#good thing I wrote this earlier

[toanw]

any tips for beginner artists?? I love ur art !!

thank you!!! Im not great at giving art advice but i can try lol…

here are some rules i try my best to follow to this day when im aiming to improve:

make art a habit: mileage isnt everything, but it certainly helps!! It’s much harder to improve if youre rarely creating.

dont be afraid of making mistakes, but always try to understand the mistakes you make. If something doesn’t look right, try your best to figure out why!! you’ll get better at catching yourself with time.

get to know the tools you already have instead of fixating on the tools others use. i find that beginners especially tend to obsess over the brushes/programs/tablet/etc. that their favourite artists have, but the truth is that artistic skill is transferable between mediums and no single tool is going to magically make you a better artist. its very easy to get caught in this trap, and i still do sometimes!!

draw the things you want to draw, even if you know they’re beyond your current skill level. taking risks goes hand in hand with my second point—the more mistakes you make, the more you’re going to learn!! and remember that you can always redraw a bad drawing.

go into a drawing knowing roughly what you want to create. mindless doodling is an easy way to make yourself believe that you have no ideas, and it can lead you to hate the act of sitting down to draw. you don’t have to know exactly what the finished product will be like, but make sure you have a tangible goal!!

these aren’t concrete rules you HAVE to follow by any means, but they are things that i wish someone had told me when i started out. i hope you find them useful!

[headfullof-ideas]

I’m halfway through writing the first film, and I’m taking a minor pause to do a deep organization of the shows that follow and their seasons, so I know what stuff to hint at earlier in the story, and not get stuck with the dreaded plot hole that I may have to go back and rewrite something in order to fix. This involves character arcs, season arcs, and all sorts of other fun stuff to think about, but not so much write.

HOWEVER.

I’ve only been focusing on the HTTYD stuff. As it takes up a majority of the first part of the story. Ant doesn’t meet his family until halfway through RTTE. I haven’t gotten that far yet in finer planning. I am now. I am now also being faced with the dawning realization of figuring out what parts of the story from The Deep to sew into this story, and how to translate what the characters do into this universe. Some (the Dark Orca pirates) are easier than others (Alpheus). I am also designing a number of other side-side (I guess background, technically) characters who might get involved later or in certain episodes, and still planning episode by episode how each season will go.

…this is fine🥲

[mildmayfoxe]

for tomorrow:

-change sheets

-water plants

-edition prints

-print mail

-make lasagna

depending on time/energy maybe start/finish other parts of riso order & put away laundry & deal with clothes pile™

[movietonight]

While there are things to criticise mash for and those conversations are important to have some of what I read can be explained very easily by reminding yourself

It was a TV show

On a budget

From years ago

From America

Written by a variety of human writers

Who used characters and plots to tell stories

Within a certain number of minutes

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan has someone she'd like to impress.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,848. Rating: all audiences, bar a few swears.)

Chapter 42: The Ball

The Great Hall was adorned in its finest, the banners of the Inquisition unfurled. A quartet played upon the dais, the floor before them awaiting its dancers. Attendees of every strata—advisors, digintaries, mages, soldiers—exhibited their most exquisite attire, anticipating the arrival of their guests of honour.

The door thundered open. A herald announced their names:

“Presenting! Lady Erridge of West Coldon, Lady Samient of Samient, Baroness Touledy of Val Misrenne, and Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick!”

The Ladies strode in, none finer than they. Lady Erridge wore her pinkest, most ruffliest dress yet; Lady Samient wore her tightest, of dark, snakish leather; the Baroness wore her most glamorous, a gown in deep and passionate red—with a mahogany cane to match, of course.

Trevelyan entered last of all. The ballgown she wore? Unrecognisable.

The black brocade was gone, the lace ripped from its seams with wicked delight. All that remained was perfect canvas of purest navy, onto which it could be painted—with shining, silvery thread.

Her mother would’ve fumed at the very idea. But what good was learning embroidery, if one did not use it in defiance? Each Lady had taken up a quadrant of her own, yet the stitches they had sewed were all the same: dozens upon dozens of tiny, shimmering, stars.

Trevelyan sparkled with every step. Diamonds glittered around her neck, lent eagerly by the Baroness. Every candle’s flame glistened upon her. Even the night sky could not compare.

Were it not for the musicians, the room would have been stunned to silence. Whispers of admiration made their circuit. Trevelyan drank in the praise, striding through the parting crowds. They led her to the foot of the dais, where the Ladies had gathered, and where an elegant figure—clothed in blue and gold—stood tall. With little more than a smile and a gesture, Lady Montilyet brought the room to a hush.

“Friends of the Inquisition!” she proclaimed. “Thank you for attending! If I may, I wish to propose a small toast, to some of our departing guests.”

