was the glimmer of man’s future, and the incorruptible will to usher that light into reality. There is no darker light than his. There is no hope more wretched. “How far I’ll go? How foolish a question. As far as I’d like, as far I need.” He hovers his face inches away from hers, ravening eyes searing bloodied light unto the soft, gentle contours of her face. “See what will happen if you get in my way, my Bride.”

[magic-and-moonlit-wings]

How Turning Jim Into A Troll Disempowered Jim As A Character 

or, Why Some Of The Audience Found That Sequence Distasteful And Are Still Bitter 

(Screenshots are sourced and abridged from the springhole.net article ‘On Writing Empowered & Empowering Characters’ - this website offers advice for structuring and analyzing narratives, characterization, setting, and themes, and also a bunch of fun generators for those things.)

Jim did not consent to being turning part-troll. Consent gained through coercion is not consent, and “everyone you care about will probably die horribly if you don’t do as I say” is coercive. 

Jim gets a strength and agility boost from being shape-shifted, which, yes, did give him an advantage when fighting Gunmar in single combat, but 

fighting Gunmar in single combat went against the show’s ongoing theme about how Jim’s capacity for teamwork gave him an advantage that past Trollhunters did not have, and 

in a coordinated group attack, either Claire’s teleportation or Toby’s flying hammer could have let them get Jim into a position to land the kill strike against Gunmar without Jim needing to change species. 

Jim lost his abilities to 

eat food of the sort to which he is accustomed, 

be in sunlight, and 

be in human-occupied spaces without a disguise, unless the humans are either already aware of and cool with trolls or believe he is in costume. 

His freedom of movement and who he can interact with socially and under what circumstances has thus been severely curtailed. Furthermore, the loss of familiar things, such as any old favourite comfort foods, is not good for emotional health. 

Jim has to adjust to completely new instincts and a completely new body. I have commented in the past that, logically, the changes to his height, weight, limb length, center of gravity, and reflex speed, could have added up to Jim being completely uncoordinated and needing to relearn how to fight from scratch after his transformation, defeating the stated purpose of said transformation as a means to defeat Gunmar quickly. 

Jim’s personality has also been changed by his transformation. In his sparring match with AAARRRGGHH and Claire, he was more confident and playful, and in the final battle he demonstrated more aggression than he usually does. 

Neither of those developments are bad, but having those changes come about abruptly, as a side-effect of a magical transformation, is unpalatable compared to a gradual shift in personality over time. It feels like a cop-out from writing character development. 

Furthermore, if Jim notices his personality is different post-transformation, this will exacerbate the identity crisis that he still hasn’t finished resolving. 

+=+

Jim being turned into a troll has been speculated about since the first season, and I think the fan theories about it may also have influenced the negative reaction from some sections of the audience. The fan theories and related fanfics posited three broad categories of ways Jim might become a troll: 

1) Troll Magic Overexposure. Jim’s transformation would occur by accident, akin to Blinky’s transformation into a human, probably due to exposure to some trollish artifact or potion, or possibly as a cumulative response to all the trollish magic Jim has been exposed to over the series. 

2) Changeling Heritage. Jim’s transformation was something he was always hypothetically capable of, or a natural part of his puberty, due to trollish ancestry of which Jim had been unaware prior to that point; usually James Lake Senior being a Changeling. This could and often did cross over with the first idea, with troll magic being the catalyst which activated Jim’s troll genes. 

3) Enemy Action. Jim’s transformation would be forced on him by an enemy, usually crossing over with one or both of the previous theories. I believe I recall a couple of stories where Gunmar’s attempted use of the Decimaar Blade on Jim was the catalyst to activate Jim’s previously-unknown Changeling genes. 

Because expectations existed, there is a natural inclination to try and make the data fit that pattern. 

Considering Merlin’s treatment of Jim in the episode in question, it is easy to file Jim’s canonical transformation under the ‘Enemy Action’ theory. The fact it was done by a supposed ally clashes with the theory’s premise, encouraging anyone who considers this theory canon to emphasize Merlin’s cruel and abusive behaviour towards Jim in the pre-transformation scenes, and to consider other instances of Merlin’s callousness towards various characters as evidence Merlin was an antagonist masquerading as an ally all along. 

The majority of pre-Season Three Troll!Jim stories also had the transformation reverse, wear off, or (in the Changeling!Jim stories) Jim’s human and troll forms become shapes he could shift between, so having a supposedly permanent transformation occur drew backlash from those invested in this possibility. 

+=+

Having Jim transform only three episodes before the end of the series was a poor decision on the writers’ part. The audience was not given enough time to bond with Troll!Jim before he entered the Big Final Battle that the audience had spent three seasons anticipating finding out how Human!Jim was going to win. 

Just as Jim fighting Gunmar alone went against the series’ emphasis on the importance of teamwork, Jim becoming a troll to fight Gunmar went against the series’ emphasis on how Jim being human - physically human, with the squishiness and ability to survive in sunlight that this implies - could give him an advantage against troll opponents, who aren’t used to fighting humans who have sufficient armour, weaponry, and training to not be immediately overrun. 

Jim’s strategic thinking and the different culture of his upbringing still allows him to come up with strategies that a troll raised among trolls wouldn’t think of, but the physical advantages and disadvantages of being a human fighting a troll have been cast aside, and now he’s just a smaller troll fighting a bigger troll. 

This can still result in cool fight scenes, but when opponents start out with extreme differences in size, strength, and fighting style, reducing the contrast between them makes their fights less visually and narratively interesting than they could have been if the original extreme contrast was left alone. 

+=+

In case it is not visible, the clipped article from Springhole in the screenshots above reads as follows. 

