#instead i am in a lonely echo chamber

[tinylilvalery]

always gonna be upsetting to me that Tumblr doesn't go Tomgreg level batshit over Peep Show

[symbologic]

y'all, most of my tumblr is a time capsule from 2016 and earlier. A lot's happened since then. Changed continents, changed careers, got psychotherapy and then physical therapy. My corner of fandom was pretty much exclusively on Plurk, and not even consistently

then the OPLA happened, and it got me in a chokehold. I'd been back on my OP bullshit for over a couple years now, so it was kind of inevitable

But now I crave discussions and community and gushing over faves 💔 at the same time, fan communities feel so fragmented in the post-LJ era. it's hard to find like-minded people, but I'm doin' my best!!

[ozai-the-bonsai]

Could you write for Daemon targaryen like currently after all those nightmares in harnehal he finds a prisoner of harnehal as the only person who brings him peace him falling in love with her and trying to be better person he still fights for team black obviously rahaenya is definitely not happy with these arrangements especially seeing him all dedicated all in love some things he never have done for her but she have no option currently rather accepting his second wife though at the end when team black would be winning and fight at harnehal like aemond Vs Daemon she ask for reader's head happy ending at the end please or anything you wanna write I just wanna see Daemon happy in love at end please

Finally I have time for my hobbies again! Sorry I left you waiting for ages, this term the exam season was tougher than what I have been accustomed to… Anyways, I have started writing some stuff and I wanted to post the intro instead of writing a full-length chapter 1 since it would have taken a couple more days (:

As a side note, I honestly have no idea where this story will be headed because I have no clear course planned, I had some little ideas and I just started writing them. Also I will be introducing stuff which is not in the asoiaf universe.

I am continuing to read Silmarillion from where I left off and let’s say the ideas about Daemon’s love interest are… inspired from what I have been reading (; Enjoy!

Memento Mori

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: strong language, I am not a native English speaker, reader is (or will be) described with long hair

This is a very short introduction! Also the chapter is from Daemon’s pov. The title is inspired by Memento Mori by Lamb of God (the song has been a great inspiration for the story so far)

The dungeons of Harrenhal were cold, wet and lonely.

He had no idea when, how and why he had gone down there – one moment, he was in his chambers and the next, he was opening his eyes to the mossy stone walls of the dark dungeons with a torch in his hand. The line between dreams and reality was becoming thinner each day he spent in this cursed castle.

As Daemon walked past the empty cells, he tried to shake off this unsettling feeling lingering around him, dancing on his neck on its tippy toes, making him wonder whether he was indeed alone.

I doubt Simon Strong keeps prisoners down here, he thought while wiping the water from his forehead which was dripping from the broken ceiling. Maybe he has decided to lock up the witch?

Just when the Rogue Prince – correction, the King Consort – was about to turn back and leave the depressing, humid and somewhat eerie atmosphere of the dungeons behind, a soft humming reached his ears.

A soft, sweet humming of a song coming from one of the cells at the very end of the darkness.

“What kind of prisoner is Simon Strong hiding here?” Daemon asked, his voice created echoes as he waved the torch in front of him, trying to cast some light.

The humming stopped immediately, as if the sound itself was cut by a knife.

Daemon’s purple eyes widened upon seeing that the last cell was indeed not empty.

There was a young woman inside, looking at him with her eyes full of curiosity. Her hair had an unearthly shine under the dim moonlight. She tilted her head to the side. “You can see me?” She asked, it was the same soft voice from a moment ago, though the sweetness was no longer there to be felt.

Daemon raised an eyebrow at her direction. “Do people not see you?”

The young woman shook her head, her movements – no matter how simple they were – felt almost too harmonious. “Not normally, it is not intended that I am seen.” Stopping for a moment, she eyed Daemon from head to foot. “You are not really here, are you?”

The raised eyebrow quickly turned into a frown. “What do you mean? I am standing in front of you.”

She shook her head once again. As her soft whisper filled his eyes, Daemon started falling into the nothingness, again, for the unknown-th time ever since he had come to Harrenhal.

“Wake up.”

***

When he woke up, trying to catch his breath, Daemon found himself lying on his bed, as always. Anytime he had one of those weird dreams – he wasn’t even sure if he should call them dreams anymore – his consciousness would find its way back to his bed.