She raised her glass. “A toast to Lady Erridge and Lady Orroat, to the union of your families and of Coldon! A toast to the Baroness Touledy, for victory in Val Misrenne! And a toast to Lady Samient, for her safe journey home!”

Glasses and steins clinked together, accompanied by a hearty cheer.

“But to Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick,” Montilyet continued, “we do not say farewell. Gathered friends, may I please introduce you, to our new Arcanist!”

Applause went up, echoing off the walls, and filling the room with joy. Trevelyan laughed in delight, and caught glimpses of her friends amongst the crowd. Varric clapped, Dorian hollered, and even Sera cheered—though none were as enthusiastic as Dagna herself!

Still, there was one face she could not quite find.

“Tonight, we celebrate!” Montilyet declared. “So please, enjoy!”

The band launched into triumphant fanfare; good humour and good company were the orders of the evening. The Ladies, all aflutter, went about these goals with giddiness and verve.

“Won’t you come dance?” asked Erridge, having already recruited Lady Orroat to her cause.

Trevelyan startled, her attention elsewhere. She stumbled and stammered over her excuses. “Oh! Later, perhaps? There’s something, I, um...”

Lady Samient picked up on her meaning, and picked up her slack. “Come, Lady Erridge! I’ll dance with you.”

Appeased, Lady Erridge escorted her away. Trevelyan withdrew from the dancefloor.

She could dance another time. She did not wish to muss her hair or catch her skirt. Her eyes scanned the party. Her fingers trembled. The moment he saw her had to be perfect.

A hand caught her shoulder. The Baroness, apparently having already procured a drink, leant over, and tilted it forward.

“There,” she whispered.

The crowd parted, as if by her will. True to her word, at the other end of the room, there he stood. The man she’d been searching for.

The Commander.

Maker, he had only become more handsome the longer she had known him. That rough-hewn jaw of his, and the dishevelment of stubble upon it; the subtle waves in his hair, hints of his rebellious curls; those dimples upon his cheeks—the thumb-prints of the divine, left where the Maker’s scultping hand had gone astray.

And his weary eyes, whose gentle gaze found her, and drew her closer.

Trevelyan admired, as she approached, the coincidence of the navy blue doublet that Lady Montilyet had undoubtedly advised him to wear. Hm. She liked him better in red. Suited him more, perhaps—though it mattered little. There was nothing that could dull the shine of him; true gold, after all, did never rust.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as he straightened to greet her. And he would have done so, perhaps warmly, perhaps sweetly—had a scout, uniformed and on duty, not appeared at his side.

Ah, fuck.

They whispered something to him beneath the hubbub of the ball, which sharpened back into focus. Though Trevelyan heard nothing of the Commander’s reply, when his attention returned to her, his smile was gone.

“Arcanist,” he said, with a bow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. There is urgent business to which I must attend.”

Bloody typical.

“Of course,” she told him, magnanimously. “Duty calls.”

“At inconvenient times,” he muttered.

“No duty is ever convenient,” she commented. That seemed to amuse him, at least.

“I will return as soon as I am able, I assure you.”

“Yes, Commander.”

She curtsied to him, and allowed him to depart. The scout lingered by the rotunda door; the Commander followed them through.

Gone.

Trevelyan looked down at her pretty, sparkly skirt, and fluffed it up, pointlessly. Not quite the moment she’d been hoping for.

Oh, well. She would have ample opportunity for such moments with him in the coming days. If he didn’t get called away by something or other during those, too.

Stowing her frustration, Trevelyan returned to the party. There was plenty there to distract her, anyway. She watched the Ladies dance together; she enthused with Dagna about their work; she spoke to Lady Montilyet about her new quarters (ready tomorrow!); and she gossiped with Dorian about absolutely nothing of note—though he was, as always, terribly good conversation.

Yet still no Commander.

The noise of the music and the chatter and the stomps of the dancing were beginning to blur in her brain. Dorian noted her change in temperament, as she attempted to peer through the garden door from afar. Too many in attendance; the party had spilled out into it. It was no less busy out there than it was in here.

“Try up there,” Dorian suggested, indicating the mezzanine above. It seemed Sera had been banned from it today, as there was no skulking to be seen. “It has a balcony, if you need some air.”

“Thank you,” said Trevelyan. She’d had little cause to ever stray up there before—but this seemed as good a reason as any. She bid him farewell, and escaped up the stairs.

The moment she reached their peak, her troubled mind calmed. Mere feet above the chaos, the music came quieter, the conversation nothing more than ambience. Thank the Maker.

Besides, this mezzanine was well-furnished for a somewhat hidden space, with a luxurious chaise and portraits of figures Trevelyan did not quite recognise. The candelabrum here were not lit, leaving all illumination to that of the moons, whose glow trickled through a pair of glass doors—beyond which, as promised, was a balcony.

