#i do know why i'm feeling maudlin

[birdkeeperklink]

I miss Sugarcult :(

I should listen to them again

Bc when they said "don't take from me, my heart is barely beating - don't take from me, I'm falling down, all I wanna do is lie in bed with you, all I really ever need is you, all I gotta do is give up all I have to be with you" and also when they said "how long I'll stay just to say goodbye, say goodbye, leave it all, the fights and all, summer's getting colder, drive all night to hold you tight, back to California, days went by, we waited and I guess we're getting older" it was so important

[topazadine]

Avoiding therapy speak in writing

I think we all know by now that therapy speak is irritating and unrealistic, especially if you are writing in a fantasy world that doesn't even have modern psychology.

Part of the reason that it is so annoying is that it is the definition of telling instead of showing: characters are just plainly informing us of their feelings rather than making us work for a better understanding. It's cheap and boring. Instead of making your characters seem like complex individuals with their own hangups and difficulties, they seem like plot points programmed to tell us things.

But obviously, you want to put these people in situations and have them talk about it! How do you do that without sounding maudlin? Here are some options.

Listen to real arguments/conversations

I cannot stress enough how important it is to listen to how actual real human beings talk to each other during heightened emotional states. They don't have to be nasty abusers, and they don't have to be perfect angels, just everyday people doing their normal thing.

Of course, I'd hope you're not seeing people argue all the time, but if you do happen to see it, listen carefully and notice how people actually address their problems. Think back to tough conversations that you have had, even if you wouldn't classify them as arguments. Consider how people acted and reacted to one another. Notice how normal humans talk about issues outside of therapy, even intelligent and emotionally evolved people.

I've had years of therapy, and even I do not talk in therapy ways about my issues when I'm talking to my family or friends. It just feels cheesy and fake outside of that particular setting - plus, it freaks other people out and can seem kind of manipulative. Try talking like that in a real conversation and see how uncomfortable it is. You'll understand why avoiding therapy speak is important.

Consider the character's own hangups

Just as everyone has their own unique speaking style and mindset, so do we all have our own argument styles. These are often informed by our pasts and upbringing; they are as varied as our own histories. However, there are a few different options.

Someone with a happy upbringing may be more assertive and willing to address their problems because they had that demonstrated to them as children.

A spoiled child will grow up to be a demanding adult who refuses to give any quarter.

Those who got yelled at a lot as children may shut down and fawn to avoid getting hurt.

Someone who grew up in a violent household may mimic that behavior and get incredibly aggressive when upset.

Individuals whose parents didn't teach them emotional regulation will lash out and get loud.

Manipulative people may stay very calm and gaslight the other person, or they may get hysterical to garner sympathy and make people focus on comforting them.

Someone who has gone to therapy may revert to their original argument style, or they may imperfectly apply what they have learned in a way that feels a bit unnatural. They may start out with rage, then force themselves to calm down through grounding techniques.

People who have been coached through previous emotional outbursts could demand a time out, then fail to actually calm themselves down.

Some may refuse to acknowledge they are upset and insist, in increasingly forceful terms, that they are fine.

Others may get quiet or crack a joke to ease the tension, but it doesn't really help.

Keep each confrontation short

IRL, emotional confrontations are generally not that long. They don't go on for hours and hours, though it can feel that way. No one is going on and on about their feelings and sharing every little detail of how they feel (at least not that I know of personally, maybe other people are different).

Even the worst arguments I have had, the real nexus of the argument was maybe an hour or two, though the fallout lasted much longer. I'd say there was an hour maximum of real, active confrontation, preceded or followed by hours/days/weeks of simmering frustration.

Why? Because arguments are exhausting. You don't have the energy for that in the heat of the moment. Yes, feuds and fights can last years, but each actual confrontation is short.

For longer, more serious issues, hash it out over a few sessions rather than all at once. It's rare to get everything out of the way immediately unless the characters already have a strong, loving relationship.

Show incongruencies

Especially for more reserved people, they will likely have their emotions leaking all over the place but won't actually say anything. As such, focus on body language while keeping the conversation more focused on the plot. For example, Character A might be crying but still trying to argue their point about whatever is going on.

Address physical complaints instead of emotional ones

In many cases, people will use "I'm tired" or "I didn't sleep well" or "I'm not feeling great" as shorthand for whatever is actually bothering them. It relieves pressure by not making them talk about upsetting matters while still addressing their discomfort in some form.

You should also consider the fact that some people can't connect physical sensations to feelings, so they may genuinely feel ill and not really understand why. This is especially common in people who can't emotionally regulate or have been through trauma.

For myself, I tend to somatize my feelings, so I might not feel upset, but I will feel physically sick. My stomach will hurt, my chest will get tight, or I'll get a headache, but my emotional state will seem calm. This isn't all that unusual, and many people experience this to different degrees.

As such, you can have your character say that their stomach hurts, or that they have a headache and can't discuss this anymore, or that they need to go lie down because they're dizzy. If we know they're relatively healthy, this can be a clue that they're getting overwhelmed but either cannot pinpoint their emotions or don't want to discuss them.

Let characters advance and retreat

A lot of the time, someone will address a scary emotion and then retreat again, sometimes over a period of hours, days, or even weeks. This is normal: most of us don't have the emotional fortitude to forge ahead through something difficult all in one go. Character A may say something vulnerable, then change the topic, laugh it off, say they're done discussing it, or even leave the situation.

Leave emotions partially unaddressed

Again, it's rare for someone to spill out everything they're feeling all in one go. As such, have Character A address the most important thing - or the least important, depending on their level of emotional maturity - and let it be done for then.

They might say their small piece, but when someone tries to probe deeper, they don't have an answer, or they get "stuck" on that one emotional level and cannot go further.

If Character B keeps pushing, then they may get incredibly upset and push back, or retreat.

Have Character B point out the feelings

Works especially well if the other character is a close companion or a parental figure. Often, people who know us really well will have better insight into our emotions than we do. Or, we might have good insight into our emotions but are still too afraid to open up. Having Character B point out the issue gives Character A grace to be more honest.

I can't tell you how many times I've been really upset, so I've distracted from the issue by getting angry about something completely different. Then, my mom will gently point out that I'm not actually crying about my new plastic cup being broken or whatever; I'm actually upset about XYZ. In that moment, I realize I've been caught out and admit that yes, that's what I'm really upset about.

Have Character A address it with a third character

Who among us hasn't gone to someone else to talk about our feelings? Having a third party serve as a sounding board is normal. Sometimes, Character A will feel such catharsis from this conversation that they don't address it as thoroughly with Character B.

Of course, you can use this to your advantage and create more tension if the third character gives bad advice or is biased.

Remember that just because the third party responded well does not mean that Character B does. You also have to avoid omniscience and remember that Character B wasn't privy to that conversation.

Have one confrontation be a stand-in for a larger one

I always think about the "The Iranian Yogurt Is Not the Issue" post when I think about this. Often times, things like not doing the dishes or whatever aren't actually the big deal: it's lack of boundaries, communication, or respect. A minor argument can be shorthand for a larger one that is too challenging for the characters to tackle.

This isn't just creating drama for the hell of it, though; it's about exploring the larger issues without making the characters lay it out on the table. A good reader will be able to see it's not about the Iranian Yogurt as long as you set up the relationship well.

Currently, I am writing a story where Uileac and his sister Cerie go to rescue Uileac's husband, Orrinir. On the way there, Uileac idly comments on how he wonders where a waterfall comes from because he's trying to distract himself from thinking about the fact that his husband is kidnapped and possibly dead.

Cerie, being pretty wound up too, starts arguing with him about it because she's like "why is this relevant? We're kind of too busy to think about geology right now!" Uileac gets annoyed at her for being so aggro, and she gets annoyed at him for being so irreverent. Both of them are upset about something completely different, but they're too scared and panicked to actually address that, so they release their frustrations by complaining about waterfalls.

Those bad vibes have to go somewhere, but neither of them are very good at talking about their feelings (though very good at stuffing them down). As such, they take the pressure off by sniping at one another. You've probably done this too, when you get into a dumb argument about something absolutely pointless because there's something you don't feel strong enough to discuss.

There's also the fact that if you're mad at someone about something but feel it's too stupid or petty to discuss, that frustration will leak out and everything else they do will annoy you, leading to a bunch of irrelevant arguments.

Use "reaffirmation" gestures

I talked about this in a different post, but after an argument, the "make up" stage doesn't always involve going "ohhh I forgive you" and big hugs and kisses, especially when the two characters aren't emotionally mature.

Instead, Character A makes gestures that reaffirm the relationship. This could be offering to do something Character B needs, making plans for later, or changing the topic to discuss something the other character cares about ("how are your cats doing?") etc.

Note that these "reaffirmation" gestures aren't the same as the cycle of abuse. This is more when two characters have had a difficult emotional conversation but aren't really sure how to continue being emotionally open, so they revert to something safer that still shows they care. They're not over-the-top gestures either, but more a special attention to something the other person loves. Knowing what the other person loves also demonstrates the depth of their relationship.

As always, I can't tell you what to do with your writing.

You are the crafter of your own story, and if you want people to talk like therapists for whatever reason, that's your choice. However, we want characters to feel like real people, and most real people don't lay it all out on the table every single time they're upset. If they do, they might be trauma vomiting, which is icky in and of itself.

Healthy communication isn't always perfect communication. People can have strong, loving relationships and still get things wrong - we're human. Having people calmly and rationally and easily talk about their feelings every single time is not only kind of boring, but it also feels weird, because unless we're primed to discuss those difficult topics and know we're perfectly safe, we're not going to do that.

People don't even do that in therapy, where they are paying for the service of talking about their feelings! Therapists also don't always do that IRL!

We're humans, and your characters need to feel like humans as well. That means letting them be imperfect communicators and using context clues rather than making them do all the work for the reader.

If you liked my advice, consider purchasing my book, 9 Years Yearning, for $3!

[qilingxiong]

碎鏡

My Qiaofang fic 《原諒我可好》 was originally the ending to a slightly longer draft, before I edited/cut it down and it became its own oneshot. However, I still like what didn't make it in, and Qiao Wanmian's perspective was a joy to write. So here is everything that happened before, as an extra (but can be read on its own).

Qiao Wanmian learns, days after the fact (again), that a man is dead, disappeared from the world (again), and as she feels the last ten years of her life warp, rush past, reset (back to the start, back to the end) the world fractures into sharp glass.

Qiao-guniang, are you all right? makes its way around the shards, the sound cut too harsh in its gentleness. Menzhu, do you want us to keep looking for him?

Qiao-nvxia, I'm sure he's still alive.

Qiao-guniang, he came back last time. He wouldn't leave you.

(For the second time, no one says.)

Days turn into weeks, turn into a month, strung together by a symphony of demand, of advice, of people who remember a heartbroken maiden mourning her destined, and no one beyond that.

Menzhu—

Qiao-nvxia—

Qiao-guniang—

Qiao Wanmian—

"Enough," she says, and for not the first time, she understands why Li Xiangyi wanted to run.

And so finally, Qiao Wanmian does too.

~*~

Here is the measure of Qiao Wanmian's life:

She is almost thirty, and two betrotheds have come and gone. She has spent half her lifetime dedicated to a sect, defining its name and its honour, but pride though it is, her name does not exist outside of it. Qiao Wanmian of Sigumen, as she hears it echoed in the streets.

And more than that, because the names of heroes will not, cannot die? Qiao Wanmian, Li Xiangyi's beloved.

What is it like, she wonders, watching a trio of girls walk through a market in a small town, sword wrapped in cloth for anonymity, to be someone who loves with the freedom of leaving it behind? What is it like, to exist and nothing more, as someone other than a widow who was never a wife?

What is it like for the world to look at oneself and see a person, not a story, perfect in her sculpted tragedy?

And somehow, somehow she finds the answer after two months of wandering. Or rather he finds Qiao Wanmian, seated at an inn toward the south, blue silk and silver stepping out of a storm and through the door for too-wide eyes to find her own.

"Qiao-guniang," Fang Duobing breathes. When Qiao Wanmian looks at him, all of twenty years old and too young to lose a first love, she knows that before him stands a shattered world too.

"Join me?" she says to that, and signals for another jar of wine.

~*~

Fang Duobing is an interesting one, Qiao Wanmian thinks, several hours later, studying him by the relief of candlelight. His hair sweeps over his shoulder, dark river with a few strands fallen loose, as he slumps forward to brace his arms on the table. He's staring downward as he props his chin up by one hand, the other fidgeting with his sleeve. "How long do you think it'll take to find him?"

Maudlin, he is. He hasn't had the years to build up a tolerance for wine, although Qiao Wanmian cannot say she's been sober this evening. The warmth to her face is from more than the inn torches.

How did Li Lianhua talk to this boy, when he was in this state? What was lie, what was truth, and for how long? Did it feel like this, where Qiao Wanmian knows the answer to Fang Duobing's words, but cannot let it escape her tongue?