[begin screenshot 1 of 2, medium-blue text on pale blue background] 

What can undermine a character’s perceived empowerment: 

These are some tropes and traits that can potentially undermine this character being perceived as empowered or empowering by audiences. Some issues to watch out for include: 

The “empowering” traits come from something that happened without the character’s consent. 

For example, by being forced to undergo experimentation or training that gives the character new powers or skills. It’s important to note that this isn’t always bad, especially if the character uses these traits to gain freedom. However, it can still leave a bad taste in some people’s mouths, especially if what happened to the character was especially brutal or torturous, or if the character isn’t actually responsible for getting free. 

[end screenshot 1 of 2] [begin screenshot 2 of 2, same colour scheme, medium-blue text on pale blue background]

The “empowering” traits are not actually within the character’s control, or they even cause the character to lose agency.

For example, if the character’s powers only manifest under high stress whether the character likes it or not, or only manifest at random or at the whim of another*, or if they force the character into a mindless berserker-like state**, or are just generally too unstable to have proper control over.

The empowering traits come packed along with significantly disempowering ones.

For example, a procedure that gave a character awesome powers also caused such severe mental damage that near-constant supervision is required to prevent the character from doing something disastrous, or the character’s powers often end up causing severe weakness or a loss of consciousness.

[end screenshot 2 of 2]

*The Amulet of Daylight and Merlin’s ability to manipulate it also come to mind. Although Jim does develop skill in controlling the Amulet after its erratic behaviour in the early episodes, the way that Merlin wrested control away from Jim was similar in tone to the moment in various superhero shows where a character’s power suit is ‘hacked’. 

** This is why Strickler dosing Jim with Grave Sand wasn’t an empowering scene. (To my knowledge, no one’s been arguing that it was; I’m just giving an example.) Jim had little control of the situation even before he was drugged, and less afterwards. This was presented in the show as a bad thing, so having Merlin later do something similar and trying to present it as a good thing is jarring.

+=+

On a tangentially related note, I noted in Jim’s one appearance in 3Below Season Two that he’s still wearing the Eclipse Armour, even though Gunmar is dead and Jim doesn’t need the Triumbric Stones anymore. 

Palette swaps are one of the cheapest ways to change an animation model, so unless the studio was already over-budget, this suggests there was a narrative reason why Daylight wasn’t in use instead. 

I posit that Jim has decided to keep using the ‘for the doom of Gunmar’ incantation because he doesn’t really feel like saying ‘for the glory of Merlin’ anymore. 

Or he still hasn’t managed to get the armour off since the Eternal Night, but I like this other idea better.

(Queued/posted before Wizards aired and potentially confirmed or refuted this.)

+=+=+

If I recall correctly, and if this information is still accurate, tumblr only shows Original Posts on the main page of the first five tags listed, to prevent people from tag-spamming to get on as many pages as possible. 

As such, I have put the #Troll Jim tag low in the list, so it will still be searchable on my blog - I file reblogs of content both for and against Jim’s transformation under that tag - but this post should not be hassling the pro-Troll!Jim contingent by showing up in the main tag. 

Let me know if I need to rearrange things, or take that tag off long enough to let this post get off the tag’s first page.

[peachiefics]

Serendipity

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: ANGST, ANGST, and more ANGST

Word Count: 1,916

Synopsis: Ser·en·dip·i·ty/ˌserənˈdipədē/ noun: the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

"a fortunate stroke of serendipity" 

Author’s Note: This is an old favorite of mine.  Prepare to cry. Feedback is always welcome! Sorry for any typos and such!

All of this isn’t just a coincidence Just just my own feeling The whole universe is different from yesterday Just just from your happiness

     Jimin smiled, watching her deep brown eyes open and fill him with a warmth that made him feel…alive.  He took note of how the sunlight streaming in from the window made her skin glow before glancing down at her pillow, only to see the black scarf that never managed to stay wrapped around her tightly wound curls. With a lighthearted chuckle, he whispered a soft “good morning”.

     Her morning routine that day was much more calm than usual. Jimin recalled watching her hastily move about just yesterday, desperately craving caffeine as she complained about her hair still being damp. Resting his hand behind his neck, against the headboard, he relaxed into their plush white sheets and sighed. 

     “Hmm…Black or blue?” she mumbled, examining the two dresses that hung on the back of the closet door.

     “Blue,” he yawned in response, eyes closing as he was engulfed by the mundane comfort of their bedroom.

     “Blue…That’s his favorite color,” she smiled softly, nodding her head in reassurance before reaching for the garment.

When you call me I am your flower Like I’ve been waiting for it We bloomed dazzlingly It is almost like the destiny of the universe It is just how it is You know I know You are me, and I am you 

     She found herself sitting on a bench in the park.  It was windy outside.  Just like it was that same day, a year ago. As she sipped her coffee, a leaf fell from a tree branch above, and landed in her hair.  But before she could brush it off, Jimin reached over and plucked it from her coils.  

     She scoffed lightly, thinking it ironic to be grateful to the wind for its small gesture.

     They sat in silence as he gazed at her, taking in all of her features. She seemed tense…and he couldn’t figure out why. 

     Once she had finished her beverage, she stood, tossing the empty cup in a nearby bin and taking a deep breath.  He followed her quietly as she left the park, figuring she would lead him to whatever was troubling her.

As much as my heart flutters, I’m just as afraid Fate keeps being envious of us I am just as afraid as you are When you see me When you touch me 

     It wasn’t long before he found himself staring up at a large set of black gates.

     “…Has it really been a whole year, already?” he mused, walking beside her as she shuffled through the multitude of grave stones. 

     After a few minutes, she settled in front of one in particular.  Her heart grew heavy and her eyes watery as she stared at the name etched in a bleak shade of gray.  

     “Hi, Jimin…,” she smiled sadly.

     He felt something similar to pain shoot through him at the sound of her voice cracking.  Moving to stand in front of her, he stared intently into her eyes.