Unless he was daydreaming, which were considerably the worse.

“Who the fuck was that weird woman?” Daemon muttered to himself as he stood up, dressing up in his regular robes. The feeling in his stomach was telling him that he had to go down there, to the dungeons, to find that woman. If he were to wait until dawn, he feared she might be gone.

What was it that she said again? It is not intended she is seen?

Leaving his chambers with a torch in his right hand, Daemon shook his head to the thoughts flowing through his mind, causing his silver hair to move. “Weird woman,” he muttered to himself as he walked through the dark corridors of the castle with haste. “She somehow reminds me of the witch.”

The dungeons were as dark and wet as he remembered from the dream. A cold wind was wandering besides him, kissing the mossy walls and licking Daemon’s skin, sometimes whispering wicked words in his ears. Even the wind was odd here, in Harrenhal, but he had somewhat got used to it – hearing its eerie whispers whenever he walked alone during the hour of the wolf.

“Show yourself,” Daemon spoke with a strong voice which created echoes as he stood in front of that very cell from his dream. “Your king commands it!”

“Huh, king?” The same soft voice answered from the dark corner of her cell. The moonlight had left its shining spot, leaving the torch in Daemon’s hands as the only source of light in this entire corridor of the dungeons. “I answer to no king.”

A condescending scoff left Daemon’s lips as he came closer to the bars made of steel, separating him and the weird woman. “You do live in Westros, do you not?” Daemon asked, not really waiting for an answer. “As long as you breathe in this land, you do answer to the King.”

A chuckle came from the darkness. “I have been breathing in this land before your ancestors flew across the Narrow Sea, Daemon Targaryen.”

Taglist: @throughgoeshamilton @mirandastuckinthe80s @xicesam @mariamyousef702 @eddiemadmunson @dont-try-pesticide @sweetybuzz25 @hc-geralt-23 @schniiipsel @ttae-yong @syrma-sensei @asiludida164 @kaitieskidmore1 @irmavanity-blog @pax-2735 @trickrtreatart @shanzeyxsyed @random-human02 @scarwicht @xcallmetaniax @instabull @niiight-dreamerrrr @my-dark-prince @stargaryenx @abaker74 @babywolff @sonnensplitter @bi-narystars @softtina @sadmonke @avalyaaa

[rainystarters]

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪🗡ྀ࿔ 〖 and other stories . . . 〗 a collection of dialogue + action prompts inspired by angela carter's the bloody chamber and other stories. some prompts usfw. add +reversed for the muse receiving the meme to perform the action instead. adjust details as necessary.

dialogue :

are you sure you want to marry him?

oh! how you must want me!

soon.

i had never been vain until i met you.

anticipation is the greater part of pleasure.

all the better to see you.

what is that key? the key to your heart?

every man must have one secret, even if only one, from his wife.

all is yours, everywhere is open to you.

but now... what shall i do now?

my darling, i cannot wait for the moment when you make me yours completely.

there is a striking resemblance between the act of love and the ministrations of a torturer.

you are in some great distress.

any bride brought to a castle should come ready dressed in mourning.

oh god. i can smell the blood.

i thought all these were old wives' tales, chattering of fools, spooks to scare bad children into good behavior!

can't it wait until morning, my darling?

who can say what i deserve or no?

i've done nothing; but that may be sufficient reason for condemning me.

i have a place prepared for your exquisite corpse upon my display of flesh.

good fellow? i am no good fellow.

forgive me for robbing your garden!

all she wanted, in the whole world, was one white, perfect rose.

and what else was there to be done?

they are the death of any tender herbivore.

so late! you will want sleep.

you will come back to me? it will be lonely here, without you.

i will come back. soon, before the winter is over.

i am sick and i must die.

if you'll have me, i'll never leave you.

i think i might be able to manage a little breakfast today.

i have lost my pearl, my pearl beyond price.

if you are so careless of your treasure, you should expect them to be taken from you.

for all my pride, my heart is heavy.

if you wish to give me money, then i should be pleased to receive it.

i shall twist a noose out of my bed linen and hang myself with it.

you are a woman of honor.