But Trevelyan felt enough at ease to stay inside—and she found the view of the party below to be quite of interest. The dancers weaved such wonderful patterns; outfits, in all colours, were arrayed like a painter’s palette. She could watch, as those she knew flitted from one group, to another. An enjoyable pict—

The rotunda door opened, drawing her eye. The Commander entered the hall. He strode into the party with such determination, it was as if it did not exist around him. Trevelyan traced his path as it led him, direct, to the Baroness.

They huddled against a wall. He whispered something. Urgent business? Oh, no.

But the Baroness smiled. Wider and wider. She asked him a question; he replied with nod. She placed a hand over her heart, and sighed. Trevelyan did the same.

If the news they shared was what she hoped, then she was rather glad she hadn’t kicked up a fuss at the Commander’s departure. Because if it was what she hoped, then he could have left all night, and still she would smile.

Maker, she had to see the Baroness—and she would have, if not for the feet hurrying up the stairs. The Baroness? No cane. Then—!

The Commander sprang onto the landing, startling himself as much as he startled her, determination abandoning him in an instant. “Arcanist!” he stammered, attempting to bow. “Forgive me—Dorian told me you were here.”

That crafty bastard. Trevelyan put his schemes aside, and asked, “Is everything all right, Commander? What was your urgent business?”

Before he’d even said a word, he smiled. That alone brought her relief. “There was a message from the Inquisitor,” he told her. “The battle is won. Val Misrenne is safe.”

Trevelyan could scarcely believe it. She clasped a hand over her mouth, a beaming smile beneath it. She shook her head, out of sheer incredulity. By Andraste. She could not fathom how dear Touledy felt.

“Thank the Maker,” she breathed. “Or, I suppose—thank you, Commander.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think it is the Inquisitor’s party and the guard of Val Misrenne who ought to have the credit of it.”

“Of course, but you may take a little as well, Commander. Your handling of the situation was… impressive, to say the least.”

Such a compliment did not seem to sit well with him, for he stuttered as if he had not the words to form a reply. Awkwardness prevailed, until his fortunes changed, and his eyes chanced upon the balcony doors.

“Forgive me, I didn’t meant to disturb you. Were you… headed outside?”

Trevelyan smiled. She looked at them, then at him. “Preferably not alone.”

“Oh. I could...”

She backed into the doors, her eyes beckoning him to follow. He trailed after her as if in a trance, stepping through, to the tranquil night beyond.

The stars above shone in greeting, illuminating the finely-carved stone of the balcony balustrade. Trevelyan rested herself upon it, gazing out. The Commander’s presence, a warmth in the absence of the sun, settled beside her.

“It’s... a nice night,” he said.

She quite agreed. The entire courtyard was laid out before them, from the tavern—as lively as the party they’d left behind—to the stables—quiet, at this time of day. Moonlit stone, punctuated by glowing torchlight, encircled the fortress, and banished the darkness from its embrace.

“I, ah, have something for you,” he said, hand fumbling within his jacket. “I believe this is yours.”

He managed to locate this ‘something’, and freed it from its concealment. A white cloth, that flashed in the moonlight, embroidered with leaves Trevelyan recognised. It was far more pristine than the last time she’d seen it.

The napkin slipped pleasantly from the Commander’s fingers into her own. She noted the warmth of his proximity, still lingering within the weave, and the sweet, earthy scent that had been left by his possession.

“Technically,” she teased, “I believe it is Lady Montilyet’s.”

“I hardly think she’ll miss it.”

“I certainly hope so.” She tucked it away—safe. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Thank you for the use of it,” he said. “Though, speaking of Lady Montilyet—you, ah, took the offer. To become Arcanist.”

“I did.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

The Commander stammered, “For you—I mean. I mean, I am glad. That—despite how you came to be here—you have found enough reason to stay.”

Trevelyan shook her head, and smiled. “I know that I ought to have left, and truly have started my life afresh… but that would have been dishonest, to what I truly want.”

“May I ask… what is it?”

“What?”

The Commander met her eye. “That you… want?”

She bit back the smile that threatened to betray her. “Well… I suppose there is one thing—”

Feet clattered up the stairs. Trevelyan stopped herself. As if she were summoned by these precise circumstances, Lady Erridge stumbled out onto the mezzanine.

“Lady Trevelyan!” she called. “Oh, Commander, there you are! Sorry to disrupt, but I came to see if you should like to dance!”

The Commander shook his head. “No, thank you. I don’t dance.”

Erridge giggled. “I know! I wasn’t speaking to you, Commander! Come, Lady Trevelyan! The Commander shall have plenty of time to whisper with you when we are gone!”

Though the interruption was not exactly ideal, Trevelyan could not deny the sentiment. She curtsied to the Commander, somewhat apologetically.

“It seems I am summoned away. Urgent business, I believe they call it.”