     “Hi, _____,” he replied, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to hear him.

     “How’s Heaven?” she asked, a bit of dark humor lacing her tone.

     “I’m looking at it right now,” he answered, reaching up to caress the side of her face.  She raised her shoulder a bit and brushed it over the area, feeling a slight chill skim it.  He frowned, both at her reaction to his touch and the way she looked right through him.

     “I miss you…so m-much,” she stuttered, feeling composure slip through her fingertips.  

     “I’m right here, Baby,” he responded, wishing he could shed the tears that felt so real.

     “I dream about you all the time.”

     “Well, that’s the only way I can reach you,” he shrugged, releasing what sounded like a somber chuckle.

     “I love you,” she sniffed, wiping furiously beneath her eyes.

    “I love you, too…More than you could ever understand.”  

The cosmos moved for us There was nothing slightly out of place Our happiness was expected Cause you love me And I love you

     She buried herself beneath the white sheets of their bed, spirit completely drained.  Her phone vibrated for what felt like the hundredth time that day.  She knew her friends meant well, but she couldn’t help but to feel annoyed at their refusal to let her cope alone, in peace.  Glancing at the notifications, she read the words, “Are you okay?”,  “Do you need anything?”, and “Come watch the eclipse with us! It might help take your mind off things. We don’t think Jimin would want you to be upset for too long.” 

     Rolling her eyes, she sank into the plush pillows that gave her a false sense of safety and comfort.  Right before closing her eyes, she decided that she preferred to welcome the darkness into her home by herself.  The room dimmed around her as she drifted off.

     Jimin sat on the bed beside her, internalizing her pain as the room grew darker.  He had to leave the physical realm on that fateful day; it was beyond his control; but when given the choice, he decided to stay with her in this lesser form for as long as he could.  However, he couldn’t rid himself of this feeling of guilt and the longer he stayed, the less he could bare it.  Seeing her this way--being the reason she felt this way--and being able to offer no more than an occasional dream or slight breeze…It was all too much. 

     He solemnly looked down at her hand, cursing himself for having ever taken the privilege of holding it for granted.  Expecting to phase right through it, like usual, he placed his hand on top of hers.  

     The feeling of something cold and solid on her hand caused her to flinch.

     His eyes widened in shock as he felt her skin against his.  “_____?” he spoke gently, causing her to stir in her sleep.  “_____?” he repeated more sternly, lightly shaking her shoulder.  

     Her eyes cracked open and her mind went blank at the sight before her.  Sitting up, she came face to face with the love of her life.

     “If this is another dream…I don’t want to wake up this time,” she said simply. 

     “Don’t say things like that,” he shook his head, hastily reaching to press a hand to her cheek.  She flinched a bit at the sudden change in temperature, but before he could quickly move away, she held him in place.

     “No,” she said defiantly.

     “But isn’t it cold?”

     “Freezing, but it’s to be expected since you’re….,” she trailed off, unsure if she should even say it.

     “Dead?” he finished the statement for her, a bitter smile gracing his face. 

     Her eyes glazed over his features, taking them all in as if nothing had changed. ‘Casket pretty,’ she thought, images of his sweet face still bright under the dim, unflattering lighting of a morgue creeping into her mind.  

     “Physically, yes…but in my heart you’re alive as ever…God, that was cheesy,” she cringed.

     “You must really miss me, then,” he smirked, finally moving his hand to lock his fingers with hers.  

     “Of course, I do.  I happen to love you, you idiot,” she chuckled, feeling genuine happiness fill her chest for the first time in months.

     He grinned at the sound before replying, “And I happen to love you, too.”

You are my penicillin The one who saved me My angel, my world I am your calico cat One who came to meet you Love me now Touch me now  

     Without another word, she leaned forward and placed her warm lips atop his slightly chilled ones…And without hesitation, he tried his best to reciprocate the same warmth he felt.  

     After what felt like an eternity, they parted, and though she was the only one that technically needed oxygen, Jimin felt nearly breathless, as well. 

     “This is by far the most vivid dream I’ve ever had,” she whispered.

     “I don’t…I don’t think this is a dream, _____,” he replied, still puzzled by this fortunate stroke of serendipity.  Had he prayed for a moment like this?  Probably a hundred times by now, and he was sure that she had, too.  But why did God…or Fate…or whoever decided to play this seemingly cruel joke on them--why did They choose to answer those prayers now?  And how long did They intend to let them bask in this happiness before ripping them apart only to send them back to their respective realms of existence? 

     “Well, if it’s not a dream, then how do we make this last forever?”

     Just as he was about to answer, he noticed the room beginning to brighten, little by little.  Looking down at his fingers laced with hers, he realized his color was beginning to fade.  “I don’t think we can,” he replied, holding up their hands to show her the difference, all the while fighting to keep a smile on his face.

     “What?  No!” she exclaimed, turning towards the window.  

     He caught her face between his hands, bring it back to face him.  “Never look directly at an eclipse, you idiot,” he laughed lightly, despite feeling tears gather at the inner corners of his eyes.  He decided to stay strong for her, refusing to let the burning droplets fall from his eyes.  Seeing her brown orbs develop a slight gloss over them caused him to press his forehead against hers with a sympathetic smile.  

Just let me love you Just let me love you When the universe was first made Everything has been decided Just let me love you 

      “You can’t leave me again, Jimin,” she whispered.

     “I never did.  I’m always with you, _____…even if you can’t see me.”

     She nodded before turning slightly to press a kiss to his cold palm. With a gentle brush of his finger, he swept away a few tears that had trailed down her cheek. Without another word, they wrapped themselves in each other, under the white sheets, finding comfort simply in holding one another.  They gazed at each other as the room slowly brightened and while he still could, he reached over to tilt her chin up.  She smiled softly, knowing exactly what he wanted.  

