#i am sometimes afraid that i sound insincere

[sosoribro]

top 10 friend

10: all of them

9: all of them

8: all of them

7: all of them

6: all of them

5: all of them

4: all of them

3: all of them

2: all of them

and coming in at number 1 you know them you love them its

1: all of them

[orchid-n-petals]

I continued my f!durge playthrough and am terminally infected with the brainrot that this narrative proposes, so here is another exploration! Featuring a technically canon-compliant, slightly tweaked romance scene with Astarion.

TW: uncomfortable sexual themes, gore ideations (includes a dog). Dead dove!

***

She could have said no. Gods above and below, she should have. She was not ready for this. She didn’t want this. Every speckle of blood in her body was recoiling from the thought of going through with this, the marrow in her bones boiling with the urge to just turn around and go, flee, stop the madness.

Not her twisted compulsion. That, the sanguine little whispers coursing through her brain like ants, making her twitch and desire horrible things; those wanted her to stay. To get him to lower his guard, wrap her arms around his neck and squeeze. To curl her fingers and push against him until his skin was pierced and her palms caressed his spine. Would he have been cold even then? Was there any warmth remaining in his flesh, warmth that she could tear from him? Any last remaining speckle of life his kind desperately clung to, defying sacred death? Defying the glory of murder from those gur that beat him centuries ago?

Sacrilegious. Debased. Revolting. But he could be beautiful again, under her hands. By the time she would be done with him, he would look truly beautiful in eternal stillness. She could marvel at her own work for hours on end until the rest of their camp woke.

These are not my thoughts. I don’t think this about him.

Her affirmations sounded desperate. If not her thoughts, then who else’s? But then why was she opposed to them as well? Raphael’s words were clear; one head, two tenants. The cambion said nothing of one of those being this broken. This irreparable.

She wanted to try. When the vampire made his offer, she almost refused him outright. Sickeningly sweet words with too much pretend attraction, flowery and so outright insincere that each syllable crawled under her skin. He was laying it on thick, too thick for her to believe, instincts from a past life seeing right through a lie best used against naive marks with too sheltered a life.

Did he think her so easy to fool? He lied to her multiple times already. Some with reason, some seemingly without one. Even still, she couldn’t deny that he was the only one who had shown even a modicum of understanding.

Not that she wanted her urges to be understood but she couldn’t possibly help herself. So, when she sounded unsure and he asked for clarification, she agreed to the liaison. Who better to try and cling to a sliver of normalcy than the person who might best understand if she slips? If she can’t quite catch herself, not even awake?

That did not mean she truly wanted this, but she was sick of battling herself, policing every single thought and action in every single one of her waking seconds. How she had to think thrice about grabbing a knife when they ate around the campfire lest her mind would switch and plunged it into one of their necks. How she had to stay away from the cauldron with the boiling stew lest somebody else was at arm’s length and she would suffocate them in the steaming hot food.

Gods, she couldn’t count the ways she had thought about killing them all. Sometimes her mind was left to wander, too, conjuring up images of their bodies made into an effigy, mutilated beyond recognition. Sewn together wrong, entrails stuffed into hollowed-out limbs, decapitated heads arranged in a way they would bite into the very bodies they possessed in life. Even poor Scratch did not escape the thoughts.

She always wondered how the dog didn’t sniff out how inherently wretched she was; animals were supposed to be good at it. At times, this gave her hope. If the dog was fine with her, then maybe redemption wasn’t a futile prospect. Other times, it made her afraid; a dog that trusts her is that much easier to mutilate before it tries to retaliate. Sometimes, when she drifted off, not quite able to fight the chorus of her temptations, the poor animal was the centrepiece of her grandiose plan with them.

And there she would stand, smiling. Shrouded in a sense of ecstasy few things, if any other, could grant any living being. Oh, how she yearned.

She didn’t want to think about it. She hated this. Just for one godsdamned night, she wanted to be normal. To ignore the voices, these disembodied portents of death, telling her what to do, sitting on her shoulders and not far behind her back, looking over every single little thing she did, an audience that wanted to yank her around like a puppet. She just wanted to feel normal. Or anything but the way she truly did.

Or at least try. For one single night. Doing something normal people would.

This is what normal people did, no?

She wasn’t even sure if she ever had sex before. She must have, judging by the primal reflexes she cut his little, no doubt romantic monologue off with a kiss, pushing him against the tree while starting to undress herself, the unnatural cool of his lips barely registering in her mind. Her eyes were closed, not to enjoy the moment but to try and distance herself from the situation. She didn’t want to be here but this was her only chance; sleeping was not an option, not when she could feel the back of her neck aching with a built-up temptation to sink a blade into somebody’s stomach and watch them gasp their last breath when she angled it in a way that would pierce a lung.

So she kissed him, not letting him speak. He didn’t want to, responding to the gesture in kind, hands expertly sliding down her sides and tugging her shirt loose, separating only as long as he pulled it over her head. Kicked down their pants, both of them, a warm body pressed against a cold one. He picked her up, she put her arms around his neck and they continued, both wearing a smile that couldn’t have been more fake.

His eyes were empty, too. A thousand miles away, tucked safely back into his mind as they descended to the ground, both of them moving with experience and yet with the same rehearsed diligence as if they followed some sort of protocol. She offered her neck, he took a bite; no passion despite the intimacy of their situation. Fluids flowed but there was no true ecstasy as their bodies moved, no joy in any of his thrusts or the way her hips rolled. She felt ridges on his back as she held onto him but did not sink her nails into the muscle as she lost herself in pleasure because, quite frankly, she wasn’t present either. Not truly. No emotion in either of their voices. Nothing to be gained.

Just a chore that had to be done, because they were adults, attractive ones, attracted to the other, and they shared some sort of bond, not quite camaraderie or friendship, so why wouldn’t the next logical step be to have sex? Just another checkbox on the list of what normal people did.

She had an inkling neither of them wanted to be there, doing what they did. They were methodical, experts with every one of their moves and yet it amounted to nothing. No allure, nothing to raise their pulse, or, well, hers at the very least.

She didn’t get what she wanted but she got what she needed. Disassociation so potent that her mind completely shut down. She watched themselves from above, two writhing bodies conjoined in consenting displeasure like worms ready to be snatched by a bird. Grunting and moaning without any meaning to the sounds aside from primal, barbaric reflexes, expectations ingrained within them deeper than their personal disgust about the situation.

She didn’t feel anything. A numb, cold sensation so overwhelming that it pushed her out of her own body, deep into the ground and above the sky alike, anywhere but within. With her presence, however, the urge was also gone. Her fingers did not dig too deep, her mouth did not open just to bite until she reached bone, her mind wanted no satiation.

Blissful emptiness, blessed distance. In this feeling alone, she could have spent eternity, paid the price of displeasure a thousandfold. Anywhere but inside her head was better, and if spreading her legs when she did not want to, not truly, not for the right reason, was the price, then she would gladly become a whore.

The right reason. Was there even one? Who was to say her reason was any less pure than that of a star-struck lover wishing to indulge in the joys of flesh with the object of their affection? Who was to come and say, to her face, that her wish to plunge herself out from the losing war within the confines of her skull was any less pure?

Maybe it was unfair against him but Astarion meant no love by this either. He must have had his reasons for doing something he was clearly repulsed by. Maybe to make her his own personal blood bag, given that others were not particularly keen on sharing what was in their veins. Not that her cursed blood was any boon, but at least it was reassurance that she was still better than a rat. Small mercies.

Maybe to lie to her, to make her care. Maybe it was just a checkbox for him, too, something to feel alive, to feel whole when he was so obviously broken. She could see it in him, under the veil of the superficial persona he crafted for himself. It was obvious he tried to hide the carnage in the room with nought but a pretty rug laid haphazardly over it.

He was so quick to reassure her how he understood her. That she wasn’t repulsing him. She hated it, but wasn’t it projection? How he longed for understanding in turn? Handheld in their own crimson nightmares, trying anything not to remain alone. Never again.

What was next? Where would the pendulum swing first and how devastating will be when it inevitably sways backwards? Will anyone catch them after progress? Will they catch one another? Could they?

He came, or at least he faked it, convincingly enough. She didn’t care, overwhelmed by the pull of the end, dragged back into her own mind as she clawed in the proverbial dirt to escape, to no avail. Her escape had ended and the weight of her curse felt more crushing than ever.

The vampire wanted to stand, his movements barely concealing how acidic her touch felt on him, how hard he had to fight to not show revulsion. Yet when her fingers curled against his back as she pulled him close, cheek against cheek, the warmth of her tears she couldn’t quite keep at bay rubbing onto his skin… He stopped running. Just for a second, just enough. Out of pity or compassion, it did not matter. There was a silent understanding that just for a few seconds more, this had to do. Just so that she didn’t fall.

Just a little. They were already through the worst of it. This couldn’t hurt, no?

He could endure that much and he did, without a word. Up until he spoke, mouth against ear while he gently pushed himself away. “Rest.”

She did not answer. She could not; exhaustion was stronger than her will, and so was her sorrow. Tasting victory only to be plunged back into war was demanding of one’s mental faculties, and she was at capacity. Yet, even so, her thoughts remained blissfully blurred, her muscles aching not with an insatiable thirst to maim but with the welcome buzz of exertion. Maybe she would sleep tonight. Not well, certainly, but she couldn’t afford to be picky.

He might have been running, but she knew that when she opened her eyes, he would be there. It was evident to them both. This, what they had, might have not been what they wanted, but it was something.

Something was better than nothing, at least. Neither of them wanted to lose it just yet. Being left with nothing, at the depths of hopelessness, was more unbearable than hoping, even if in vain, for something better. For themselves. For the other. For them both.

How did that devil put it? Hope. Such a tease.

[divinedoggo]

An Acquired Taste

Pairing - Getou Suguru x Reader

Summary – You ask Getou a question about his curse technique.

Tag(s) - Fluff, Kissing

---

It looks like chocolate.

That thought crosses your mind as you witness Getou use his curse technique.  Black and tar like, the defeated curse swirls into an orb inside the palm of his hand with a strange light shimmering inside it.  No matter how many times you watch him do it, Getou always amazes you with how mesmerizing his technique is.  To turn these curses that hurt people into a force for good.

But than reality come back to remind you that good things come with cons at times.

An unknown emotion flickers across Getou’s face as he shallows the ball whole and his body stutters. His throat bobs as it enters his body and he lets out a breath similar to a person who was close to being sick.

“Are you okay?”  He chuckles at your baffled expression, his eyes examining you for any injuries. “That curse was pretty strong, did you get hurt?”

“Ah, no... Um, Getou-kun, I-I…”  You twiddle your fingers as you try to come up with a good excuse.  Right, it’s rude to stare and you probably made him uncomfortable. “I…”

“They won’t hurt you...”

“Huh?”  You stare at him as he approaches you, the smug expression on his face makes your heart beat a little faster.  He coughs to clear his throat before he delivers a long-winded speech with the practiced proficiency you normally seen from teachers.

“Once the curse is weakened, I will be able to extract it and have it purified by my technique.  To do this, I orally ingest the captured curse and it is purified by my body.  Once this process is completed, they are completely under my control and-”

“What do curses taste like?” Your question cuts him off and it is his turn to be baffled at you.  You scratch the back of your head as you feel your face burn, waiting for him to make fun of you.

But he just stares at you, pink dusting his cheeks and eyes wide with shock.  You wonder if you are being too bold with your question and just made him upset.  You prepare an apology, but a deep chuckle escapes from him and gives you pause.

“What?  What kind of question is that?”  Chuckles turns into full-blown laughter and your body feels like it’s on fire as you choke out an explanation.

“I see you eat them so many times!  I get a little curious sometimes…”  You cross your arms and look away with a huff.  It’s an honest question after all.  “But for you to think I might be afraid of you.  Do you truly think so lowly of me, Getou-kun…?”

“Sorry, sorry!  Give me a sec!  Don’t try run away.”  He wipes a tear from his eye as he grabs your hand to stop you from reporting back to the Auxiliary Manger.  His hand is warm and gentle.  “It’s not a question I’m used to being asked.”

You both stand there in the clearing with the sound the summer cicadas buzzing and the wind.  You look back to see a contemplative look on Getou’s face as he mulls over your question.

“It’s a bit of an…acquired taste.”  You brush your thumb softly over his knuckles as you wait for him to gather his thoughts. No words come to you, the startling sight of Getou having nothing to say for once.  A look of insecurity crosses his face and it makes you feel bad for asking this of him.  

“How do I explain it without you thinking I’m gross…”  Your heart breaks a little as you hear that.

“You always smell like sandalwood…”  You look away from him as you start off, your heart beats fast as butterflies flutter in your stomach.  Is it weird when you tell a guy he smells good?  “And you… I always feel at ease when you’re around and I like dependable you are…”

“Oh~?”  A teasing smirk spreads on his face as he interlocks his fingers with yours to pull you close.  You didn’t like that look.  That look usually preludes before he or Gojou do something to embarrass you. “Keep going. I’m liking where this is going.”

Crap!  That sounded too close to a confession now that you mull it over.  Tone it down before he gets ideas and a even bigger head.  

“But sometimes you come off as a bit smug.”  You pull away and your turn your nose up like a hissy cat.  God forbid you feed into his strange ego you catch at times.  “And your pissing contests with Gojou-san can get a little bit old…Especially when you got us kicked out of the theater that one time. Oh!  And the incident where-”

“Let’s not talk about that~!” His laugh is insincere as he reins you back in and locks you in a hug. You dig your feet into the ground as he tries to lift you.  The air went from teasing to tense.  “Tell me how great I am again.”

Now, from the distance, a stranger can misconstrue his actions as romantic, but the truth is this move is the equivalent of a wrestler preparing to suplex their foe.  He is just waiting for an excuse to start a fight if you continue to engage this way.

“We’re straying away from the original topic.”  You surrender as you try to lower your center of gravity to counter him.  “What do curses taste like?”

He hums in fake thought to draw this whole thing out and your pinch his sides to voice your displeasure. A light bulb goes off in his head and he gives you a bit of a sly look as you prepare yourself for the worst.

“Close your eyes.” You puff up and stare him straight in the eyes with disbelief.  He laughs, easing his hold on you as a truce before repeating his request.  Something warm fills his eyes as he flutters his eyes lashes at you teasingly.  “Trust me, I’ll show you how it tastes.”

You sigh through you nose, giving him one last warning with a glare before closing your eyes.  The afternoon sun warms your eyelids. Cicadas buzz around you as you wait for him.  As you focus on your other senses, the faints smell of sandalwood fills your nose and a feeling of calm comes over you as he relaxes his hold on you.  

A shadow falls over you and blocks out the light.   You flinch as a hand cups your face and you feel a thumb brush over your cheekbones. You go stiff, your heartbeat roaring in your ears, his other arm lowers to your lower back.  

“Open up.”

You feel like you are about to burst.  Warily, you part your lips barely a sliver and you feel a warm heat hover over them.   Worry, anticipation, and curiosity flood you as a minute goes by and nothing happens. For a second you got scared that maybe he was about to prank you and just when you are about to open your eyes. Time stops.

His lips meet yours and you melt.  Your arms loop around him as he turns his head to deepen the kiss.  You welcome him in, lips parting as he molds himself into you. Your mind spins, question long forgotten as you give yourself over to bliss.  He holds you closely as your knees go weak and leans into you.  For a few minutes, everything around you two melts away and you forgot why you were there in the first place.

Then he stops.

“So…”  You blink as he grins down at you with a smugness.  His tongue darts out to lick his lips as he stares into your eyes.  “Do you want another taste of me?”

You can feel steam whistling from your ears as rage and mortification fill you.  Your emotions war inside you as he laughs at your ire and you couldn’t tell if you wanted to slap him for the audacity or pull him back in for a second kiss.  

Just as things are about to come to a head and turn violent again, Gojou Satoru finds a way to make things come back to him.

“Are you two done over there?  We have to report back or Yaga is going to lecture us again!”  You and Suguru turn your heads to find Gojou at the edge of the clearing.  Phone in hand, Gojou was wabing at you two with a shit-eating grinning across his face.

“Suguru-chan~!  We can’t get in trouble again after the incident!” He teases, the click of his phone’s camera echoes across the clearing like a gun shot.  “What would he say if he found out you two lovebirds were out here canoodling?”

The rest of the afternoon is filled with Suguru trying to wrangle Gojou’s phone away as you slowly die inside. Like a child, Gojou finds a way to make it worse as he gives a vivid account on how he became oh so worried about you two and came by to make sure you two were okay.  His storytelling top with making kissy faces at your two’s expense. This incident will fuel Gojou for the next two weeks as he uses it to goad Suguru into a fight or call him out if he was being a bit to promiscuous at the café.

But…

You press your fingers to your lips, the ghost of a smile on them as you remember the taste of Suguru’s on them.  You feel warm and soft inside with the memory of him stored safely inside.

He tastes like strawberries.

[hoodoo12]

I wish you would write a fic where Beej is once again flirting with reader relentlessly and they just snap and say something like, "Alright fine, I admit, I'm very attracted to you and very interested, but i can't just do sex without feelings. Knowing you as I do, I don't see you reciprocating that, so let's just... stay friends, as we are? And maybe stop flirting with me if you don't mean it like that...?" but the whole time Beej is just sitting there thinking oh my god I don't have to pretend to not care anymore this is amazing???

Just a thought, also ily <3

Everybody's so angry. I love it! I love you too, sweet anon. Thank you for such a fun prompt!

Enjoy!

He was doing it again.

Bothering you by making noises specifically so you’d look at him. Picking on you by tugging slightly on your hair, just enough to be annoying, or putting his tepid fingers on the back of your neck, or pinching your upper arm, thigh, or when he could manage it, your ass.

His silt filled voice whispered dirty suggestions in your ear. That was distracting when you just wanted to veg out to House Hunters International.

Beetlejuice was the epitome of a brat. A sexually charged, inappropriate brat.

Usually you could just shoo him away. Sometimes you had to shout, which you didn’t particularly like, because you were afraid that any attention was good attention to him, like a puppy. You were afraid he’d become conditioned to it, so he’d continue just so you would too.

Finally, after he’d cut in front of the TV one more time, swinging his hips like he was on a catwalk and demanding you tell him if his butt looked good in these pants--the very same pants he always wore, the striped monstrosities that he loved so very much--or should he just wear a thong, he was pretty sure he could get a black and white one to match but what if they didn’t support his junk, wink wink--he actually said the words “wink, wink”--so if there was anyway you could cup his balls just to test the size of them, you know, because he trusted your judgement but be careful, baby, you might wake up the sandworm if ya know what I mean--you slammed the ‘off” button on the remote control so hard your finger hurt and you turned all your focus on him, just like he wanted.

“Sit down. I said SIT DOWN.”

With a grin like he was king of the world, he did. Beetlejuice didn’t expect a full head of steam, however.

You took a breath to steady yourself, trying very hard to count to ten. You made it to six and figured that was good enough. “Beetlejuice--” “Easy on the B word, sugar. It makes me tingly at first but that turns real ugly fast.”

It was on the tip of your tongue to say it again, just to make him listen, but you tucked that card back up your sleeve.