nothing human lives here.

we have dispensed with servants.

take off my clothes for you, like a ballet girl? is that all you want of me?

all cats are cynics.

you read my thoughts, my love.

the woods enclose. the wood swallows you up.

all will fall still, all lapse.

it is easy to lose yourself in these woods.

i thought that nobody was in the wood but me.

there are some eyes can eat you.

sometimes the birds, at random, all singing, strike a chord.

eat me, drink me.

dive in and fetch it for me.

now you are at the place of annihilation.

and she is herself a cave full of echoes, she is a system of repetitions, she is a closed circuit.

can a bird sing only the song it knows or can it learn a new song?

beauty is a symptom of disorder, of soullessness.

a single kiss woke up the sleeping beauty in the wood.

be he alive or be he dead.

coffee. you must have coffee.

welcome. welcome to my chateau.

i rarely receive visitors and that's a misfortune since nothing animates me half as much as the presence of a stranger.

this place is so lonely.

now the village is deserted.

often i am so silent that i think i, too, will soon forget how to do so and nobody will ever talk any more.

i must apologize for the lack of light.

you have such a fine throat, like a column of marble.

i am condemned to solitude and dark.

i do not mean to hurt you.

i will be very gentle.

and could love free me from the shadows?

i've been waiting for you in my wedding dress, why have you delayed for so long.

you will feel no pain, my darling.

so delicate and damned, poor thing. quite damned.

the end of exile is the end of being.

it is a northern country; they have cold weather, they have cold hearts.

the devil is as real as you or i.

do not leave the path.

you are always in danger in the forest.

they are as unkind as plague.

fear and flee the wolf; for, worst of all, the wolf may be more than he seems.

besides, aren't you afraid of the wolves?

actions :

clasp. from behind, the sender places their hands over the receiver's eyes.

opera. through opera glasses, the sender watches the receiver.

choker. the sender fastens a gemstone necklace around the receiver's neck.

carriage. the sender locks the receiver in with them in their train compartment.

spine. the sender presses a kiss to the back of the receiver's bare neck.

cigar. the sender leans in and blows smoke in the receiver's face.

ermine. the sender wraps the furs around the receiver tighter as the snow falls.

keys. the sender silently enters the room and listens to the receiver play piano.

harem. the sender undresses the receiver before a collection of mirrors.

lazy. the sender brings the receiver breakfast in bed.

call. the sender calls the receiver and bursts into tears upon hearing their voice.

note. the sender discovers a love letter sent to the receiver from a previous lover.

death. the sender finds the receiver with the body of their latest victim.

hospitality. the sender watches from the shadows as the receiver take refuge from a storm in the sender's seemingly abandoned home.

servant. invisible, the sender feeds/washes/cares for the receiver.

hearth. the sender and the receiver talk past midnight by the fire's light.

hands. the sender falls to their knees before the receiver and kisses their hands.

bouquet. the sender has a hundred white roses sent to the receiver.

reunion. the sender lays eyes upon the receiver for the first time in an age.

bad luck. the sender hangs their head having lost a bet to the receiver.

voice. the sender sends their valet to speak their desires to the receiver.

powder. the sender dresses/makes up the receiver before an important night.

stallion. the sender grabs the reins of the receiver's horse and leads them away.

weep. the sender cries at the sight of the receiver in such a state.

dry. the sender brushes a tear from the receiver's cheek.

flush. the sender pinches the receiver's skin, watching it redden with blood.

prey. the sender guides the receiver's hands as together they skin a rabbit.

song. the sender sings and the receiver is spellbound, their feet following their song's command.

caught. the sender locks the receiver into a cage.

green. by the sender's command, the growth begins to take over the receiver.

tarot. the sender tells the receiver they are doomed to a sad fate.

stain. the sender touches the bloodstain on the receiver's white negligée.

wild. the sender rides hard through the night, chasing the receiver.

thirst. the sender sinks their teeth into the neck of the receiver.

china. the sender pours tea for the receiver and offers them biscuits.

blemish. the sender explores the receiver's skin and finds the mark of a witch.

wolf. the wolf reveals themself to be the sender before the receiver.

muzzle. the sender kisses the monstrous mouth of the receiver.