     Leaning up slightly, she kissed him with as much love as she could muster, and he did the same.  Feeling his touch lighten, she pulled away slightly. Much to her dismay, he had faded even more, the light from the sun wearing through his image. Reaching up, she wiped away a single tear that he had unknowingly let escape.  

     “I love you.”

     “And I love you.”

     Not wanting her to see him completely disappear, he whispered, “Close your eyes.”

     She shook her head, feeling her insides churn at the thought of never seeing him again outside of her dreams. 

     “Please,” he almost begged, his entire appearance growing pale.

     Taking a deep breath, she did as he asked.  A brief moment later, a light breeze brushed across her cheek and she opened her eyes.

     A blank space illuminated by blinding sunlight.  

    The sheets fell around her as she grazed her hand over the empty, cool spot.  Closing her eyes again, she pictured his beautiful smile.  And even though she already longed for his touch again, she couldn’t help but be grateful for their fortunate stroke of serendipity.

     “Until we meet again…”

Let me love, let me love you Let me love, let me love you  

[portraitoftheoddity]

Ik this is out of the blue, but if you wanna talk about Loki I have a question. I'm having trouble writing him because he seems to always do things that are contrary to what he wants. He wants Thor to love him so he... Constantly betrays Thor and tries to kill him. It's difficult to get potential friends/love interests past the barbed wire fence he's put around himself. I was wondering what you think of that? Because I just really like hearing you talk about Loki. If you want.

*cracks knuckles* Awwwww, yesssss, here is my jam.

(I’ll be focusing on MCU!Loki here as comics!Loki hasn’t been stabbing Thor all that much lately so I’m guessing he’s not the subject of this ask.)

You’ve already touched on a really core component of Loki’s character, anon, which is that he is a great big mess of Contradictions with a capital C. He wants to be loved. He wants to be feared. He wants to destroy and he wants to be a savior. He wants the throne, and he just wants to be an equal. His methods and actions often seem at odds with his stated desires and goals. And for all that he’s depicted as the ‘god of chaos’ because of the results of his villainy, you could just as easily make an argument for the chaos being internal.

Frigga, who probably knows Loki best of anyone, makes a very poignant observation when she notes that Loki is “always so perceptive about everyone but [himself].” And I think this gets at the core of Loki’s character in a lot of ways – After having his world fall apart from under him in the first Thor movie, Loki has no idea who he is, what his role is, or what he wants. And in that state of conflict, he’s prone to undermining himself at every turn. He ‘wants’ to take over the Earth, but then forms a strategy for the invasion that’s easily thwarted. He ‘wants’ to be loved by his family, but constantly pushes them away. Possibly because he’s so angry and bitter that spite motivates him more than his own best interests. Possibly because he has a lot of self loathing (“I’m the monster parents tell their children about at night”) and subconsciously punishes himself. And possibly because he’s terrified of successfully getting what he thinks he wants and still being unhappy – which… given his plan in Thor did successfully get Thor out of the way and Loki on the throne and still wound up being one of the worst weeks in his life, is a rather understandable fear. He also seems to be acting out of fear anytime someone gets too close and is in a position to help him, as Loki subsequently turns on them almost defensively, like he’s trying to pre-empt any betrayal they might inflict on him by inflicting it on them first (See: “Sentiment.” / “You’re not.” / “Easier to let it burn.”)

A notable constant in Loki’s characterization is that he craves attention. So much of his bitterness comes from being constantly eclipsed by Thor his whole life, and feeling unseen (“I remember a shadow”). In Avengers, Tony recognizes that Loki is “a full-tilt diva.” At his trial in The Dark World, Loki is all about putting on a show of snark and bravado, because even negative attention is still attention – and while Odin gives him the satisfaction of yelling at him, his sentencing is a cruel outcome for Loki, since he’s imprisoned and left to be forgotten; something far worse, to him, than the drama of a public execution. We see this love of attention even more in Ragnarok, where he’s obviously indulging in making statues and plays commemorating himself, and then working his way into the Grandmaster’s inner circle. Whether he’s loved or hated, Loki is desperate not to be ignored.  

And I think that need for attention plays into a lot of his antagonism of Thor. He resents Thor for monopolizing what feels to Loki like a finite amount of love and attention in the universe. But he loves Thor all the same, as his brother and as a fixture in Loki’s life. And if he betrays Thor over and over and hurts him and gets Thor to hate him – well, it’s not as good as love, but love is almost too good to hope for and feels too fragile and ephemeral to someone with Loki’s insecurities. If he can’t count on Thor’s love, he’ll bet on his hate, because either is better than indifference. (Which is ultimately why Thor’s show of indifference toward Loki’s betrayals in Ragnarok is so damn effective – Thor not caring one way or the other is the worst outcome for Loki, and something that drives him to make a change after his plan obviously backfired.)

Another notable aspect of Loki is the degree to which he adheres to narrative roles. In the first Thor, Loki tries to be the hero – the one who kills the monsters and saves Asgard by ending the war with the frost giants, once and for all. This backfires horribly and he’s told that no, he did wrong; he realizes he’s the villain of his story, and then embraces the villainy – because if he’s gonna be the bad guy, then he’s gonna go all out when it comes to filling that role. If he’s the monster, then he’ll be monstrous. So the Loki we see in Avengers has decided that fuck it, if everyone is going to expect the worst of him, then he will be The Worst™, and be it with style. This creates something of a reinforced feedback loop, where Loki acts like a villain, people expect villainy of him, and Loki plays to their expectations.