“Beej, listen--” “That was much better, baby! Maybe gimme a BJ? I always like a BJ from someone’s mouth--” “Beetlejuice!” This time his name had a deliberate hardness, making it sound more like a threat. The specter frowned and narrowed his eyes, but zipped it. You were happy he didn’t use a literal zipper on his lips; if he wasn’t sinking to puns, he was actually paying attention. You took another deep breath. “Just sit there and listen to me. Without interrupting, okay?” He gave you a curt nod. “Good. Okay. Listen. Fine. I admit it. I’m very attracted to you.” You weren’t sure if it sounded insincere or sarcastic. Beetlejuice’s expression melted to surprised with excitement starting to well up, so you hurried to continue before he did something like lurch at you to kiss you or shove his face in your crotch. “I’m very interested, in fact, but I just can’t do sex without feelings. “Do you understand?” The specter’s face wrinkled in thought. When a beat passed, you went on. “Listen. I like you. Beej. But knowing you as I do, I just don’t see . . . I don’t see you reciprocating that. The feelings. So let’s just . . . stay friends. Like we are.”

This was getting more difficult. You didn’t want to hurt him. You did like him! But he was so desperate and over the top with everybody. That wasn’t your thing. You wanted a real relationship, and not some hook up or one night stand with a ghost that’d screw anyone who’d give him the time of day.

“Like we are, okay?” you repeated. “And . . . and maybe stop flirting with me if you don’t mean it like that . . . ?” You’d meant to sound firm. Instead it ended up weak and worried. Beetlejuice wasn’t saying anything. He just stared down into his hands. Had you ruined everything? You’d ruined everything. You should have just kept your mouth shut, and enjoyedthe sometimes tasteless flirting he tried--

Beetlejuice mumbled something you didn’t quite catch.

“What was that, Beej?” Oh god, if he was broken and was apologizing you were never going to forgive yourself.

He cleared his throat, doing nothing to actually make it less hoarse. “You, uh, want . . . stuff like that?”

“Like . . . ? I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.” “Like, you know . . . real couple stuff. Holding hands, watching Hallmark movies, a real commitment . . . ?” “Well, probably not Hallmark movies . . .” “Netflix and chill?” “Beej, that reference is so old.”

He grinned. “Not as old as me!” You rolled your eyes. “How about just horror movies and sex?” His grin widened. “That’s my girl!” You sobered. “Am I? Am I your girl?” That soft-pedaled him too. “Yes!” He reined it in more. “I mean, uh. Yes. If you want . . . ? It would be nice to just . . . not have to pretend I don’t care anymore . . . “ Whoa. That got deeper than you expected. A vulnerable Beetlejuice? An honest Beetlejuice?

“ . . . that would be amazing, I think.” A soft Beetlejuice?

You scooted over to him and slipped your hand under his arm, so you could hold his palm to palm. “Let’s give it a try, okay?” He nodded, and sniffed like he was holding back tears, then asked quietly, “Will there be dirty talk and raunchy sex too?”

You laughed so loud you snorted and told him that you’d see. His grin returned and awkwardly, he kissed you. When it was over, he said that there would have to be lots of practice and without hesitation, you agreed.

fin

[shutupcorazon]

To the girl I once called my sole best friend,

Some days before we ended our friendship, I composed a poem while on the way to school entitled "This Will Be My Last Poem About You". I never wrote the lines on paper, nor did I recall a single phrase today, but I know the poem was sad and painful and bitter. It wasn't my last poem about you.

The last one I could remember was written last year and when you crumpled each piece and throw them on a corner, you'll probably have a mountain of crumpled papers. A mountain you will never find magnificent. A mountain you can move but will never move you.

I found my real best friends recently, though I never labelled them with such. They made me stop writing sad poems. They made me write songs even though I couldn't sing. Go out even though I hate crowded places. They are not just an unmoving lighthouse I swim to whenever loneliness threatens to pull me down. Instead, they are lifeguards who would face the tides to pull me up. I still often feel lonely, but they never made me feel like it was my fault or that I am too much of a work to handle.

Sometimes I feel sorry that I rarely let them know how proud I am of them. Compliments did become scarce after you. Maybe, I was afraid that I might sound insincere again or perhaps those words stayed in you and I can never take them back.

Nevertheless, they taught me the words "it's alright". It's alright to be yourself. It's alright if you need to cry. It's alright if you need to shut the world out. It's alright to not be so composed all the time. It's alright to feel lonely and crave attention. They never hold it against me. They never mistook my loneliness to something else. They opened my balled fists so my fingers will cease pointing at me. In this friendship, I never feel like I was walking on eggshells.

I still think ours had been beautiful but with them it never has to be.

[spockandawe]

Bingqiu

HELL YEAH HELL YEAH

Downsides:

I’m not a... huge fan of the pov character being like ‘i’m not gay, tho! i’m not!’ even though I do think it gets resolved in a fairly timely way. And it fits with Shen Qingqiu’s oblivious personality, haha. But in this case, how do I put this. It played not-great with the book’s pacing (uneven, but I don’t really mind) and a central conceit that I like a lot, which is that our main character spends quite some time convinced that his love interest wants him dead.

I don’t necessarily need the book to linger, directly over relationship development for me to be into it, and I absolutely LOVE a dynamic where one person is like ‘hah, you want me dead’ and has to realize they have things very backwards. But in this case, by the time Shen Qingqiu is coming around to ‘oh, you don’t want me dead!’ he slides right into the ‘but i’m straight!’ side track, and by the time he becomes willing to consider that maybe he’s less straight than previously assumed, we’re practically at the fuck or die climax of the novel.

Which isn’t terrible, I honestly adore this relationship. And I do think that binghe’s breakdown over seeing that he fucked shen qingqiu hits much harder if he still feels 100% insecure that his shizun wants him around, period. But I do sometimes wish that we’d gotten a little more opportunity for them to be... platonically-close-with-background-slow-mo-queer-awakening, if you know what I mean.

Upsides:

Oh lord, it’s hard to know what to say here, because the accurate response is Everything. Let’s see. Well, to start with, I adore the emotional high of reading a relationship that starts on such unstable footing (maigu ridge) and works itself out in the end (that marriage extra tho). Reading about Binghe being so unhappy and lonely and insecure and then being loved will never stop doing it for me.

Usually, a teacher/student dynamic would be not my favorite, but something about the shizunfucker genre clicks well with me for some reason. Especially for a student like Luo Binghe, where we’re told about how much he suffered as a child, and how alone he was, and all the ways that original flavor Shen Qingqiu mistreated him, because then, it opens the door to such an intense adoration of a teacher that treats him well and takes care of him. I haven’t read a shixiong/shidi book that plays with quite same themes, but I don’t think it would hit me in quite the same way (yuwu goes there a little, but even though the ship is great, it's not THIS kind of adoration). There’s something about ships with this sort of intense codependence that really work for me, and this book absolutely nails that.

But also, the power dynamics in here are FASCINATING to me. Erha is the main point of shizunfucker comparison that I have, which really is too small of a sample size to judge from. But I don’t think I’d like either of these as much if the teacher was also the driving force behind the relationship. I don’t just mean that in a top/bottom way, but more pursuer vs pursuee. And to go with that, I do also like how hard Binghe has to pursue to get anywhere with Shen Qingqiu. I like... suffering XD As long as it ends happily. And this book really delivers. Tgcf is romantic and all, but I can’t personally conceptualize eight hundred years. I have trouble visualizing 13/16 years. But three years, then five years? I can picture that, and it hurts. The dream flashback where Binghe is telling Shen Qingqiu that he can’t go on....... that hit me right in the stomach.

Also too, not canon-based, because even if it’s a standard genre feature, I don’t have much patience for strict gong/shou roles, but... For a character as needy as Binghe, this is a situation where I absolutely have no trouble setting aside what the book says and substituting a different reality. And I do love me a pair of switches. And I also love me a boy who is very enthusiastic about sex, and very, very bad at it, which is canon, which delights me. The neediness in this relationship, and binghe’s CLEAR room for growth make me much more interested in exploring a post-canon relationship than I tend to be for the other relationships (caveat: i am still prodding at new depths of hua cheng’s issues, and am much more interested than i used to be, but binghe still fascinates me more)

And this may sound weird, but..... I love me a manipulative, needy love interest. It’s real easy for it to play badly, and it’s real easy for it to leave a bad taste in my mouth, but bingqiu works really well for me. It adds tasty tension before the relationship is established, and once the relationship is established and Shen Qingqiu is well aware that Binghe will cry at the drop of a hat, I still love love love to see him folding like a damp paper towel anyways. It’s a flaw, but it’s a flaw that adds depth and flavor to their relationship that I really, really adore.

Okay, I’m losing coherence here. But I just have to copy one excerpt, I just. I love them so, so much.

Shen Qingqiu said, “The way you called ‘shishu’ was too insincere. From now on, don’t call him that.”

Resentfully, Luo Binghe said, “When he calls me a little brute or a thankless wretch, he’s sincere enough.”

Shen Qingqiu couldn’t resist laughing at that. His folding fan was sitting beside the couch, and he picked it up to give Luo Binghe a few taps on the head. “Was he wrong? You dare lay your wolf claws on this teacher’s body? If you’re not a little brute, then what are you?”

The words came too smoothly, and he himself hadn’t realized that this was pushing the bounds of propriety. The tail end of his words lifted the corner of his mouth, in a way that was frivolous yet heavy, a bit coquettish, and extremely undignified.

Luo Binghe looked down at him from above. Watching Shen Qingqiu beneath him, he felt some sort of fire beginning to burn wildly in his heart and stomach. He subconsciously moved to place a leg between Shen Qingqiu’s knees, but suddenly afraid he’d be kicked off the bamboo couch, he quickly dropped his head down to let Shen Qingqiu swat him with his fan to his heart’s content. “Even if I am a little brute, then I’m only Shizun’s little brute. Other people can’t call me that.”

[diavolodigitale]

Heart of Stone

Cullen + red lyrium = the Big Sad

One of the favourites of mine when it comes to my own works. I absolutely loved writing it so I do hope it will find its reader one day.

Genres: Angst, Drama, Dark, Deviates From Canon, Hurt, Mental Health Issues

Pairing: Male Inquisitor Lavellan & Cullen Rutherford, (optional) Male Inquisitor Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford

Characters: Cullen Rutherford, Male Inquisitor Lavellan, Varric Tethras, Cassandra Pentaghast, Solas, Cole, Vivienne 

Rating: M for Might be disturbing for some readers

Size: around 18 pages

THE PAIRING IS OPTIONAL! This work is not intended to contain the pairing male!Lavellan/Cullen, but I am also completely fine if somebody chooses to read it that way. 

The numbers in the text stand for the songs in my playlist you have to listen to while reading to get a better experience.

Here's the list of songs: 1. Soap&Skin - The Sun 2. L'Enfant De La Forêt - Katabasis 3. L'Enfant De La Forêt - Noir-Etang 4. Soap&Skin - Deathmental 5. L'Enfant De La Forêt - ...For The Love Of God 6. Soap&Skin - Janitor of Lunacy 7. Soap&Skin - Sugarbread 8. Soap&Skin - Marche Funèbre

(01) “Why won’t you let me out, Inquisitor?”

“Don’t talk to me.”

“I thought you came here to talk. You always do.”

“I said don’t talk to me!”

“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here… Have you abandoned?” Cullen twitched forward; the chains holding him clinked loudly in dead silence of the prison cell. “Have you? Have you, Inquisitor?”

Inquisitor turned away, afraid to look at the face of somebody he once called a friend. Pale, worn-out, and distorted, it resembled a shadow of a person, a spirit who escaped the Fade and now lurked among others with nothing reminding him of what he used to be.

“I want to see your eyes, Inquisitor. You made me like this, you keep me here. It’s all your fault.”

“It isn’t. You are here because I have faith in you. You won’t make me hate you, no matter what you say.”

“Oh, you already hate me,”—Cullen laughed insincerely—“I know you do. I can sense it. But there is still a chance…”

Inquisitor raised his head. He gripped the bars tightly and leaned forward, so close that he could feel cold iron touching the skin on his cheeks and forehead.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Cullen closed his eyes. His body was relaxed, hands were loosely hanging. The veins visible under half-transparent skin were pulsating red.

“If you could let me share the song with you…” he muttered under his breath. “It’s so serene. You’ll see, you’ll understand then. You left me here on my own with it, and I accepted it, and so will you.”

Inquisitor’s hands exploded with a burst of magic as he clutched the bars with all the force he had left in his weakened body. His teeth were grit and his head hurt. He tried to say something, but no sound came out – his throat seemed swollen and a feeling of pressure in his chest made it difficult to breathe.

“You owe me this. I’m here because of you. Listen to me”—Cullen made a pause, waiting for the Inquisitor to react—“Listen to me!” he shouted, gripping his fists and rattling the chains that bound him.

Lavellan looked him in the eyes, ready to suffer through whatever he had to tell him.

“The song I used to hear is nothing compared to this one…” went on Cullen in a less agitated manner. “It embraces, caresses… I would hear it in my sleep, but now I don’t sleep anymore... First, the dreams left, and now I don’t need to sleep at all. I just listen.”

“I’ll find the cure,” said Inquisitor in an attempt to persuade Cullen, though, not sounding confident enough to believe it himself.

“I don’t need any cure, Inquisitor. I am not sick. I need to get out of here, I need to feel the wind, the heat of it is KILLING me!”

“You have to withstand it. The lyrium will devour you if you don’t resist, you know that!”

Cullen chuckled. His voice was crispy and low after spending so much time in a cold cell without any food and water. He wasn’t denied it, he just refused to take any.

“You’re not supposed to resist,” he made a special emphasis on the last word. “It makes you stronger, it lets you see so much more… You have no idea.”

Inquisitor let go of the bars frozen by a sudden outburst of his magic. He barely managed to keep it inside as it wanted to get out so eagerly and uncontrollably. This place smelled of despair and desolation and it took away all the energy he had. He wanted to leave, but could not force himself to do so.

Cullen slowly hummed a few notes while crossing his legs on the bare stone floor. He drew deep long breath and a hint of a smile touched his chapped lips as he spoke.

“I hated mages. You already know that, I recon. As any other reasonable templar would do. I was afraid of their power, but now… Now I am not. Your magic doesn’t scare me, Inquisitor, because soon even you won’t be able to stop me.”

“I don’t want to stop you. I just want to help.”

“Help yourself, Inquisitor. You look pathetic.”

Lavellan looked not much better than his former Commander. He barely got any sleep, always having to help others, being not himself, but the Inquisitor. Those few free moments he had he would spend in this dungeon of anguish, chiding himself for what had happened to Cullen and making himself suffer by looking at the sufferings of the templar.

Time was passing by mercilessly. He wished he could stay there without any movement forever, but the whole world was frantically spinning around him and without his intervention everything could fall apart any minute. He threw one last tired look at the templar and left the prison, foolishly hoping the next time he came everything would be different.

“I’ll be here, Inquisitor. In case you want to chat.”

Cullen didn’t stop smiling. His posture was stiff and eyes were blank, glowing crimson red.

 (02-03) “Inquisitor.”

“Yes, Solas?” Lavellan stopped to greet the elf with an exhausted half-smile on his face. He knew he couldn’t fool him, but the habit of pretending had already become a part of him.

“You’ve been there again. Don’t deny it.” Solas’ eyes were piercing the Inquisitor. It was not a question because he did not really need the answer, he knew everything intuitively. This terrifying power of his never left Lavellan any chance of retrieval.

“Yes, I have. I am trying to understand…” Inquisitor looked down in a kind of shame, like a child who did what was not allowed. “There must be something I can do,” he added quietly.

“If you really want to help him, you must put him out of his misery. This is the only option. The longer you wait, the more his condition deteriorates,” said Solas in a tone that did not allow for any disagreement.

The throbbing pain in his temples made Lavellan feel as if he also heard the song. The one that outvoiced all his thoughts and common sense, forced him to say what he didn’t mean and let slowly crawling insanity possess his mind.

“I don’t care. I do not care what you think, Solas!” he yelled, not paying attention to all the other people in the castle yard who were startled by his outburst of anger. “I will not abandon him, even if it will be the death of me!”

Solas frowned. This was the only visible sign of his dissatisfaction. Even though he greatly disapproved of what the Inquisitor’s opinion was, he would never lose his temper.

“You don’t belong to yourself anymore. People rely on you, and you have to remember that. Sometimes thousand lives are more important than one,” he simply said.

Lavellan shook his head, now feeling ashamed for his behaviour. He did not mean it, merely didn’t know how to defend his position anymore.

“I know… I am sorry,” he replied. “I promise to think it over. I just need some rest; it’s been a long day.”

“Indeed, it has. I understand, my friend. Great responsibility lies on your shoulders.” Solas patted Lavellan on the back. “Don’t try to carry it on your own. We are all here to share it with you.”

Inquisitor nodded gratefully and hurried to leave the unpleasant conversation behind.

“Varric wanted to see you. He looked worried,” said Solas after him.

“Thank you. I will see him at once,” answered Inquisitor, disappointed that he couldn’t be left alone even for a moment.

The dwarf was right were Lavellan assumed he would be – near the fireplace in the great hall, working on his drafts. The mage approached a wooden table and took a seat on a chair near Varric.

“Your Inquisitorialness,” said Varric and took his gaze off the pages scattered all over the table. “You look… good enough.” The expression on his face suggested he was of a different opinion.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Varric. You’re the only person here allowed to criticize me so we’re friends no matter what you say.”

“Okay, well, a little rough around the edges, but I’ve seen worse.” The dwarf smiled in a friendly way, finally put aside his soaked in ink quill and diverted all of his attention to the conversation.

“I appreciate the honesty,” said Lavellan. His head still hurt, but the tender warmth of the fire in the fireplace and the calm air always present around Varric made it easier to endure.

“Chuckles probably made it sound like a big deal, but there wasn’t really any significant reason I needed to see you. Just wanted to tell you that Cassandra took over all of Commander’s plans and… Well, she’ll take care of everything. Things will continue as planned.”

“I appreciate that as well,” said Inquisitor, his voice gradually becoming quieter. He knew he should talk to Cassandra. After all, her role in the Inquisition was already great enough, and now she had even more responsibilities to deal with. Yet he did not know what to tell her. He could neither congratulate her not say that he was sorry. All seemed wrong.

“Look, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but let me say something. I know how it feels.”

Varric also possessed the ability to know what people around him thought about and it made the Inquisitor consider the fact that he was the only one who couldn’t see past the pretension of others. He couldn’t even understand his own thoughts, let alone somebody else’s.

He didn’t answer, just looked blankly in front of himself, right into the void, at nothing in particular.

“I lost my brother to it…” continued Varric.

“I’ve never heard you had a brother. What was he like?”

“Stubborn would probably be the best word to describe him.”

“Seems like you two had quite a lot in common,” said Inquisitor jokingly.

“Not really. He was this “businessman” type of guy – always thinking about profits and dubious affairs. And, unlike me, he wasn’t a charismatic and talented hero-lover.”

“Obviously. It is hard to find another dwarf like you.”

“Impossible, I would say”—Varric heaved a deep sigh and his tone shifted to a more serious one—“It’s difficult to come in terms with at the beginning, but sooner or later you just do. It’s long and complicated, but we’re all here to support you. We knew what we signed up for.”