"I don't know," she settles for instead, a soft lie to cushion the truth. "It might take a month. It might take years."

"It won't be years," Fang Duobing murmurs. The strings of beads in his hair rustle as he tilts his head to look at her. "We both already waited ten. I'll find him sooner than that."

Xiangyi, Qiao Wanmian thinks, thinks of the last ten years gone by without lighting lanterns for the dead. You always chose the ones who could never give up, didn't you?

"Good luck," she says softly, nearly a whisper, and takes a slow swallow of wine. The jar is nearly empty.

Silence unspools, punctuated by the flicker of the lights. Fang Duobing unstops the next jar of wine and brings it to his lips, neck a graceful curve in the lean of his head back, accented by the line of his jaw. He's grown into his features, for all the room he still has left to mature. If the jianghu hadn't called his name, he would have made a handsome aristocrat in the imperial court.

Is that what else Li Lianhua saw in Fang Duobing, for him to take on a companion after ten years of solitude? Qiao Wanmian wonders briefly, in the split moment before Fang Duobing glances at her again, then somewhere in the distance, darting away too quickly to count as an idle movement. "Something to say, Fang-gongzi?"

Fang Duobing closes his eyes, in a moment's thought. When he opens them, it is to lean closer, close enough that Qiao Wanmian can feel the shape of his breath. Perhaps this dearth of respectable distance, if anyone cares, can be excused by a wine-fuelled lapse in judgment. She chooses to let it be so.

"How did you survive this the last time?" Fang Duobing asks, less question and more plea. Qiao Wanmian can see now that it's been on his mind all evening, desperation forcing his tongue.

His eyes are dark now. He looks lost.

And before she can respond, "I'm asking because you were also someone who knew him."

Oh.

Qiao Wanmian doesn't deserve to have the word zhiji alongside her name. Not when it comes to Li Xiangyi. But she knows what Fang Duobing is searching for, and so she holds it out, that lifeline of kindred recognition.

Thousands mourned the loss of a legend. They both mourned the death of a man.

When her hand moves toward Fang Duobing, half by some instinct, half by impulse, he leans into the touch, letting himself be tugged up by his chin to face her.

"I don't have a good answer for you," she says, and there's no lie for this that will fare any less painful than the truth. "You'll get through one day hoping he'll be there waiting at the end, and he won't be, but you'll go to sleep so that maybe he'll find you in the next. He won't. But if it means you see tomorrow, then you have to keep hoping, until someday, you've found something new to wake up for."

It all comes out in a rush, and it surprises Qiao Wanmian by the honesty of it, so much so that her last words are too quiet by contrast. "That's how people like us keep living."

Fang Duobing's eyes are too bright. She brushes one gemstone of a fallen tear away with her thumb.

"You did this alone?" he says, and Qiao Wanmian recognizes the tremble to those words.

A wandering swordsman with a blade can fight any demon that throws itself at him. Fear, though, has ten thousand different ways to find you.

"You won't have to."

A promise, she realizes a moment too late, but she's already made it. These words were for him alone. Something else takes over Fang Duobing's expression: relief, like the first blossom of spring after a bleak winter.

He's too young for this to be his life.

And of Qiao Wanmian? What does Fang Duobing think? She waits, drawing away from him, the comfort of another's warmth gone.

His words are too soft in his mouth, gaze too earnest. "I know you haven't said anything about yourself all night, but you don't have to either, you know."

It feels like an arrow let fly.

Qiao Wanmian is left helpless by its wound, staring in the half-dark at a boy too sweet for her, willing to break her fall while he doesn't know how to land himself, and, and—

Something inside her breaks.

~*~

When she reaches for him, anything of him, drowned in the shadows by the doors to his room— waist, collar, mouth— he lets her.

[auncyen]

I make an attempt at writing for Loop. This has 2hat spoilers from the get-go so it's allll under a cut, but actually takes place in act 3 (with Bad Touch).

That little song and dance Stardust does with the Fighter in every loop is so funny, so pathetic! They recite their pun every time to make him laugh, and then he reaches out, almost touches them, but he doesn't! He won't! He's not your Fi--Isabeau. This one is the Fighter because he's not your Isabeau.

(And you can't forget Isabeau's name. Not again.)

It's a strange difference between your Isabeau and this copy of him. Your Isabeau was willing to touch you. You remember a cautious but warm touch on the shoulder, sweaty hands holding your gloved ones and grounding you. ...You hold your arms more tightly. You miss that. Hah, no wonder Stardust is so needy! His Fighter won't touch him at all. But...you do wonder why their party seems to have that idea, that they're made of glass. Yours didn't.

...

...

You don't...think they did? They didn't on the third floor. You know that. (But even your Isabeau was cautious, wasn't he?)

You...try to put that out of mind. Stardust is coming. Wouldn't do to be muddled and maudlin when you have a Siffrin hanging on to your every word! Honestly, what would he do without you?

(He'd be going numb, because he'd be constantly dying to the King. Bastard doesn't know how blinding lucky they are.)

They start the old little song and dance. Pun, not-quite-shoulder-touch, lunge forward--whoa whoa WHOA WHAT IS THAT IDIOT DOING?!

The kiss is broken the same second you register what's happening, Isabeau pushing him away, and right then you know, the Fighter is your Isabeau, your Isabeau is still here, you remember--

the world shifts.

"Hi Isa, I need to do the Favor Tree thing!"

"Oh! Sorry, I'm in your way then, aren't I? I'll get out of your hair, see you at the Clocktower!!!"

No, but that's not what...

...Ha.

HA!

Oh, your Stardust really is such a coward! You can't help but make fun of them when they finally drag themself to the tree, their eye already downcast because they know you saw their shame.

"What were you afraid of? For him to finally see you? To see what kind of person you truly are?" You taunt him, but toss in as a kindness: "Maybe he would have accepted you, you know. Maybe you're not as disgusting as you think you are."

Because that's what your Isabeau did. He pushed you away in shock, and then he apologized, worried he'd bruised you physically or emotionally when you were already a husk that had just. You'd wanted to feel something nice for a moment, you'd wanted the warmth he kept teasing you with. You hadn't feared the consequences, it probably wouldn't even have fazed you if he'd punched you for trampling over his boundaries. The King fight had broken any scale for pain.

Is that why you didn't loop back, and Stardust did? You're still not quite sure how his loops work--but if that's the reason, oh, how funny! Their own luck cursed them. But it's still his fault for being so fragile.

"Or, stardust... Maybe you ARE that disgusting. Not letting the poor fighter make his own decisions! Who would do that! Or--"

"SHUT. UP."

...You ignored him the first two times, but this time he sounds mad enough to start a fight, so you pause the taunting.

"I don't want to talk or THINK about ANY of this." He glares, his eye squinting, trying to hold back the more fragile emotions. "Especially not with YOU."

But you're the only one who'd understand. You did nearly the same thing. You were disgusting too.

But that'd be telling far too much, so Stardust doesn't get to know~!

Next loop you stare at the Fighter. You've never let yourself before, but now you feel compelled to. That is Isabeau. When you were Siffrin, when you'd kissed him, he'd pushed you away, and then he'd panicked and apologized. You...think you had enough presence of mind to apologize too, aware what you'd done was wrong, even if knowing hadn't stopped you. Isa had laughed a little. Said it was-- 'well, kind of sudden, warn a guy next time maybe, but also could next time maybe be now?'

'better watch out then,' you'd said, and somewhere in you there'd still been a real smile or something close enough, and you'd moved in more slowly, not quite sure how you were actually supposed to do it in a romantic way, but Isa had made it easy for you by meeting you halfway.

You'd kissed a lot, that afternoon. And you're pretty sure you talked more in that loop than any other, because even if Isa liked kissing you he was a little worried about what had possessed you to be so daring, especially when he thought you didn't like touching. You'd explained that no, you had no idea you'd been flinching when people tried touching you, you wish they would (it'd be such a nice difference from the King beating the life from your body, please please please), and Isa had groaned hilariously loud into his hands 'THERE COULD HAVE BEEN SIF HUGS THIS WHOLE TIME?', his face darkening with hilarious fluster as soon as he caught himself.

You'd loved that afternoon.

You'd never dared repeated it. You might have done something wrong, made Isa upset as he rightfully should have been. You might have broken the next time he asked you what was wrong and told him about the loops. You'd made sure. To just stay in the timeline where Isa knew it was okay to touch you and passed it on to the others. You drank in those precious touches.

...And then you'd forgotten that afternoon.

And then you'd accidentally ruined the sleepover that now had hugs and a 'congratulations, you figured out communication' headpat from Odile (you can't remember if she actually said that or not, but it certainly seems something she'd say) by getting overwhelmed and crying once, and you'd made sure to never do it again by claiming you were tired early and never repeating the sleepover because YOU COULDN'T LET THEM KNOW, and so you'd just loop through the House, and you'd cut those loops shorter and shorter, with fewer and fewer of those precious touches until you were only going through one floor, but at least they didn't know, and--

oh, oh, oh! Stardust is coming! This is no time to unravel, you've got a show to watch. Pun, almost-shoulder-touch, and ah, Stardust improvises a small step away from Isa so they don't get tempted. They don't plan to try again, then? ...Maybe that's for the best. Don't want them getting distracted from breaking out of the loops! You have to keep them on task. And if they won't make a move...maybe, if you ever get free, Isabeau could be your Isabeau again?

You realize how ridiculous that thought is almost immediately. He has a crush on mousy little Siffrin, not a star. You look away from him, and remind yourself, the Fighter the Fighter the Fighter. He will never be your Isabeau again, because you are no longer Siffrin.

[staybabblingbaby]

Soulmate Garden AU Ch.4 (Lewisia) a2d3 Addition Post (+1,308 words)

[Caution: These are not full fics, or even full parts of fics for some, these are part of my writing progress archive!]

Concept: Growing up, you knew Soulmates weren't all that they cracked up to be. So when, on your 18th birthday, your skin is painted with a garden of flower buds, you resolve to hide it from everyone. Who had ever heard of someone with 8 soulmates, anyway?

Or; Reader has 8 soulmates and no issue avoiding all of them. It's up to SKZ to show her that while every soulbond might not be made of fairy tales, theirs certainly could be.

Word Count: 2,866

TO THE UNAWARE: THIS IS A PROGRESS UPDATE OF A CHAPTER NOT REMOTELY CLOSE TO DONE! PLEASE DON'T EXPECT A FULL OR POLISHED PRODUCT HERE

Notes: The first addition post in the history of the archive! Huzzah! This chapter just keeps growing, I was expecting this to be shorter than Lino's chapter, but I think it's gonna be quite a bit longer. Some genuine editing notes - I think the transition into the flashback is a bit awkward and I would like to smooth out the whole morning sequence. I'm not even 100% sure what that vibe is and it shows. I also don't like the complete change in Reader's mood while she's talking to Jake, so I either have to make her morning more lighthearted or show her shoving her feelings down somehow. I genuinely operate like this, just code switching between private emotions and public face, so idk. What do y'all think? Is it was weird and jarring as I think it is? I also need to find a place to mention that this Stray Kid (dunno if I've mentioned who it is yet - obscuring just in case some of you haven't gotten it yet) is wearing a mask. I completely forgot to, but it's important for later. At a point in this one where I think I need another pair of eyes. Writing by yourself is hard :c

Dividers by @saradika

Warnings: She/Her Reader, Flashback (yelling), pls lmk if this needs smthn more specific

Leave me comments or questions or anything! Love hearing from folks <3

Masterlist <3 | Main Part (Unfinished </3)

The next morning marks a return to routine.

You roll out of bed half awake, sleep-mused and ready for murder. Your mood isn’t improved by the way you’d gone to bed - still in your work clothes with day-after mascara gluing your eyelids together.

A quick stop by the restroom to strip and scrub your face is a necessity, otherwise you’re liable to just crawl back into bed and rot there. You brush your teeth while you’re there, doing your best to ignore the remaining traces of grey streaks down your cheeks where your eyeliner hadn’t been as water-proof as advertised.

You don’t even know why you’d cried. After all, it’s not like you were the one rejected by your soulmate for no reason.

You do your best to shake off the maudlin feeling of the morning, ambling your way into the kitchen. As tired as you are, you still spot your twenty on the counter where you’d left it. You press your lips together to stop the bottom one from trembling and open the fridge. There’s a plate of eggs, fruit, and toast inside.

Taylor, freak of nature that he is, has been up for hours already, you know. He’d probably been up and out the door before the sun had even thought about rising. Weirdo.

your roommate is well aware of how non-functional you can be in the morning, so it’s not unusual of him to leave you leftovers when he makes breakfast. The little note on top isn’t new either, usually a reminder, grocery list, or a little encouragement for your day. The whole thing makes you smile, usually.

Today that little note makes your eyes prick with a new wave of tears.