He gets to break out of that loop in some ways early in Ragnarok, when he’s ‘dead’ and able to change the narrative around himself. As “Odin,” he reshapes his [Loki’s] story into that of a hero, and not a villain. Everyone expects him to be Odin, not Loki, so with no expectations of villainy on him, he behaves…. Well, a bit selfishly, totally hedonistically, and a little negligently, but not particularly villainously or maliciously. He slides back into that villain role for a while on Sakaar (he gets almost performatively villainous when Bruce shows up – I think, again, playing to the expectations of his audience), but then Thor challenges him to do better, to be different, to break out of that role.

Interestingly enough, Loki still adheres to a narrative role at the end, but it’s the one he actually wanted from the start, which is that of ‘Asgard’s Savior’ – the role he wanted when he tricked Laufey, the role he gave himself in his plays, and the way he’s actually wanted to be seen all along. Loki may not want to be a hero for selfless, altruistic reasons – but he does love Asgard, however mixed his feelings are about it, and is willing to risk his life for it. And while he revels at times in playing the villain, performative villainy is more of a consolation prize he gives himself for not being able to enjoy the adulation of heroism. 

Getting back to the idea of Loki not knowing what the hell he wants – ultimately, I think Loki is at his best at the end of Ragnarok because Thor challenges him directly to actually figure out what he wants and who he wants to be. Plus, Loki’s had time to calm down and heal a bit from his earlier traumas, so the betrayal and villainy he exhibits at that point is less of him lashing out in pain and fear, and more just… habit. Breaking that habit becomes a choice he’s given.  

(Side Note: If you want to read some amazing meta-textual exploration of narrative roles vis-a-vis comics!Loki, Loki: Agent of Asgard is an incredible series and well worth checking out.)

So, when it comes to writing Loki – I think a lot of your characterization is going to be dependent on which point of Loki’s story you’re setting your fic in. Thor-era Loki who is having an identity crisis and lashing out near-mindlessly, frightened and angry and desperate to be the hero? Avengers-era Loki, who has decided he’s going to embrace being a monster and wear his monstrosity like armor before anyone can use it against him? Dark World-era Loki, who is bitter and desperate not to be forgotten forever in the bowels of Asgard’s dungeons? Or Ragnarok Loki, who has realized he doesn’t have to be universally reviled and has the ability to change his own story, if he can get the hell out of his own damn way for five minutes?  He goes through a lot of changes, and a lot of different traumas that affect him differently. So considering your setting is important.

Another thing to think about is what does your Loki want, and what does Loki think he wants? A great narrative arc can involve getting Loki to actually realize what his success means, and whether or not he’d find any joy in it (“satisfaction is not in my nature”) – and what, on the other hand, might actually make him happy.

Regarding Loki’s relationships with other characters – you’re right that it’s tricky, what with the walls Loki puts up, and how prickly he can be. Loki’s response to having his trust shattered in Thor was to pretty much quit trusting anybody, so you’ll have to think about how that other character earns his trust. I’ve personally enjoyed playing with the idea of another character rehabilitating Loki by expecting good of him, and leveraging Loki’s tendency to play to expectations in that way. Also, while Loki acts the way people expect him to, he also forms a lot of expectations of others, so keeping him on his toes by letting the characters around him act in ways he doesn’t predict can be a way to get under that armor. Extremes of situation such as dire peril and injury are, of course, other popular tropes for putting a walled-off character in a vulnerable position where their usual defenses are not in play. And when it comes to Loki’s satisfaction (or lack thereof) – Ragnarok Loki, when given the opportunity to play the hero instead of the villain, and the opportunity to be a part of a team instead of going it alone, ultimately seizes that opportunity. I think that speaks to the desire he has, deep down, to be loved and accepted and admired over hated and feared and lonely, which another character in your fic could tap into, with enough patience and persistence. 

Loki’s a complicated mess of a character, whose identity and motivations can be difficult to grasp, largely because his own grasp of them is so tenuous and changeable. But it also makes him a really fascinating and compelling character, with a lot of layers to explore. There’s a lot of ways to interpret him – mine is just one of many interpretations, and certainly not gospel! – and I encourage you to have fun with exploring his psychology and characterization in all its messy glory, in whatever way makes most sense to you.

[rosienth]

Ghost Story

I wrote this piece for my college science fiction class in response to Octavia Butler’s, “The Book of Martha”; there are also a few references to Ted Chiang’s, “Exhalation,” and to Chen Qiufan’s, “Smog Society.” It’s not the best thing that I’ve ever written, but it’s best read when accompanied by the Gone Girl soundtrack–my favorite movie soundtrack to date–specifically, “What Have We Done To Each Other.” 

My wife is as transient to me now as the fog is to everyone else. She comes when the fog opens, like curtains, revealing the face that appears so familiar to me, yet not, at the same time—and she goes when the fog thickens, closing off my view of her and her world in all of their foreign familiarity.

Space travel had not been successful in the earlier years: it took longer than we could afford to wait amidst the famines and the riots, and the astronauts—“our pioneers of the future,” as the last of the grimy government officials liked to call them—went missing, often, much to the public’s horror. Those were the days when my wife was still writing for the papers and leading protests and coming home to talk to me about how things were going to get infinitely better, Emily. As it always did, her doe-eyed optimism rubbed off on me with time, and so we, as in my naive colleagues at the lab and I, went looking for more efficient means—a shortcut that would bridge great spatial distances��of transcending time and space. No more primitively launching ourselves out of orbit. We were arrogant enough to tell ourselves that this project would not only be our redemption, but also the revival of the scientific world. The advent of the Second Enlightenment. When we presented our abstract to our prospective patrons, we called the theory something long, pretentious, and technical—a title that I could not even bother to remember later, when the fog arrived and settled. My wife called it “closing the gaps”—that’s a much more digestible term, Emily—which seems so appropriately ironic, in retrospect. I would have laughed if I had known better then.    