Inquisitor thought that it wasn’t true. He didn’t know. Cullen didn’t know. Nobody knew. Even so, he would probably be able to accept any consequences if they applied to him personally, but he was not ready to watch others degrade that easily.

“You should go and lie down. My talks make you sleepy, apparently.” Varric gave Lavellan an encouraging wink in an effort to end the conversation on a higher note.

“It’s good to hear at least one actually useful advice today,” said Lavellan. “Let me know if anything needs my attention.”

“Of course.”

Varric dipped his quill in ink and continued writing. Inquisitor headed to his quarters, trying not to pass out from fatigue on his way there.

 (04) The next time Inquisitor entered the dreary prison, he barely managed to hold in a scream of terror. Cullen’s state was rapidly decaying. Red lyrium crystals were nesting on him, tearing the pale skin from the inside, feeding on his flesh. The whole cell was illuminated by appalling red light emitted by the crystals that were now part of his body. It was unbearably hot down there – apart from light, the lyrium also radiated heat. Cullen hardly moved since the last time Inquisitor saw him.

“I thought you’d never come,” he said with the same ominous smile he demonstrated previously. There was neither kindness nor hospitality in it.

“I was busy.” Inquisitor swallowed his horror before the intimidating creature dwelling in the basement of his castle and approached the cell. “Does it hurt?”

“It used to. It was more painful when I tried to oppose my addiction. Now, having given in, I see that there was no point in it. The most difficult path isn’t always the right one.”

“I refuse to believe that this is really what you think!”

Lavellan’s right hand flushed with green light. His constantly pressured and distraught state of mind depressed his control over magic abilities, especially those concerned with the Mark. Closing small tears grew more and more troublesome, as his power did not obey him and instead forced more demons to come out of the Fade.

“I gain power while you lose it. How ironic.” Cullen’s red eyes were staring right into Inquisitor’s soul, omitting what was on the outside. Lavellan’s appearance made it obvious that he was also experiencing drastic changes, but Cullen did not need to see how he looked to know that he was broken already. “The Anchor doesn’t belong to you, so soon it will turn against you, the way it should’ve done long ago. And then the Master will take it.”

“The Master? Now you serve him? Cullen, have you forgotten what he did to our people? Haven’t you seen how the Sanctuary was destroyed?”

“I remember everything perfectly, and that is why I understand how fast he will achieve dominance over everything else. You’re blind, Inquisitor, and I gained my sight here, in this dark basement, thanks to you. I pity you for how miserable your efforts to defy us are.”

“You have never talked to him, Cullen. He is insane, he blatantly uses everyone who supports him. They are disposable! Do you really want to be one of them?”

“I don’t need to talk to him, I have the song. It’s with me all the time. Unlike you were.” Cullen stopped smiling and grimaced. “If the song I heard from usual lyrium reminded the voice of the Maker, then this one sounds like the Old God. Something greater than all of us, something indescribable and immensely strong. There is no Maker in the Golden City, Inquisitor. Nobody cares about your soul, might as well sacrifice it in the grand battle for this world. But betting on the right side.”

“Cullen, you’re not yourself anymore…”

“Have you just noticed? What kind of leader are you if you don’t pay attention to what is going on with your advisors and trusted ones? To how Leliana bends down under the weight of the decision she makes for you, to how the Bull is torn between what is dear to him and what he must do, to how Cole suffers every minute he is present in this world affected by the vices and sins people commit… And all because of you.”

Lavellan tried not to yield, not to show that every word pierced him like a dagger. Every day he thought about all the lost opportunities, missed chances and mistakes made. Every night he lay sleepless because of the regrets and guilt haunting him whenever he closed his eyes. He did not see darkness under the lowered eyelids, only the faces of people he lost to the war nobody was ready for. However absurd templar’s words were, he would believe them because he himself was disappointed in what leader he turned out to be. He tried not to yield but did it quite poorly.

“Even though you don’t admit it, I know you’re crushed. You’re as lost as the day the Breach opened and you were the only one to survive the explosion. I could show you the way… or end you. You decide.”

“I don’t need any help from you. You are not the person you pretend to be anyway... We’ll talk everything over, but only when I bring back the Commander I know.”

“How persistent,” said Cullen, stretching every word as if he was savouring them. “It’s a shame you weren’t so determined previously. Perhaps it would have saved a lot of lives and your beloved Commander in his previous form. Although, I am quite upset that you prefer to disown me now that you don’t like the way I am anymore. You turned out to be so shallow…”

“We’ve all seen what lyrium does to the templars, Cullen… Your words will not influence me because I know that it’s the Blight talking in you. Once you get rid of that filth—”

“You’re not really so certain, are you?” asked Cullen mockingly and laughed. “You think you can just rip it out of me, but it runs through my veins now. You can try whatever you want, you can break the crystals, you can cut them out, you can use your wretched magic, your Mark, yet you will not make the song go away. It will grow louder and stronger, and so will I.”

“You haven’t eaten for days, Cullen. You don’t sleep, you don’t talk to people. Your life slips through your fingers. Nobody is allowed to go down here except for me, so I am the only one who can help you. Please, don’t make it worse for the both of us.”

“I’m not the one making it worse. You are.”

Cullen turned his head away from the Inquisitor, not willing to talk anymore. The crystals on his body glimmered with red lights. There were no other light sources in the basement so Cullen’s face was illuminated only by this sinister glow. His eyes as well as the veins visibly pulsating under the dead-white skin of his drained body were red. Everything about him was red. The fetters around his wrists were covered in rust, but the glow of the crystals made it seem like they were rotting.  

Lavellan couldn’t help but notice that most of the crystals were growing on his left shoulder and the appropriate side of his neck, forming a cluster. A number of smaller ones was spread over his stomach and forearms. Although he had already spent days in the cell, his body wasn’t as weakened and feeble as it should have been, and it scared the elf. He really wasn’t going to die or surrender that easily.

Inquisitor did not know how long he stood there without saying anything, just examining the former Commander. At one moment, the realization that he hated being there just dawned on him. He slept for a few hours and even tried to eat before coming, but now felt as if he hadn’t had any rest for weeks. The heat produced by the lyrium crystals made him feel feverish. His vision became dizzy and he thought that he may lose consciousness if he stayed here.

The room that always felt so empty now seemed to be filled with presence. Cullen was the only prisoner, but to Inquisitor the basement seemed overcrowded: he couldn’t breathe freely, his whole body hurt as if he was pushed around with heavy shoves. Convincing himself that there was nothing he could say or do to help Cullen right here and right now, he decided to leave.

Cullen said nothing.

 (05) “Oh, dear, you look hideous,” said Vivienne, catching Inquisitor on his way to the war table. Her voice suggested that she was both unsatisfied and a little bothered. “We need to do something about that immediately,” she added, looking him up and down.

“I am sorry, Vivienne, but there is no time for that. One of our scouts went missing and we need to decide where we should start searching. I promise I’ll get some sleep later.”

“No-no, beauty sleep will not help you anymore. I’m afraid, we need to eliminate the cause of your worries or else you’ll scare all our allies away.”

“I know what you want to tell me and no, I will not—”

“This is not a discussion, my dear,” said Vivienne, interrupting Lavellan who already raised his hand as a sign of protest. “It’s difficult for all of us, but you cannot show your weakness. You represent the Inquisition and appearing like that is almost the same as telling everybody we are just a group of worthless bandits. Look at those clothes, at that face… You look like you were the one who sat in that cell with no fresh air and good company. Please, I beg you, don’t make me feel ashamed of you.”

“I cannot promise you to deal with what bothers me, but I will pull myself together,” managed to utter Inquisitor after a few seconds of silence.

“And the clothing.” Vivienne looked skeptically at the old torn leather armor Inquisitor had been wearing for god knows how many days.

“Yes, I will surely change it.”

“That is what I wanted to hear. Don’t let others use your vulnerability against you. Don’t look like you have any in the first place.”

Inquisitor nodded to the Grand Enchanter to pay his respect. She gave him a polite nod as well before leaving him in the great hall. In reality, he rarely shared her point of view regarding pretty much anything, but he just could not resist her openly: she was too powerful and too valuable. Her knowledge of Orlesian court and magic powers were of great use to the Inquisition so sometimes he just needed to say what she wanted to hear in order to keep their temporary peace.

He hurried to open the heavy wooden door that led to the command centre. All of his advisors had already gathered at the war table. All, but one.

As days went by, Inquisitor slowly descended into madness. He frantically slaughtered all enemies he met on his way being as merciless as never before. His magic powers grew to be more effective on the battlefield, burning, freezing, and crushing, but, at the same time, almost uncontrollable. There was no middle ground for him, only lethal blows. Each red templar he spotted made him furious beyond all reason – he used every single spell on them to see what dealt the most damage. He couldn’t use his healing powers anymore, but instead gained the ability to bring the strongest pain to every red lyrium addict he saw. Blackwall, Dorian and Varric shared his hate for the enemies they fought, but certainly did not approve of his methods. They thought nobody deserved that much suffering, no matter what they did.

When time allowed it, Lavellan would stop to examine the bodies of the deceased templars. He paid special attention to how the crystals rooting in their bodies developed and grew, how the skin around the ruptures looked and behaved. He killed countless knights, guards and marksmen, observing how different were states of their corruption. He noticed how crystals pierced their armour, making it part of them. Some of them wore helmets overgrown by it, so he wondered how they could even see anything. A few shadows he eliminated had arms completely covered in lyrium which made them much more dangerous than the others, raw lyrium being extremely harmful in any state, but at the same time filling their existence with agony: contact that close made them lose their humanity faster and degraded their physical and mental state.

Once on the Emerald Graves, Inquisitor, accompanied by his loyal followers, met a Behemoth. An enormous lump of red lyrium barely provoked the thought that it used to be a person – not a single part of its body remained intact, everything was completely covered with crystals. The air around it was pulsating with heat, and the red glow it emitted blinded them. The fight was long and tedious – Blackwall was severely injured after receiving a massive blow in his leg and Dorian exhausted all his magic forces and couldn’t continue without a dose of lyrium to boost them. When the existence of the monstrosity was finally ended by Inquisitor’s ice spell, they managed to catch a glimpse of a silhouette resembling that of a human being inside the Behemoth before it collapsed to the ground. The atmosphere became heavy, as they were crudely reminded that the creatures they were forced to fight used to be people at some point. Some of them, perhaps, didn’t choose this fate and would rather continue living their ordinary lives.

While his companions stood gloomy and silent, mulling over what happened to the world they once knew, Lavellan approached a pile of dust left of the Behemoth. He couldn’t lose such an opportunity to study it because it was the first specimen that was so corrupt that it wasn’t able to say a single word and could only scream and produce inarticulate sounds. Lately Inquisitor became almost obsessed with researching how lyrium developed in the bodies of templars, so all he could think about was finding out how it influenced human organism and seeing if it could be prevented somehow. He approached the pile and was extremely disappointed to see that there was almost nothing left in it. Being in some kind of frenzy, with his bare hand he grabbed a small lyrium crystal – the only visible part of the templar that hadn’t disintegrated yet. A few moments passed before Varric noticed what Lavellan was doing and hurried to him to drag him away from the pile and throw away the crystal. Inquisitor’s hand and fingers were already influenced by the mineral and a few deep burns were left on the skin.

All the way back to Skyhold Lavellan listened to Dorian lecturing him about how irresponsible he was. Blackwall silently frowned and lagged behind, holding on to the handle of his sword hanging in a scabbard on his side. Varric occasionally sighed and said that he agreed with Dorian. Inquisitor’s hand throbbed with pain but he did not really care. The only thing that bothered him was the fact that he didn’t make any progress in researching the influence of lyrium.  

He stopped visiting the prison at Skyhold. He was afraid to descend there and see something more terrifying that he had already seen. He wanted to send somebody down to check on Cullen occasionally, and Leliana agreed to come herself, not wanting anybody else to become the witness of what happened to the Commander of the grand Inquisition. She feared they would lose their influence and authority if the details about Cullen’s corruption became public; the Inquisitor feared he would lose any hope left after seeing his friend one more time.

After one of the visits, Leliana reported that Cullen’s left arm is covered with red lyrium crystals up to his elbow already. Apart from that, she added that he also refused to talk to her. He didn’t even acknowledge her presence.

 (06) “So… how are you doing here, Cole?” asked the Inquisitor his ghostly companion one gloomy evening. He couldn’t forget what Cullen said about him not caring about his friends. He was troubled to learn they were down, but recently just didn’t have the time to address that.

“This place is not a home. Too dark. Everybody’s hurt.” The spirit lowered his head, hiding his eyes behind the brim of his hat.

“Are you hurt too?” carefully inquired Lavellan.

“I don’t know. They are. I absorb the pain, it stings like bees, but stronger. But it brings relief to the others.”

“You don’t have to help them if it is hard for you. It’s impossible to help everybody. I don’t want you to feel pain because of that, Cole,” said Inquisitor, concerned about the spirit. He knew that comforting others was the actual reason his friend existed, but didn’t want to tolerate such state of affairs nonetheless.

“I came here to help. Pain is temporary, death is not. I take the pain and put up with it for a short while, and they are free and calm. Better than listening to their screams.”

“I see…”

It was always difficult to communicate with Cole. He was there but also in hundreds other places at the same time. He responded to questions, but was talking about something only he saw and understood. He looked like a young boy, so everybody perceived him as such, but, in reality, he knew much more than any other person in the castle. He knew about misfortunes of every soldier in the Inquisition, about their worries and fears, but nobody really knew anything about him. Inquisitor was sorry that he didn’t take enough time and make enough effort to get to know this sad entity better.

“You are the only one I can’t help. I see your pain, it’s red and dense and floats like a haze. You are surrounded by people, but they are not there. You’re alone and lost in the fog and you suffocate. I want to help.”

Lavellan moved the hat from Cole’s eyes to see his face. Usually there was no expression on it, but it was important to see his eyes to establish at least some kind of contact.

“I know, Cole. I know. But it’s my burden, and I will carry it. Others here are also miserable, so just do what you can for them. Whatever you feel right.”

“I tried to take away your fear.” Cole looked Lavellan directly in the eyes. “I come when you sleep, I watch, try to lead the demons away. They are strong, bloody, proud, drag heads of their victims as trophies. You don’t let them in, yet the fear stays. You need to rest, but not sleep. Watch yourself.”

Cole suddenly disappeared as he sometimes did. Lavellan remembered him standing beside him a second ago, but now he wasn’t there anymore. Some of Inquisition’s soldiers and commanders were against Cole’s stay in Skyhold, but the Inquisitor remained unshaken in his decision. He saw what the boy did to help those who were in need, and it was more than he himself could have ever done. The spirit didn’t disappear out of a sheer wish, somebody needed him. He always answered the call.

 (07) Lavellan was lying on the side of his bed, twisted and rolled up in a blanket. The bedsheet around him was crumpled and wet from sweat. He was in fever, as if instead of frosty mountains outside of Skyhold only sand dunes enveloped him with unbearable heat. He was delirious and mumbling something to himself. Before his eyes was the same prison cell he chose not to visit anymore. Crystals grew from every wall, from the ceiling and stone floor. They seemed to be alive, breathing and singing the song. Parts of mutilated human, elven, and dwarven bodies were stuck in the lyrium, feeding it with last drops of blood left in them, making its red colour more prominent and vivid. Inquisitor saw familiar faces captured eternally inside the crystals, lifeless, pale, and distorted. He gripped his staff tightly, ready to fight whoever would come to face him. His injured fingers hurt but he tried not to focus on the pain.

“I hoped to see you once again,” said the voice he knew all too well. He turned around and saw Cullen sitting on the floor with his back leaning on the wall. He wasn’t chained. “I was so upset you stopped visiting,” he continued.

“I couldn’t…” started Lavellan, but Cullen did not want to listen.

“I know what had really happened. You thought I was a burden and you had no wish to continue coddling me. But who will take the responsibility, Inquisitor Lavellan?”

“You should ask your new master about that!” yelled Lavellan angrily. He didn’t really know how much responsibility laid on him for all what had happened, but now he didn’t want to admit anything at all. Not before Cullen.

“He is doing what he must, and you are making things more complicated. Do you really believe you are a hero? A Herald of Andraste? You’re just a thief!”—Cullen spat on the floor in front of him—“All you know is stealing and deceiving. Who gave you the right to decide what’s right and what’s wrong? Why do you think it was better for me before I changed? Tell me, I want to know.”

“I’ve seen what this “transformation” does to the others. They become inhumane, forget their language, families, friends. They live in constant pain and their life is deprived of meaning. You don’t need to be the Herald to understand that.”

“I am different. They are unworthy, nobody cares about them. Do you know the names of all your soldiers, Inquisitor? Do you mourn the death of every one of them? Then why do you worry about those templars so much? They have their own fate and will be rewarded for their diligence. Unlike all those people stuck in here with me,” said Cullen and smiled, waving his already corrupt hand in the direction of ghastly faces behind the glass surface of red crystals on the walls.

“Are you now tormenting people who worked with you and admired you?” Lavellan felt dizzy. He used his staff to help himself stand straight, but his energy was being drained by the red lyrium filling the room. “What kind of commander are you?”

“An improved one. You should’ve noticed how insecure I used to be. Afraid that people would judge me for what I say or do, afraid to confess to you about my decision to stop taking lyrium. Wasn’t it hilarious? Perhaps, you kept me close because I amused you.”

“No, I didn’t. You were one of the best people I have ever known. It’s a shame you turned into this.”

The mark on Inquisitor’s hand started glowing and he felt as if he would lose consciousness soon. His vision got blurry, making it difficult to concentrate on the templar.

“Oh, I know what you feel now…” Cullen laughed repulsively. “Fear, regret, disbelief, disappointment… A little bit of sorrow maybe? Don’t try to lie to me.” He stood up. No shackles held him, now he was free to do whatever he wanted. “Are you ready to face the truth?”

Lavellan squeezed his eyes shut and tried to escape the nightmare. He knew this couldn’t be real.

He opened his eyes and found himself lying on the bed in his quarters. Cole was sitting beside him, silently saying his mantra. He stopped when noticed that Inquisitor was already awake.

“I heard your scream. Nobody here screams that loudly, only whimpers. It was almost too late. The haze swallowed you, I didn’t see, couldn’t find. I am glad you believed me.”

“The thought that it’s just a dream… Did it come from you?” Lavellan removed the blanket and sat on the bed.

“Yes. I wanted to destroy the fear and regret, but could only take you out of the nightmare. You shouldn’t be left alone.”

“Thank you, Cole… Could you stay with me?”

“That is what I implied.”

Lavellan didn’t feel like closing his eyes again.

 (08) “This is impossible! We do not have time and resources to do it!” said Cassandra. Her voice sounded as agitated and decisive as always.

“I need it! I’m not asking you to bring me Coryphaeus himself, just a few red templars.”

“You have lost your mind! How can we capture them alive if even touching them may be lethal? It’s too dangerous. You know that they never surrender.”

“It can change everything. The lyrium in dead templars is most likely also dead, there is no use of it, but if we bring them here alive… I will be able to study it, I’ll examine how it responds to different treatments and…”

“They already suffer! Even if they look like monsters, they are under the influence of it. You want to torture them even more, doesn’t it bother you?”