‘Give yourself a chance. Bet’s still on <3’

You very deliberately do NOT cry, though it’s a near thing. You’d done enough crying last night. But if you sniffle a bit into your eggs, well. That’s for you to know, isn’t it?

You leave the money where it is.

It’s a Tuesday, so after breakfast you drag yourself back to your room to throw on your largest, rattiest, t-shirt and a pair of leggings to head to the gym.

You can’t help it when eyes catch on the newly-bloomed marks on your skin as you strip away your sleepwear. You take a moment to wonder why looking at your mark, a daily ritual you’ve kept for years, feels odd to you.

It occurs to you, only after several long seconds of staring blankly at your stomach, that you hadn’t taken the time to look at your mark at all since since you’d met your first soulmate. Things have been... hectic, to say the least.

It’s no wonder looking at it feels weird. It might as well be a whole new mark, for all the changes that have happened since you last saw it.

You decide, in the name of returning to your routine for good, that you can’t skip even this tiny part of your daily rituals.

You shuffle over to your closet, swinging open the door to reveal the full-length mirror hanging on the other side. You don’t bother with your usual rounds of self-depreciation or daily affirmations. Instead, you find your eyes glued to droopy purple petals and blankets of white stars across your abdomen.

The names of the flowers come to mind with ease as you trace gentle fingers over echoes of delicate petals. ‘Bellflowers’ You recite to yourself, drawing your finger up thin stalks and back down dipped heads. ‘Edelweiss’ you muse, lightly tapping each fuzzy white star.

The knowledge comes easily to you, not from any cosmic force, but because of course it does. Your sister hadn’t been wrong when she’d said that asking a person’s favorite flower had been basically an obsession of yours.

The habit had started well before you’d gotten your mark. Before you’d even properly known what soulmates were, really.

Gardening with your mother had started as a way for her to drag you out of the house to get some sun while keeping an easy eye on you. Before your sister was born you’d spent many a joyous afternoon learning to work the soil beside your mother.

After the advent of your favorite gremlin, you’d spent those afternoons tending to the family garden alone.

You remember being grateful to the newborn back then. Those solitary afternoons were some of the most peaceful in your memory.

At some point the ‘family garden’ had become more ‘your garden’. Your mother wouldn’t even bother to plan it out with you by your sister’s toddler years. She’d drive you to the store, hand you a bit of cash, and leave it all in your tiny hands.

You’d spend hours researching the best ways to nurture your plants. What flowers liked being planted together, which ones should be separated. You learned about soil types and the nutrients found in them. You learned about ph. values, how to measure them, and why they mattered. Anything to have your garden thriving more brightly, more beautifully, for longer.

If you weren’t in the garden you were in the library by your house, nose buried in a gardening book.

You vividly remember the day it all went wrong.

It hadn’t even been that dramatic, as you recall. At least, not in terms of your parent’s usual fights. It was heartbreak- despair- that marked the day, instead of fear.

You’d been digging up weeds, clawing up deep roots with your gloved hands and a trowel, when your father had come storming outside. You don’t even remember what he’d said. Something about you always taking your mother’s side because of your shared hobby, you think.

Never mind that the woman hadn’t put so much as a toenail to the dirt since your sister had been born.

He hadn’t let up for quite a while, if memory serves. Stood there yelling at you in your safe space for close to an hour. Maybe two, but your child-brain couldn’t be trusted with the time. It might have just been minutes, now that you think about it.

Nonetheless, he’d yelled and yelled and yelled. He hadn’t trampled on or broken anything, hadn’t even made sense. And yet, when he’d finally left, everything was different.

The blooms you’d worked so hard to nurture were no longer beautiful, and the soil you’d once called home was no longer safe.

You hadn’t tended another garden after that season. You’d seen your plants to winter, and you’d let go. You’d turned away from the sun and soil and leaned into your books and silly questions to fill the hole left behind.

You’re sure you left claw marks in the dirt.

Something like a gentle humming fills your soul, and you notice how tightly you're clutching the garden around your waist. You gingerly pry your hands away and study the crescent moons you’ve left behind, soft skin indented where petals should have ripped.

You wonder if you’ll leave claw-marks in this garden too.

You tear your eyes away from the mirror, ignoring the gentle tingling up your side where your fingers had dug in. You quickly toss on a camisole, forgoing your usual privacy wraps, and your t-shirt over that.

There was nothing for emptying your mind quite like running yourself into the ground at the gym. With full awareness that you’re going to regret your gym session later, you flee your apartment.

Maybe jogging all the way to gym wasn’t such a great idea. It’d sounded fantastic at the time, a head start on your cardio and a way to remove yourself from your negative headspace before you tried to toss around weights you barely knew how to use.

It had sort of worked, but now you hadn’t even entered the building and you were already a sweaty, panting, mess.

After guzzling down half of your water bottle you enter the building, resignation in your heart. Cardio wasn’t even your focus today.

The automatic doors slide open with their usual swish, and you’re greeted by the familiar stale smell all gyms seem to share, no matter how clean. It’s comforting, even if you do wish you could go home already.

There’s someone already at the receptionist’s desk when you approach, talking in slow and measured English. You try not to be annoyed with the tiny delay, but your mood really hadn’t been helped by running from your thoughts, no matter what you’d hoped.

Alas, you’ve ventured into the public and so you’ve encountered a member of the public. Shocker. You cross your arms and bite back irritation that this complete stranger hadn’t done anything to earn.

Luckily enough, the low and measured cadence of the stranger’s voice is soothing enough to zone out to. Unfortunately, your latest obstacle is the only thing around to rest your eyes on, and so you find yourself studying his form.

His back is broad and built, huge biceps on display in a tight fitting black t-shirt. You kinda wanna squish them.

A vivid tattoo sleeve runs all the way down to his wrist, and you find your stare glued to it. Large boldly colored flowers take up the majority of the space, vague outlines of crashing waves and rolling mists fills in the rest in a luxurious combination of oriental art styles.

You can’t help but think it doesn’t look finished.

Dragging your eyes away from such beautiful ink is quite a task, but you don’t want to seem judgmental for your admiration. That arduous labor is made infinitely easier by how fine the man himself is.

You really can’t help the way your eyes trace up and down his form. It should be impossible, you think, to somehow bulk up in only the right places, but by Jove his man has done it. You’re quite jealous, honestly.

Your eyes come to a rest on the stranger’s backside. Quite jealous, indeed.

You try to shake yourself from your admiration, reminding yourself that there were very many well-muscled men in this place and that you’d always endeavored to keep a polite line-of-sight, even when they don’t. It hadn’t even been a hard ask, until now. You drag your gaze back up to the back of his head.

You’d be polite if it killed you. Even if neither the stranger or the scrawny receptionist had noticed your wandering gaze.

Especially then.

While you were.... distracted... the man’s conversation with the receptionist seemed to be going a whole lot of nowhere. From what you can gather, he’s looking for a short-term membership, and the receptionist is trying to tell him they don’t do that.

You know this to be true, even the trial period was an entire month. You’d specifically chosen this gym for that reason. If you hadn’t been able to stick it out for a month, you know you’d have never used the place enough to justify a membership.

Your sympathies to this stranger, it seems he really just needs a little less than a week. You know there are some no-commitment type places not too far though, so you wonder why he’s stuck on this place.

Their back and forth goes a while longer, but it’s evident that the beautifully-built stranger can’t really argue his case properly. Whether because of the obvious language barrier he’s working with, or because he’s run out of arguments, you can’t be sure.

Eventually he steps to the side to make a call, and you’re able to approach the counter.

The receptionist (you think his name is Jake. The owner’s nephew, if you recall correctly) looks relieved to see you after whatver hassling the stranger had given him. He lazily waves the clipboard and it’s sign-in sheet at you in greeting. You take the clipboard, trading him your membership card and driver’s license for it, and turn to prop your knee up on the counter to balance it while you write. Incidentally, your choice of position keeps the stranger in your line of sight.

You magnanimously ignore Jake’s gaze wandering to your chest, if only because you’re still looking not-so-respectfully at the tattooed stranger a few feet away.

“So what was that all about?” You ask him as you hand back the clipboard. He shrugs at you as he types a second longer.

“Some big-shot who needs a security detail,” He answers, unimpressed, “Says this is the only gym in, like, five miles of his hotel that he doesn’t need an entourage to go to.”

You hum your understanding, now trying to place if the handsome stranger was someone you knew of.

Such situations weren’t uncommon for this gym. Celebrities that actually lived in LA weren’t spotted here very often but, since it was settled very close to quite a few high-security luxury hotels, the building saw it’s fair share of famous faces.

Security was kept quite tightly, and a certain code of conduct was expected amongst the gym’s members. It was another justification for the long trial period, wherein one could only access the front room with the basic weights and machines. All the fancy stuff (including a pool, rock wall, dance studio, and all sorts) was in the back.

It was also another reason you yourself were a patron here. The high security and strict standards made for a quiet and comfortable atmosphere.

At least, as long as you ignored the judgmental stares.

“What’s the issue, then?” You question Jake, “Doesn’t the owner make exceptions for high-profile clients?” You phrase it as a question, but you know he does. The unfamiliar faces that pop up for a few days every now and then wouldn’t show up otherwise.

Jake just sighs like he’s had this conversation a thousand times. Considering the celebrity (?) waving his hands around as he spoke rapidly into his phone not far away, maybe he had.

“He does, but he’s out of town and no one else can adjust the contracts.” He eventually explains. He finally hands you your stuff back, and you hum consideringly as you put the cards back in your wallet.

Another glance at the furrowed brows on the stranger’s masked face has pity welling up your throat.

You turn your gaze to focus on Jake.

“Do I still have that visitor pass?” You ask him, knowing that he still has your details up. Jake glances at you with a raised eyebrow, but obligingly checks the computer.

“Yup,” He confirms, “You’ve been paying for it since you dragged your poor roommate in here that one time. Why?”

“Can he use it?” you nod your head to the frustrated stranger. From where you’re sat, still perched on the edge of the desk, it looks oddly like he’s begging whoever’s on the other line.

Jake levels you with his most deadpan stare. It’s quite a good one, completely unimpressed. You think it must be something about customer service that allows him to make that face. Or maybe it’s just you.

“You realize that your visitor pass is you vouching for your visitor’s character, right?” He reminds you, “If he does anything, breaks anything, pisses off the wrong lifeguard it’ll be on your head.”

You just shrug. It’s not like you couldn’t find a new gym if you had to. You’d miss this one, with it’s quiet atmosphere and abundant amenities, but you didn’t require it’s security and discretion like some of the other clients did.

“I’ve got a good feeling about it.” Is all you tell Jake. It’s not even a lie.

The poor boy just rolls his eyes at you. He still turns to rifle through the desk for the right form for you to fill out though, so you’ll take it.

“You a fan of his or something?” Jake asks as he hands you a different clipboard.

“Nope!” You answer cheerfully, starting to fill out the form, “No idea who he is.”

Jakes huffs an incredulous laugh, and turns a considering gaze on your new friend. And the stranger does have to be a friend now, because “some guy” is not an option on your paperwork.

“I bet he’s a wrestler,” he finally says after a long moment, “Or a sportswear model.”

You gently bop him on the head with your clipboard, “I refuse to participate in your speculation.” You admonish, ignoring his whining.

“I’ll show you his picture when you leave,” He smirks back, “and whatever google says about him.” He shrugs when you send him a cutting glare, “It’s not speculation then.”

“Respect your customer’s privacy, you weirdo.” You scold. He just laughs as you hand him the form, all filled out and just waiting for the stranger’s signature. You know full well that Jake will go through with it, regardless of what you say, so you give up easily.

He won’t get fired as long as you don’t blab outside of the gym. Privileges of nepotism. You exchange farewells as you hop off the counter, and he begins to wave over Mr. Celebrity. You meet the eyes of you on-paper friend and offer him a quick nod before you scuttle off deeper into the building.

Hopefully he’d be too grateful of your offer to find you terribly strange.

I could really use some feedback for this one, if y'all have the time. 人´∀｀) Especially regarding my dialogue and transitions. plsplspls I would be so grateful. My comments, dms, and ask box are all open

[scoobydoodean]

Anon I already addressed a lot of your message, but I also wanted to respond to the 2.02 part of your message more specifically. Tbh I didn't talk about this very specifically in my rewatch because I kind of feel like Sam projecting in 2.02 is a subject that has been beaten to death by fandom and I didn't really want to add to it if I'm being quite honest—especially because it quickly leads to samcrit hours for a lot of people in a way that I'm not really into believe it or not. But I wanted to respond specifically to what you wrote here:

Yes, Sam is expressing how he feels in season 2, but he isn't lashing out. He wants to express his grief to his brother, who he knows is also expressing grief. He doesn't realize his brother is expressing it in a different way than him, and interprets that as not expressing it at all. But he isn't lashing out and he isn't being malicious. Sam is trying to get Dean to talk to him, because that is how Sam needs to process his grief. He isn't displacing his aggression onto someone else. He's desperate for a connection. He's more begging than projecting at some point. And when it bubbles over, he admits how he is feeling to Dean based on an earlier conversation where Dean criticized Sam for how he was reacting to their father's death when Sam and John fought all of the time. Dean is angry because that is how Dean deals with grief, and in that conversation, he took it out on Sam. In the season 2 scene, Sam is admitting that yes, he and his dad always fought, and he feels terrible about it and is drowning in the too little too late. But he is desperate for his brother to let him in because that is the only connection he has left and Dean shutting down makes him afraid to lose that too. But he isn't lashing out or projecting. He is trying to communicate his needs but doing it less than stellarly.