There is no telling or predicting when the fog will clear and there is no demanding or manipulating the fog into clearing. For the first time in a long time, we had to wait to get what we wanted from what was left of our planet. I cannot say whether or not this was good for us, or even if the fog had produced more patient, less self-serving people. It certainly did produce the most devout of religious fanatics, though. First, came the prayer circles; they were mostly secretive and inconspicuous in the beginning. Then, followed the chanting and the singing that echoed throughout the day, into the desolate alleyways and into the brittle corpses of fallen skyscrapers, and bled deep into the night. They—most likely because my wife had gone missing by the time that the Fog Societies multiplied and infiltrated the cities—didn’t bother me as much as they had bothered those who eventually attempted to silence their “disruptive nonsense” through violence. Their singing soothed me and helped me to drown out the sounds of regretful memories: dishes crashing against the kitchen floor, doors slamming in faces, empty curses shouted from across equally empty hallways. I didn’t like being told that I was being greedy; she didn’t like being told that she was being jealous. I was officially granted my own research space at the national lab; she was discharged from her position as editor-in-chief of the local paper.

Public distrust of science was rampant long before my team and I even started our experimental trials, and rightfully so: our predecessors took advantage of science’s promise of absolute objectivity and absolute truth to justify eugenics—among other inhumane acts. Scientists like me were scarce and poor, so naturally, the prize money was the objective of our project; the fog, of course, was the unintended, unnatural consequence—to some, a godly blessing—of our hasty curiosity and desperation.  

What emerged from the tear that we made in the atmosphere was not expected. I thought that you were closing the gaps. There was no kaleidoscopic storm that threatened to devour the city and the oceans; there was no ominous black hole to rip us apart and pull us into the fabric of the universe and end all human life as we knew it; there was no loud, cinematic climax, only a potent, viscous slowness. The fog materialized in waves, ever so subtly, before it was everywhere and before it became everything. It clouded our vision as it snaked through the uprooted streets and penetrated the thin walls of our homes, lulling the city into a gradual hibernation: it dimmed the street lamps, it eclipsed the stars, and it silenced the birds and the children in the parks. The fog became the air that we breathed and it, too, seemed to move—to clot and to dissipate—with the rhythm of our lungs: the exhale, the clotting, was deep and exaggerated, while the inhale, the dissipation, was brief and euphoric.  

Strange, inexplicable things happened during the inhalations, during the fleeting moments when fog cleared. There were miracles and there were tragedies; the two merged into one. My wife was the first to notice the differences that emerged from underneath the fog. At first, they were small, insignificant differences. The wedding album cover was royal blue instead of the seafoam green that my wife swore on her right hand that it was. Peach rose bushes bloomed in places where there should have been dirt and cracked concrete. Grandma Kay’s gilded antique music box disappeared from my wife’s bookshelf and was never found.

“This is a cruel prank, Emily,” my wife had assured me one morning before I left for work at the lab, her voice hoarse from last night’s yelling match. She must have also found it cruel when people began disappearing, too, but she retreated to her room without a word when the first headliner showed up at our door: 25 Missing, No Leads. They were never found.  

I spent the weeks leading up to my wife’s disappearance tossing and turning in the bed sheets, only occasionally getting up for nutritional biscuits and water from the kitchen. It was difficult to cope with the immobility during the exhalations; they were such agonizingly long periods. You could not see the hand in front of you when you stepped foot outside, let alone travel, because the fog was so opaque when it thickened and descended upon everything. My wife liked to joke that we were living beneath a large fleece blanket, though I suppose it wasn’t much of a joke given the bitterness in her tone. Ironically enough, we were safest in the darkness, when we were blind to everything outside of that large blanket. At least, people didn’t go missing during the exhalations.

The city is mostly quiet now because people had given up on hypothesizing and rationalising and instead, surrendered, shut up, and listened to the soft humming of the fog. You cannot sleep because the noise is so incessant, omnipotent, and it is usually at its loudest just before the fog lifts for the next inhalation. You can hear distorted, almost palpable voices muffled in the fog, some of them foreign, some of them so eerily familiar that they make you pause to stare at your reflection in the mirror at night, as my wife so often did. She said that she saw the ghosts of another family living inside of our house: one mother who goes to work—A scientist, Emily!—another mother who stays at home with the giggling baby. She witnessed the welcoming of the new family cat, reflected in the bathroom mirror. She was there for the baby’s first birthday celebration; she watched them dancing around together in the window panes. It made her uneasy, at times, the voyeurism of it all, but she could not bring herself to look away.

It was not long before the rest of the city saw their own ghosts, too. Behind the fog, we saw glimpses of different versions of ourselves. Some of them were brilliant, others, not so much. We got to see the ones that never broke up with our first loves, the ones that pursued the internships that we had been too afraid to in college, and the ones that found solace in opium and lived in dingy spaces on the edges of town. The fog gave us new vision, new eyes: we saw life and we saw death, living and dying, all at once. For some, the gift was too overwhelmingly colorful; it drove them down the rooftops of skyscrapers and down the flights of apartment building staircases. For others, the gift seduced them into stagnance. Sometimes, they formed new religions like the Fog Societies did in order to evoke more frequent inhalation periods. Sometimes, they sat still in their living rooms, inhaling the sounds of their potential lives and choices. My wife sleep walked through empty rooms and traced the spines of nonexistent books that she did not own, at least not in this life. Not here and not now. All of these things were ultimately just different forms of waiting and postponing action. People were tired of working and protesting to deaf ears. Waiting felt good.

One night, sometime after my wife went missing, a stranger joined me in bed. This was an inhalation. The woman resembled my wife in almost every way: she shared the same waist-length curls, same pointed nose that I used to teasingly poke, same bright, hazel eyes. I watched the panic grow and then plateau in those eyes at the realization that I was not at all who she thought that I was.