[obsessivelysweet]

Our Lovely Scorched Sun

Part 1

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hello! Long time no see lol. I have just been busy with work and life, honestly, but I got some inspo and motivation, so here I am with this post. I wanted to do a different take on the SAGAU, but instead of normal creator, what if we had a presence of an Eldritch horror? Just being near us hurts them or touching our skin burns them, ya know? Like that kind of route. Reader is FemReader! Also, this is gonna be multiple parts! Also, sorry for any errors! I tried my best, hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Blood, gore, self h4rm, mental breakdowns, angst.

Story under the cut!

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

You were their god, their salvation during dark times, their reason for living. When you finally descended into Teyvat, you were stunning, breathtaking even. A white flowly dress hugged your form as Teyvat softened your fall with flowers beneath you.

Your (h/c) falling around you like soft leaves, outlining your face. You were sleeping peacefully.

It was so serene.

You were beautiful even as they watched you softly fall.

Your followers were kneeling before you when you awoke from your slumber. Everything was hazy as your eyelashes fluttered open, the sun blazing onto your face, the gentle breeze softly pecking your cheek, and the soft whispers of people felt so surreal yet warm.

You looked around to see the characters you loved so dearly look at you with admiration, waiting for you to speak. It was truly a blessing to witness their creator finally here, with them, about to be worshiped by them.

However, this serene scene soon turned into cries of pain. Everything happened so fast. One moment, the characters you loved reaching to help you up, and the next moment, they recoil back screaming in agony as their skin blisters from something boiling hot.

It wasn't just their skin, either. It was their eyes as they looked upon you. It felt like they were staring into the sun, like daggers stabbing their eyes countless of time. Eyes tearing up from the intense pain, bloodshot even.

However, amongst the chaos, your followers still tried to comfort you as you began to panic as the scene got worse. They just wanted to help and make sure you were safe. However, even those followers got burned. Without thinking you got up and ran away, scared from what was happening, you didn't know if it was you causeing it or something else, but your mind said to run. Your followers screamed your name to come back, and even as they were screaming cries of pain, they still wanted their creator with them.

Months passed, and everyone learned how to live with their creator. You in the lavish palace they made for you, adorned with the most finest furnishings, colors, and flowers. You don't see any of the characters or be close to them at all. You have to stay in the palace, almost like a bird in a cage, alone. The only company you have is the sky and the breeze of the winds outside from your windows.

You gotten used to the quiet halls and the echoing audeince chamber. This was the only way for everyone to be safe.

You kept saying to yourself, "No more pain or screams from anyone."

When its time to eat, get new supplies, or get letters they wrote, a trusted follower will come inside your abode. The follower will put everything where its meant to be, while you are on the other side far from them, so your presnce doesnt effect them. This took a while to figure out, but if you're a good distance from them, they're safe.

Once you hear a bell ring, that's your cue that you can go back. This is how yall coexist, their creator safe and sound, and your followers are safe and sound. However, no one was truly happy in this situation. You were lonely, touch starved for human interaction, while your follwoers wanted to be closer to you, help you, be by your side..to fully worship you. It was years when you finally snapped, sick of being truly alone, you wanted to end it all. You were tired of just existing.

God, you were tired.

You started thrashing around your room, throwing plants, pillows, perfums, candles, anything really you can get your hands on. Suddenly, you hear a crash, and like a sign, you look towards the noise only to find your vanity mirror. It was broken, some pieces fell onto the marble floor, while the rest stayed in the mirror. Walking towards it, you saw your reflection, your e/c orbs looking back at you. The night gown you were wearing was a mess, hair in disarray, puffy eyes shown hours of crying. This is you, as pretty as you were, you were disgusted at yourself. And it didn't help that this reflection of you was broken. Jagged pieces showed yourself as broken. Which is how you felt truly at this moment. You were exhausted, angry, and humiliated at the face, looking back at you.

This body of yours was like posion to others, turning and twisting their faces into agnoy. That's when something inside of you erupted, sending your hands to your face. Tearing at your skin, you didn't feel any pain, too high on the aderaline to notice. Your nails dig deeper into your flesh, wishing this body, this flesh of yours didn't exist. Your once clean, beautiful nails were now coated in golden blood.