First (clarification for any other readers) I've already clarified that I myself don't see Sam projecting as malicious.

Second, I think you reference a tag I used on my original post: projecting displaced aggression and scapegoating in spn. That is a tag for my tagging system. It's a blanket tag that I use when at least one of the words in the string applies to a situation, but not all have to apply.

Third, let's be clear about the sequence of events in 2.02:

Sam comes outside and asks if Dean is okay or if he needs anything.

Dean says he does not need anything, and calmly but plainly asks Sam to stop asking, because Sam has been asking Dean all week and Sam has not taken a hint.

Sam does not listen. Instead, he pushes forward, pointing out that Dean hasn't mentioned John all week.

Dean responds with a sarcastic remark that boils down to, "What the fuck do you want my grief to look like? What would you consider palatable?"

Sam explodes, yelling at Dean for patronizing him, accusing Dean of grieving wrong, and telling Dean how he should be grieving.

Dean says the anger and vengeance Sam wants from him is useless, and that the only thing he can do right now is work on the car.

As the episode continues:

Sam talks about wanting to hunt in John's memory twice after Dean wonders 1) why Sam wanted to go on a random hunt 2) Why Sam tells the carnival owner that he doesn't want normal. Dean pretends he has no thoughts about this.

Sam brings up a fond memory of John, and Dean says he remembers. 5 seconds later, Sam accuses Dean of "getting maudlin on him", and then he accuses Dean of playing the "strong and silent type"

Dean asks him firmly to leave him alone, and plainly says Sam is acting entitled to determine how Dean grieves.

Sam begins yelling at Dean again for not grieving right.

Dean shouts back at Sam that he is fine and tells Sam to stop dumping his issues on Dean.

Sam asks what Dean means.

Dean says Sam is having trouble dealing with John's death because of how things ended between the two of them and says Sam is projecting his inability to deal with John's death onto Dean.

At the end of the episode, Sam admits that Dean was right about what he was doing, but also says he knows Dean isn't actually okay.

That is the sequence of events.

He doesn't realize his brother is expressing it in a different way than him, and interprets that as not expressing it at all.

I'm not the thought police, but neither is Sam, and Sam quite literally shouts at Dean multiple times in 2.02 for not grieving in a way that Sam finds relatable. He specifically demands to know why Dean isn't angry, and why Dean doesn't want revenge, and why Dean's grieving process involves fixing his broken car instead of doing exactly what Sam has been doing—searching for leads on the demon. Sam is angry and is frustrated by a lack of leads, and he is displacing that frustration onto Dean and doing exactly what you claim Dean did to him later in the episode, except when Dean does it, it is after being harassed repeatedly and criticized for how he grieves and having his clearly stated boundaries trampled on by his brother for over a week.

Adults don't have to understand the quirks of other people's grief, but they should be expected to accept that their own feelings are not universal, and not make judgements. We don't get to dictate how other people feel and process things. I lost my grandfather this year, and if someone had come up to me at his funeral and criticized me for not appearing to grieve in a way they found relatable (which would invariably and inescapably carry an implication that I didn't care about my own grandfather) I would have put them on the ground, and they would have deserved it. It's fine that Sam doesn't understand how Dean grieves. His response to that lack of understanding, which is to deliberately and flagrantly ignore Dean's very calmly and plainly stated boundaries, and criticize how Dean deals with his feelings because Sam doesn't understand him, is not fine.

Note: Sam's behavior here is also not dissimilar from how he criticized Dean in 1.03 for not searching hard enough for John (in Sam's opinion—a guy who had found exactly 0 leads for them up to that point) with a tacked on thinly-veiled accusation that Dean did not care, followed by denials of his obvious meaning when Dean reacted. That also was not okay, and it's part of the pattern we see.

Sam is trying to get Dean to talk to him, because that is how Sam needs to process his grief.

You say Sam just wants to express his own grief to Dean, but that is not what Sam does? Sam talks exclusively about how Dean is processing his own grief: DEAN hasn't brought up dad once. DEAN should want revenge. DEAN should be mad. DEAN needs to stop being so dysfunctional and cold and "deal with" John's death—not Sam. If Sam wanted to talk about how Sam was grieving... he could simply talk about how he is grieving. However, quite crucially, he should also be willing to have someone else act as his active listener (ex: Bobby). Dean and Sam's methods of coping clearly do not mesh, and Sam should be willing to respect that. But when Dean does ask Sam quite plainly, over and over, to stop pestering him, Sam does not listen. He wants to talk about how Dean is grieving. Whether Dean is ready is not relevant—only whether Sam is ready for Dean to be ready. Dean is expected to grieve on Sam's timeline, in a way that looks familiar and relatable. Sam fixates on getting Dean to open up, because Sam is worried about him yeah—but also because Sam thinks he needs Dean—specifically—to spill his guts in order to process his own grief and stop worrying about Dean, and that is dysfunctional, and Sam is so focused on fulfilling that dysfunctional need that he is willing to flagrantly trample all over Dean's own grieving process and his clearly defined boundaries in order to get what he wants.

Sam's methods of coping and how they effect Dean in 2.02 are maladaptive, and they make Dean responsible for "fixing" Sam in a way that is not fair, while Dean is also grieving their dead father. Sam is essentially criticizing Dean for not offering up his raw grief as an artistically arranged meal for Sam's consumption, and Sam does not even realize it until Dean, tired of having his clearly stated boundaries trampled on over and over by Sam's repeated pestering and demands and criticisms, calls Sam out on what he is doing. And Dean is right about it, and after Sam reflects on it, he admits that Dean is right and reduces his harassment and policing of Dean's feelings by about 75%.

[katsigian]

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙏𝙍𝘼𝙂𝙄𝘾 𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝘾𝙃𝙀𝙏𝙔𝙋𝙀 ⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖

This quiz was sent to me and it hurt good bad so I figured maybe the mutuals would also wany to do it, too ♡ While my OCs are CP77 and BG3 based, you can do this for any OC from any setting. I'm going to tag some people, but if you'd rather not share your results, there's no pressure to do so! There's also no pressure to interact with this post

────────── Find the quiz here

@rindemption @noirapocalypto @spicyraeman @alphanight-vp @swanfey @quickhacked @westealtoys @mercymaker @vanoefucks @hazellblogs @seluned @kharonion @nncc77 @peaches-n-screem @balverine2077 @humberg @strafethesesinners @envergothash @duskfey @mrdekarios @feykiller @aggravateddurian @dameayliins @wilxfyre @opaleyedprince @daedricshrine @ncytiri @nokstella @ruinbringer @cyberneutral @yharnams @thedeadthree @shellibisshe @hibernationsuit @aelyosos @wistereia @leota-nexus @baldurians @togepies @florbelles @ronqueesha @roarmoreau @molochka-koshka @devilbrakers @elvenbeard @zyana-wyvern @estevnys @gortash @vayneoc

𝙑𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙉 // 06. 𝘿𝙀𝙑𝙊𝙐𝙍𝙀𝙍 ⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖

❝ Love's a knife to skin to you, a vein to woven muscle, a blood puddle before you. You listened to all the promises of a stranger's relief and feel the drain of a shower head running it all down again. You committed another murder; kissed and bruised skin with a clench to a quivering wrist and went home in the defeaning quiet of a taxi. There's mold covered rage within you. If to take a heart home with you, you'd bite your way through muscle and ribcage first. Pleasure comes, but there will be no devouring past it. There is fear in settling down and being seen. There is a glass screen between these bodies and you. Relax your tight jaw and feel the real canine fear beneath that scabbed up cavity. The sacrifice of opening up is needed if to be loved as you deeply wish is inside. Desire doesn't discriminate between hands or spoken word. Why should you? ❞

I really liked this one for Valen specifically because it talks about how lonely he once was; how he'd find the most temporary comfort within a stranger and then go home alone to have to face the quiet again. I love how it compares love-making to a murder because there's not many things Valen likes more than leaving loving bruises behind on soft skin from kissing too roughly. He also felt like for the longest time like he had a thick glass barrier between him and everyone else - you can look, but don't get too close to me. He wanted so badly to be loved for so long in spite of how he'd keep everyone at arms' length. It was a safety measure, because the past kept coming back to remind him that when he let others inside, past the walls, all they did was grab his heart and twist. Imagine wanting to be loved so badly you ached but at the same time feared it. All Valen wants is to be devoured by another who'll keep him safe within themselves.

𝙑𝙀𝙎𝙋𝙀𝙍 // 01. 𝙈𝘼𝙐𝘿𝙇𝙄𝙉 𝙈𝘼𝙂𝘿𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙉𝙀 ⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖

❝ An embrace with the shivering figure of a ghost. You cut your hair at 3 a.m. to change it all but it is no use. Love is a war to endure to you. You comfort and hold, kiss pressed to temple and cheek while feeling the numbness filling your nights to brim. What used to feel honorable has now become chore of breathing to sustain another. What else is love, but your lap to lay another's head into? Your fingers turn blue in the announcing dawn, the cold figure of what you used to know of yourself remains asleep next to them. Another version of you has crept out of your old body, has ripped and eaten itself out of a cast that was fused into the position of nurturing comfort. Remove yourself from your lovers before they become part of you, conjoined with your arms to anothers head you have no life apart of maudlin magdalene. You have given endlessly, but this isn't all there is to you. Acknowledge the good that has been done and let yourself be free. You deserve to feel held as well, you are more than what you can give of yourself before breaking down. ❞

This one again feels pretty fitting for Vesper. He's not like his brother Valen - he gives much more easily than he does and is more open with what he truly wishes for. But it's become more of a burden for Vesper to keep opening up his heart and not getting those things he really wants. He gives very easily, tries to support the people he's let inside, but it gets tiring when he gets not enough in return. Eventually, he does find someone who will give him all he needs and more, but everything up until that point was Vesper thinking that he had to be a giver, whether it was his body or his affection or anything else.

[all-souls-matinee]

Quick-bite reviews: V/H/S/Beyond (2024) dir. Jay Cheel, Jordan Downey, Virat Patel, Justin Martinez, Christian & Justin Long, Kate Seigel

I finally decided to stop covering this franchise (last year's '/85' remains unwatched) when '/Beyond' had to go ahead and be pitched as an alien-centric V/H/S with a segment written by my horror enemy Mike Flanagan. I've seen a fair chunk of alien horror movies and never have much to say about them because... they're bad... but I'm always rooting for a good one to come into existence. They're like my now-horrible home baseball team; I KNOW the storytelling optics aren't there, it wouldn't be a problem if we could assemble the perfect cast and crew and have infinite time and infinite money. The original V/H/S actually had a memorable piece of alien horror so that's encouraging? It wasn't good but it was memorable! It was there! My feelings on Flanagan only made for extra incentive; if I couldn't have a good alien horror movie at least I could have another alien horror movie to be performatively mad at.

Mike Flanagan has been forgiven; alien horror has made it to first base.

Beyond is still very much a V/H/S movie so was never going to be my thing, but I think it's successful(!) because every segment understands that the job of a V/H/S movie is to feel like a theme park haunted house. The usual buckets of gore and barf and what have you are coordinated this time around, showman-like. The frame story, notoriously the worst part of even the best anthology horror, re-grounds the aliens when segments stray and is a great example of how to lovingly and effectively mock cable-cum-YouTube documentaries. The creature design and bad acting of the first segment are fun enough, while the second segment is a commentary on Mumbai's Film City that feels like homage to and improvement upon the original V/H/S. The third segment goes crazy; UFO attack on a skydiving plane?? and then aliens with interesting designs chase everyone in broad daylight and rip them apart into Halloween decorations??? That's what we've been waiting for! The momentum is building! Then there's Justin Long's abysmal segment. Most unfunny comedy torture-horror I've ever seen, made me think I was going to have to rate this even lower than past panned V/H/Ses, Saw 18 directed by Doug Walker, etc., etc., until, finally, we lose the haunted house angle and Flanagan takes center stage.