His mouth tilted into a smirk; it made her skin tingle. “Another time, then.”

“Of course.”

Raucous music caught their ears, and Erridge perked. “Come along!” she said, snatching up Trevelyan’s hand. She threw a hasty farewell to the Commander over her shoulder, and whisked Trevelyan away. They tumbled down the stairs together, bursting onto the main floor of the hall—as the band cued a jig.

“Over here!” called Samient and Orroat, from the dancefloor. In the absence of Lady Erridge, they had partnered together—but saved a spot beside them, just in case.

Trevelyan and Erridge squeezed past the other dancers, and hurried to take it. They joined hands—properly, this time—and waited for the song to start, giggling all the while.

Strings and wind erupted into a prancing melody of alternating highs and lows, and caught them quite off-guard. But Lady Erridge sprang to action, and Trevelyan followed her lead. They bounced around the floor with zest and zeal, clapping their hands, kicking their legs into the air. Skirts clashed and flew, an explosion of fabric and colour.

It burst apart, into an exchange of dancers. Trevelyan sailed into the arms of Lady Orroat, who cut as fine a form as one could expect.

“So this is what you were all up to yesterday?” she said, of Trevelyan’s dress. “Maker, it’s beautiful!”

Though the compliment was quite routine, a look of panic struck the passing Lady Erridge. “Look, dear Orroat!” she called, loosing a hand from Samient’s, to jab her finger at some collection of stars. “I sewed those ones!”

Dancers parted again, to what must have been Erridge’s utmost relief. Trevelyan swapped Orroat for Samient, the latter of whom smiled as if amused.

“It seems dear Erridge has quite reversed her position on your knowing Lady Orroat,” she whispered.

Trevelyan giggled. “Good, for I could hardly say we should make such a handsome couple as they!”

Nor one so well-suited. It seemed the touch of her dear Orroat’s hand had quelled Lady Erridge’s worry in an instant, and the pair twirled and danced so pleasantly to the eye, it made Trevelyan miss a step. Samient ably accounted for the fumble. It was a wonder how she danced so well, in a dress so constricting. Then again, it was a wonder how this was Trevelyan’s first stumble, in a dress so grand.

Though their jig came to an end, another began—and Lady Erridge would not be satisfied with just the one! Trevelyan was made to dance the next three complete, until—quite exhausted—she formulated an excuse, and made her exit.

The sight of the Baroness at the edge of the dancefloor was quite welcome, as if safety and anchor in a storm. Trevelyan hurried towards her, and greeted her with a smile and an embrace—for which they both knew the reason.

“I’ve heard the news,” she said, as she recovered her breath. “How do you feel?”

The Baroness sighed. “Relieved. When I leave for my home tomorrow, I shall return to find it at peace—but that peace has not come without sacrifice. And yet, I know it could have been so much more. That Val Misrenne and its people still stand is worth celebrating.”

“It is. And I hope that it brings you peace, as well.”

Trevelyan hugged her again—but the music’s sudden and effervescent return caused her to jump. Laughing at herself, Trevelyan glanced back at the dancefloor.

“You know, I am surprised Lady Erridge has not called you up for a jig!”

The Baroness chuckled. “No, no, my leg is far too frail for that.”

“Really?” Trevelyan raised an eyebrow. “I remember you saying that you still dance.”

“I do.” She grinned. “But the leg is an excellent excuse.”

Trevelyan caught her meaning. “Lady Erridge’s enthusiasm is quite difficult to match.”

“Indeed. She has the stamina of a demon. Though I’m sure Lady Orroat could find some use for that.”

Trevelyan laughed. “Your Ladyship! Please, I feel so terrible teasing her!”

“Then you should not like to hear what we say about you and him.”

The Baroness winked, as if to point. Trevelyan, utterly confused by who ‘him’ was, heeded the suggestion. She turned, laid her eyes upon the man in question, and groaned. Weaving past the dancers was—she ought to have guessed it—the Commander.

“Oh, Maker! You all have far too much—” She halted, realising the Baroness’s mouth was half-open, her cane being raised in the air. “No, no—!”

“Commander!”

He heard the call. His head whipped round. No stopping it now—he was coming towards them.

“Baroness!” Trevelyan hissed.

Touledy smiled, gave a suggestive flick of her brow, and said nothing more. Though Trevelyan was almost glad of this—the Commander ought not hear anything she was thinking.

“Ladies,” he greeted, upon arrival. “Is there something you need?”

“Why, yes,” said Touledy, all too confidently. What was she up to? “Lady Trevelyan here wishes another dance, but I am afraid I am unable to”—she flashed her cane—“would you be able to dance with her Ladyship, in my stead?”

“Oh.” The Commander softened. "Are you all right?”