“You’re not Cara. Where is she? Where is the baby?”

This wife-imposter did not stay for very long. She left just as quickly as she had arrived, when the fog came back and swathed us in its great arms. I don’t think that I ever saw her again. There were other wife-imposters, certainly, but all slightly different; a minority of them recognized me—probably a different version of me, maybe a better me that didn’t abandon my wife when she needed me the most—and I pretended to recognize them too. Most of them reacted similarly to the way that the first one did, by bombarding me with questions, to which I answered as honestly as I could. The questions that I asked myself tortured me more so. Was my real wife starving somewhere on the side of some nondescript road? Was she happier with whomever she wound up with than she was with me? Was she still alive? The first few times the women appeared were frustrating and disorienting; I just wanted to get past the formalities, past those shrill, hysterical questions, and find out for sure if this was indeed my wife from here, from now. My increasing loneliness and guilt softened me, however, and I found myself hopefully waiting for these awkward visits from these strange women that ghosted in and out of our house. I wanted for just anyone to distract me from that harrowing loneliness and guilt.  

These days, I wait out on my flamingo pink lawn chair, half-heartedly pretending to sunbathe, but mostly I’m focused on my breathing. I’ve stopped going to the lab and I’ve stopped communicating with my colleagues altogether, not that either of those things would have mattered, anyway; some of them don’t even remember my name or why they’re even working at the lab. I can’t blame them, though. My own memories feel more like distant childhood bedtime stories than they do reality. Perhaps we are all too intoxicated to tell the difference. Perhaps the fog has suffocated us all in our own daydreams; I don’t know. For now, I know that I am perfectly content waiting around for the fog to churn out the next dazed stranger. I know that she’ll have a lot of questions that I can’t answer, but maybe one day, she won’t have any. She’ll know exactly who I am and she’ll know that she is home.

[glenngaylord]

BLEAK IN THE U.S.S.R. - My Review of LOVELESS (4 Stars)

One of the most painfully despairing films I’ve ever seen, LOVELESS is in no way an entertaining film, but it’s great, great filmmaking nonetheless, and well worth seeing if you have a tolerance for bleak hopelessness.  A nominee for this year’s Best Foreign Language Film Oscar, and very well deserved, director Andrey Zvyagintsev and his LEVIATHAN co-writer Oleg Negin, tell a story that’s distinctively a product of modern era Russia, yet seems all-inclusive in its exploration of a world more interested in social media than in the raging wars on the battlefield or at home.  Zvyagintsev has such a unique grasp of the rhythms of film storytelling, holding on shots longer than the usual, diverting expectations, and creating moods in unexpected ways.  

Opening on a long series of serene, wintry suburban Moscow landscapes, we eventually settle on a wide shot of a school as first a few, then a whole crowd of children pile out of at the end of their day.  The camera spots young Alyosha (the remarkable Matvey Novikov) as he takes his time walking home.  Smart kid, because no reasonable person would get too excited about seeing his completely miserable parents, Zhenya (Maryana Spivak) and Boris (Aleksey Rozin).  Still living together, but in the throes of a bitter divorce, these young parents can’t wait to start their lives over, and their son, who they plan to stow away in boarding school and then the military, is only getting in their way.  Both parents see Alyosha as more of a nuisance, a barrier to their happiness with their new partners.  Zhenya would rather scroll through Instagram, have sex with her new rich boyfriend, or have a relaxing spa day than check in on her son’s well-being.  Boris’ lack of interest in parenting, his relationship with his pregnant girlfriend, or his fears of his divorce jeopardizing his job with a conservative Christian employer, eclipse any urges to do the same.  They’re either parents FROM hell, or parents IN hell, but either way, Alyosha remains lost in the balance.  

In one of the most emotionally soul-draining shots I’ve ever seen in a film, a closing door reveals that Alyosha has overheard his parents’ latest argument, his silent anguish exposing his utter devastation.  Novikov’s performance, despite very limited screen time, will stick with you long after the end credits have rolled.  So lost in their rage for each other, it will take Zhenya and Boris a couple of days after this scene to realize that Alyosha has disappeared.  

Spivak, in a blazing performance, can’t hide her disgust for Boris, spewing vitriol in every scene with him, even in moments where they should be united in finding their kid.  They leave that task to the police as they shockingly go about their lives.  LOVELESS, which couldn’t me more apt of a title, depicts a society so cruel and crushing, so obsessed with appearances, that it leaves little room for the needs of an innocent child.  Despite its Eastern European setting, and utter lack of “Hollywood-ization” in its storytelling, its themes couldn’t be more universal.  

Zvyagintsev  and his cinematographer Mikhail Krichman bring stunning, grounded visuals to this  film, whether its the grand spectacle of the manhunt for the boy, or trays of food sliding down a cafeteria line, the camera always seems to be in the right and very interesting place.  Tonally, the filmmakers clearly want its audience to feel unsafe, unsure of where each scene may take them.  It’s a long, slow burn, leading to something so unsparing and revealing about peoples’ true natures.  Is it strange that I was hoping they would never find Alyosha, because his return would be anything but safe?  

This film confronts some ugly truths.  It offers no easy answers, all the way up to its last few, bone-chilling shots. It’s a very, very difficult thing to witness, but it’s memorable.  We humans have often patted ourselves on the back for our resilience, but LOVELESS seems to take the position that our narcissism, our anger, and our sociopathic tendencies have contributed more to our survival than love, compassion, and empathy.  We’re doomed, but in the hands of such a master filmmaker, there’s the hope that at the very least, maybe we’ll pay closer attention.  

[beckettsthoughts]

ALL THE SPACE ASKS

I had to leave this ‘til last, because I had some others come in at the same time. I love when I get these, you’re the absolute best

Cosmos: What are you like when you’re angry at someone?