“What bothers me is the absence of any results in my studies, Cassandra. I need at least a tiny bit of useful information.”

Inquisitor was uncompromising, but Cassandra did not want to agree to his proposal. After all, the Inquisition was still part of the Chantry and they simply couldn’t capture templars and experiment on them. She was one of the people who started the Inquisition and didn’t want to see it come crashing down.

She sighed.

“We will make a decision at the council meeting.”

“Then tell everybody to gather.”

As one of the advisors, Cassandra made it clear that she didn’t support this endeavour of the Inquisitor. Leliana, being more practical and open-minded, decided that they should take the risk in case there was at least one possibility to gain some intel in the process. Even if they didn’t learn how to cure the corruption, they would probably discover the templars’ weak spots. Josephine was inclined to support Cassandra out of her morals, but seeing Lavellan in such despair made her budge.

Two people were in favour, so they started the operation.

Cassandra feared that soon they would not be able to keep Inquisitor in line. He was becoming more and more radical in his methods and didn’t share his thoughts with them anymore. He was grim, slept only three hours a day and most of his time spent in the libraries or on the battlefields. From the latter he would often come injured without even noticing it, as if he couldn’t feel it or didn’t care enough to notice. Their cause was still a priority to him, but determination and hope vanished from his eyes. They became dull and cold.

When first templars were delivered to the castle, he locked himself in the forge with them and didn’t come out for a few hours. Nobody was allowed to enter. There were no screams, but the silence made it seem even worse. Everybody was on the edge, not knowing what to expect. It happened a few more times, but the Inquisitor never shared anything about what he did or what results his experiments showed. As time passed, he became even more withdrawn and solitary. Solas tried talking to Lavellan about the Commander and what his inertness did to him, but with no success. Inquisitor was deaf to all inquiries.

 When the blizzard settled down and the sun managed to send a few rays through thick clouds, one of the Inquisition’s soldiers knocked on the door to Lavellan’s quarters.

“Come in,” said Inquisitor, not bothered to look away from the book he was reading.

“My lord, Sister Leliana went on her usual check and he wasn’t there…” The soldier started stammering as Lavellan abruptly pierced his gaze into him. “He escaped,” mumbled the soldier.

Inquisitor knew it would end like this. He awaited it and feared.

[hopelikethemoon]

Soft Epilogue (Ezra x Reader)

title: Soft Epilogue rating: PG length: 1,000 (short and sweet) notes: This is the end of this sweet little trilogy that was first inspired by the glorious @rzrcrst​. ( Next Rotation & Ardent Admiration) I have finally brought it to a close. Originally I was going to be cruel and make this a sad ending (that was the plan several months ago) but then I decided these two deserved a happily ever after. Shout out to my fave @grapemama​ who provided me with the baby’s name. Also, I think this gif was snagged from @pajamasecrets​ 

summary: Reader and Ezra get their happily ever after. 

At the beginning you had been hesitant about co-sleeping with the baby. But sometimes, after breastfeeding in the middle of the night, it was just easier to settle her in between the two of you. 

Ezra seemed to sleep better on those nights. He would still be snoring when the first flecks of light would filter in through the sunroof above. His hand resting against her soft little stomach. 

You wished you had the means to capture the moment. But Kevva hadn’t blessed you with the talent to sketch and you hadn’t seen a camera in a dozen moon cycles. Instead you laid awake and basked in the moment. 

Artemisia was still so little and Ezra was still terrified to hold her in his arm — but he wasn’t afraid in these quiet moments. In the quiet moments of early dawn, his defenses were down and he didn’t dwell on his perceived failures.

You reached out and traced your fingers over his cheek and jaw. Years seemed lifted from the lines on his features when he slept, like brittle ground mended by a glorious rain. 

The dry season had come to Veshta2 within mere weeks of your due date. Ezra had, indeed, underestimated the dire nature of the moon’s seasonal change. The modular pod you both called home was ill-equipped for the sheer strength of the solar rays and, rather than suffer a miserable existence sweltering through a three-month span — Ezra charted a new course for your little family. 

Fairway had been the only planet within range of your fuel supply. There was a language barrier with the inhabitants, but they seemed overjoyed at the prospect of new life being born in their colony. Each morning until little miss Sia arrived, they had left gifts outside the pod. Freshly baked breads, nectar from the fruits of their garden, and proteins created from their fast-growing legumes. 

Ezra was constantly wary, but he always had one eye looking back over his shoulder. It wasn’t a new occurrence for him. His past certainly provided him with a myriad of reasons to be cautious of insincere hospitality.  

Artemisia stirred between you, mewling like a kitten as early morning hunger struck.

“Shh,” You whispered, “Let papa sleep, little lamb.” You brushed your fingers gently over his hand, lifting it off of your daughter so you could pick her up. 

She fussed and squirmed in your arms as you readied yourself for her. You pulled up the soft woven shirt of Ezra’s you wore, baring your breast to her. It took another moment of quiet mewling, before Artemisia latched on and drank to her heart’s content. 

“What a glorious sight to awake too,” Ezra mused beside you, his long lashes fluttering as he spoke. “Rejoice with her in joy; that you may nurse and be satisfied from her consoling breast; that you may drink deeply with delight from her glorious abundance.” His voice was rough with sleep as he dragged his hand over his face. 

“I didn’t take you for a theologian,” You teased. “Perhaps there are still things I have yet to learn about you.”

Ezra chuckled, shifting towards you as he reached out to rest his hand on your stomach. “I am drawn to any written verse with an inspiring cadence that might fall from one’s tongue like honey. There is no limited supply of praise it comes to a babe suckling at her mother’s breast. The most intimate of sacrosanct moments that I feel quite blessed to privy too.”

“Too many words.” You smiled at him adoringly. “I need my caf before that prolific tongue of yours is allowed to work.”

A lazy grin played over his lips as he trailed his fingers over the bare skin of your stomach. “Am I not to marvel at these resplendent things, little birdie?”

“I’m going to put her down in the nursery,” You told him softly. “We might be able to steal another hour of sleep… or whatever else we might wish to explore.”

“I anxiously await your return,” Ezra remarked with put-on dramatics as he took over the entire bed as you retreated from the room. 

You spent time with Artemisia in the nursery, soothing her and kissing her back into quiet surrender. She was a good baby — she ate, she slept, and she seemed content with life. You wondered which one of you she’d favor in adolescence. Her father? With a cutting wit and an unsmothered drive to succeed? Would she take after you? Unwavering compassion and a quiet need to be. 

“She returns. My pulchritudinous little bird.” 

You posed in the threshold, grinning at him. “I thought you’d be asleep when I got back.” 

“Very nearly,” Ezra chuckled, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Is our little gem asleep?”

You nodded, climbing back into bed beside him. He wasn’t quite as haunted as he once was — there was a lightness in his eyes whenever Artemisia was brought up. 

“She went down easy,” You told him, sinking back against the bunk, stretching your legs out beneath the covers to press your cold feet against his leg. “She sleeps just like you.”

“Oh?” Ezra’s brows rose upwards with a lazy grin. “And how does our seraphic one slumber?”

You rolled your eyes, “With her mouth wide open.” You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Fairway has been good to us, hasn’t it?”

“I do feel a certain amount of levity here,” Ezra agreed, humming thoughtfully. “I believe I have very nearly mastered the linguistics of their glorious dialect.”

“I do enjoy how it sounds,” You ran your thumb over his bottom lip. “I believe we’ve finally found the soft epilogue we deserve.”

“As do I, my little bird. I feel at peace, for once in my life.” Ezra murmured, his lashes fluttering as he closed his eyes. “After all these years of drifting, we’ve finally found a place to put down roots and call home.”

Home. 

[juliandev0rak]

Royal Ruckus

Beatrice learns how to have fun the Lonan way and finds that wood floors are more slippery than she’d thought. 

a side fic to the Hallmark Yule Series by @leila-of-ravens

Characters: Beatrice Viano, Ella Sagen (of @leechobsessed), Leila Lonan, Lachlan Lonan, Lysander Lonan, and Leith Lonan (of @leila-of-ravens), Julian Devorak (sort of)

Words: ~3300 

Notes: this fic idea all started during a chaotic late night/early morning conversation with @leila-of-ravens back in december when vianan and logen were new and laura and i were maybe slightly loopy (which explains the title) but finally, may i present to you: Royal Ruckus

During her stay in Umbra, Beatrice has treated Lonan manor like a museum. Everything in the house is beautiful and perfect, and she’s afraid to touch anything in case she ruins it. So it comes as a shock one day to watch as Leila slides down the stair banister without a single care for the decorative molding. 

“What did you do that for?” Beatrice calls as she follows her friend down the stairs, on her feet as is usually the custom for descending a staircase. 

Leila laughs and shakes her head in disbelief as Beatrice comes to meet her in the entryway. “Because it’s fun! Why, have you never slid down a banister before?” 

“No. Should I have?” Beatrice inspects the smooth railing, wondering how her friend had managed to keep her balance as she’d slid down.

“Well it’s something most people do as children. I used to do it sometimes as a kid, with Lachlan.” Leila smiles, and Beatrice knows she’s thinking of the past. She can almost see little Leila and Lachlan now, their laughter echoing off of the walls as they race to be the first one down. Beatrice is glad her friend has at least some happy memories in this place.

“I would like to try it.”��

Leila had turned towards the drawing room where Ella is waiting for them, but she turns around to face Beatrice with a bemused look. “You’d what?”

“I’d like to try this sliding down the stairs thing.” Beatrice pauses under her friend’s’ stare and fidgets with the sleeve of her dress. “It looks fun.”

“It is fun.” Leila grabs Beatrice’s hand and leads her back up to the first floor landing. “Let’s do it!” 

“How?” Beatrice perches on the edge of the banister like she’d seen Leila do, but the skirt of her dress is quite voluminous and gets in the way. Leila moves to sit on the banister across from her, demonstrating the correct angle to sit at. Beatrice copies her movements and then Leila pushes off from the banister with her hands and slides all the way down to the bottom, the entire trip taking only a few seconds. 

“Come on Beatrice!” Leila calls encouragingly. Beatrice pushes off from the railing and slides about half way down before she loses her balance and nearly falls backwards over the railing. She stops herself just in time and tries to regain her balance.

Ella, left waiting far longer than anticipated, has left the drawing room and now stands next to Leila. “What’s taking you two so long?”

“Beatrice is learning how to slide down a stair railing,” Leila explains, gesturing to Beatrice who is trying to tuck her dress out of the way so she can slide better.

Ella laughs and takes another step towards the stairs. “Now this I have to see.” 

“You’re halfway there!” Leila calls, and Beatrice takes a deep breath before sliding the rest of the way down, much faster this time. She hits the decorative end of the banister hard and lands in a heap on the floor, not knowing how to stop her descent in time to land on her feet. 

“Need a hand?” A voice calls from above her. It’s Lachlan, who’s just come in the front door. She accepts his offered hand and he pulls her to her feet, looking at her with amusement. 

“What landed you on the floor?” He asks.

Beatrice winces as she stands, rubbing her hip where she’d hit the end of the banister. “I just slid down the stairs.”

“Wow, Beatrice I didn’t know you had it in you!” Lachlan laughs, and Beatrice flushes as she tries to smooth her skirts back down.

“You didn’t know I had what in me?” Beatrice raises an eyebrow in question.

Lachlan grins, “The ability to have fun.” 

“Don’t be rude!” Leila chides, slapping Lachlan on the arm. He laughs and gives Beatrice a kinder smile to show that he’s joking as he saunters off down the hall.

“Thank you for helping me up!” Beatrice calls after him. He might’ve just insulted her, but she’s secretly glad he’s started teasing her like a friend. Lachlan raises a hand in acknowledgment and disappears into the kitchen.

“Well, what do you think? Was it fun?” Leila heads back down the hall towards the drawing room and the other two women follow behind. 

“It was fun until I landed.” Beatrice rubs at her tailbone where she’d landed, already thinking of cooling spells she can use to ease any muscle aches. She’s probably bruised her hip but that’ll heal soon enough.

“It looked like you landed pretty hard, are you alright?” Ella turns to Beatrice with concern, always ready to jump into healing if need be.

“I think I’ll be alright, my dress absorbed the brunt of the impact,” Beatrice laughs.

Leila stops in the middle of the hallway and turns back to her friends with a mischievous look in her pale eyes. “I have another fun idea, and this one has less of a chance for injury.” 

“But there’s still a chance?” Ella asks, making Beatrice laugh. 

“Nothing in life is completely safe, now come on!” Leila brings them back up to the first floor upstairs where there's a long stretch of empty hallway. 

“What are we doing in a hallway?” Beatrice watches in confusion as Leila pulls her shoes off. 

“We’re sliding.”

“Oooh, this’ll be fun.” Ella joins Leila in taking her shoes off and the both of them are left in socks. Beatrice eyes the shiny, polished wood floors and wonders how sliding down a hallway could be fun, but she’ll give it a try. She tentatively starts to untie her boots as Leila gets a running start and slides down the hall, laughing the whole way. 

“Come on, try it!” Leila throws her arms out to catch Ella who had slid down the hall after her,  narrowly avoiding being knocked over. 

“I don’t want to trip.” Beatrice frowns as she neatly places her boots to the side of the stairs.

The floors are slippery enough with shoes on. And besides, she’s worried about the amount of noise they’re currently making. The big house echoes and amplifies all of their laughing and yelling, and there’s a part of her that worries someone will be upset about the noise. 

Leila notices her hesitance and puts an arm around Beatrice’s shoulder. She’s always been able to tell exactly what’s bothering Beatrice, and this time is no different. “Beatrice, you live here! Or at least right now you do. You’re allowed to have fun and be loud sometimes, I promise nobody will mind.”

“Are you certain?”

“This might not be the home I live in anymore, but this is still my house and I say you get to slide down the hallway and make as much noise as you want!” Leila pats Beatrice once on the shoulder and then slides back down the hall with a squeal, her purple pashmina flying behind her like wings.

Beatrice mirrors what she’d seen Leila and Ella do, getting a bit of a start before she slides down the hall. The floors are slippery and she struggles to keep her balance but she makes it to the end. She grabs the wall for support and giggles from the rush, looking up to find her friends smiling at her. 

“What?” 

“It’s just nice to see you having fun,” Ella says kindly. 

Beatrice frowns and tugs at a loose thread on the seam of her dress. “Am I really that boring?”

Leila shakes her head. “No you’re very fun, I promise! You just don’t ever let yourself let loose like this.”

“Well, shall we go again then?” Beatrice asks, her tone just a bit insincere.

She knows what her friends mean and they’re right. Beatrice still finds it hard to let herself be loud, to play around like this. But she has to admit that it’s fun to slide down banisters and hallways in her socks like she’s a child again. She never did anything like this as a child, but at least she’s doing it now.

“Let’s race!” Ella suggests, lining up next to Leila. Beatrice joins them, hoping the hallway is wide enough for them to avoid colliding. 

“First to touch the other wall wins.” Leila turns to look at Beatrice, “Go!”

Beatrice has a rocky beginning, slipping a bit as she tries to get a running start. Leila and Ella are ahead of her and she watches as Ella reaches out as if to push Leila. But Leila manages to slide out of the way with a yell. 

“Hey! No cheating!” Beatrice calls, unable to suppress a giggle. She stops halfway across the hallway and has to get another running start to get enough momentum. She’s almost caught up to Leila when the door to her left flings open and she nearly gets hit in the face. Beatrice reels backwards and loses her balance, suddenly finding herself being held up by two familiar hands.

“My apologies, did I hit you with the door?” It’s Lysander. Beatrice is speechless for a moment, surprised at his sudden appearance and the fact that his hands are still on her shoulders. She hadn’t known he was in his office or she’d never have agreed to the hallway sliding. 

“No, you didn’t, it’s quite alright! I apologize for the noise. I didn’t realize you were in there working.” Beatrice stares down at her socks. They’re a light purple color, knit by her Aunt Cora many years ago. 

Lysander removes his hands from her shoulders and takes a step backwards into his office, “What are you doing out here?” 

“We were um...” Beatrice doesn’t know how to describe this without sounding ridiculous. Without thinking, one of her hands reaches up to the spot on her shoulder where he’d touched her. “We were sliding down the hallway.”

She looks up to meet his eyes and is surprised to hear him laugh under his breath. He steps out into the hallway and Beatrice looks over to the far wall where Ella and Leila stand watching. 

To her utter astonishment, Lysander takes his shoes off and carefully places them in the doorway of his office. He walks to the end of the hallway then gets a running start before he starts sliding across the floor. Lysander stops just before he gets to the end of the hall, laughing as he turns around to face the women. Ella and Leila burst into laughter but Beatrice stands silent in the doorway of his office, not quite believing what she’s just seen.

“I haven’t done that in ages,” Lysander says simply as he meets Beatrice’s wide eyes. 

“Well you looked very well practiced,” She smiles, ducking her head slightly under his gaze.

“This house has optimal flooring for sliding on, so I’ve had many opportunities for practice. We keep the floors well polished,” Lysander explains. For a moment it seems as if he might go on about the floor polish, but he decides against it, opting for a half smile instead. Beatrice has grown quite fond of that little smile, just the barest hint of his amusement shining through his stoic demeanor. He’s started to give her those smiles more and more these days. 

Beatrice smiles back at him, her nose scrunching up as it does when she smiles extra wide. “I think I’ll have to practice quite a bit more before I become as adept at sliding down the hall as you are. I still find it difficult to gather the right momentum.” 

“It might have something to do with your socks. Socks with less texture will slide more easily.” Lysander points down to her knit socks and she nods, agreeing with his hypothesis.

“I’ll have to try another time with different socks then.” 

“Try it again, but angle your feet to the side more. You should go faster that way,” Lysander suggests. She had never expected this to turn into a physics lesson, but here they are. She does as he says, and sure enough she slides down the hall towards Ella and Leila at a much faster rate. 

Leila steps over to place a hand on Lysander’s shoulder, she’s still laughing a little and her voice is full of affection, “Thank you for the sliding lesson, Lyse.” He nods in response and steps back into the doorway of his office, content to watch the mayhem from a safe distance. 

Beatrice, Ella, and Leila continue to slide down the hallway, taking turns and trying different techniques to get more speed. Beatrice wonders if she could use magic to help propel her, but she’s never been very good at manipulating air. She thinks she probably shouldn’t mention the idea to Leila lest she accidentally creates a tempest in the hallway. 

They even try to race again with Lysander as the referee. Beatrice still doesn’t win, but at least she doesn’t run into a door this time. Ella seems to be the best at it, with so many siblings at home she’d done a lot of this sort of playing when she was younger.

Beatrice gears up for another slide and Leila calls to her from the end of the hallway behind her, “Let’s go Beatrice! You’re getting good at this.” 

Beatrice looks up at Lysander who still stands in his office doorway and he gives her an encouraging nod. She nods in return before turning over her shoulder to give Leila and Ella a thumbs up. She takes a step back and then gets her running start before sliding quickly and effortlessly down the hall on sideways feet. 

She’s so proud of the momentum that she doesn’t realize her trajectory is off. Before she can stop herself she tumbles into the small table beneath the window, knocking over a large vase. Beatrice grasps for the vase but she falls over with it, hitting the floor with her hip she’d already bruised. 