This was your fault.

If only you didn't have this body, you would be normal, be able to be with everyone. After what seemed like forever, the pain finally hit you, your raw flesh burned, golden hot liquid staining your gown, pooling at the ground. You gotten so deep that you saw bits of bone. You screamed in agony, trying not to touch your face, grabbing onto anything to squeeze your hands onto, to lessen the pain. While in this panic state, you saw your reflection one more time. This time, though, it was grotesque and feral. You looked non-human, almost like some kind of monster. Even though you saw the raw flesh, the bone, the veins, your mind told you this was your true form. The beauty you had earlier was an illusion, which made you sob from the realization. Soon, everything was turning hazy as your body began to shut down. It was all too much for you. With a loud thud, your body fell onto the same marble floor that was covered with your golden blood.

You awoke to the birds chirping outside, the soft morning light hitting your face to wake you. You slowly opened your eyes to see the marbled floor and the dry blood before you. In the same spot when you first fell, slowly getting up, you looked around to see the mess you made. Instinctively grabbing at your hair as pain surges from your head, the fall being to blame, you slowly pulled away to look around. You were still a bit hazy from sleep, so it was somewhat hard to focus on what's in front of you.

You were about to rub your eyes to wake up some more. However, you tensed up when you remembered about last night. Unfortunately, you realized too late, fearing for the buring sensation to come back, you closed your eyes to brace for the pain.

However, to your surprise, you didn't feel any burning or raw flesh in that matter either. Just your normal skin, like if none of what happened last night even transpired. It took you a second to snap out of your shock state to look at yourself in the mirror. Like a moth to a flame, you cling to the mirror, scanning your features from the jagged pieces.

You couldn't believe it.

There was no blood, no bone, no raw flesh being exposed.

It was fine.

You were fine.

You looked beautiful.

The only notion that something happened last night was the blood, the mess of the room, and the scars on your face. Like a reminder that you are stuck as you are, in this body, with this face, and with this flesh. Forever to be alone living like this.

Forever.

[thoughtsfromlayla]

Chapter Two - Trepidation

Summary: With palace life, you are never truly alone, but that doesn't mean you aren't lonely. Even when you meet new people, it seems they place you at an arm's length away. You walked on eggshells while people worshiped the very steps all the same. 

Notes: ~5.1k words, centers a lot around Reader this chapter, Morpheus doesn't appear until the later bits soz

Warnings: Morpheus being a lil bitch, reader is a chronic overthinker and same girlie

Tag list is open! Just let me know :)

☾ ✴ ๋࣭ ⭑․⋆⋮. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆⋮⋆․ ․⋆⋮. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆⋮⋆․ ․⋆⋮. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆⋮⋆․

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Trepidation (n.) - a feeling of fear or anxiety about something that may yet happen

It’s very unlady-like to sneak back into your own room. You had only done it once before, when you were younger and less refined and even then you were caught by the housekeeper soon after. But this time it seems the stakes are raised. The halls are completely empty, the moon still has domination over the night sky, and the sun has yet to make its debut.

You have stayed in Morpheus’ bed for a few hours after he left you alone. The rules of palace life are still vague to the best of your knowledge, but after tossing and turning without getting any sleep, you figure it would just be easier to do it in the comforts of your own room. Is this considered rude? You’re not entirely sure. It seems rude to leave your husband’s chambers on the night of your wedding. Then you remind yourself that nothing actually happened… so perhaps it wasn’t as crude as your mind made it out to be. 

You stop dead in your tracks when you see a lone guard stood at the front of your door. Your hands are quick to cross over your chest, the mere nightgown you were wearing was certainly not presentable to anyone else’s eyes. You stay frozen as you glance over his appearance. You were so dead. They’re going to hang you by the gallows and parade your sad body throughout the kingdom as a warning to other maidens that sneak out of their husbands rooms in the middle of the night. 

The knight is dressed in black armor, completely different from the other soldiers you’ve seen around the castle who seem to don silver instead. His helmet represents that of a bird of some kind, a raven if you had to guess. With his arm crossed, he came off domineering and revered and you had half of a mind to turn back around so you wouldn’t get caught by him. 