Fucking cruel, at my worst. I’m petty, and I hate it, but when I’m really angry I like to make people feel guilty and that can come about from ghosting them, bragging about doing things without them, making myself unavailable when they offer to make it up to me. I like to think that these days I’m better about it, I’ve learned that most of my anger stems from something called rejection-sensitive dysphoria, and one of the coping mechanisms I use these days is to remove myself from it for a day or so to let myself rationalise what’s going on, get over that initial feeling of rejection so that I can see it from their perspective. Nine times out of ten it wasn’t intentional, they didn’t mean to upset and probably already feel kind of bad about it. There are times in the past when I feel that my anger was justified even if my retaliation wasn’t, but most of the time my anger was unwarranted and that’s something I’ll always regret. 

Shooting star: What are you like when you’re sad?

I don’t often find myself just sad, it’s usually combined with anger, frustration or downright despair, so it’s hard to tell how I get when I’m sad. I tend to feel tired, and I’ll probably reach out to my friends both online and offline to talk things through if I can. I’ll find something else to do, funny videos to watch or a story to read, and it usually goes away pretty quickly. 

I would explain what it felt like I was depressed, because then I was genuinely sad a lot of the time. But honestly, I don’t really remember that much. That whole period of my life feels like a blur in my memories now and it’s bittersweet, but there are times back then that don’t even feel real to me now.

Eclipse: What are you like when you’re happy?

Excitable is probable the best word for it, incredibly excitable. I’ll move a lot, walk and jump and flap my hands when I’m really happy. It’s so hard to describe outside of the moment of pure joy, but when I’m happy I’m affectionate and energetic and talkative. That feeling in itself is very enjoyable.

Space dust: Are you happy?

Yes, actually, in a calm sort of way. Right now ‘normal’ for me is pretty good, so even though I’m kind of neutral right now it’s a happy neutral, if that makes sense? I’ve had an alright day, my seminar was pretty dull but then I went to get dinner, did some drawing and then settled down to watch documentaries. I posted this ask meme and I got so many responses, which makes me really happy as well. So yeah, I’m happy at the moment for sure.

Constellation: Have you ever read a book that is worse than the movie?

God, you’re all going to hate me for this but I have to admit it:

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

I tried to read the book for the first time when I was eight or nine. The emphasis there is on the word ‘tried’, because I got about a third of the way through before putting it back down in bitter disappointment. I used to eat up books that size in a matter of days, maybe a week, but Deathly Hallows was taking me so long and I got so bored that I actually just gave up. I did manage to read the whole thing on my second try, but I definitely didn’t enjoy it the way I enjoyed the others. This was more of a personal issue, because in no way is the book bad, it just didn’t suit me or what I liked to read. The movies, at least, I could focus through. The two-part split was helpful, it made it much easier to digest and I found that I could follow the story a lot easier. Once I’d seen the movie I found the book a lot easier to read, but that first experience still stands out in my mind as the one time I genuinely disliked a book from a series I really loved. 

Black hole: Do you have any diagnoses?

Indeed I do. Several, in fact. I’m not exactly shy about it, so I may as well go through the list. Starting with the physical, I have: 

Chronic, full-body dermatitis 

Various allergies

Moderate to severe hayfever

Chronic migraine disorder

And in terms of mental health and neurodivergence, I have:

Autism

ADHD (combined-type)

Anxiety disorder NOS (originally diagnosed as social anxiety, since expanded to NOS with no further change)

Emetophobia

I was also previously diagnosed with depression, which I no longer suffer from.

Galaxy: Are you a sun, moon or star person?

Moon or stars, definitely, though I find it hard to choose which. I’m definitely not a sun person, though. 

Though one lovely person did once say I was their sun, moon and stars (I don’t think it’s hard to guess who that anon might have been)

Milky way: Do you prefer math or humanities?

Humanities! I took all of my A Levels in humanities and my undergraduate course is also one of the humanities! My specific interests within humanities are philosophy, ethics, sociology and the arts, including music, theatre, art, creative writing, linguistics and literature.

Satellite: When was your first kiss?

In a romantic sense, I haven’t had it yet and probably never will. That sounds really pathetic but in reality I’m just not interested and the whole concept ever-so-slightly grosses me out.

Sunspot: Are you a sensitive person?

Yes. Incredibly.

Andromeda: Describe your first best friend:

Lord, where do I even begin? Firstly, he’s one of the kindest and most considerate people I’ve ever met. He’s sweet, and he’s passionate about his interests in the best way. I could listen to him talk about them for hours. He has the nicest smile, something I’m glad I get to see on a regular basis when I’m home, and being around him always makes me happy. He’s cool, he has some awesome style and a wicked talent for hair and makeup, and his music taste is at least five times better than mine. There’s nothing I like more than just talking to him, being around him and getting to hug him and pet his hair while we chill in my room or his. 

God, he’s so good. I can’t even properly tell you how amazing he is. I love him more than anything else in the world.

Saturn: What do you think about before falling asleep?

Usually stories I’m writing, things I’m looking forward to or whatever I last watched before I turn my laptop off. Basically one night I might fall asleep thinking about some epic storytelling project and the next I fall asleep thinking about the “Top Ten Underrated Pokemon of Generation Six” and there is little no in-between.

Pulsar: What kind of person do you want to be?

Considerate, inspiring, comfortable and pleasant to be around. I want to make people happy and I want to make them feel safe around me, and I want to encourage them to live their best life.

Orion: What do you dislike most about yourself?

I have some pretty glaring personality flaws that I’m still trying to work on, for one. Aside from that, I hate my face shape and especially my chin/neck and also my skin can be a pain in the arse.

Meteor: Do you have a favourite historical figure?

It’d have to be Oscar Wilde, man. That man is inspirational.