Trevelyan noted, rather indignantly, that the Commander asked this question with the same sort of gentle voice that he often put on for her. This was a concept which, she suddenly discovered, she did not like. Why, oh why, did she have to make him befriend the other Ladies? Fool.

“Yes, thank you,” the Baroness answered, “but her Ladyship must have a dance.”

Trevelyan rolled her eyes. “But Baroness, the Commander does not like to dance, and I—”

“I could try,” he said.

Trevelyan stared at him. She thought of a thousand questions in response to this. But somehow, the only one she could quite manage was:

“What?”

“If you would like to.”

Oh. Well, there was little chance of her saying anything other than, “Yes.”

The Baroness grinned, relishing in her triumph. “Go on, then,” she said, “enjoy.”

Easier said than done. At least Trevelyan had danced enough jigs with Lady Erridge to know what she was to do with them, now. In her mind, as they walked to the floor, she went over the steps. Left, left, kick, clap. Switch. Then to the right? But—

The music grew in volume. Yet it sounded like no jig she’d ever heard. Trevelyan realised that the musicians had betrayed her. Not a jig. Not at all.

Sweet, slow strings floated across the hall. A… romantic melody, that had couples approaching the floor. Dear Maker fucking Andraste shitting Void. People linked hands and put them on waists and Trevelyan realised that she was in the midst of it, surrounded, and there was no escape, and she would have to do those things herself.

She faced the Commander. Maker, why did he have to look so pretty and be so sweet? This sort of thing was far simpler with unimportant suitors that one could so easily discard after, even if one did step on their toes.

He offered a hand. Trevelyan’s shook.

But still, they met.

Her fingers slid into his palm, sensing the warmth that emanated from beneath the leather of his glove. The feeling of his skin, however rugged or tender, was cruelly left to the imagination. She savoured it regardless.

Her other hand gathered up her skirts, like the rest of the dress-wearers were doing. Almost in position. There was simply one last thing to emulate—

The Commander’s hand moved for her waist, hesitant in its approach. The first touches of his fingertips—gentler even than that of cotton or down—caused her body to tense. She did not know how she was to bear his entire hand.

But his hand stopped short. It instead hovered over the fabric of her dress, as if afraid to press any further. Disappointing.

Nevertheless, the gentle strings of anticipation harmonised into a symphony. Dancing commenced, and the Commander’s feet shifted. Trevelyan mirrored his steps. Her nerves hit a peak.

And then, began to fade.

Because dancing with him was unlike dancing with anyone she had danced with before. It felt different. Gentler. Warmer. Safer. No pressure for extravagance, or flourish. It almost did not matter if she was dancing well or not. It was only him that mattered.

“You should dance more often,” she whispered to him. “You do it well.”

He smiled, softly, and said, “All right.”

Her words must have emboldened him, for his grip around her hand firmed and strengthened, and he drew her closer by its pull. His other hand slipped around her back, fitting perfectly into the mold of her body. The gap between them was more indistinct than ever.

Yet in that closeness was comfort. Her head, laid on his shoulder. The warmth of his chest, felt within her own. That gentle, soothing sway they shared. She let her eyes fall shut, the dancers fall away, and listened only to the beat of his heart. Trevelyan could have stayed like that for an eternity.

But the music slowly, gradually, dulled to quiet. The other dancers reappeared around them, the party audible once more. It was over.

They came to a standstill. Trevelyan’s hand reluctantly left his grasp; his trailed away from her waist. Yet still, she smiled, for nothing could take it from her lips.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Of course,” he replied.

“I shan’t make you dance another.”

“That’s… all right.” He rubbed his neck. “Will you, ah, be stargazing tonight?”

She played with her dress. “Most likely.”

“Ah. Good.”

She curtsied, he bowed. He left, she stayed. Her feet still wobbled, a little.

But she would have to recover quickly. For she turned to her side, and saw complete what had, until now, been only a disruption in her periphery: the Ladies, huddled together, in keen observance.

Trevelyan shook her head, and, before they could open their mouths, told them firm:

“Not one word.”

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

you know that really comfy feeling you get after you take a shower or a bath and wrap up in a soft robe? i want to experience that with Foul Legacy SO badly.

just both of you washing up after a long day- you help Childe wash his hair, scrubbing his fluffy ginger mane with lightly scented shampoo, and he nearly falls asleep in the tub from your gentle ministrations. Foul Legacy also genuinely enjoys when you dry his hair, leaning into your touch and basking in the warm air from the hairdryer. only when he’s completely clean and dry do you go and take a shower for yourself, washing up and wrapping yourself in a comfy robe afterwards. you told Legacy that he could fall asleep without you, but he refuses because he wants his human to snuggle with!! he’s very drowsy and toasty by the time you exit the bathroom, curled up under a fluffy blanket, shaking his head every few minutes to stay awake.

when Foul Legacy sees you, he purrs sleepily and scoots over, raising the blanket so you can join him, before wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you close. it’s cozy and warm underneath, being hugged by your lovely Abyssal moth monster while also under a blanket, still clean and comfy from your shower. you can hear soft, rumbling purrs in your ears, and if you reach up and scratch behind Legacy’s horn the purrs increase tenfold, his claws kneading the blanket. with a sleepy smile you cuddle closer to his chest so you can hear his heartbeat and promptly fall asleep- tomorrow morning is going to be full of soft trills and chirps when you both wake up, and Childe’s pleading expression for you not to go to work that day.