His alien story is so good I didn't want to believe it was him writing it, and so painfully UNBEARABLY Stephen King I knew it couldn't be anyone else. Clever sci-fi concept that does my favorite thing in the world by focusing on the UFO itself, eye-rollingly maudlin over American family values, intentionally funny in places, and scary!!! I said 'no way' out loud when I realized how it was going to end; timed just right, not too early but still well before the protagonist. I'm giving Flanagan so much credit because it's the kind of short story I would've been completely enraptured by as a kid, but on film its function is really thanks to director Kate Seigel and near-solo actress Alanah Pearce. They use their medium (infrared camera!) and place in the framework to full advantage, which is why I'm glad it's a little treat within a schlocky horror anthology instead of a short film in its own right.

Buy a ticket? With these V/H/S reviews I always say 'no it's bad don't watch it unless you already like the franchise,' and THIS time... still no lmao. It isn't quite good enough to merit a recommendation, but that's on high highs and low lows rather than the kind of mediocre stickiness of past entries. If you're interested in going through a haunted house (these things continue to hit right at my limit for gore and body horror) to include one gnarly alien story and one interesting one? You could do worse. Not a home run, but first base. They hit the ball <3

[bats-after-dark]

I had some thoughts, but they vanished at "furen, you fucked me so hard I can still feel it." And you're so right, Xiaobao may be elliptical, but he has moments of shining sex pest potential, like when he asks Huaien to basically lick the taste of medicine from his mouth.

Speaking of that medicine. So, we know how certain Tumblr user guzhufuren is reading our "plot," right? This ask is all their fault (affectionate). Idk if you have seen the video they keep reblogging, of this one guy (or ANGEL) sweetly on his knees at the club or in the cab and someone gently giving him a shot and patting his cheek. I don't know if this makes sense or if it's just my lizard brain, but parallels between this and Huaien making Xiaobao drink the medicine from the bowl are being drawn. And the more I think about this, the more I think getting Xiaobao drunk or consensually giving him aphrodisiac or whatever would play very nicely into their Big Trust scheme. Also, degradation/praise works here too, because Huaien can tease an absolutely sloppy and horny Xiaobao that he's incorrigible, how is he just the same when he's sober, always desperate to be fucked and ready to grovel. Probably he's notably more desperate and disoriented while drugged up but hey, whatever gets him to come untouched from the sheer tension!

BUT I ALSO HAVE THOUGHTS ABOUT INTOXICATED HUAIEN. Xiaobao probably has thoughts about intoxicated Huaien. These have not yet hatched. Trying to think of how to incorporate these without accidentally making someone (Huaien) sad in the process. Giving up control like that may be a trigger?

The actual chemsex, though. A lot of their games are about power and control and one of them riling the other up, but maybe very very very occasionally, even just a handful of times, theh both get a little fucked up and desperate. Idk what fantasy drug will get them there without being too dangerous, but I'm thinking mutual desperation, no games no pretense, room spinning, everything hazy, franctic energy. And then languid and syrupy when they’re coming down from it.

I hope this is not too much in a bad way! Idk how you feel about recretional drug use in fiction. All in all I feel like Huaibao maybe don't do drugs or alcohol a lot bcs canonically it's not been great (think Xiaobao's brothel shenanigans and Huaien drinking away his gay little feelings), but maybe indulging together is a trust thing. Why is everything about trust to me????

Why did this get so long. I fear myself.

I didn't remember which video you were talking about, so I tracked it down (this one, right?) and, yes, I absolutely see what you mean. Firstly, the obedient puppy energy is very Xiaobao. He will drink the shot, make a little face, and then politely drink another one—before asking Huaien if he wants to have a little taste from Xiaobao's mouth. (because Huaien won't drink unless the alcohol is in Xiaobao's mouth? is this anything?) I can totally see Huaien getting Xiaobao drunk, just so that he's a little out of it, a little pliant and glassy eyed and easy with the drunkenness, and Huaien sometimes takes him home and sometimes takes him somewhere else. I don't thiiiink he gets Xiaobao drunk enough that he blacks out or loses track of time (he could! but I don't think that's quite the energy?) It's more about getting Xiaobao to the desperate place where he'll say anything, do anything, ask for anything he wants faster.

I cannot imagine Huaien drunk for non-cranky or non-sad reasons, but I am willing to be shown. persuaded. paint me a word picture!!! (although now I am imagining Xiaobao finding a maudlin drunk Huaien and trying to comfort him and I'm not saying it devolves into sex but. ok I might be saying that actually. but it's surprisingly tender comfort sex.)

Chemsex wise, the only jianghu party drug I can think of is Word of Honor's canonical poppers (not used for partying bc Prince Jin is No Fun), but tbh I was imagining, like, fantasy ecstasy? Very much on the fun non-dangerous side of the party drug spectrum where it's more languid marathon sex and then sleeping it off in each other's arms. It's always about trust! Huaibao is about two little guys who shouldn't trust each other doing just that!

ok side question how do we feel about Huaien bottoming bc i had a Thought and now it is haunting me

[malcolmschmitz]

Hi 👋🏾 what was it like the first time you realized you wanted to write and publish, and did it seem like a daunting undertaking or did you know easily how you’d make it happen?

Hi, Jay, thanks for the ask!

So... hm. I always hate answering questions like this, because My Experiences Are Not Universal. Specifically:

I am a creature of supreme hubris. If you tell me that something is hard to do, my first reaction is "well, I don't know how to do this, but I'm gay, so how hard can it be?"

The first time I realized I wanted to write and publish was when I was, like, ten years old. It was the aftermath to realizing that being a Muppeteer/movie director required you to interact with people, but being an author meant you could do your own thing.

This means that, at the time, I didn't get daunted, because at the age of ten I was the kind of kid I like to write about- smart and brave enough to try for the hard thing, and dumb enough to not realize how hard it is until I backed myself into a corner.

I published my first short story when I was 14, under a pen name, in a tiny online SF magazine that does not seem to have survived. It was an absolutely terrible, maudlin little piece - time travel to cure the main character's disabilities. This particular SF magazine had a section of "discussion questions" under each story, and they ripped me a new one in the questions- asking a bunch of questions about why the time travel didn't work and why the main characters talked like autistic robots.

I was, again, undaunted by this- though maybe I should have learned a little more daunt here- and swore up down left right and sideways that I was going to publish again, in a way that no one would make fun of me for this time! And, well, here I am, with a handful of traditionally published short stories and a book on sub. :)

So, this is not particularly helpful advice for anyone who didn't start writing when they were a middle grade protagonist. But I can give a few tips, as someone who's older, wiser, more anxious, and actually capable of feeling fear:

Learn everything you can. The unknown is always scarier than the known. If publishing looks like a big black box to you, you're going to have a lot more fear of the process than if you know most of what's probably happening. @literaticat on Tumblr, and QueryShark's blog archive, are both great resources for discussing querying and trade publishing; I've also heard good things about the Absolute Write forums. @thebibliosphere on Tumblr talks a lot about self-publishing, specifically through Draft2Digital and Amazon KDP.

Don't stress the statistics. Yes, it's a bad time to be a writer. It's a really bad time to be a professional writer. But if you dwell on the numbers- who's getting published and how and when, and the money you might make or not -- you're going to drive yourself insane. Someone has to make it, and if you keep pushing, that someone might be you.

Cultivate community. Having writer friends to share your successes with- and commisserate about your drawbacks with- takes the sting out of the daunting parts of writing, a lot. Egg each other on! Yes-and each other! Critique each other's work!

Celebrate failure. When I'm submitting a story- short or long- I have a goal for each one- a goal of how many rejections I want to get. I keep track of my rejections and treat each one as a step towards a larger goal. (I think THE CROWNKNAPPERS, my middle grade fantasy-heisty-politicky thing, is up to 3 at this point; To Clear The Air got 3-4, and I was lucky enough to get Hazard Pay through on the first try.

Hope this helps!

[thebreakfastgenie]

honestly the part of mash that i consider the time loop IS the syndication of it all. it’s already so screwy with time and now it must all happen over and over and over again, in its unstuck messy order or out of it, because we need it to, because it moves us every time we see it and we must keep it playing. it’s like the thing in the musical hadestown where they know they have to tell the story again, because we must keep ourselves hoping that things could turn out better, even if the story remains the same. that’s mash to me. the war goes on. which war is it anymore? we tell the story again, it all happens again, because every time it makes us laugh, cry, get angry, it keeps us connected to each other and to our humanity. or something like that wow i got maudlin as hell in your inbox excuse me. i’m normal about mash and i’m normal about cyclical forms of storytelling (lying)

Yeah I love the meta cyclical thing!!!! My thing is just that I'm a pedant and that doesn't make the narrative a time loop (though you can make a time loop out of it, plenty of fic writers do). MASH going on as long as it did had its pros and cons, but one of the pros is this sort of feeling that war is endless, that time loses its meaning.

I think what I dislike about the time loop thing is the "theory" approach. It's like "what if MASH is actually a time loop" like "what if this cartoon is actually a dream this character had while in a coma" or "what if this entire medical drama was the fantasy of an autistic child staring at a snowglobe" (iykyk). And you know, the idea that the time loop "explains" why the timeline is the way it is, or that that needs an explanation at all. It's not that deep! It is very funny.

I haven't seen or listened to Hadestown (I'm the opposite of most musical theatre fans and I rarely listen to shows I haven't seen, although there have been exceptions) and I'm not really the target audience because I don't care about Orpheus and I don't get that "maybe this time he won't do it" feeling from that particular story, but from what I've heard about how they do the ending it's really cool!! It would probably work on me if I saw it tbh.

I love cyclical storytelling! And I think a lot of people in the MASH fandom like the same things I like with regards to playing with time, I notice that when I get into actual conversations. To me the real potential is in the ability of time tropes to portray how something feels. This is why I keep coming back to Slaughterhouse-5 and the idea of being unstuck in time. What Vonnegut did was give us this war veteran who is trying to live out his life, but is frequently, against his will, transported back in time to the most traumatic experiences of his life. Sometimes he's abducted, taken to a place where he is an alien, observed and put on display for everyone. It's PTSD, but made physical by science fiction elements. It's brilliant. And MASH is so ripe to do stuff like that! You can use the funky timeline and the meta of the show lasting 11 years, being rerun again and again and shown in syndication out of order, to dig into that. And I mean I literally have a time loop WIP so.

I really enjoyed this ask <3

[fantasies-fairytales-n-fics]

Thranduil and Josie Pt. 154- Rise From The Ashes

Summary: Garrett is alive, befuddled, angry and impaired. Josie senses the truth and acts. The Elvenking is evolving. Legolas is leery of daddy dearest more than ever. The Prince and his company are delayed. Raven pleads and warns. Tauriel is forced into submission. A strange pair arrives. An unpleasant throne gathering takes place. From the ashes, the evil dead rise.

*Warnings* DARK!!!! language, angst, alcohol use, suicidal thoughts, child death/loss

Stories Stories Stories Masterlist

Garrett stood dumbfounded and yet relieved as the blazing flames vanquished within seconds of covering his body. Gasping, he held his shaking hands out to see not one ounce of burned or boiled skin, nor had his clothing even been the least bit singed. He then, in panic, began patting his face and hair, finding it all in tact.

"What in the jinky... ass....fuck!!!" he shouted and kicked the gas can like a football with his vampire force, hurling it far into the woods.

"AMARA!!" Garrett howled into the broad open countryside to the Seelie Queen. "Get your short faerie ass out here! That's right. I called you short! What are you going to do about it, because you certainly cannot KILL ME! You know how I know, besides the obvious fact that I'm not a burnt gooey marshmallow right now? because last night I had my usual evil man tv dinner for my last meal and then I drank his blood after he died...and guess fucking what?? Ding ding ding! Heeeeere's GARRETT! I'm still a dead man walking! I know you can hear me Annabelle wannabe because your stupid little birds, bugs and the trees will nark on me!" he continued on his mocking rant with his arms stretched out wide, furrowed brows, fire engine red eyes and a grimace as he turned in circles.

There was nothing but silence for miles that his keen vampire ears could pick up.

"What are you waiting for huh??? I know what you did last summer! ok..well, this winter! with your little protection mark you put on me!"

Still, the silence was deafening and it enraged him even more.

"Fuck me...I've watched too many horror flicks." he snarled and stomped back into the cabin, damn near breaking the wooden steps with his angered strength.

Garrett stormed about the cabin, the old floor creaking beneath him as he guzzled one of the two bottles of whiskey he took from the dead man. He wasn't sure why because he certainly could not drink himself to death....but he could get shit faced and that was now his new plan.

After a night of drinking and plotting other ways to off himself, Garrett gave up as the twilight hours were leaving and breaking dawn was slowly on the rise. He plopped down on the antique couch, feeling depressed as he held an almost empty bottle in his hand. A vast cloud of dust puffed into the air upon his powerful impact which snapped one of the hand crafted legs off and it went spinning across the floor.

"Ruh Roh Raggy." he jested in his best Scooby voice and laughed so hard that he tipped over on his side in his inebriated state due to the now slanted couch.