The beak of his helmet clinks against his chest plate and your muscles stiffen while confusion swipes across your face. A loud snore completely catches you off guard and you brace your teeth against each other as the sound reverberates across the empty halls. Your eyes dart around, hoping to any deity that is willing to listen to you that no one was around to hear. 

A long pause passes and not even a cricket chirps. Another snore emits from the black knight before you consider it safe to pass. You slide your feet across the floor, keeping your footsteps as quiet as possible as you walk up to the bedroom door. Every noise seems to heighten to something ten times greater than what it actually was. The click of the door knob, the slight creak of the door, and the locking mechanism all made you grimace in case it is enough to wake the sleeping knight. 

The bed is grandiose, cool, firm, and simply perfect against your tired body. You think that you would get a few winks of sleep before the sun rises. Yet, even in moments of peace your mind wanders to Morpheus. His words are like cough syrup in your mind, they coat every crevice of your thoughts, no matter how unwelcomed they were. 

“I am no monster,” His words echo in your mind. 

But he is a cheater… is he not? To (not) so secretly see his previous lover at his wedding and to chase after her, leaving you alone on the dance floor surrounded by doting couples. To admit to her that he still loved her. The confession that wasn’t meant for your ears still cut into your unguarded heart, leaving it broken before it could even flourish. 

You try to distract yourself by counting the amount of swirls that were painted on the ceiling. Each time you get somewhere past 50 your mind wanders again to last night and you start over. By the time the first sign of daybreak makes it past the heavy curtains, you feel your eyes begin to droop. With a deep breath you welcome sleep, finally. 

…

It doesn’t last, not even a second, when the doors to your room open with a slam. Your body reacts quickly to it and sits up with a start. You stare face to face with Agnes, who wears her own surprise on her face before she returns her emotions neutral. 

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I presumed you were with the King. May I draw a bath and get you ready for the day?” She asks. 

“Um, yes,” You reply hesitantly. You watch as she goes to some conjoined room you didn’t notice before and enters it.

There's the sound of objects being moved around and water sloshing before steam fills the room. The scent of something sweet fills the air as she walks out. She gestures for you to come to her, which you do so with heavy feet. 

Sleep once again tugs on your eyelids and you barely register when she removes your nightgown from your body. The warmth of the bath lulls you further into the tub and you reluctantly lean your head against your folded knees. 

Agnes, seeing her queen in, well for lack of a better word, utter disarray, goes back to the cupboards and starts looking for some other herbs. She stacks the boxes on top of each other before making her way to your side. With a certain amount of gentleness, she places the boxes on the floor and kneels in front of the bathtub. 

“Cinderbon flakes for muscle aches, my queen,” She starts as she sprinkles the red flakes into the water. “And some rose petals for romance.” Agnes pauses as she hears you groan under your mop of steamed hair. 

She hesitantly places the rose petals into the water just as she did with the flakes before. “Lastly, some milk from a Natterhorn to aid with sleep…” She whispers finally as she pours a ceramic jug of cream colored milk into the water. 

She mixes the concoction slowly with her hand before adding another bucket of hot water to help you relax further. You hate to admit it, but everything she added certainly helped. You feel her move behind you as she begins to wash your hair, ridding the last of the stardust from the wedding night. Agnes keeps quiet, presuming that is what you wanted most, and she would be correct. 

The maid doesn’t comment on why you were not in the King’s chambers, nor how there wasn’t a single blotch of red on your nightgown, a telltale sign of any consummation. She’s curious, but she knows it’s best not to say anything in case she loses her tongue over it. If she were any younger, she’d be running off to her other maid co-workers and sharing the new gossip, but after a rather traumatic event to an old friend, she’s learned her lesson through her. 

“I’ll leave you to soak, Your Majesty.” Agnes wipes her hands on her apron as she approaches the door. “Please, ring the bell when you wish to be dressed for the day, my lady.” With that the door is shut and you’re left alone once more. 

“Please stop calling me your majesty,” You mutter to yourself.

Titles are not uncommon in your life, but something about “your majesty” was too much for you. It separates you too much from those who will take care of you. You miss your own lady’s maid, the one that has grown with you since infancy.