[novelconcepts]

more and more it's feeling like we just...don't have room for people trying anymore. it's all or nothing; get it right the first time, or be crucified by a jury you can never fully see or convince. and this isn't new, isn't born of current events. it's become more and more prevalent over the last ten years thanks to social media putting every little thought on blast, but i'd put money on the idea that it's actually been brewing much longer than that. and, for me, it goes beyond being tiring or upsetting. it feels bleak. it feels downright fucking broken that we're all so busy trying not to condone anything remotely problematic that we don't leave room for good faith learning. watching people trying to suss out their own identity--something literally ONLY they can fully understand or explain--be vilified for trying to fit words around their own experience sucks. watching people misunderstand something and try to apologize for it later, only to be told they should have known all along, sucks. seeing people who once held truly toxic beliefs actually grow and learn and apologize and still be told to fuck themselves as if they're a lost cause--it sucks. just. does that not fill you with despair for the state of things? does that not break something in you, to think that if you one day don't understand something, or misuse a word, or grapple with complicated feelings, it will forever stain you in the eyes of perfect strangers?

dude the world is fucked, and we all see it, but like. it doesn't feel like it helps to be so goddamn reactive. it doesn't feel like it helps anyone to demand perfection out the gate. it's exhausting. there are enough people out there who don't want to learn, who aren't trying, who actively revel in cruelty. looking for malice in every little fuck-up from people who seem to be genuinely striving to live their lives with kindness strikes me as lending strength to an army that already glories in suffering. and makes the world look more fucked than ever. and i really don't know that that energy is what we need when there's already so much to set right.

maybe it's just me. maybe this last decade just shattered something in me. but i really, really hate the idea--reject the idea, frankly--that people can't learn and change and grow. that people can't be better than a bad day or a failure of understanding. i reject the idea that people are something to be thrown out because they fucked up. it just seems...yeah. bleak. really fuckin' bleak.

[bawdybooster]

Of Service to the Imperium

“…and then, there’s the issue of you.”

You froze, feeling the cold serpentine gaze of the lamia interrogator fall upon your rope-bound body.  She was quite an intimidating figure, tall and elegant in her uniform, with features looking to have been chiseled from the purest marble to form a perfectly threatening force for the Lamia Imperium.  Long, silver hair flowed from her head and draped itself down her backside.  Her thick white coils crowded around in the dungeon, not wrapped around you just yet but certainly eager to grind you to dust once the order was given.

“Me…?” you asked meekly.

“Yes,” she hissed ruefully. “You.  We don’t take kindly to Imposters in our ranks, and I don’t have to remind you that Transformation Elixirs are outlawed among civilians for a good reason.”

You blushed.  The merchant who’d sold you those elixirs had promised that no one would notice so long as you kept on top of them.  You would have been indistinguishable from any other Serpentine Sentries.  Awesome, Athletic, Appealing – blessed with a scaly tail flowing from below your waist, nobody would have been able to notice.

But the way you hissed out an uncharacteristic “Reporting for Duty, Sssir,” to the captain spelled out plain as day how you didn’t belong.  All well-trained soldiers of the Imperium had gone to great lengths to remove the hiss of the common lamia from their tongue, and anyone whose tongue so much as hissed a second longer than necessary could only mean one of two things — they had slipped through the coils of their instructor’s grasp, or they were simply no real lamia.

Before you could hiss another word in, a snare of coils had descended upon you from the guards and dragged you away to the dungeons, where you now found yourself before your cold interrogator, your Transformation Elixir having now worn off and left you quite small in comparison to the well-built woman before you.

“Well?” She growled, “What reason have you to be here, walker?”

You gulped, overcome with embarrassment as you realized you had never admitted this to anyone aloud before.

“I… want to be one of you.”

The Interrogator's frozen figure stirred, no longer cold from spite and distrust but from unspoken awe at what she was hearing.  For a moment, her forlorn lips seemed to part in awe, before her fangs gritted together in a hissing snarl as her face twisted into rage.

From the walls, her white coils thrust forward, binding tightly around your body with an angry squeeze.  Her hands descended upon your neck, fingers drawing claws as she threatened to tear you to shreds here and now after the words she had just heard.  “What?!”  She snarled, “Isss thisss sssome sssort of joke?!”