Garrett was now face to face with his faithful guitar resting against the coffee table. He clumsily swiped it up and sat in silence to think of what he was going to play...or attempt to play, for he knew it was going to make the wolves howl in agony and also break his heart. It would be about you. It was always about you.

And of course, he chose a Bon Jovi song as he began to play, changing up a few words here and there in his poetic maudlin.

"This Romeo is bleeding but you can't see his blood. It's nothing but some feelings that this old vampire kicked up. It's been raining since I left you, now I'm drowning in your blood. You see, I've always been a fighter but without you, I give up. I can't sing a love song like the way it's meant to be. Well, I guess I'm not that good anymore but baby, that's just me. And I will love you, baby, always. And I'll be there forever and a day, always. I'll be there 'til the stars don't shine, 'til the heavens burst and the words don't rhyme and I know when I die, you'll be on my mind and I'll love you, always. Now your haunting face that you left behind are just memories of a different life. Some that made us laugh, some that made us cry, one that made me have to say goodbye. What I'd give to run my fingers through your hair, to touch your lips, to hold you near. When you say your prayers, try to understand, I've made mistakes, I'm just a man. When Narcisse holds you close, when he pulls you near, when he says the words you've been needing to hear, I wish I was him with these words of mine to say to you 'til the end of time that I will love you baby, always and I'll be there forever and a day, always. If you told me to cry for you, I could. If you told me to die for you, I would. Take a look at my face, there's no price I won't pay to say these words to you. Well, there ain't no luck in these loaded dice, but baby if you give me just one more try, we can pack up our old dreams and our old lives. We'll find a place where the sun still shines. And I will love you, baby, always........"

"Just say the word baby." he muttered and he closed his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks as he set the guitar down, remembering your secret code to take you away.

How he had hoped you and him really could go away together someday and just be happy, Leean too. But he knew you wouldn't want her in a vampire world and he couldn't blame you, for he didn't even like it or himself even. He just couldn't get over you seeing him like you did that night, his true form, although your sexy spitfire self would argue and tell him his true form was the man sitting there right on that broken couch, just as he was broken.

Garrett smiled and pictured your face as he laid his head back on the lopsided couch and spoke to you in a fading voice before drifting off into much needed sleep and sobering up.

"I'm your Tommy and you're my Gina, but all I am doing now is living on a prayer.

Garrett's singing traveled through your dream again and then you heard him speak, startling you awake.

"Garrett???" you gasped as you swiftly sat up to see Lola feeding Leean the magical Mirkwood water and the sun shining in the windows.

"Josie? Another dream?"

"I...I...how did...I don't remember falling asleep and..."

Your hands went to cover your face as you began crying, remembering what happened.

"It's not true...it can't be true.." you sobbed. Once again you were mourning someone you loved and you didn't know if you could live through it again, for you were still in mourning over Thranduil and it was all just too much.

Lola brought Leean to you as she sat beside you. "Maybe your visions are just like your dreams sometimes? Maybe they aren't what they appear to be?"

You took Leean and cuddled her so tight. Her little heart shaped lips curled into a smile at the vision of your face and her father's moonstone eyes danced in yours as she squealed in delight.

"Oh my little one, momma loves you so much." you told her and kissed her tiny perfect nose, trying to hold back any more tears after you realized what you had just called her.

You began to breast feed her and tried to focus on her face and not the haunting flashbacks of Garrett burning to death. You called to him over and over in your mind, but as usual, there was silence. How did you just hear him singing again? Was it solely just a dream and not him coming through? Something didn't feel right.

Your eyes caught sight of the Bon Jovi album on the desk that had felt like fire last night when you picked it up. You carried Leean with you and went back to it, hesitantly reaching out to touch it again. As you did, it was now cool to the touch and it surprisingly had not been damaged, just like when you had thrown it.

You placed your palm over it and closed your eyes, hoping to see another vision, hoping to see him alive....but again...there was nothing....although you faintly could hear the song again...you knew it too, but it wasn't on this album.

"Lola...can you change her and lay her down please?"

Lola did as you asked and you went to your cloak, pulling out the letter Garrett had given Selene to give to you. God, if you could only find Selene and talk to her. Surely she would know something by now.

Your eyes stung as you read it again, hoping you could find some clue in it that you missed before. A clue...it made you think of Daphne from Scooby Doo and you lightly giggled, thinking of how he always told you that she reminded him of you and always had to add that you were much hotter though.

"This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I am leaving Devil's Island. You will not see me again. You know you and I could never be and I cannot bear to look you in the eyes again after you saw the real me. I would rather be truly dead than to feel this kind of pain. Hopefully I can make that happen. The dumbest thing I ever did was fall in love with you but it's the happiest I have ever felt. I will carry the memories of you with me until my last breath. I am so sorry I have ever hurt you. I love you. Forever. Goodbye my little one....- Roman"

Jesus, how did you not see it before? Well, you did, but...you didn't really believe he would try to end his life. Then there was the fact that he signed his real name, for it was not Garrett writing those words.

You began to feel hot and nauseated. Were you feeling what he felt by touching his letter?? It couldn't be...it just couldn't be true! But then again, you had thought the same about Thranduil too...and it was. It was very true.

You sat down, feeling as if you were going to pass out.

"Josie?? Do you want me to get Haldir?" Lola asked in quick concern.

You remembered Haldir's words last night. That he was truly sorry. Like hell he was. He was probably down in the cellar, indulging in the wicked ale in celebration. Narcisse was probably with him too, sharing a toast and then they would head out to the archery and shoot arrows at a bullseye of Garrett's face. The thought made you roll your eyes.

"No...he does not care that Garrett is.....no damn it. I won't say it. I am going to go find out for myself...somehow."

"What? Go where Josie?? You mustn't leave or even go outside with Harker bei...."

"Fuck Harker. Something is wrong and Garrett needs me. I should have known it before." you proclaimed and began quickly dressing.

"At least tell me where you are going so..."

"So you can tell Narcisse and Haldir? They don't give a shit about him Lola."

"But they give s shit about you! and so do I! and so does Leean!" she snapped, shocking you.

You quickly hugged her. "I...I'm sorry. I know you do and I love you Lola. I just need to try and somehow find Selene, or Amara even. I feel that Garrett is why I saw the Seelie here yesterday. You know, my intuition and all."

"But...the Seelie Queen...her portal is in the dark forest...Josie, you cannot do this!"

"Lola...have you no faith in my powers? Did you forget I took Harker on all by myself yesterday?"

"And you only got away because you had help, which had scared him off."

"I could have taken him. The big bad wolf is no match for the rage that lives inside of little red riding hood."

"Josie...if you go...I will have no choice but to inform the others, even if it makes you angry with me."

"Then so be it...tell them. Garrett has saved my life more times than I can count...and your Legolas too!! I have to help him. He has no one but me."

"But... what if he really is dead?"

"No, no no..." you huffed and walked away, continuing on as you sat to tug your boots on. "But he will try again. I think Amara's mark protected him. I will not sit by and let the people I love be hurt. I was given my gifts for a reason Lola and it's damn time I use them and be who I'm meant to be, just like Sarah said. I will fight just as my King would fight for what he loves."

You then stopped to look in the mirror on your way out, speaking to yourself.

"To the gypsy that remains, she faces freedom with a little fear. Well, I have no fear. Thranduil my love...you see your gypsy...I still see your bright eyes...give me your strength."

Thranduil mumbled strange words in his sleep before opening his eyes to find himself in his bed with a splitting headache and no memory of how he got there or what happened.

"She is dancing away from you now. She was just a wish. Her memory is all that is left for you now. I see my gypsy."

The wicked wine made a sensible answer to him as he glanced at the three empty carafes.

He arose for the new day, not realizing the words he just spoke, and took his morning swim, accompanied by a tall glass of wine from a reserved carafe to ease his throbbing mind.

"Legolas. Are you there my son?"

The Prince was just packing up the boats after the night's rest when his father's voice rang through his mind loud and clear.

"I am here Adar. Is all well?"

"All will be well when you have fulfilled my request of returning my wife and child to their rightful places. Where are you now?"

"We are preparing to depart on the River Running. I estimate our arrival in Dorwinion by the next day's end."

"Very well. Do not fail the task my son. I expect what belongs to me to be in my sight and reach by the next week's end."

"Task? Is that what your wife and child are to you? You speak as if they are material belongings."

"Is that not what they are? Just as you are."

"They are not property, nor am I."

"I do not time for this Legolas or your weak sentimental heart. Do as you have been commanded. Insubordination will not be tolerated."

"You may be my father and my King, but you do not control my heart." Legolas fumed and shut Thranduil off.

"Legolas. Is everything alright?" Aragorn asked, noticing the elf's turmoil.

The prince was lost in thought for a moment to answer, for his father's behavior was still not sitting right with him, even after Thranduil had claimed he was healed.

"I am uncertain, for I am uncertain if I am doing what is right."

"You speak of King Thranduil's orders to bring the Queen and child back to Mirkwood?"

"Yes. Also, I am wary to even inform her of his survival. Something is amiss. I can feel it. I do not want to cause her more harm, for if my father is still under Jareth's mind conditioning, it will do just that."

Aragorn placed his hand on Legolas's shoulder and spoke to him with all sincerity.

"You must make a choice my friend and trust your heart, for as you just told your father, he does not control that part of you."

Legolas looked upon the kingly ranger with great trust of his wise words.

Their bonding moment was interrupted by Boromir appearing from the forest in a fraught.

"Orcs...orcs are upon us!"

"Well in that case, let us go hunt some orcs." Aragorn grinned, as did Gimli and Legolas, then all ran off to eliminate the tracking threat.

As Thranduil exited his pool, exasperated over his son cutting him off, he quickly selected his garments and groomed himself to go verify that all was being attended to by Tauriel regarding Raven.

His attention was caught by the gems laying upon the desk, yours and Jareth's, which suddenly sparked his memory of seeing you kissing Narcisse. There was no anger and jealousy this time, only a stronger desire to see you suffer as he locked your gem in a box and stuffed it away... out of sight, out of mind. The citrine, he then slipped upon his finger for it to get used to it's new owner.

The King made his way through his halls feeling quite unstoppable today, he heard Raven's squabbles with Tauriel as he neared the she elf's chamber. Upon entry, the vision of the dhampir tethered to the bed by all fours in iron shackles was quite the pleasureful image. Tauriel had chained her up after Raven had passed out the night prior, for she knew there was no other way to rid of the foul fetus when Raven had power.

"Well done Tauriel. Putrid as a dhampir is, powerless as she should be. Tell me, how did you come about the citrine and why were you concealing it from me?"

Raven saw the ring sparkle on his finger and the difference in his eyes, that being of Jareth's evil.

"Take it off!! You must take it off!! It will make you crazy like Jareth because your heart has been blackened by him!" Raven pleaded with eyes of fright as she hopelessly struggled, weakening by the minute from the iron.

Even Tauriel's eyes were of concern as she noticed the ring and changed demeanor of the Elvenking, which was not for the better. It was even in the way he held himself and moved about...like a slithering snake.

"It is futile to squirm and squawk. The deed will soon be done and then I will reclaim you at my side. Tauriel...finish it. I will then expect your presence at my throne for the meeting, for many changes are in need of addressing."

"Y..yes my lord..." she replied with a shaky tone, which Thranduil instantly noticed as he snapped his head towards her.

"Your resistance is one of them! Do you take me for a fool? My orders stand and they will be fulfilled, or I will fulfill your new destiny of eternity in my dungeons to rot."

Tauriel lightly gasped and gulped as tears stung her eyes, for she now knew the King had been fully taken over by Jareth's evil.

She stood firm and swallowed her tears. "Yes my lord Thranduil. Thy will be done."

"Nooo!! Are you both insane?? Do you not see what has happened?? Jareth has complete control of you now with that ring on your finger! It is his plan!! You destroyed his kingdom, now he will destroy yours! He has you trapped!"

"The only one that is trapped my dear dhampir, is...you." Thranduil smirked with a snicker as he confidently left the room.

"Tauriel, you can't do this! Please!! It is a child! If it were yours, would you let this happen???" Raven begged after Thranduil was out of sight.

"I...I am sorry...you know as well as any other the price I will pay at the King's wrath, especially now."

"But it will be far worse if you do it because Jareth wants his child! He told me so!"

"Then why would Jareth do this?? Besides, you and I both know the life this child will have if raised by that monster. This is for the best. I am sorry. I truly am. I do not want to do this, but I must."

"You selfish bitch!! You're doing this for yourself. Karma will find you. Jareth will find you. I will find you!!! No iron bars will keep him or his army of the dead out of this realm. You are no better than the goblin king!"

"Since when do you care for a child??? After what you have done to the dozens in Lake Town??"

"Since it is MY child! I am done explaining myself for what happened. I was a child myself!"