The vase hits the floor and the porcelain shatters. She gasps in horror and vaguely hears the sound of footsteps behind her as Leila and Ella rush over. It’s Lysander who reaches her first. He kneels down next to her, pulling her attention up and away from the broken vase. 

“Are you hurt?” Lysander asks. He picks up one of her hands to look for any vase shards stuck in it, his thumb brushing over her palm for signs of injury. The vase broke into large pieces so Beatrice is unscathed, but she’s a bit shaken.

“I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to break anything!” She wills her voice to stay steady. She's an adult, she won’t cry over breaking something. Even if she feels absolutely awful about it.

“What’s going on up here?” A voice calls from the stairwell. Beatrice turns her head to see Leith at the top of the stairs, looking concerned but not upset. 

“We heard a loud crash,” Lachlan adds, coming up the stairs behind his brother. He crosses the hallway to stand next to Ella, who starts to explain the situation to him. 

It seems everyone in the house was pulled upstairs by the sound of the crash. Julian is only a few steps behind Leith, looking relieved to find that Leila is fine. Beatrice even hears Lorcan climbing up the steps but Leith blocks the dog from coming into the hallway. 

“There was a bit of an accident,” Leila explains, reaching out to grab Julian’s hand. 

Leith walks over to inspect the vase and everyone remains silent for a moment as he takes in the scene. He picks up one of the shards and then surprises everyone by beginning to laugh. Beatrice looks up at him in shock, searching for an explanation. “This was our mother’s favorite vase.” 

“Oh,” Beatrice’s voice is a bit wobbly and she swallows hard to rid herself of the feeling of crying. She feels even worse now, she’s broken a priceless family heirloom. She can’t understand what could possibly be funny about this situation.

“I always hated that vase,” Lysander says seriously and Beatrice glances at him in surprise. He’s still holding her hand, and it’s grounding her more than she thought it would. 

“Me too,” Leith chuckles. “I always wanted an excuse to get rid of it. You’ve done us a great service Beatrice.” 

“I remember that vase now.” Leila places a hand on Beatrice’s shoulder as she leans over to look at the broken vase. “I hated it too.”

Lachlan joins his siblings by the overturned vase and turns his head to the side as if judging its artistic merit. “I would've gotten rid of it myself if I wouldn't have gotten caught.” 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Leith asks, looking at Beatrice with a worried frown. 

Beatrice is relieved that nobody seems mad at her, and she’s pleasantly surprised that the Lonans care more about her than the vase. It’s an unusual feeling to have so many people care about her wellbeing, but it’s one she very much appreciates.

“I’m alright. I’m sorry, I wasn’t being careful.” 

“It’s ok, Beatrice, don’t worry. We’re just glad you didn’t get hurt.” Leila rubs a soothing circle on Beatrice’s shoulder.

Lysander helps Beatrice stand and then finally seems to realize that he’s still holding her hand. He drops it quickly and puts his hands behind his back as he moves away. She tries not to show her disappointment and turns to distract herself by helping Leith collect the larger broken pieces.

“Let’s get this ugly vase cleaned up.” Leith gives her a very reassuring smile, and Beatrice finds herself smiling back despite her nerves. Leith heads downstairs for a broom and Julian and Lachlan help collect all of the vase pieces into a neat pile. 

Leila offers Beatrice a reassuring look, making her look quite similar to her oldest brother. She pulls Beatrice in for a hug. “I think that’s enough ruckus causing for the day. Maybe we should do something less dangerous like reading, or we could make some tea” 

Beatrice smiles at the suggestion, “I don’t know, there’s always the potential for paper cuts, those are dangerous.” She meets Lysander’s eyes over Leila’s shoulder. He stares at her for a moment before giving her another little nod and disappearing back into his office. 

Leila laughs as she pulls back from Beatrice. “Let’s go make tea, I’m fairly confident we can accomplish that without any harm.”

“Don’t jinx it.” Ella grins, reaching to link her arm through Beatrice’s. 

Beatrice rests her head against Ella’s shoulder as they talk. “With my luck today, we’ll set the house on fire.” 

“Don’t jinx it!” Ella and Leila say at the same time. 

“You just did!” Beatrice laughs, looping her other arm through Leila’s. “We’ll be fine, we can use our magic to put out any fires.” 

Lachlan brushes past the girls and stops next to the banister at the top of the stairs, “Let me show you how a real stair slide is done.” He sits on the edge of the stairwell and slides down the banister effortlessly. He turns to grin back up at them when he’s reached the bottom. “Come on!”

Ella laughs and rolls her eyes at his antics but she slides down the banister after him, hopping off before she hits the decorative piece at the end. Lachlan picks her up from the last stair and gives her a little spin before releasing her. Leila and Beatrice look at each other in surprise and Beatrice’s face scrunches up into another grin, it seems those two have finally made up. 

Leila nudges Beatrice with her elbow. “Well? Do you want to slide down the stairs again?” 

“I think I’ll stick to walking, thanks.” 

[scoundrels-in-love]

82 and/or 70 for the writing prompts for days (if you please :)

Incredibly late, but here it is, finally. Continuing with my October’s theme of angst... “Looks like we’ll be stuck here for a while.” + “What are you afraid of?”

Also on AO3.

---

It's been several hours since they arrived at Rayder's little cabin on the side of the Northern Mountains, but the wind and the rain has not let up, and the storm tolls even closer than before.

Brienne takes what little comfort she can in the crackling fire that slowly consumes what little firewood had been carried in by Rayder before his departure in spring and pieces of shabby furniture she had broken apart; she'll make sure to compensate him. Jaime had looked like he wanted to comment at that, but refrained, which must've been the testament of the pain he was in.

Not that he wasn't still running his mouth in moments of inspiration. “Looks like we’ll be stuck here for a while,” Jaime had said after they had stumbled in, pushed the busted door closed and barred it to the winds, and unsuccessfully tried to hail help from SAR command center or the rest of their team. Anyone, really.

His voice had had a sort of casualness to it, as if they had been chased under some roof by a sudden downpour and merely missed their bus. As if his right arm wasn't pressed to his chest at an awkward angle that belied its mangled, broken state. As if Sansa Stark wasn't a sobbing mess in Brienne's arms, hungry and hurt. As if Brienne didn't feel each thunder's roll like a wrecking ball beating an unsteady heartbeat against her composure.

Sansa is sleeping now, curled up and pale in the flickering light, every bit of a child that she really is. Brienne tries not to think of Arya who is very likely still out there, weathering this storm somewhere. Hopefully far away from Littlefinger, who Brienne would personally geld, if he wasn't already in police's custody.

Jaime swims in her field of vision, dragging a blanket with him. She hadn't even heard him shuffle through his 24-hour pack, between trying to ignore the storm and the gurgling, muddy stream of her thoughts. She feels bad, for not having helped.

"Since the kid's got yours, thought we could share mine," he speaks in a hushed voice, but he raises the blanket and shakes it a little, aluminized plastic rustling and makes Brienne immediately look over to where Sansa's sleeping. Doesn't seem she's stirred at all.

"No need to look so alarmed, Tarth. Couldn't shock your delicate sensibilities even if I wanted to. Just a good, old-fashioned cuddle for warmth."

She frowns, opens her mouth to rebuke, but lightning strikes so close she thinks it might've embedded itself in her spine, and freezes. Moments later, thunder bellows in a way that blows any thoughts out of her head.

"Don't you trust me?" Jaime asks, mistaking her silence for something else, and bringing her back to the present with the way he genuinely sounds hurt. Sansa still sleeps the sleep of an exhausted child and Brienne is suddenly almost envious. Except she isn't. She knows the weight of such sleep too well and…

Brienne tethers herself to this moment instead.

"I do," she tells Jaime, seriously, because she does. Despite the way he frustrates her, despite the way he knows how to cut her to the bone, despite the history that drips in his footprints all the way from King's Landing, she trusts him like any other member of her team. And it's never been misplaced, least of all today when he saved her at the expense of his own arm.

"You can't take that back when this little adventure's over," he announces, though still almost whispering, before sitting down next to her. She brings the blanket around them both before Jaime can even make an attempt, careful not to jostle his right arm. She's done the best she can for it and the ibuprofen should have kicked in by now, but it's a far cry from the actual medical help he requires.

Her heart is heavy, as if every bit of mud and rock and the fallen tree that had almost swept them away has turned into guilt manifestation and nestled in there, but Brienne's got no words to express it, so instead she pinches the edges of blanket together in front of them, so he doesn't have to hold them with his left.

She doesn't keep track of time, the only landmark in its vastness is the frequent and devastating lightning and thunder duet. At least she isn't thinking about the other stormy nights, at least she isn't being swept away by the other landslides of guilt that are always biding their time.

“Truth or dare?” Jaime suddenly speaks up, bumping his shoulder into hers as if it was some kind of inside joke of theirs. “Ah, but it's always the truth with you, Tarth, isn't it?" 

Brienne glances at him with a scoff, only to be caught off-guard by the way he's looking at her. Piercing and focused, more than he should with the pain he's in, and searching for something. He has made a habit of it, somehow, looking at and through her, in a way that never matches the insincere charm he often bears.

"I’ll go first," he says, lips pale and stretched into a ghoul of the bright, infuriating smiles she's so used to. "So, tell me, what are you so afraid of?”

"I thought you were supposed to go first." Her lips are dry and she escapes their blanket wrap a little to reach for a water bottle set next to the radio in front of them. There's another lightning streak and she spills some of the water, with the way she squeezes the bottle.

She drinks, ignores the way he's still staring at her. "Yes, with the question. You're shaking like a leaf, tell me why."

"It's cold," she tries to brush him off, but it'd not be convincing even if she was a better liar. She's not. And Jaime knows it - knows her. But she won't answer, she can't, she might unravel if she tries. And so they sink in silence, at least between the two of them, once she cocoons them in the blanket again.

"Fine, I will answer it myself." There is both steel and an echo of a broken string in his quiet voice and she tenses, unsure of what to expect.

"I am afraid of wildfire. And the smell of flesh burning in it. Did you know Aerys loved it? Both, really. The screams, too." He is staring blankly into the fire, but she can tell he sees something else, something he's far too late to be saved from.

"I stopped him. I had to. And the courts agreed, self defense, even though..." he gives half-shrug. "It wasn't me I was scared for." Her hand covers his left, where it's digging into his pants' leg.

"But now, I can't look at it, not even in those big, historic blockbusters. Used to love them, now I have to look up if there's wildfire in it first. Even a trailer can make me shut halfway down." He laughs a little at that, derisive and tired and she doesn't know what to think, because it turns her opinion of him upside down and at the same time, it doesn't change anything. It's still him, maddening and beautiful with sharpness. Brave to the point of recklessness. Good, too.

Maybe Jaime won't think of her much less if she says her truth, too. At least it should distract him enough to lose that expectant, empty look. Like anything cruel she could dish out he will laugh off with 'heard already', while hoarding it close like a dagger collection held under his pillow. She knows how easy it is to cut hands on them constantly.

"The storm. I am afraid of storms.” 

There is pause, for a derisive comment about her choice to be in SAR or her being an unlikely Stormlander, but it doesn't come. It's a small relief, almost the opposite. If he had said that, she wouldn't be propelled forward to drop the rest of the story at his feet.

"When I was 5, I wandered too far away from home. My brother had told me Just Maid was hidden somewhere on Tarth, most likely the cave system in the cliffs. And then the storm rolled in and I got stranded on an outcrop in one of the caves as it filled with water." She tries not to recall the piercing white through the darkness, the way the water had been sloshing almost at her feet and seemed to be teeming with shadows of beasts, the way each thunderclap threatened to collapse the ageless stone onto her body. The cold and the belief she's never been so alone in this world. Rather, that the world existed somewhere far beyond her reach.

It had only been the start of the nightmare.

"They found me two days later. But Galladon, who had been desperately looking for me... He had been caught in another cave quite like me, but he. He didn't make it out." She had been crying for her brother and father the moment she was pulled into the daylight, even before, but every adult hauling her toward the ambulance had been too busy telling her it'd be okay now.

They had been lying.

"I joined SAR thinking that maybe I could make a difference, that maybe I could prevent a night like that. My father had grayed in those days, thinking both of us dead." She almost hadn’t recognized him. It had felt like the world the people pulled her into wasn't the one she came from, like she was thrown into some other, cold reality that wasn't hers.

Sometimes, Brienne still feels like that. On days like these, on days she's hurt and afraid of the storm's wrath that rattles in her bones, like some doom-promising amulet. There's been so many, since then. The fireplace she's staring at blurs at the edges.

"And then the floods took Renly. Right before my eyes. I was too slow, too afraid of the storm. I failed him, I failed him, I failed." There are so many she has failed that she can't even begin to name the pressure in her chest now. She's crying now, the blurriness leaking down her cheeks in yet unrealized sobs, but her voice grows choked before it fades out.

"You did your best, Brienne. You did your best today, you pushed where others fell back, and we found her. We found her, Brienne. She is safe from the storm and she will make it home."

Lightning flashes beyond the window pane, swallowing everything in white, horrid light. They're always so insatiable, the storms, and today they almost took Jaime, too. Or her, but part of her expects it someday.

If it had taken him…

"And I know you did your best back then, you're just incapable of doing otherwise. It isn't your fault. Nature is a dick. We aren't gods. We just try to do what they're too nonchalant for."

It doesn't heal her, because nothing will in one swift and graceful touch (she might never, the best she can hope for is a scar), but it soothes her, the conviction in his tone. Jaime's always been blunt with her, he wouldn't coddle her now if he didn't think it true.

He wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer as she starts to sob. "But Galladon," Brienne manages to whisper into his neck through sobs, part of the twisted echo that no logic and therapy manages to silence.

"You were a child, for fuck's sake. I hope your father never blamed you for it, because if he did..." Jaime trails off, with intensity she can almost physically feel like heat. Maybe it's just because he's warm and despite the blankets, she hasn't felt not freezing since they left the base in the morning.

"No, never." It might have been easier if he did, like some of the townsfolk did (Roelle, her homeroom teacher, might as well have written 'disobedient little killer' in her journal, with the contempt she filled Brienne with.). Maybe if he didn't mourn so carefully around her, as if afraid that if he showed his hurt, he'd hurt her.

But she understands, she does. After all, for the same reasons, Brienne could never speak about the canyon of hurt and guilt in her heart, because how could she ask her father to comfort her, when he was in pain, too, and because of her?

"Good," Jaime tells her and lets her cry, seemingly understanding that no shushing can fix this broken dam, battered by too many different blows today.

Maybe she dozes off, maybe she just cries softly for so long that the only thing she can register anymore is the crackle of fire, but at some point, she snaps to the realization that there's no more thunder and white hatred dancing beyond the window.

Jaime's head is resting atop hers, so she must've fallen asleep, and there is a crick in her neck, so surely his, too, but he isn't aware just yet as his breathing is deep and even. She doesn't move to wake him up, he needs every moment of rest he can get.

It's not comfortable like this and yet it somehow is. She feels empty and almost light for it, instead of just floating down the stream like... Like something else than the first comparison on her mind. Brienne closes eyes again, allows the warmth to settle somewhere deep in her, anchored there with Jaime's inhales and exhales.

And then, the radio crackles to life. "Selmy to Tarth and Lannister, can you hear me? Over."

She untangles herself from the nest they've made somehow as fast as she can while being careful so that Jaime wouldn't fall over and hurt his arm. Her hands are shaking when she grabs the radio, though for different reasons now.

"Tarth here, with Lannister. In Rayder's cabin. We have Sansa Stark, safe, but with a sprained ankle. Lannister has sustained a severe arm injury, we will not be able to make it back on our own. Over." The relief rushes to her head with speed that makes her dizzy. She feels Jaime stirring behind her and she turns to look at him, smiling.

"Copy that. We are on our way. And just so you know, Arya Stark was brought in by Sandor Clegane a few hours ago. Over."

Brienne sags because that is better news than she could've hoped for and it's so unexpectedly much.

"You did it, Briene," Jaime tells her and his smile looks more familiar. But not quite the same. Warmer, somehow. The shift is almost imperceptible, but she's always been good at telling when winter sunrises become those of spring. And he calls her by her name still, with almost fondness, that settles somewhere in her chest like a golden chain with a little bell.

"We did it," Brienne corrects him. Then, she wills her legs to function once again and gives his good shoulder a gentle squeeze on her way to wake Sansa.

Soon, they will be home and it won't be quite like before, but maybe for once the storm will leave behind something kind, instead of taking and taking with it.

[oneweekoneband]

I’m slightly nauseous already with knowing I’m going to say this, but what does “self-awareness”  even mean? In modern parlance, as a descriptive phrase, as a comment on art? I’m asking in earnest, like, I’ve been Googling lately, which for me is basically on par with doctoral study in terms of academic rigor. The self is king, anyway, tyrant, so where is the line of distinction between material that intentionally is nodding at some truth about the artist’s life and what’s just, like, all the rest of the regular navel-gazing bullshit. I mean, I’m all self, I am guilty here. I can’t get it out of my poems or even make it more quiet. This is the tenth time I’ve invoked “I” in the space of six sentences. Processing art has always necessitated a certain amount of grappling with the creator, but the busywork of it lately grows more and more tedious. Joy drains out of my body parsing marks left behind not just in stylistic tendencies and themes, but in literal, intentional tags like graffiti on a water tower. This feels an age old and moth-holed complaint, dull, and I am no historian, or really a serious thinker of any kind. I’ve now complained at some length about self-referential art, but didn’t I love how Martin Scorsese nodded to the famous Goodfellas Copacabana tracking shot with the opening frames of last year’s The Irishman? Didn’t I find that terribly fun and sort of sweet? So there’s distinctions. I’m only saying I don’t know with certainty what they even are. I’m unreliable, and someone smarter than me has likely already solved my quandary about why self-knowledge often transforms into overly precious self-reflexivity in such a way that the knowledge is diminished and obscured, leaving only cutesy Easter eggs behind. Postmodernism has birthed a moralizing culture where art exists to be termed either “self-aware Good” or “self-aware Bad”.  Self-referentiality in media is so commonplace, so much the standard, that what was once credited as metatextual inventiveness often feels lazy now. In 1996, Scream was revitalizing a genre. Today, two thirds of all horror movies spend half their running time making sure that you know that they know they’re a horror movie, which is fine, I guess, except sometimes you just wanna watch someone get butchered with an axe in peace. 

This is all to say that in 2020 Taylor Swift looked long and hard upon her image in the reflecting pool of her heart and has written yet another song about Gone Girl.