Your eyes bulged, lips trembling in fear as she held your life in clawed hands.  Babbles of denial spilled forth from you, desperate to be heard before the binding loops of scale and muscle drew tighter and pulled what little breath you had from your lungs.  Amidst this panic, you understood that this was only right – that as the Imperium had explained when they conquered your lands, their all-knowing hiss and yes speaking the truth of their awesome might to your people, that this was the rightful place of the lamia.  Atop a mound of coils reminding the world of the order and peace they brought to these chaotic realms.  And as you lay there, bound at the mercy of the Interrogator’s coils, something shifted in her touch.  Her desire was still there, clutching to your trembling life, but no longer was it a desire to tear you to pieces – it was a desire to know what you said.

Her clawed hands left your neck, permitting you to gasp for breath.  “Then explain,” She ordered.  “Now.”

Something in her voice compelled you to speak, a hypnotic tone not unlike that of the missionaries who spread the gospel of the Lamia Imperium.  You told everything to her: Of how your life had been a dull, aimless routine of farming before the Imperium arrived.  Of how their presence had enlightened you to your rightful place within their coils.  Of how the thought of proving all your worth to them had driven you to obsession, to the point of putting you in the unfortunate position you now found yourself in.

And as you spoke, stirred by the eager duty to be of service to the Lamia Imperium, a change stirred in the Interrogator.  Her chiseled scowl melted from its cold, bleak exterior, and in its place curled a serpentine smile – one that no longer saw an insult to very Imperium in your form, but rather, potential.

Your babbling words stopped as the coils surrounding you gave a gentle hug, white scales holding close to you as they shifted about you, not unlike a reassuring massage.  A brief, unbound moan danced off your tongue as coils slithered over your form, before drawing tight to draw your attention back to the Interrogator before you, her coy smile accompanied by a mischievous look in her eyes.

“Well,” she tutted, “I had no idea you were so enamored with the Imperium.  It’s not often one such as yourself becomes so eager to serve a greater being.  I apologize for my barbs, earlier.  The Imperium will be very pleased to hear of your dedication.”

A dazed smile spread across your cheeks, the Interrogator’s tail stroking your head like a prized pet.  “Th… Thank you,” you murmured, “I live to–”

You gagged as her coils wound tight around your throat, her hands taking your head into their grasp.  Two thumbs placed themselves upon your lips, bringing your mouth shut as the Interrogator hushed what thoughts you had in your mind.  “Do not speak, little morsel,” she hissed in a soothing voice.  “I want to get a good look at you~”

Before you could say a word, your mind froze as her hands drew your gaze up, and directly into her spiraling eyes.  Beams of pure white and deep black swirled forth into your eyes, ensnaring your mind as they wrapped themselves around your thoughts and brought everything under control – her control.  You had heard tales of how the lamias rose to power, of how their ability to dominate the minds of lesser beings had enabled their rapid expansion across the lands.  You had always thought it an exaggeration of how they had convinced so many to side with their amassing power, a tale spun by dissidents who spoke ill of their ways of persuading the mind to see and hear things as they saw them.  You had never imagined it to be so… so literal.

Gentle hands cradled your head as gentle coils cradled your body, permitting the Interrogator to better examine you.  Her watchful eye looked over every inch of you, your own eyes spiraling into the bliss her hypnotic vision had granted you vision to see.  A stricken gasp erupted as her claws dexterously traced your form, ripping you from the rope that had previously bound you, before you were silenced once more as she traced a spiral over your steady heart.

She stood you up and removed her coils from your body.  You felt awfully bare, unbound from her embrace for her to witness in full.  You perked up as you heard the sound of her chuckling before your mind unraveled, a resonant SNAP! drawing her spirals out from your mind and bringing you back to consciousness before her.

The two of you stood there alone in the dungeon.  Expecting.  Awaiting.  Taking in and studying the sight of each other for minutes that felt like hours.  Her white coils churned about silently, surrounding herself in powerful might that could easily break you into no more than another plaything.  You fully expected them to, yet knew not why she seemed to resist doing so.

Beneath the loops of pure, snow-colored scale, she stood on edge, coiled up as much in her upper body as in her tail as her arms crossed to draw a judgmental stare out from her chiseled face.  Despite having left you untouched for the past few minutes, you felt entirely trapped by her.

“You said you wish to be of service, yes?”  She finally said, her head turning to side-eye you as if to better study you.

“Yes.”  You answered.

“Then your wish is granted.”  she mused.  “You have violated the Imperial Code, the punishment for which is eternal servitude to the Lamia Imperium.  A being of your… splendor would find great pleasure as a Courtesan for the Emperor’s Den, and I am certain your mind and body would enjoy being broken into blissful little fragments by the Imperial Elite.”