"Your child will be a threat to all of middle earth. Jareth will claim it and it will become a monster just like him. Keep wasting your breath and strength all you like. I am going to prepare now."

"No...Nooo NOOO! Somebody help me!!!!" Raven screamed and cried until she unwillingly became faint from exhaustion.

Tauriel mixed up an array of poisonous herbs in a bowl consisting of Belladonna, Silverbane, Wolfsbane and Oleander, in which it became a crimson paste. With tears in her eyes, she spread it about Raven's stomach and began the black magic recital of ominous words. When she was finished, she sat in the chair and cried, knowing it would only be a matter of minutes before it was all over.

And then it was. Tauriel fell out of the chair to her knees, shaking with both fear and rage as she watched a pool of blood seep out of Raven's pants. Before she cold collect herself and clean up the mess, the horns of border breach sounded.

Tauriel ran to the windowless window to see hundreds of elven guard scouring the perimeters of the halls and some heading into the forest. Gasping, she ran off to assist in her duties as captain of the guard, leaving the sleeping dhampir unattended.

Raven awoke to the blurry vision of two figures and muffled male voices, feeling as if she were either drunk or dying. Someone was vigorously rubbing and wiping her stomach with a cloth while she heard the snap of her iron shackles, one by one.

The scents, she recognized. One in particular as that of an unfamiliar vampire smelling of lavender and vanilla, and the other of a warlock she knew very well.

"Raven, can you hear me?" one voice said near her face, his breath smelling of...clover... and then her vision slightly cleared enough to see the eyes of the voice. One was brown, one was blue.

Instantly, she panicked and tried to scream, believing it was Jareth, but a large hand quickly covered her mouth.

"Raven! Shhh, it's me! it's me....Jace."

Her eyes then began to focus and widened in sheer joy. He had came back for her just like he promised.

Raven's attention then drifted to the other figure, the vampire she did not know.

"Who...who is that?" she asked of the tall, dark and handsome vamp with eyes of the ocean and a very distracting stone around his neck of a blushing rose color.

"Shhhh." the one like her whispered as he stared her down, then looked at Jace. "Jace...we must go...now."

"Raven...hold onto me." Jace commanded as he slid his arm under her legs and the other under her back.

She gazed up at him with smitten and stoned eyes. "Are... you going to take me away from this awful place...my..king?"

Jace sweetly grinned. "I am no king, but I will do just that."

Raven's arms gripped the warlock's neck tight as she burrowed her face into his intoxicating neck and he then shot out of the window as the mysterious vampire followed in a flash.

A vast majority of the Mirkwood elves surrounded Thranduil's throne, Tauriel and Feren before him as he paced about it in his scarlet robe with a look of darkness and disappointment upon his face. His voice was flat and sinister as he halted before them, leering down at the two speechless elves.

"How is it that with my two greatest captains and a regiment of highly skilled elven guard allowed two simple enemies to invade my lands and enter my halls, thus taking that of which does not belong to them??"

Thranduil's eyes narrowed at their silence and lowered eyes.

"If the cat does not release one of your tongues, my twin swords will."

"M..my lord...please...the horns sounded. I had to withhold my duties and aid in..." Tauriel swiftly answered, finally finding the courage to speak.

"Your duties were to guard the dhampir! As for the rest of you, there is no way to palliate the incompetence of your simple task in guarding my kingdom!" he snapped and slowly turned to pace about once more as he gathered his temper.

"I am reminded of the orc invasion on my docks many years ago and how thirteen diminutive dwarves escaped my dungeons under the nose of my guards. How convenient that one of those putrid greedy beings was that of your lover...Kili was it? Yes, I do believe that was it. That greed of desiring a lowly elf such as yourself caught up to him in the end, much like it did my son. Your soft spot for others, including the dhampir, is not compatible to the protection of this realm. The question now is, what do I do with you? For I feel there are no persuasive words for you to tell me."

Thranduil placed his arrogant nose in the air and walked off, gracefully wielding his sword and sheathed it, waiting on her reply.

Tauriel's eyes glistened of exasperated tears with the hurtful and intentional mention of Kili. How dare he, after all the hypocritical king had done himself. A king who believed his crown made him errorless, for all he had made was mistakes in his reborn state and then placed the fault on others.

Thranduil slowly turned and crept back to her with eyes of a lion targeting it's prey, serving intimidation as he leaned down, inches from her trembling lips and softly whispered.

"Your audacious tongue is fearless in your mind, but you have seemed to have forgotten that I can hear your thoughts at will, any day, any hour. Even when you sleep. Even the impure ones you have of myself. Maybe we can come to an arrangement to make them a reality this coming night."

Tauriel closed her eyes, letting the tears escape them as she searched for the right words to save her.

"M...mm..my lord...I..I have completed the task you asked of me. Surely that must count for something?"

"Is that so? Well then...you have nothing to fear."

His tone and eyes told her that she did...that she very much indeed had everything to fear.

"Now...Feren. You have been loyal beyond measure in all of your centuries here and are proficient in the responsibilities of supervising and maintaining this kingdom at my absence, as well as my son's, all which you have done commendably, with the exception of the care of my elk. The spider infestation, although not to my standards, has been kept to a manageable minimum. You have fought faithfully at my side in many of battles and destroyed the enemies. Your discernment is why you have remained here and yet, this day, a simple warlock and vampire eludes my people, including you."

"My lord...they...fly. We...cannot."

"We cannot fly? Hmm. It must be because we are ELVES. Tell me Feren, has all of your bows with arrows tainted with dead man's blood malfunctioned?"

"Well, no? my lord. They flew...too high for our reach."

"Oh...so what you are, in layman's terms per se, explaining to me is that it is actually the highly skilled archers that have malfunctioned? If you and my vast army cannot terminate TWO filthy fiends, do tell me how Jareth and his army of the dead can be defeated when they come...and they will come!!"

"Army..of the...dead..my lord? What does that mean?"

Thranduil's eyes fell shut as he heavily sighed and gritted his teeth.

"Not only did you go blind upon my arrival here and upon this day, but now you have gone deaf as well. What good are you to me?? It means that Jareth plans to unleash a weapon so great, it will destroy all before it." Thranduil explained with an ominous tone as he descended his platform.

"I want the watch doubled at our borders, all roads and all rivers, including the top of these halls and trees for air view. Since you are aware elves cannot fly, then be aware that they can climb and jump. If anything moves...kill it. That includes Jace Wayland and Matthew De Clermont. Find the dhampir and return her to me unharmed. No one enters this kingdom...and no one leaves it."

Jareth sat in the ruins of his kingdom that Thranduil had destroyed by dragon fire, knowing what the Elvenking had done to his child. His eyes, full of vengeance, were lost in the view of the dead forest as he twirled his three crystals round and round and round in his hand, for something inside of him had snapped far beyond the evil that he already was.

A part of him knew that Thranduil's revenge was justified, taking all that he loved as he had done to the elf lord, but that did not matter. Thranduil would pay a most dear price, this he vowed, as the wheels in his brain turned like the spheres in his hand. An eye for an eye for a final eye was where it all was at now by Jareth ending the vicious cycle once and for all and destroy all of middle earth, and he would have a child to replace the one taken from him as well.

"I will have the babe." he muttered through his teeth and then headed out to the special place where all had been prepared for the ritual to raise the evil dead by none other than his mind warped brother, Julian.

A pentagram had been displayed on the dusty floor of an old church not far from his labyrinth and the three pages from the book of the dead laid upon the altar, glowing in the candlelight.

"Time is short and it has come dear brother Julian. All will rue the day for those whom have ever crossed me. Like a thief in the night, the worst nightmares of every soul in middle earth will come true and I will take my rightful reign with my brothers and the demons of hell at my side and command. BEGIN!" Jareth howled.

"Yes bother."

Julian gathered the pages and took a seat. Flames formed over his hand as he smiled, swirling it about and then began to translate and read aloud the words of black magic, the blackest of them all.

The names of the dead were spoken and the list was quite long, but it was only a fraction of what would be released upon the world that night.

The sky darkened into a frenzy of Jareth's fellbeasts as wind, thunder and lightning consumed the dark realm in response to Julian's conjuring.

The names Julian vocalized were ones the woodland realm and beyond would personally know, for the Elvenking and all that he held dear, were the goblin king's main targets.

Those that were once evil before death, just as Jareth, would be far more diabolical than the devil himself and those that were of light would faithfully join the army of darkness in the destruction of all before them.

"Caroline, Carrie, Peter, Asher, Alfrid, Darken Rahl, Morwen, Malsha, Malsin, Maldyr, Kili, Viktor, Craven, Sally, Joliel, Kate, Orodreth, Olivia, Oropher, Carandolel, Smaug....."

A beam of fire spawned from the pentagram as a now cloaked Julian prepared to open the gates of hell.

The list from Julian's lips continued even further as he spoke into the blaze, including his four dead brothers and father Jasper, then carried on with Caroline's dead sisters and father as well.

And then....the portal to the world was opened and all of the dead were set free to wreak havoc and hell at their own will.

No dead were spared as hell on middle earth was unleashed, including Jareth's fiery wendigos, his sinister spies and killing machines.

"Go...assist in my take over. Eat drink and be merry! Kill them all! On Dasher, on Donner, on Prancer and Vixen, on Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen! Rise from the ashes!!!" Jareth commanded as he bellowed in malevolent laughter.

"There will be only one king. One king to rule them all!!!"

@redeemer46

[zalrb]

People on twitter are criticizing Brad Pitt's portrayal of Louis in IWTV and saying the show's Louis is way better and Brad's performance was lifeless and basically he was a cardboard cut-out. I mean I hate Brad Pitt but I feel like people are being extremely obtuse. Like maybe I'm just biased because I definitely prefer the movie, but I think every actor embodied their character extremely well, especially since Louis is meant to come off as like Godric in true blood; just completely done with life. And people are saying Tom and Brad had no chemistry which is just ridiculous? I feel like since the homoerotic elements are done way more subtly in the movie (which is better IMO), people are confusing chemistry for dynamic, since the show is way more overt. Anyway sorry for the long rambling, I would really just love to know your thoughts on Louis's character in the movie vs the TV show. BTW I do think the show has great actors and Jacob Anderson is amazing, I just don't get why people always have to hate on the movie. :)

Yeah, I saw that too and last season I saw the whole "the movie isn't even that good anyway" discourse and it made me roll my eyes because I agree with you, people are being obtuse about this.. Brad Pitt's acting isn't good in the movie, like it isn't particularly nuanced, it's not like he elevates anything, and yet he does manage to capture Louis being conflicted, melancholic and maudlin

but that's also because the movie doesn't rely on voiceover so I'm seeing Louis in the sewers

I'm seeing him just done

I'm getting the sense of what his relationship with Lestat is like with scenes of them just sitting at a dinner table and Lestat throwing grapes at him because Louis is such a downer and he's also just half a second away from just ending it all

and it pairs well with Tom Cruise's Lestat who dances with corpses

and has witticisms when killing people

so we get things like this

and it works. Brad's acting actually ends up lending itself to the campiness of the movie? The scene that twitter chose to rip him apart

Lestat's amused response to "YOU CONDEMNED ME TO HELL" and Brad's "ARRRGGGH" adds a level of irony and fun because it makes it over the top in the way it should be.

The movie's Louis is anguished over his own existence and having the dark gift.

With AMC's IWTV, I know Jacob can act, when they give him the room to let loose, he does it and definitely gives insight into Louis' anguish

but my issue has always been the in between moments, particularly in season 1 because of what the showrunners/creators said they wanted to deliver and what I thought we got

so while the show wanted to dig deeper and add layers and expand him in ways that the movie didn't, because I don't feel like the show really goes there constantly while the movie did and pulled no punches, when I think of IWTV outside of the books, my mind still goes straight to the movie and not to the show, my mind still goes to that Louis because it's not dialogue.

In terms of the different Loustats, yeah the movie is subtext

and Brad and Tom had the chemistry for that, it's eroticism, it's simulating sex through how they feed etc.

and I understand wanting something more direct and overt but so much of the directness in the show is through dialogue anyway, so many times I have yelled, I want to SEE this, so that when we get to season 2 and Louis is hallucinating Lestat and in such a state that he accidentally kills a human, I'm more invested in it because there were scenes of their relationship/seduction etc. that really makes it hit home.

[rosetintmyworld84]

I feels cheap, is the thing

So on the whole for OFMD season 2, episodes 1-5 were perfect, and episodes 6-8 felt rushed, and any plot points that weren't part of the Stede and Eddie show were seriously pushed to the wayside. Think about all the scenes featuring the rest of the crew, in moments that aren't about Ed and Stede in episodes 6, 7, and 8. They are incomplete. I think ultimately we can blame WB for that, since there are less episodes this season. But that finale should have been much longer.