“mirrorball” is a very good piece of Gone Girl —feels insane to tell anyone reading a post on a blog what Gone Girl is but, you know, the extremely popular 2012 novel about a woman who pretends to have been murdered and frames her husband for it, and subsequently the 2014 film adaption where you kinda see Ben Affleck’s dick for a second—fanfiction. It would be a fine song, a good song, really, even if it weren’t that, if it were just something normal and not unhinged written by a chill person who behaves in a regular way, but we need to acknowledge the facts for what they are. When Taylor Swift watched Rosamund Pike toss her freshly self-bobbed hair out of her face and hiss, “You think you’d be happy with some nice Midwestern girl? No way, baby. I’m it!” her brain lit up like a Christmas tree, and she’s never been the same. If you Google “taylor swift gone girl” there waiting for you will be a medium sized lake’s worth of articles speculating about how Gone Girl influenced and is referenced in past Swift singles “Blank Space” and “Look What You Made Me Do”. This is not new behavior, and if anything it’s getting a bit troubling to think that it’s been this long since Taylor’s read another book. Still, while the prior offerings were a fair attempt at this particular feat of depravity, “mirrorball” has brought Taylor’s Amy Elliott Dunne deification to stunning new heights. And most importantly, Taylor has done a service to every person alive with more than six brain cells and a Internet connection by putting an end to the “Cool Girl” discourse once and for all. By the power invested in “mirrorball”, it is hereby decreed that the Cool Girl speech from Gone Girl is neither feminist or antifeminist, not ironic nor aspirational. No. It’s something much better than all that. It’s a threat. I ! Can ! Change ! Everything ! About ! Me ! To ! Fit ! In !

Gone Girl (2012) by Gillian Flynn

“mirrorball” (2020) by Taylor Swift

When the twinkly musical stylings of Jack Antonoff, a man I distinctly distrust, but for no one specific reason, whirl to life at the beginning of this song I feel instantly entranced, blurry-brained and pleasure-pickled like an infant beneath a light-up crib mobile or, I guess, myself in the old times, the outside times, three tequila sodas deep under the disco lights at The Short Stop. Under a mirrorball in my head. I know very little about music, as a craft, and I really don’t care to know more. I’m happy in a world of pure, dumb sensation. I’m not even sure what kind of instruments are making these jangly little sounds. I just like it. I am vibing. We may not ever be able to behave badly in a club again, but I can sway to my stupid Taylor Swift-and-the-brother-of-the-lady-who-makes-like-those-sweatshirts-with-little-sayings-or-like-vulvas-which-famous-white-women-wear-on-instagram-you-know-what-I-mean song, pressing up onto my tiptoes on the linoleum tile of our kitchen floor and can feel for a second or two something approaching bliss. “mirrorball” is a lush sound bath that I like a lot and then also it’s about being all things to all people, chameleoning at a second’s notice, doing Oscar worthy work on every Zoom call, performing the you who is good, performing the you who is funny, performing the you who draws a liter of your own blood and throws it around the kitchen then cleans it up badly all to get your husband sent to jail for sleeping with a college student... Too much talk about making and unmaking of the self is way too, like, 2012 Tumblr for me now, and I start hearing the word “praxis” ring threateningly in my head, but I’m not yet so evolved that I don’t feel a pull. Musings on the disorganized self—on how we are new all the time, and not just because of all the fresh skin coming up under the dead, personhood in the end so frighteningly flexible—are always going to compel me, I’m afraid, but that goes double for musings on the disorganized self which posit that Taylor Swift still thinks Amy Dunne made some points.

Because on “mirrorball” Taylor is for once not hamfistedly addressing some “hater”, in the quiet and the lack of embarrassing martyrdom it actually offers an interesting answer to the complaint that Taylor is insufficiently self-aware. This criticism emerges often in tandem with claiming to have discovered some crack in the chassis of Swift’s public self, revealing the sweetness to be insincere. My instinct is to dismiss this more or less out of hand as just a mutation of the school of thought that presumes all work by women must be autobiography. And, regardless, it is made altogether laughable by the fact that anyone actually paying attention has known since at least Speak Now, a delightful record populated by the most appalling, horrible characters imaginable, and all of them written by a twenty year old Taylor Swift, that this woman is a pure weirdo. To accuse Taylor Swift of lacking in self-awareness is a reductive misunderstanding, I think, of artifice. Being a fake bitch takes work. Which is to say, if we agree that her public self is a calculated performance—eliding the fact that all public selves are a performance to avoid getting too in the weeds yadda yadda— why, then, should it be presumed that performance is rooted in ignorance? Would it not make more sense that, in fact, someone able to contort themselves so ably into various shapes for public consumption would have a certain understanding of the basic materials they’re working with and concealing? Taylor Swift, in a decade and a half of fame, has presented herself from inside a number of distinct packages. The gangly teenager draped in long curls like climbing wisteria who wrote lyrics down her arms in glitter paint gave way to red lipstick, a Diet Coke campaign, and bad dancing at awards shows. There was the period where she was surrounded constantly by a gaggle of models, then suddenly wasn’t anymore, and that rough interlude with the bleached hair. The whole Polaroid thing. Last year she boldly revealed she’s a democrat. Now it’s the end of the world and she’s got frizzy bangs and flannels and muted little piano songs. Perhaps this endless shape-shifting contradicts or undermines, for some, the pose of tender authenticity which has remained static through each phase, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been doing it all on purpose the entire time. I’ve never been a natural, all I do is try, try, try...

In the Disney+ documentary—which, in order to watch, I had to grudgingly give the vile mouse seven dollars, because the login information that I’d begged off of my little sister didn’t work and I was too embarrassed to bring it up a second time—Taylor referred to “mirrorball” as the first time on the album where she explicitly addressed the pandemic, referring to the lyrics that start, “And they called off the circus, Burned the disco down,” and end with “I’m still on that tightrope, I’m still trying everything to get you laughing at me,” which actually did made me laugh, feeling sort of warmly foolish and a little fond, because it never would have occurred to me that she was trying to be literal there. I suppose we really do all contain multitudes. Hate that.

[brokenmimir]

Within the Mirror

White Rose Week 2020, Day 1: Mirror

Weiss is having the worst day of her life, when she hears a friendly voice coming from her bathroom mirror.

I can't believe it's already time for another White Rose Week! For this prompt I selected Mirror, and I hope that you enjoyed it.

The quarantine has really messed with my usual writing flow, so I barely wrote anything coming into this. Instead I wrote my first four prompts yesterday, which should (hopefully) give me enough breathing room to finish this week's prompts.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24646000

“Weiss!” Jacques Schnee shouted. “Weiss! Where are you!”

Weiss Schnee hid in her large bathtub, one hand pressing hard against her eye. Her father had always been angry, but after her older sister turned eighteen and joined the military, he had become far worse than angry. She had swiftly transitioned from 'spoiled younger daughter' to 'new heir', and everything she did was a failure, now.

Today, her failure had been punished with backhanded blow to her face, her father's ring tearing a jagged, bleeding wound from cheek to forehead, right over her thankfully closed eyelid. It was all she could do to keep silent as the blood stained her white dress, her hand clutching the throbbing wound while she begged anyone listening for her father not to find her.

“Please, please, I just want to hide,” she whimpered under her breath. “Please, please don't let him find me.”

“Hello?” a small, high voice called.

Weiss froze, unmoving, terrified that the voice would bring her father. Who was it? They sounded even younger than her own barely a teen self, but other than her brother there shouldn't have been anyone like that in the manor. Was it the child of a servant? Her father didn't allow her to interact with commoners, which had prevented her from ever making friends.

“Hello?” the voice called again, a little louder this time. “I thought I heard someone?”

Slowly Weiss sat up, peering over the edge of the tub. The door was still closed, the lights still out, the room empty save for herself. The voice had sounded so close, but there wasn't anyone in the room with her.

“Hey!” the voice said. “There you are! Oh no, what happened to you?”

Weiss scrunched down lower for a moment, before finally daring to peek above the rim of the tub again. This time she saw the source of the voice, even though it was simply impossible.

The back of her bathroom door had a large, antique mirror, which had been in her family for generations. Normally she should've been able to dimly make out the reflection of the darkened bathroom, with her own bleeding, bedraggled form peering just over the rim of the tub. Instead, she saw a dark, misty forest, with a girl a little younger than herself looking at her with concern.

The girl was wearing a short black dress with black tights, and tall, black boots. Over this was a large red, hooded cloak, which made her cut an almost intimidating figure despite being so young and small. Her face was still chubby with youth, and her silver eyes were bright and cheerful, although they still held a look of concern.

“What happened to you?” she repeated.

“Wh-who are you?” Weiss countered. “How did you get in my mirror?"

“I'm Ruby, Ruby Rose!” the girl said brightly. “What's your name?”

Weiss sat up primly, despite one hand still desperately clamped over her injured eye. “I am Weiss Schnee.”

“Nice to meet you, Weiss!” Ruby said, grinning and bouncing in place.

Weiss frowned. “You didn't tell me how you're in my mirror.”

“Oh… right,” Ruby chuckled sheepishly, pushing her hood back to scratch the back of her head, revealing short, raggedly cut black and red hair. “Um… I dunno. I found the Mirror World years ago, and I guess you just found a way here, too.”

“Mirror World?”

“Yeah, it's a really cool place! There's all kinds of fun adventures, and neat people, and monsters to beat up and everything! And I can eat as many cookies as I want, and nobody can tell me what to do. It's the bestest place ever!”

“R-really?” Weiss asked.

“Yeah,” Ruby said, nodding. “Hey, why don't you come with me? I know where we can get a plant that'll heal you right up!”

Weiss bit her lip. Ruby seemed nice, but she was kind of a lot. Fighting monsters? Adventures? That all sounded scary, and she knew she wasn't supposed to run off with strangers. Plus, how could she go into a mirror? It sounded more likely that she'd gotten brain damage from being hit than that there really was a portal to some kind of magical world inside of her bathroom mirror.

“Weiss!” her father shouted, making her flinch in terror. He was close. “If you don't come out right now… I assure you you will not like the consequences, young lady!”

That settled it. As much as she was afraid of going with Ruby, she was more afraid of staying with her father. Gathering up what courage she could find, she stumbled out of the bathtub and rushed over to the mirror. Ruby stepped back with a grin, and after taking one more deep, steadying breath, Weiss stepped from her world.

It was like stepping through water, a cool, giving membrane that she passed through quickly, but on the other side it was comfortable, a little cool and foggy, but no colder than her father kept the manor. The air was fresh and crisp, full of the smell of growing things and new opportunities.

“Come on, let's get you something for your eye!” Ruby said brightly, grabbing Weiss's free hand.

She flinched for a moment, the sudden movement after what had happened spooking her, but Ruby's hand was warm and gentle in her own, firm but soft as she was pulled away from her bathroom. She only had time to look back briefly, enough to see a mirror identical to the one hanging in her bathroom suspended in the boughs of a great pine tree and rapidly fogging over like a too hot shower had been taken, before she was pulled away.

“Don't jerk my arm so hard,” Weiss grumbled.

“Sorry,” Ruby said insincerely. “I just want to get your eye fixed! It looks like it really hurts.”

“It doesn't hurt that much,” Weiss said stoically, puffing her chest out.

“Oh good!” Ruby said brightly. “I was scared you'd lose an eye or something. I mean, an eyepatch would be cool an' all, but I don't think you'd look as good as a pirate. I mean, you look like a princess! And princesses don't usually lose an eye, right?”

Ruby continued chattering away as she lead Weiss through the forest, following a seemingly random path through the trees. After a while Weiss began to hear a distant rushing sound, and soon enough the forest opened up into a beautiful meadow with a swiftly flowing river cutting through the center of it.

“Be careful!” Ruby warned. “Its spring, so the snow's melting up in the mountains, so the water's real cold and fast! Real, real cold! My sister Yang fell in once, and she got so cold I thought she'd never get warm again. We had to find the Good Witch to heal her up, and that was a whole big thing.”

“You have a sister?” Weiss asked.

“Yeah, Yang, she's the best,” Ruby said. “Now, why don't you clean your face off, and I'll get the herbs to heal you! And remember, be careful. The water's really cold, and sometimes you just get dragged in if you aren't careful!”

Weiss bit her lip, but when Ruby skipped off to gather some plants growing further down the river, she delicately sat down and washed her hands in the water. It was just as cold as Ruby had promised, her fingers swiftly turning red and burning with the chill, but she ignored it with all the grace of someone Atleasian born and bred, getting as much of the dried blood off of her hands as possible before wiping at her face.

She had just begun making headway when Ruby shouted, “look out!”

Weiss pulled back, before gaping in shock at what she saw in front of her. Just beneath the water was a hideous woman, with a long, warty nose, wrinkled, leathery green skin, solid black eyes, and long, seaweed-like hair. Her figure appeared distorted, with short, bandy legs, and long, sinewy arms ending in cruel, grasping fingers. Upon being noticed the figure gave up on stealth and simply lunged, long green fingers seeking to grab onto Weiss, and in that moment she knew that the creature wanted to pull her into the river.

And then Ruby was there. Before Weiss could do more than awkwardly sprawl onto her back the other girl had pulled a huge red scythe from nowhere and brought it down between them, embedding the large blade right between Weiss's ankles, inches from the foot long, spindly fingers about to grab onto them. There was a long, long moment where everything save the rushing water was still, and then the creature returned under the water.

“I'm so sorry,” Ruby shouted, the scythe breaking down into a smoky vapor before floating away. “I didn't think Nelly Longarms would be this far into the forest! She usually waits way downstream from here.”

“Wh-what was that!?!”

Ruby smiled sheepishly, before helping Weiss move back from the water's edge, sitting her on a smooth stone. She then began to crush the leaves she'd gathered against the rock with the flat of a knife, creating a sticky green paste that smelled like peppermints. “That was Nelly Longarms. She's a water hag.”

“Water hag?”

“Mmhmm,” Ruby hummed, gathering some of the sticky goo and carefully smearing it on Weiss's injury. She flinched from the pain, but soon relaxed as that faded, leaving a comforting warmth behind. “Hags like to grab stuff that gets too close to the water. One time Peg Powler almost got Yang under, but then she grabbed her by the hair and Yang got so mad! Peg swam away so fast, and she hasn't tried anything since.”

“There's more stuff like that here?!” Weiss shouted, looking around the clearing. What had once seemed pretty if mysterious now gained a sinister air.

“Yeah, there's all kinds of monsters and adventures and stuff here!” Ruby said brightly. “Don't worry, it's not all bad! There's also all kinds of cool stuff living here, and I've made a bunch of friends with 'em. I'll sure they'll love you!”

“There are other people here?” Weiss asked.

“A few,” Ruby said with a nod. “There's Yang, and Jaune, and Pyrrha, and Nora, and Ren, and-”

“Who are they?” Weiss asked. “Are they from here?”

“Nuh, uh,” Ruby said, shaking her head. “The only humans come from the other side. There're not humans here who're nice, too, though. Pitys is a dryad that lives pretty close; I was on my way to see her when I saw your mirror gate! And there's Ovinnik, and Blake, and-”

“What do you mean by mirror gate?” Weiss demanded, cutting off Ruby before she could ramble more.

“Oh, well… sometimes when people really, really want to be somewhere else their mirror turns into a gate to here!” Ruby said. “I don't know what was happening to you, but…”

Weiss flinched, looking away when Ruby trailed off to gesture at the cut on her face. Clearing her throat, Ruby continued in a softer tone. “Anyway, sometimes people come through, and that's where most of our friends came from! I was so lucky that my sister came with me. Jaune has like, seven sisters, but he's here by himself. Anyway, this place is great! I mean, it's kinda dangerous, and there's scary stuff too, but… that just makes it better! It's like being in the best story book ever, but its all real! And we can stay here instead of having to go back home.”

“So you just… stay here? You don't go back?”

Ruby looked solemn. “Some people go back. I know Jaune used to go back and forth a ton, but… this is our home, you know? Our real home. Anyway, when he started hanging out with Pyrrha and Ren he started staying more, and I don't think he's gone back in years. Are you… are you gonna stay?”

Weiss bit her lip, looking at the friendly, if kind of scary girl, and then over at the icy cold river, where she now saw the hag peeking just out of the water, looking at the two of them hungrily. This mirror world was obviously a dangerous place, but…

Back home she was never allowed to make any friends, and after her sister left she was all alone, and now she wasn't allowed to have any fun anymore. And her father… but here, they could do anything they wanted, and… and there may have been monsters, but her father wasn't here.

With a shy smile Weiss reached over and grabbed Ruby's hand. It wasn't nearly as hard of a choice as it should've been.

[choicest]

The Breather

Author's Note: This is the continuation of my fic The Hollow Side of the World inspired by Pixelberry's The Freshman Series. This contains both MC's and Chris’ point of view after the break-up. This also will be second to the last part of this fic. I’m sorry also for a very late update on this fic. I’ve been busy with school. Thank you for always being here!

@whendolphinscry @malvolari-take-my-soul @the-soot-sprite @carinacassiopeiae

Pairing: Chris x MC

Chris

Chris leans into the wall near their room. If she's about to get something important there, then she will have to face him first. "Come on, Chris. It’s not like she's a villain or something." The truth is, he's just making up an excuse to have to talk to her. As much as he wanted to use his words, he’s afraid it won’t make any difference now. Not after what he said to her before they part ways.

Chris suddenly snapped out of his trance when he feels a small tap on his side. "Hey." she said softly. "I said excuse me. I need to get my IDs."

"Oh, yeah. Of course. I'm sorry." Chris gets out of the way and quickly scolds himself. "Nice work, Powell."

He followed her into the room, observing her as she goes through their drawers. Something has changed with her. Her demeanor, the way she talks to him. Everything about her is guarded. Hurt.

"There you go." MC triumphantly whispers after she found her passport. She knows he's watching her she didn’t miss the sound he makes as he took a deep breath.

MC

“When are you leaving?” MC pause, not sure if she’s ready to look at him, she didn’t face him and remain on her place standing.

Chris

“Come on, baby, look at me.” Chris silently prays. He knows that he can’t do anything. He knows he screwed up and all he wants to do right now is support her and he still can’t. He wants her to look at him. He wants to see her face. Is it also hard for her? Does the idea of being away from him pains her as much as it pains him? He wants to know. “Just one look, baby.”

MC

She can hear the pain in his voice and right at that moment, all she wants to do is to drop everything, hug him tightly and say to him how much she loves him but she can’t bring herself to do it. MC knows herself. If she looks at him, she wouldn��t be able to leave and she can’t not leave. She needs to do this for herself.

Chris

“I’m leaving next week”. As soon as the words fell out of her mouth, Chris strides the room and hug her tightly as if his life depended on it. All his fears melting down as he finally got the chance to hold her again. He made a mistake, yes, but she’s here now and he has a chance to right it. He’s not going to let her leave without telling her his feelings.

MC stifles at first, shock at his bold move but he feels her lean into his chest and he take it as a good sign. “She loves me. I can feel it. I know it.” he thinks to himself almost crying from the thought.

Chris turns her to face him. He holds her face between his hands so that he could look directly into her eyes but she kept looking on the ground. “MC, look at me. Please, baby.” A tear fell as she looks up and he feels more guilty. He wipes it away with his fingers caressing her face, trying his best to calm her.

“I won’t stop you from leaving. I know it’s your dream and I want you to reach your dreams. I believe in you, MC. Sometimes even more than I believe in myself. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby. I was selfish. I didn’t consider your feelings.” Tears are now free falling. It’s his future that are on line right now. He doesn’t want to lose her. “I know I can’t take back what I said but give me another chance, baby.”

MC

She holds Chris arms as he caresses her face. “C-Chris… I wanted you to say that before I left.” MC looks into his face, memorizing every detail. “I love you, Chris but I need to feel something else first.”

Chris

“I love you, Chris…” there’s a look of shock at his face. He knows she does but hearing it out loud again is something else. “MC, I-I…” he wasn’t able to finish his sentence as MC interjects.