Your legs trembled, a wounded mewl silenced behind closed lips at the thought of being hypnotized and coiled up as a squeeze toy for some of the most powerful lamias in the lands.

“It is my duty,” the Interrogator went on, “to Interrogate those who violate the Code and, in due time, discern what the suitable punishment would be for them.  Under normal circumstances… your fate would have already been sealed, and I would have drawn you before the Magistrates for judgment.  However… my mind dwells on the motive of your crime – You wanted to be one of us.”

You freeze as the Interrogator’s coils sprawl out toward you, taking you in her binds and squeezing close as she draws you before her.

“I can arrange that this be done, permanently.  Our Scholars have been eager to find ways to provide a surplus to our armies without wasting precious lamia blood in a futile draft, and I have a feeling you may be all too eager to subject yourself to adequate… research for the task.”

You wince as her hands reach up to your face, before gently cupping your cheeks and drawing your chin upward.  But it all sounds so tempting.  The thought of it all – becoming a part of the Imperium, becoming a lamia, sounds too good to be true.  She’s up to something.  You just know it.

She draws your focus up to her gaze, and your eyes break into an awestruck stare as once more, her black and white spirals loop out from her eyes to ensnare your mind.“All I ask is that you look into my eyes, and tell me what you really want~”

[mybrainproblems]

look. the levels of "you know, i always thought i could be a good dancer if i wanted to be" in 15x10 are just. so much to me!!

the more i think about s15, the more i see the little callbacks and easter eggs to earlier seasons. (the writers did their homework!) we have what i think is probably the most recognized/cited one, "daddy's blunt instrument" which predates every writer working on s15. i guess arguments could be made for singer but i just don't see him making that sort of contribution to a berens-penned ep. but there are so many other little things and i do think dean's line about thinking he could've been a good dancer is both a metaphor and a callback to 07x16 out with the old.

which like.

it was also something of a metaphor in s7. you have the literal meaning of dean seeing the ballet shoes in s7 and clearly being drawn to them in a way that sam isn't, the references to both black swan and swan lake. (and clearly a knowledge of swan lake given the reference to prince siegfried.) but you also have the metaphorical meaning of the shoes with dean being drawn to something that is perceived to be non-masculine and "delicate" and nothing like hunting. that he wants to have that in some capacity. and then we get a reference back to that in 15x10!! the acknowledgement that he always thought he could be a good dancer if he wanted to be. said with wistfulness! and it's said as they watch garth and bess dancing together. the face he makes when sam jokes he was good at the macarena and totally brushes off what dean is saying. given the lamp. given everything in the episode. yes, it's about dancing and wanting normalcy. it's about settling down and having a life. it's about dancing with someone.

you ask "why lamp?" you fucking know why. and so does andrew dabb.

-

also: references to swan lake the ep before cas returns is uh. a lot. this is however an instance where i'm not 100% onboard with it being an intentional destiel thing.

* there is literally nothing delicate about dance/dancers tho, it's literally just perception. i had friends who danced and they were pure muscle and grace. it's wild.

[tankerfishthesimp]

sometimes i thank fuck a few years ago that did not happen and my mother did not follow her thoughts

[robertseanleonardthinker]

the urge to start writing fanfiction but i have never written a piece of fanfiction ever and haven't written creatively outside of school projects in years 😭😭😭😭

[bluevaractyl]

Hi Blue! how are you doing? Here are some hugs if you need them!

Hi Stormy! I'm always down for hugs! 🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂

I am enjoying the breeze through the window. It was finally cool today, and the smoke from yesterday cleared up so the sky is blue. Very tired, which is my default. School is stressful but I think having roommates and a schedule has been really good for me. I'm enjoying my programming class and plotting how to use my new skills for pixel art hehe.

I haven't had much energy or inspiration for creating or reblogging or commenting lately, but I'm trying not to let it get to me. It will come back.

How are you?

[sublux]

i’m feeling soooo nervous for my assessment monday. we’re going to review my answers to the questionnaires i was given and i’m worried i’m going to clam up on the spot and not be able to justify myself at all

[daz4i]

sometimes writing songs is having a breakdown and putting your feelings in words and focusing on making shit rhyme and fit an amount of syllables just to distract yourself. and then a few days later you check it and it's the cringiest thing ever written but you don't delete it bc what if you could salvage this later. and you never do

[whumble-beeee]

Alright yall. I had a chapter plan, and I got about 2000 words in, which is more than half the chapter... only for the character to show up and tell me "uh, no, that no how that would go, THIS is how it would go. Stupid. Redo it, with feeling this time!" So now I need to do some major rewriting, formatting, and editing :)

New chapter is being worked on tho, and hopefully I can get it out by monday!

[vitamin-zeeth]

Went to write my timeline essay on the progression from radio to tv got as far as naming the document and then started doing a comparative essay on modern Vs classical art. what happened