***OFMD Season 2 Spoilers under the cut***

They were trying to go for an epic battle, and instead we got a handful of fight scenes, everyone running away, and Izzy being shot and dying almost as an after thought.

I'm not really going to get into whether or not he should have been killed (he really shouldn't, because killing a character off just after all the massive character development for their redemption is cheap and overused and I thought OFMD was better than that), but it should have had way more of an impact. On everyone. Not just Ed. Because that was kind of the whole point of Izzy's arc this season, moving beyond Ed and finding family and belonging with the rest of the crew. HE'S THE NEW FREAKIN UNICORN FOR GOD'S SAKES! They should be EFFECTED by his death. And his final words shouldn't be consoling Ed, and telling him that he has friends now. For that scene, it should have been Izzy being fatalist and maudlin (you're born alone, you die alone), and ED telling him he has family, that HE was loved. Even Stede seems kind of unbothered about Izzy dying. For all that "Ed, Stede, and Izzy's arcs are tied together" it sure seems like Izzy became an after thought.

But again, ultimately everything felt incredibly rushed, and because of that we get half a plot. Think back to season 1, where we had a full season long arc of Jim/Oluwande, where they were basically the basis of the B plots for almost the whole season, sort of being a mirror to the main romance. So far in season 2 we get Jim and Olu getting new love interests, kind of? There was the beginnings of relationship development through episode 5, and then it just kind of stopped. Because we kind of stopped spending any real amount of time with anyone that wasn't Ed and Stede. We don't get the deep dives into the rest of the crew. We don't get something like the growth of the Black Pete/Lucius relationship over multiple episodes, without it being forgotten or overwritten (literally the entire plot of Izzy's relationship with the crew of the Revenge and Stede). Frenchie and Jim, integral in the first 3 episodes are afterthoughts. Roach, Black Pete, and Wee John are barely in the episodes.

We get some moments, but they aren't connected to anything else happening. It is all planting and no payoff. It's Buttons becoming a seagull to just make a weird cameo at the end. It's Stede leaving piracy with Ed after NO conversation at all. It's the crew riding off with Zheng and Spanish Jackie, and WHO THE HELL IS CAPTAINING THIS SHIP? It's the Republic of Pirates still under occupation, because they didn't do the big damn hero thing.

And I get it, they weren't sure if they'd get a season 3 so they wanted everything wrapped up, but the plot suffers for it. It's an amputated story, where nothing feels earned, or completed. There was more narrative weight tot he death of Karl the seagull than Izzy Hands.

I mean why have him make the speech about belonging, if no one seems to care that he dies?

All of this to give more air time to Ed/Stede, and they still didn't really complete that either. Things I loved about the finale, the opening with Ed totally not knowing how to do any actual fishing work, parallel to episode 1 at Jackie's with the occupation, Zheng getting used to failing, Izzy being a legend, and badass montage. Just really wish they'd have actually done something with this episode other than looking kind of cool.

I wish the last 3 episodes had the time they needed to breath and be full episodes, but here we are.

Anyways, the great thing about fandom is ignoring canon when we want, or fixing it, so I'm going to need lots of fic filing in the grieving of the crew, and also seagull Buttons raising Izzy from the dead on my desk by next week.

[dreaminghour]

✨

Thank you <3

Star Wars. Obikin. This WIP was based on a "drunken confession" prompt. Post war's end.

~~~

"What're you looking at?" Anakin grumbled.

"You," Obi-Wan replied guilelessly.

Anakin scrunched one eye as he opened it, his brow furrowed.

"Why?" he grumbled.

"I'm just looking my fill now that we're mostly safe." He sighed. "Unless there's another Sith hiding in a clone factory somewhere."

"Urgh," Anakin said, sounding thoroughly disgusted. "Don't even joke."

"I know there's always dangers… That's the nature of what we've chosen to do…" Obi-Wan gazed off into the distance, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up as he realized that Anakin was staring at him. "What?"

"Does drinking make you maudlin or something? Yes, being a Jedi is dangerous. You're reminding me of the talk Qui-Gon gave me when he first picked me up."

At that reminder of how they'd come to be connected — his late master's penchant for picking up those who needed help most desperately — something raw broke open inside Obi-Wan.

"Listen, I'm trying to tell you something—" Obi-Wan desperately sucked down air, trying to not lose control but rapidly feeling there was nothing he could do, not about this, and certainly not about the unfeeling spiral and tilt of the galaxy. "I was never able to tell Qui-Gon just how much he mattered to me."

"Okay, hang on, I think I need to be sitting for this," Anakin said, sounding alarmingly awake.

~~~

Gonna tag this "obikin drunken confession" in case anyone wants to read more~

[staybabblingbaby]

Soulmate Garden AU Ch.4 (Lewisia) a2d2

[Caution: These are not full fics, or even full parts of fics for some, these are part of my writing progress archive!]

Concept: Growing up, you knew Soulmates weren't all that they cracked up to be. So when, on your 18th birthday, your skin is painted with a garden of flower buds, you resolve to hide it from everyone. Who had ever heard of someone with 8 soulmates, anyway?

Or; Reader has 8 soulmates and no issue avoiding all of them. It's up to SKZ to show her that while every soulbond might not be made of fairy tales, theirs certainly could be.

Word Count: 1,558

TO THE UNAWARE: THIS IS A PROGRESS UPDATE OF A CHAPTER NOT REMOTELY CLOSE TO DONE! PLEASE DON'T EXPECT A FULL OR POLISHED PRODUCT HERE

Notes: I told y'all that I was being lazy. We gotta play catch up now :c This is... roughly 1/3 of Ch.4? maybe more? I'm hoping to have them have a decent conversation but that's beyond me sometimes ^^;;

Dividers by @saradika

Warnings: She/Her Reader, Flashback (yelling), pls lmk if this needs smthn more specific

Leave me comments or questions or anything! Love hearing from folks <3

Masterlist <3 | Main Part (Unfinished </3)

The next morning marks a return to routine.

You roll out of bed half awake, sleep-mused and ready for murder. Your mood isn’t improved by the way you’d gone to bed - still in your work clothes with day-after mascara gluing your eyelids together.

A quick stop by the restroom to strip and scrub your face is a necessity, or you’re liable to just crawl back into bed and exist there. You brush your teeth while you’re there, doing your best to ignore grey streaks down your cheeks where your eyeliner hadn’t been as water-proof as advertised.

You don’t even know why you’d cried. After all, it’s not like you were the one rejected by your soulmate for no reason.

You do your best to shake off the maudlin feeling of the morning and lumber your way into the kitchen. You spy your twenty on the counter where you’d left it. You press your lips together to stop the bottom one from trembling and open the fridge. There’s a plate of eggs, fruit, and toast inside.

Taylor, freak of nature that he is, has been up for hours already, you know. He’d probably been up and out the door before the run had even thought about rising. Weirdo.

your roommate is well aware of how non-functional you can be in the morning, so it’s not unusual of him to leave you leftovers when he makes breakfast. The little note on top isn’t new either, usually a reminder, grocery list, or a little encouragement for your day. The whole thing makes you smile, usually.

Today that little note makes your eyes prick with a new wave of tears.

‘Give yourself a chance. Bet’s still on <3’

You very deliberately do NOT cry, though it’s a near thing. You’d done enough crying last night. But if you sniffle a bit into your eggs, well. That’s for you to know, isn’t it?

It’s a Tuesday, so after breakfast you drag yourself back to your room to throw on your largest, rattiest, t-shirt and a pair of leggings to head to the gym.

You can’t help your eyes from catching on the newly-bloomed marks on your skin when you strip away your sleepwear, and you realize that you hadn’t had the opportunity to study your mark in days. Things have been... hectic, to say the least.

In the name of returning to your baseline, you figure you can’t ignore this part of your routine either.

You amble over to your closet, swinging open the door to reveal the full-length mirror hanging on the other side. You don’t bother with your usual rounds of self-depreciation or daily affirmations. Instead, you find your eyes glued to droopy purple petals and blankets of white stars across your abdomen.

The names of the flowers come to mind with ease as you trace gentle fingers over echoes of delicate petals. ‘Bellflowers’ You recite to yourself, drawing your finger up thin stalks and back down dipped heads. ‘Edelweiss’ you muse, lightly tapping each fuzzy white star.

The knowledge comes easily to you, not from any cosmic force, but because of course it does. Your sister hadn’t been wrong when she’d said that asking a person’s favorite flower had been basically an obsession of yours.

The habit had started well before you’d gotten your mark. Before you’d even properly known what soulmates were, really.

Gardening with your mother had started as a way for her to drag you out of the house to get some sun while keeping an easy eye on you. Before your sister was born you’d spent many a joyous afternoon learning to work the soil beside your mother.

After the advent of your favorite gremlin, you’d spent those afternoons tending to the family garden alone. You remember being grateful to the newborn back then. Those solitary afternoons were some of the most peaceful in your memory.

At some point the ‘family garden’ had become more ‘your garden’. Your mother wouldn’t even bother to plan it out with you by your sister’s toddler years. She’d drive you to the store, hand you a bit of cash, and leave it all in your tiny hands.

You’d spend hours researching the best ways to nurture your plants. How to have them thriving more brightly, more beautifully, for longer. If you weren’t in the garden you were in the library by your house, nose buried in a gardening book.

You vividly remember the day it all went wrong.

It hadn’t even been that dramatic, as you recall. At least, not in terms of your parent’s usual fights. It was heartbreak- despair- that marked the day, instead of fear.

You’d been digging up weeds, clawing up deep roots with your gloved hands and a trowel, when your father had come storming outside. You don’t even remember what he’d said. Something about you always taking your mother’s side because of your shared hobby, you think.

Never mind that the woman hadn’t put so much as a toenail to the dirt since your sister had been born.

He hadn’t let up for quite a while, if memory serves. Stood there yelling at you in your safe space for close to an hour. Maybe two, but your child-brain couldn’t be trusted with the time. It might have just been minutes, now that you think about it.

Nonetheless he’d yelled and yelled and yelled. He hadn’t trampled on or broken anything, hadn’t even made sense. And yet, when he’d finally left, everything was different.

The blooms you’d worked so hard to nurture were no longer beautiful, and the soil you’d once called home was no longer safe.

You hadn’t tended another garden after that season. You’d seen your plants to winter, and you’d let go. You’d turn away from the sun and soil and leaned into your books and silly questions to fill the hole left behind.

You’re sure you left claw marks in the dirt.

Something like a gentle humming fills your soul, and you notice how tightly you're clutching the garden around your waist. You gingerly pry your hands away and study the crescent moons you’ve left behind, soft skin indented where petals should have ripped.

You wonder if you’ll leave claw-marks in this garden too.

You tear your eyes away from the mirror, ignoring the gentle tingling up your side where your fingers had dug in. You quickly toss on a camisole, forgoing your usual privacy wraps, and your t-shirt over that.

There was nothing for emptying your mind quite like running yourself into the ground at the gym. With full awareness that you’re going to regret your gym session later, you flee your apartment.

Maybe jogging all the way to gym wasn’t such a great idea. It’d sounded fantastic at the time, a head start on your cardio and a way to remove yourself from your negative headspace before you tried to toss around weights you barely knew how to use.

It had sort of worked, but now you hadn’t even entered the building and you were already a sweaty, panting, mess.

After guzzling down half of your water bottle you enter the building, resignation in your heart. Cardio wasn’t even your focus today.

The automatic doors slide open with their usual swish, and you’re greeting by the familiar stale smell all gyms seem to share, no matter how clean. It’s comforting, even if you do wish you could go home already.

There’s a guy already at the receptionist’s desk when you approach, talking in slow and measured English. His back is broad and built, huge biceps on display in a tight fitting black t-shirt. You kinda wanna squish them.

You try to shake yourself from your admiration, reminding yourself that there were very many well-muscled men in this place and that you’d always endeavored to keep a polite line-of-sight, even when they don’t. It hadn’t even been a hard ask, until now.

You really can’t help the way your eyes trace up and down his form. It should be impossible, you think, to somehow bulk up in only the right places, but by Jove his man has done it. This time you physically shake your head to snap yourself out of it.

You’d be polite if it killed you. Even if neither the stranger or the scrawny receptionist had noticed your wandering gaze.

Especially then.

While you were.... distracted... the man’s conversation with the receptionist seemed to be going a whole lot of nowhere. From what you can gather he’s looking for a short-term membership, and the receptionist is trying to tell him they don’t do that.

You know this to be true, even the trial period was an entire month. You’d specifically chosen this gym for that reason. If you hadn’t been able to stick it out for a month, you know you’d have never used the place enough to justify a membership.

Your sympathies to this stranger, it seems he really just needs a little less than a week. You know there are some no-commitment type places not too far though, so you wonder why he’s stuck on this place.

Their back and forth goes a while longer, but it’s evident that the beautifully-built stranger can’t really argue his case properly.

Eventually he steps to the side to make a call, and you’re able to approach the counter.