“Chris, I was so hurt. And I still am. I never thought you would ever be capable of saying those things. I love you, that’s why it hurts so much. I’m sorry if you felt like I was being insincere for going through that dumb list but I need you to understand that I needed you. I needed you to support me and you didn’t. I love you, Chris but…”

He feels a pang in his chest. MC’s feeling is becoming clearer by seconds and the pain their break-up brought to him suddenly flies away. His chest is now tight with how much pain he caused her. He’s damage that they are no longer together but hearing how his actions affected her pains him more than anything.

“I love you, Chris but I can’t, not yet. I need to heal from the pain you caused me first because if I won’t, I’ll end up hurting you.” MC shakes her head continuing “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know, baby. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry.” Chris whispers the words, hugging her again. He wishes that he could take all the pain from her. He has hurt the person he loves the most, one thing he promised them both he’d never do again.

“I love you so much, MC.” Chris says as he kisses her crown.

“Chris, I-I…”

“I know.” Chris cuts her off. Being away from her is torture but he now understands that they really need the space if they want to keep each other longer.

Once again, Chris take her face and looks deeply into her eyes. “MC, I promise I will be better. For you, for me, for us. I know I hurt you and I will let you go for now because I don’t want to lose you forever. I promise I’ll be worthy of your love. I just hope that when you’re ready, it’s still me you’re going to look for.

MC give him one last look before she leave.

~

MC

MC just back from the Quills. Still cannot believe how good their offer is, she walks toward the small kitchen to fix herself her third cup of coffee. As she sips her coffee, her eyes catch the messy table in the living room. In it are the remnants of her efforts to impress the company. She smiles at herself. If she wants to take this new path or not, she’s still unsure but finally doing something, a single step no matter how small it seems for the others to reach her goal is something she’s really proud of.

The doorbell ring and she excitedly go to open it, already tasting the flavorful pizza she ordered to celebrate her little victory.

A waiting victory greets her as she opens the door. It is Chris, balancing a box on his right hand.

“MC.”

“C-Chris?” MC says still can’t believe that he’s here. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you.”

[0poole]

Humor in Writing

    Most of the time I feel like dismissing what might seem like “faults” in writing because I haven’t actually made anything myself, and especially haven’t gotten any attention to what I make, but every once in a while something really ticks me off. Of course, I still try to take it with a grain of salt because of my lack of true experience in writing, but considering I’m hoping to actually become some degree of a writer I feel like it’s worth actually trying to explain what I think is a fault with things and why. 

    There always seems to be one specific thing that bothers me a lot when reading/watching stuff, and it’s the hard switching of tone from comedy to sincerity, or something similar to that, or vice versa.

    Honestly, even though it sounds like the motive of a cartoon villain, I kinda think there’s too much humor in the world. It’s probably just entirely driven by opinion and preferences, but I feel like so many people are striving and looking for comedy that it hinders so many other things. I feel like, both in real life and in writing, having so much humor everywhere creates a pretty big gap between that tone and sincerity, which is pretty much always needed at some point. The big line between comedy and sincerity makes it so much harder, emotionally speaking, to feel good about the switch. I’ll try to explain…

    First of all, this whole line of thought, even though I’ve been thinking it forever, was spawned by me watching Epithet Erased. Took me long enough, because I’ve seen some of the characters around and really loved their designs, but I finally watched it all, and I gotta say… It was interesting. Also, this is probably just going to be very ranty and opinionated but I will (hopefully) have something more valuable to say after. But, anyways, for one, it felt just barely too close to some of the premises for the stories I’ve thought of in various ways, but I guess that’s just bad luck on my part. Second, I feel like its humor really brought it down for me. Some episodes felt so long winded (although not necessarily “boring” I guess) because I felt like I got the joke they were trying to tell relatively quickly after they started it, but carried it so far. It didn’t help that, at least for a few of them, some of the characters felt like archetypes that I’ve seen a lot around the internet, or at least were simple enough that I understood what they were instantly, and when they are carried out through long character-focused moments it felt like nothing was happening. I feel like some of the characters are fine enough, even if I may not like them, but Giovanni and Indus were the two big ones that I thought had a little too much time given to them…

    But more relevant to what I’m trying to say, sometimes the writing jumps way too far from the very comedic tone it’s trying to put out and into it trying to be sincere. The worst case of this was when Sylvie met Mera in the museum storage, and Sylvester tried to out Mera’s nightmares, only to see that her nightmare was the reality she was already in. With the scene change, and Indus becoming more serious with Molly, it felt like a good enough departure from the usual comedic tone to warrant the deeper motive of the character. But, then, of course, they had to trash the whole tone by adding the line about her also being afraid of ducks. There was absolutely no good reason to warrant that line and I will die on that hill. Not only was it just humor, but it was spontaneous “random” humor, and so on… I honestly hope people could just understand where I’m coming from there by how out of place it seems. I feel like the only defense they could use, apart from “just liking it,” would be that it’s comedic relief, but I genuinely feel like since practically the whole thing up until this point was comedy there was absolutely no need for comedic relief. The scene itself is like the opposite of comedic relief, like “Sit down and pay attention” or “Turn your brain back on” or whatever. The climactic point of the scenes before it were reached, meaning the sincere conflict there should be focused on, and apart from that one tiny little line it worked well enough. The fact that it was so tiny and insignificant is basically why I hated it so much. They literally could’ve just scratched it off of the script and only good things would have happened. 

    Something a bit similar happened before when Molly revealed her backstory to Giovanni. It wasn’t quite as bad, but when a scene goes from comedy to “my mom’s dead and my life sucks” you do feel the shift a little too quickly. I feel like it’s not as bad because it could just be Molly’s character, seeing the tragedy of her life as just sort of normal and not really that remarkable, meaning she’s more likely to just randomly bring it up. 

    But I definitely wouldn’t be going off this much about it if there wasn’t at least a little bit more. Zora was literally the reason I wanted to watch the show, because I saw a drawing of her a while back and thought she was just some random OC, but when I heard she was from this show I instantly wanted to watch it a lot more. I think the same thing happened with Molly, but I think I knew she was from the show to begin with. Anyway, Zora was the main character who I loved from the get-go and loved even more the more I learned about her. She’s such a perfect amount of diversion from being a generic cowboy in the little design details, while still being 100% cowboy material. Then, when I saw that her power was “Sundial,” or more generally just time powers, I loved it. The big thing that seems little conceptually is making her key term “sundial” instead of just “time” or whatever, because of how much it relates to her cowboy-ness, with it being associated with the “sun” people often associate with Death Valley and the Wild West and whatnot. Not to mention, it’s just a cool power.

    But that’s kinda the thing, though. She’s so insanely strong. She could literally kill anyone on a whim. I don’t see how anyone could be cracking jokes in her presence. It’s kinda more general of a gripe, but when she aged up Howie it was borderline terrifying, and yet… right after, they’re cracking jokes again. It’s just so jarring. She could have literally reduced him to dust, and they’re so casual about it. I know Percy is supposed to be kinda blind to some obvious things, but I feel like even she could see the horror. That said, though, Percy is also one of my favorites. Her powers feel so natural yet interesting for what she is for some reason. 

Frankly, the visual character designs alone for this show are all really good. Whether or not I’m into the writing, I can’t deny that the show kept me coming back just because it feels so good to just look at it, you know? The minimal animation, vocalized stage directions, and top-down scene view was really interesting to watch, since I’ve never seen it before, and seems like a perfect way to produce more content with less budget. It made everything feel super crisp and tidy, despite being animated so simply. Not to mention that the general lack of animation meant the few scenes where there was traditional-level animation felt really good. The voice acting was also amazing, (again not directly tied to the writing) especially when the voice actors carried their character and emotion from the scene into the stage directions, instead of just reading them out plainly. And, at the very least, the premise of the show is also really interesting (at least to me, mainly because I created 2 stories with a similar idea without even knowing anything about it. Simplified, specific superpowers are just perfect for character designing, you know?) 

But I am kinda acting like the writing was bad, but it really wasn’t all things considered… I’m just not really into comedy, and when the comedy I don’t like is paired with writing and practically everything else I do like it doesn’t sit right with me. Considering this idea and some of the story beats were adopted from a DnD(-esque?) campaign, I feel like it’s much more fine. Frankly, I’m surprised I didn’t realize it sooner. Once I read about that, everything just fell into place. I’m not really into DnD either, though…

So, I feel like there are things to gain from thinking about this. While Epithet Erased is still on the mind, I feel like I’ve realized something about the juxtaposition of comedy and sincerity, that being that comedic characters can exist in sincere surroundings, and vice versa. Zora specifically could be one of these characters, because she’s so powerful that she probably sees everything around her as trivial, while the other characters have more sincere reactions to her obscene power. She could easily crack a sick joke that no one laughs at because she’s the only one who can find humor in whatever’s going on. By contrast, the thing about Mera’s fear of ducks was a product of the scene and not of the character, so it just ruined things. Nothing about it was made to be funny to the characters, it was made to be funny to the audience, even though the audience should be in sincere mode then. 

Another character that I think works like this is Charlie from Hazbin Hotel, who is the sincere personality in a world of complete and total insincerity. She’s basically a more unique kind of straight man (despite being neither straight nor a man), who are always the grounding in comedic casts, like Squidward in Spongebob. I guess in sincere stories there are comedic relief characters, and in comedies there are straight men. You know, these are probably all things other people have figured out already… at least I can feel good knowing I sort of reached them on my own…

    I think a good solution for stuff that’s primarily meant to be a comedy is to make it almost entirely comedic, at least with the inclusion of a straight man if needed. The big name that comes to mind is good ol Monty Python, the backbone of 14 year old boys’ humor style. At some point I realized why I like the humor of The Holy Grail, at least above other comedic movies, is that they don’t hold back at all. At no point whatsoever do they pull back the veil and put in a sincere moment. And, of course, since I can basically recite the entire movie from memory I think it did wonders. I think when it comes to comedies like this, trying to be too sincere at certain points makes it feel even less sincere than if it didn’t have the sincere moment at all. This might be a product of the 00s American family-rated live action comedies who all feel like they fall into that same boat, where the entire movie is hijinks, but then at the very end they pull that all back and have something really impactful happen, with the idea being having some shoehorned message about “family” or whatever. I can group so many movies into that category that it feels almost corporate how many there are like that, and because it’s both overdone and geared towards too generalized of an audience, trying to capture the comedy-lovers and sincere-lovers, it really just fails in both ways. Or, maybe people love them because they’re just barely bad enough to enjoy it in a so-bad-it’s-good sort of way. I dunno. If I wasn’t a little nostalgic for the time those types of movies might be my all-time least favorite.

    But I’m a stick in the mud who hates comedy so I’m not really equipped to tell anyone how to do it right. Instead, I feel like there’s some seriously untapped potential in other forms of “feel-good” tones, like casual lightheartedness and just plain fun. I feel like those two things really work towards creating sincere stories that are still enjoyable, and not just one shot of sadness after another, while still having a dash of impactful emotion in them.

    I feel like this is where Pixar really shines. People say “It’s not a true Pixar movie if you don’t cry at the end” because I think Pixar movies are great at making the audience lower their guard, and when the moment is right, hitting you right in your heart to make you feel the right emotions. For example, what I’d call my favorite movie of all time (for intents and purposes, if not for real), Inside Out, is all about emotional sincerity, where it’s trying to get across how it’s okay to feel sad, even though the world around you tends to say happiness is always what you want. For most of the movie, it’s a pretty casual romp around the inner workings of Riley’s mind, with some jokes thrown in (because it doesn’t have to be completely without jokes). I’m not really sure how to explain it, but the various jokes in Inside out feel like they’re sort of blended with the interesting workings of this fantasy mind-world, like the fact that earworms are just the little blobby workers in our minds sending the memory of the song back up to the control panel for the hell of it, or that our dreams are a product of a Hollywood-like place in our minds. These things definitely are there for humor, but something about them feels much more fun than just any kind of generic comedy. 

    Then, I feel like the most important thing about fun and lightheartedness is that they feel like they blend so much better with the sincere moments. Obviously if it’s too quick it’ll still be bad, but I think it’ll be much less bad than with comedy. Maybe you could think of it like a spectrum with pure comedy at one end and pure tragedy at the other, with fun and lightheartedness just barely crossing the midpoint towards the comedy side. Since there’s less of a gap between it and tragedy compared to pure comedy, it feels less jarring. Plus, it just feels more reasonable logically speaking, since comedy sort of puts up this insincere barrier to sort of suspend the disbelief that the events in question are supposed to be taken seriously, which makes breaking that barrier harder once it’s established. With fun and lightheartedness, there may be an expectation of it sort of maintaining itself but there isn’t as much to say there isn’t something hiding in the background. In Inside Out at least, throughout Joy and Sadness’ journey they are pretty determined to get back to the control panel to save Riley, but they’re for the most part confident they can do it (or, you know, just Joy’s confident), so they sort of interpret the world around them in a more casual light, but with that lower-level need still there. But when Joy falls into the abyss of forgotten memories and the hopelessness sets in, you feel it much more, because it was sort of already there to begin with, and it was just made perfectly clear at that moment. I think Bing Bong’s emotions during the scene also make it pretty emotional, since he’s being casual about his death while also being sincere about his sacrifice for Riley’s sake. Not to mention his inner sadness was outed while talking with Sadness.

    I feel like if I were trying to write an actual essay I could probably phrase all this a lot better. I just think there’s a ton of value to lightheartedness in stories, as opposed to comedy, for the sake of “feeling good.” Pretty much all of my favorite things have that tone to them to some degree, like Wander Over Yonder, my for sure favorite TV show. It definitely feels fun in a way that can elicit laughs, but it’s not a lot like “This is a joke and you should laugh” most of the time (Disregarding the Evil Sandwich, my least favorite character in the show). I also think Steven Universe succeeds very well with that tone, creating an extremely comfy atmosphere when it comes to the less climactic episodes. 

    I also vastly prefer the lighthearted resolutions to the conflicts in lighthearted stories. Frankly, I am infinitely more likely to cry to a comfy and happy resolution than I am to the actual sad parts. I’m not really sure what it is about them, but I guess the characters finally being happy again after emotional turmoil warrants a happy-cry. I swear, if I think too hard about the scene where Riley finally admits her sadness to her parents and just sits in their warm embrace, I tear up. It feels so much better than hijinks-danger-hijink resolution. 

    But yeah, the stories I want to write the most will all inevitably have that sort of lighthearted flair to them, unless of course I choose to go more inherently serious with a story. There’s nothing wrong with that either. 

    With regard to the really big claim I made before about there being too much humor in the world, the themes of Inside Out, and what I said about comedy’s insincere barrier, I really think the world as a whole would benefit from valuing humor a little less. It feels like there are so many situations where people sort of want to maintain their good feelings with humor instead of more directly dealing with issues in a sincere mindset. For example, if people say something disagreeable (but not insane), It feels like too many people resort to making jokes at that person’s expense and not dealing with the issues directly. Obviously if someones saying some insane bullshit it’s fine, but when the more reasonable takes that are just barely put under the same umbrella as the insane shit are made fun of, it really deepens the trench between the people of different opinions. Of course, humor isn’t the only thing deepening that trench, but it really feels like one of them a lot of the time.

    Apart from that, I feel like using humor as a way to distract from general negativity and negative emotions like what Inside Out sort of warns against can be pretty detrimental too. Obviously happiness can still be around, but putting up that kind of barrier between you and the necessary sincerity for emotion with comedy just makes the unpleasantness of the unpleasant stuff that much more unpleasant. I’m saying this one at least out of personal experience, since I have sort of developed to be too subconsciously against super sad and sincere real world scenarios. I haven’t personally felt too many of them myself, but I definitely feel myself blocking off some of my own emotional vulnerability, especially around other people. I can consciously talk against it, like I’m doing now, but I feel like it’s going to take a long time for that barrier to really break. Is humor to blame for that sort of thing? Maybe, with a dash of toxic masculinity and other buzzwords people often avoid for reasons I mentioned in the last paragraph. 

    Even though this one is much more unreasonably generalizable than the last two things, I feel like the popularity of self-deprecating humor across the internet also (probably?) takes a toll on some people. Obviously some people might just use it to their genuine benefit, but since it seems so common surely some people are putting on a self-deprecating face to get along, and eventually maybe even believing what they used to joke about themselves. Either way, it might be a product of an extreme departure from any kind of narcissism, making being self-confident and self-loving just that little bit harder for people.

    But, while I’m not the most equipped to judge writing, I’m even less equipped to actually debate for the existence of all those things, so just know I’m kinda speaking with my heart and not my brain here. People obviously want and need different things, and I’m probably just projecting. Hell, maybe that’s me self-deprecating to not make me seem weird to everyone else. I dunno.

        No matter what, all this reliance on humor really just shows who is and isn’t funny. Sometimes, people really need to get a grip. Frankly, I don’t think I’m that funny either, which is why I’ve kind of had the humor beaten out of me by one too many awkward silences after a weird joke in my elementary/middle school days. I guess that’s my cartoon villain origin story. 

[ofbloodmagick]

ROSE ARABELLA GORE

pronouns: SHE & HER + THEY & THEM

age: TWENTY - FIVE

sexuality: PANSEXUAL * DEMIROMANTIC * MONOGAMOUS

astrological signs: GEMINI SUN * SCORPIO MOON + ARIES RISING

occupation: BARTENDER @ DUTCH’S + MULTIPLE SIDE HUSTLES

+ traits: PERSUASIVE. ARTISTIC. RESILIENT. FASCINATING. ORIGINAL. RESOURCEFUL. WISE. ADVENTUROUS. BOLD.

-- traits: ECCENTRIC ( CREEPY ). SECRETIVE. DAMAGED. RESTLESS. TWO-FACED. JUDGMENTAL. RECKLESS. IMPULSIVE.

faceclaim: BILLIE LOURD

soul sounds: PLAYLIST !

aesthetic: ( TW: BLOOD ) BOARD !

YO YO YOU YO — it’s lydia here with my lil blood witch arabella , i have yet to get the chance to  r e a l l y  play her and i’m super excited for the chance bc i love them so very much. i have headcanon after headcanon for them , so hit me up if you want to do something bc i am ready to do some shit. anyway , LYDIA ( nary , nettle , snottie , etc. ) here again and i love a good name change , i’m twenty-five years old , a pansexual demigirl ( she / her * they / them ) like arabella themselves , and i reside in the central timezone ( FLORIDA IS HELL ). continue reading to learn all about ARABELLA GORE — the intense , mysterious clever little powerhouse that loves to be number one. 

PERSONALITY

RULING PLANETS: pluto — planet of power & regeneration * mercury — planet of communication * mars — planet of war & energy BODY PART: crotch * reproductive organs * shoulders * hands * head * face GOOD MOOD: resilient , magnetic , passionate , loyal , protective , artistic , brave , fascinating , original , resourceful , wise , adventurous , unstoppable , bold , devoted  BAD MOOD: obsessive , possessive , jealous , secretive , vengeful , manipulative , eccentric ( creepy ) , restless , two-faced , judgmental , proud , self-centered , impulsive , bossy , stubborn , reckless  ( SOME ) FAVORITE THINGS: obscure underground music , spicy food , an air of danger , one of a kind objects , organic ingredients , vinyl , magic , the color black , horror films , blood , fast cars , guitars , new clothes , road trips ( in fast red cars ) , expressing themselves through stunning verbal and physical feats ( SOME ) THINGS SHE HATES: simple small-minded people , insincere flattery , personal questions , living at someone else’s house , mornings , dress codes , authority figures , silence   SECRET WISHES: to have complete and total control +  to have all the answers + to be number one HOW TO SPOT THEM: intense eyes , hawk like gaze , smooth movements , dry blood/bruises/cuts/scars on pale skin , silver hair , big black bow , mischievous twinkle in their eyes , talking with their hands , focused or manic energy , aggressive stance WHERE TO FIND THEM: listening to bauhaus in her dark room , sitting at the corner table of a shitty underground bar smoking a cigarette , selling her magic and / or blood in some dimly lit room  KEYWORDS: intimacy , secrecy , power , intensity , obsession , cleverness , wittiness , inventiveness ,  ingenuity , willpower , initiative , determination , passion , self-belief

arabella’s mind and mouth are busy machines , always moving at warp speed. this witch is one of the most curious and cutting-edge individuals you will meet. there are at least two personalities inside of her at all times. adventurous , she can change her mind faster than the weather and is constantly flipping between moods. 

a true pioneer and trailblazer they’re the first to initiate things , fight for their beliefs and fearlessly put themselves out there. headstrong and determined , ella’s energy can be stubborn and willful a lot of the time. she does have a tendency to dig in her heels , stand her ground and absolutely refuses to be pushed around. 

they will butt their own metaphorical horns against the same obstacle until they break it down — often with sheer force of will. extremely confident , she believes in herself and will on occasion champion others she deems worthy.

she does love to chatter and has a million great ideas , always keeping a notebook handy to jot down her thoughts and ideas at any time. at times , their energy can circulate in a quick and frenetic way , the silver haired wiccan is known to inspireswitty wordplay and dynamic dialogue. 

when she applies herself , arabella is great at brainstorming and socializing. she also craves her “ twin flame ” and kindred spirit’s energy , always up for an intellectual meeting of the minds. 

under the influence , they find themselves with the gift of gab; talking and conversing with others for hours , hopping from pop culture trends to deep political topics. beware “ gossip girl ” ella though , they can crank up the rumor mill sometimes unknowingly. as renowned dr. bernie siegel says , “ [ we ] have the ability to cure with either ‘ words ’ or kill with ‘ swords. ' ” 

powerful and sensual arabella is perhaps one the most misunderstood and mysterious person you could ever meet though. secretive by nature , this southern witch tends to linger in shadowy and hidden places that most wouldn’t usually have the courage to face.

she believes strongly in life , death and resurrection and arabella embraces these life cycles. she is continually transforming and reinventing herself. there are actually more like four sides of arabella and it really just depends how she feels about you.

the first is venomous and possessive like a scorpion ; the second as slippery , charming and deadly as a snake ; the third like a soaring eagle whose piercing gaze sharply observes the landscape ( and its prey ) below ; and the fourth side ever burning and all seeing as a phoenix that rises up from the ashes into eternal rebirth.

your muse may find themselves dealing with an intense individual with lots of energy. she has been known to hole herself up late at night to process complex emotions or channel her overwhelming feelings into focused work and creativity.

the essence of arabella’s personality is magnetic , fascinating , original , passionate , loyal , protective , trendsetting , controlling , unstoppable , bold , powerful , resourceful , wise , adventurous , focused , bond oriented and brave. on the flip side though , she can also be obsessive , possessive , jealous , prideful , self-centered , impulsive , bossy , stubborn , reckless , competitive , two-faced , judgmental , overwhelmed , secretive , vengeful , to even cruel , calculating and manipulative. 

she channels her intuitive tides into a forceful stream of psychic and healing energy. arabella excels in exploring the darker , unexamined sides of life. it has given her excellent research and sleuthing skills , helping her plumb the depths and peer below the surface. this witch likes a challenge , but she does have to really try hard not to fall into being selfish and domineering.

she will without question help out in the darkest hours; this witch bitch is not afraid to go into the murky waters of the emotional and spiritual unknown. intense feelings surface around her closest ties , but around those she isn’t close to ella has a wall up.

believes strongly in merging , bonding and sharing resources. she may get obsessive about a passion project or lover ( forrest ) , even becoming jealous or insecure. this mysterious demigirl wants to hide all of their vulnerabilities. yet , those raw and unprocessed feelings are often their access to power.

arabella can be tricky to understand. with her reserved persona , she seldom starts a conversation or expresses interest in others openly — unless she feels out the situation first.

once you get her to open up , however , you’ll feel her scorching passion for whatever topics fascinate her. be warned: arabella can focus on one subject to an extreme , so you may be in for a deeper dive than you or your muse expect — or want lol

her natural charisma can quickly pique someone else’s interest in the topic too though. 

another way to spot the witch ? look for her piercing gaze , which is hawk like at times narrowing in on her “ prey ”. if you happen to be the focus of that look , watch out.  you will feel read as easily as a children’s book as arabella seems to just KNOW all your secrets , soft spots and fears.

their focused attention can be addictive , even painful when pulled away. be careful how quickly you fall down their rabbit hole — it’s not as easy to crawl back up once you do. when you befriend them , you are likely entering into a power couple or formidable alliance. while she doesn’t give up loyalty and trust easily , once she does she’ll stick with you through thick and thin.

don’t even think about double crossing her tho bc she WILL unleash her fury on you , divulging secrets and airing dirty laundry or worse. revenge is her favorite dish to serve and it’s ice cold. on a positive note , arabella’s like the perfect person to help explore darker emotions or sexuality , happy to guide most through fifty plus shades of irresistible and soul communing experiences.

arabella can come across as clever and quick-witted , but part of the fun ( and curse ) of interacting with the witch is that you’re never quite sure which personality you’re going to experience. will it be the vivacious jokester or the snarky , mean-spirited critic ? 

although they may crave complete and utter control over everything , they secretly yearn for the very thing they fear: true intimacy with others. it takes a lot for ella to reveal her vulnerability , so guard that privilege with the utmost care. as she opens up and learns to show her shadow side , she can heal in ways that are truly profound.

highly impatient and competitive , they have the fighting spirit. ella were born to be number one , a star who steals the spotlight and inspires with her confidence. yeah , they can be impatient , even a little bossy , especially when they don’t get their way. she need lots of attention and can throw quite the tantrum when she doesn’t get it. fortunately , arabella rarely has a problem turning heads.

others love to follow as they take the lead on the latest adventure. she has to be reminded to make sure and let other people be the boss every now and then too , because she has a tendency to alienate potential allies. when they focus their competitive streak into a diva-worthy goal and delegate , they will always rise to the top !

they have a lot of energy , which they apply to everything from tackling supersized projects to unleashing their lusty libidos with forrest. this confident demigirl is known to leap before looking , diving into each new experience with a zest for life that few others can muster. 

they love to be number one and can be a bit of a trendsetter. she has been described before as ‘ a true original who inspires the rest. ‘ with all of their fire power and can-do attitude , there’s nothing arabella can’t ( or won’t ) take on. at times , ella can be selfish or overly focused on herself and it can be a “ blind spot ” for them , they may need a gentle reminder from time to time to share. 

she likes to shatter glass ceilings but can also be off-putting to people in extreme doses. this go-getter can come across as abrasive or overly aggressive , however; arabella will never back down from a challenge and can take on being the champion of those in distress when need be.

BACKGROUND

( TW: child abandonment ) so arabella doesn’t know her parents are but she does know that they ended up in some small southern town called suspiria , located in virgina of all places. her mother was really into the surface level southern gothic aesthetic suspiria offered and the unlikely couple settled there until arabella was born. her parents didn’t keep her very long though seeing as their shotgun wedding was never built to last and after she was born they both returned to where they came from or at least that’s as far as the story goes if you ask anyone in suspiria. 

( TW: military ment. , death ) her parents actually went their separate ways , her mother returned to her wealthy family and comfortable life never to seek out the unnamed child she’d left behind in some no name town. her father went on to join the military and was lost in the line of duty with no one to even pass that knowledge on. 

the infant rose , as they were first called back then , was left on the doorstep of an orphanage and that was where they would spend their childhood. it was not a pleasant place to grow up at all , but she was incredibly lucky in finding her twin flame in a sad , lonely young boy also growing up there.

little ella was never once adopted and she made damn sure to change the minds of anyone who so much as looked in her direction or asked her name. they grew an unhealthy attachment to forrest almost the minute they laid eyes on him , but they are connected very deeply and even as children arabella was acutely aware. 

growing up ( maybe even to this day ) they were considered a loner , an outsider , the weirdo , a creepy kid , etc. and the bullying only got worse. the people in the shitty children’s home and the tiny backwoods town in virginia ? they didn’t really respond too well to the two strange kids that collected animal bones and hunted for ghosts. 

in their early teen years ella started practicing satanism , but that was really just a gateway religion into wicca and her true passion , witchcraft. forrest took to it just as quickly as they did and soon the two had formed their own little coven , something that didn’t stay secret very long.

forrest , being the more scholarly of the two , found himself working for the governor on his campaign and eventually recruited arabella to do the same , but she worked more closely with the governor’s wife and the children. it only took a week , two tops , for the power hungry woman’s true intentions to came to light — dark magic.

( TW: cheating , infidelity )it’s true that ella helped with the gardening , the children , the cleaning , the cooking , all the usual suspects but she also did a number of spells involving blood and shadows. the items they created most for the governor’s wife was their own recipes for love potions and anti-aging blood serums. the woman was extremely suspicious of her husband having affairs with younger women , pretty self explanatory as to why she was seeking help from a known magic user. 

( TW: blood ment. , devil ment. ) it was something of a hot topic in suspiria , the governor and his family hiring the two freaky orphans and why. not long after , a photo was leaked of the governor’s wife as arabella painted her face in the bright crimson blood serum they had concocted themselves. it was common knowledge by then that the two practiced witchcraft and suddenly every headline was about the governor and his wife being ‘ corrupted by the evil devil worshipers the kind family had taken pity on. ‘ 

( TW: assault ment. , death , arson , house fire ) the town ? literally ready to burn them at the freaking stake and the two couldn’t go anywhere without fear of assault of some sort or worse. to make matters all the worse , the governor’s wife and children perished suddenly in a terrible house fire and who was the easiest target to pin it on ? arabella and forrest , the two town rejects , which is exactly what the governor did. they were treated as murderers , hunted like criminals , which is why as soon as they found out about the raging fire they left town. 

( TW: death ) for the next four years arabella and forrest were on the run from the governor and his goons , not stopping in any one place for very long for fear of being caught up to. over a year ago they finally got word that the governor had kicked the bucket and that anyone still looking for them likely had stopped by now. not long after , arabella came across a beautiful , vintage gothic home far more expensive than it was priced , but luckily for them the home had a rather grisly history and had been on the market for so long that the owners had cut the asking price tremendously.

( TW: scamming ) arabella was convinced that it was a sign from the universe letting them know it was okay to settle down for good now and once she’s convinced there’s no real changing her mind. so , by halloween of 2019 they were moving into the beautiful gothic home of the witch’s dreams and not long after they had rooms in their ‘ haunted home ‘ listed on every website possible to lure in dark tourists everywhere. how true everything is ? well , the two did take quite a few creative liberties and the occasional diehard , truly experienced fan of the paranormal would ( possibly have ) call them con artists. 

( TW: scamming ) not only do they rent out rooms , but they also have the occasional ‘ murder tour ‘ of their ‘ serial killer ‘ house. what it really boils down to is arabella has been hustling their whole ass life and it’s never going to stop. there is quite a bit of truth to their stories , but though both ella and forrest have encountered the paranormal multiple times in their lives , not just in pleasance either , they’ve never had any real activity that could count as reliable proof. everything involving the businesses run out of the house are little more than sideshow entertainment for pleasance dark tourists.

( TW: blood ) the witch also has a part time job working for jules at dutch’s , her official title would be a bartender but she really just does what is asked of her. you probably guessed it already , but she does also have a side operation selling her blood magic from underneath the bar at dutch’s and they’re hopeful that their boss is none the wiser.

ETC.

she does still have a slight accent because she is from such a small town where everybody had a drawl or twang. she doesn’t have a good education by typical societal standards , because she had such shitty public education growing up as an orphan and no one who enforced her learning or attending. they are , however;  incredibly street smart and by no means stupid. they have since taught themselves how to learn in a way best for them and are always devouring book upon book in order to teach themselves things otherwise she may never know. 

( TW: blood ) ella is a blood witch and often uses her own blood , animal blood , someone else’s blood , pretty much if there’s blood in any form she’s set. she 100% sells her magic to anyone who wants it and does dabble in the shadow side. it might not actually work all the time , but that’s not entirely her fault. 

( TW: bruising / injury ment. , blood , scar ment. , self harm ) a pretty big feminist , used to be in an all femme band called the hex girls ( come for me ) , goth and proud ??? a really big horror movie fan , pansexual demigirl representinggg ! always has bruises and cuts , dried blood covers their skin a lot where they miss it or just don’t care to hide it , also has quite a few scars from where she’s cut too deep ( some maybe on accident , some maybe on purpose ).

( TW: blood ) ella’s very creative ! they like to read , write , make art — out of blood lol she uses blood of all types to create a lot of art. she takes blood baths ( animal blood ) occasionally on the full moon , drinks animal blood during certain rituals , etc. also super into bone and taxidermy , you can definitely find her at deblanc’s. they also like to haunt the cemetery and creep around spotlight cinema , film is a big passion of hers. 

( TW: drugs & alcohol ment. , blood ) DOES imbibe lol a partaker of alcohol ( prefers animal blood with red wine or vodka ) and certain drugs. ella definitely smokes weed & cigarettes , they enjoy partying just like the rest but she’s more reserved and likes to people watch.

okay so it’s getting late and i can’t believe how long this intro actually took me to finish tweaking , but if you want to plot with me pls pls pls hit me up bc i’d love to do some stuff !! my tumblr DMs are always open and you can always hmu on discord too !! i also write bryce winslow ( milo ventimiglia FC ) but you likely know that lol. i’m sure there’s more i could say about arabella honestly , but if you have any specific things you’d like to know or it seems like i left something out or need to take a second look at something i’d appreciate any / all feedback. can’t wait to get some replies out , but that might have to wait until the morning. @phqextras​

[jattendschaton]

If you’re still taking requests, 21 with Ladynoir please and thank you? 🙏🏻

21. ...on a place of insecurity

“What do you think of marriage?”

“Marriage?” Ladybug asks, turning her head to the side and attempting to squint at her partner in the darkness. They’re back-to-back so all she can see is some golden, fluffy hair and his legs stretched out in front of him.

She feels him nod.

“I don’t know,” she lies. She has thought about marriage--she’s thought about it a lot--but she’s not sure how much to tell him.

He doesn’t explain his question, but he’s vibrating with energy and Ladybug isn’t sure what it means.

“What about you?”

He shrugs but it’s insincere and Ladybug clumsily scoots herself to the side and then back so she can stare him in the eyes with their thighs pressing against each other.

Well, she would stare him in the eyes if he’d look up.

“Chat, you can tell me,” she pleads. “What’s on your mind?”

He still doesn’t look her way, instead opting to blankly look out at the bright city below them, twinkling in the night.

“I’ve just been thinking about love a lot, I guess. And marriage.”

“And...?”

He breathes deeply, letting it out in a slow stream. “I want it so badly.”

She’s a little stunned by his discomfort with the topic but tries not to let it show on her face.

“And what’s wrong with that?” she pushes her side against him playfully. “Lots of people want to be married. Most 90′s sitcoms are dedicated to the subject.”

“That’s not it,” he shakes his head, hair skirting along his mask. “I don’t have a problem with wanting to be married one day, I have a problem with the possibility it may never happen.”

The wind picks up around them, but she thinks his shiver is fueled by something other than the chill in the air. Ducking her head to get a better look at his face, she’s finally rewarded with those deeply green eyes making contact with her own.

“What?” she says incredulously, face scrunched up in disbelief.

“There’s no guarantee that it’ll happen,” he insists. “No one has to marry me, no one ever even has to love me, lots of people go through their entire lives without falling in love--and that’s fine!--but god, I want it.” He hangs his head, almost as if he’s ashamed by the ache. “I want it so badly.”

His lasts words are whispered and Ladybug can feel his yearning like a tremor through the air.

“Chat,” she reaches out, fingertips barely grazing his forearm. “Come here.” She tries to pull him into her arms for a tight hug, but the angle is awkward and he ends up leaning stiffly with his head on her shoulder and his arms loosely wrapped around her waist. Their torsos don’t even touch, but she can feel his breath steadying and counts it as a win.

“People already love you, I promise,” she pets his hair comfortingly, smoothing her palm over the strands. “But I understand. And it’s okay to want romantic love, you know. It’s okay to be afraid of not finding it.”

“But is it?” he asks, turning his head slightly so the question is directed towards her neck. “I feel like society’s putting all this pressure on everyone to fall in love and get married and have this perfect little life while simultaneously belittling anyone for ever wanting something so....” he scrunches up his nose and she hears it in his voice more than she sees it “...frivolous.”

She can’t deny his point, but he’s sidestepping the issue and she knows it. “But that’s not what you’re really upset about.”

Chat sighs. “I am upset about that. And I know I’m playing right into the system by wanting it so much. And then I feel bad for feeling bad. But that isn’t my point.”

He sounds resigned and Ladybug doesn’t know how to comfort him so she just keeps scratching, tracing her nails down his part and encircling the cat ears perched on his head.

“Sometimes you just feel how you feel. And that’s it, there’s no changing it. Does society force a lot of things down our throats? Absolutely. But it’s not your job to fix things,” her lips press ever to lightly against the top of his head in the barest of kisses “and being disingenuous about your wants and needs doesn’t help anyone. You’re a person, Chat. You’re allowed to have feelings.”

He’s silent, but the air still feels stiff around them.

Ladybug rests her head against his, still propped up on her shoulder. “What’s really bothering you?” she whispers, so close to his ear she barely has to make a sound.

“I’m afraid.”

The admission doesn’t shock her, but it does make her hold him tighter.

“Of what?”

“I don’t want to be alone.” His voice cracks.

“You’re not alone,” she insists, but the words sound hollow even to her own ears when she can’t show him her face behind the mask.

“But what if I am?” he pulls away from her and the loss of weight makes her feel like she’s floating away. “I don’t want to be by myself anymore. I can’t--I can’t do that.”

He’s struggling to hold back tears and she gives him a moment to himself, waiting for his labored breaths to calm before catching his eyes again.

“Sometimes I think I’m going to be alone forever.” He clenches the hand without his miraculous, glaring at it accusingly. “That I’ll die with a blank gravestone and a bare left hand.”Ladybug gently pulls his hand from where it’s bunched against his body, prying it open with methodical slowness. She massages the stiff joints, uncurling his fingers deftly and flattening them against her own.

“That won’t happen, chaton,” she brings his hand up to her mouth, pressing a lightest of kisses to his ringless-finger. “Trust me.”

He looks at her like he does.

Kiss Prompts