That title seems too grand, it places you on a pedestal and you can already feel the height it has placed you at. You’re afraid if you peak over the edge, you will plummet to your death. One wrong move, one wrong word, one wrong tick, and everything would be over. You walk on eggshells while people worship the very steps all the same. 

Eventually, when the bath starts to run cold and your fingers are beyond wrinkled, you leave the bathtub. You wrap a towel around your body and tug on the bell that hangs by your bed. Soon after, Agnes appears again, this time with an army of maids behind her. They’re quick to make work of you, easily dressing, combing, and readying you within the half hour. 

When they left your room once again, you’re fighting with the corset string behind your back. Agnes had somehow managed to tighten it beyond human comprehension and then manage to hide the strings beyond your fingers. After a frustrating few minutes with no results, you give up with a huff. 

Cautiously you open the door, peeking your head out. You weren’t exactly given a schedule for today and if sleep wasn’t going to find you, you might as well find something else to do. For example, exploring the castle. Hopefully, no one would point a finger at you and get you into any trouble. 

“Oh, good morning, Your Majesty,” A voice calls out close to your ear. 

“Ah!” You scream, your hand comes up and pain tingles across your palm as it makes contact with metal. 

“Ah!” The voice screams back as the slap makes contact with his helmet. It doesn’t hurt, the armor doing its job quite well, but the noise was bouncing around the helmet, rendering it no better than a bell. “What an arm you have there, Your Majesty.”

You stare wide eyed at the black knight as your pulsing hand places itself over your accelerated heartbeat. 

“You!” You gasp with a pointed finger as the knight finally registers in your mind. “You’re the one that I snuck past last night… this morning?” You correct yourself. You drop your finger quickly, realizing perhaps a bit too late how rude it was. 

At your comment, the black knight stiffens. “Er… What do you mean you snuck past me? I was guarding the door, no one came in or out.”

You blink, once, twice. “Right, you fell asleep?” You say in a way that may help him remember. That snore he made was surely a thought to remember. 

His head cocks to the side, making him look all the more bird-like with his helmet on, and he stays like that for an awkward amount of time. Your eyes darted off to the side when he still hadn’t responded to you. 

“What?” His response finally came. You could hear the embarrassed smile behind the helmet. “Haha… what?” He says again, laughing dryly. 

“Well, I won’t tell anyone, but I guess you probably shouldn’t do that.” You try to soothe him to the best of your capabilities. 

“I’m new?” Came his defeated response, his armor clanks against each other as he slumps from his perfect posture.

With a heavy sigh he turns around and bangs his head to the crevice between the door and the wall. The sigh leaves the crevices of his helmet like a whisper, reverberating between the metal to make it sound like a soft caaaaaaa…. The helmet makes a heavy gong sound as it makes contact with the wall. Another sigh comes before he speaks again. Caaaa….

“I just got this job, I just got sworn into knighthood by the King, how can I mess up already. I’ve been in the academy for so long, I mean granted I wasn’t the best, but I still made it to the personal guard… right? I graduated, didn't I?” At this point, you’re sure he’s mostly talking to himself.

Moping would’ve been a better word for it, actually. 

“What is your name, good sir?” You ask with a tap on his shoulder. It was mainly to get him to stop groaning and moaning so loudly in the halls. 

He turns around, takes a deep breath to calm himself, and answers. “Sir Matthew, Your Majesty.” He salutes as he does so, bringing one arm behind his back, the fist of the other over his heart. Your mind rattles as it remembers the symbolism for the salute: Your heart for the kingdom, cover your back for you will stab your own before your brothers.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sir Matthew,” You greet for the first time. “I’m Y/N.” You curtsy to him, which he returns with a low bow at the waist. 

“Oh, yes, I know who you are, Your Majesty.” He nods as he returns to his regular position. His hand rests easily on the hilt of his sword. 

Of course he knows who you are. The moment turns ever the more awkward, and you’re determined to leave the situation. With a final nod you turn to walk away, anywhere was better than here. It’s not a few steps later that you hear the synchronized steps of Matthew following behind. When you paused, his steps paused, too. You take two steps, his steps followed, two steps exactly. 

“Sir Matthew?” You question as you turn around and face him. 

“Yes?” 

“Are you following me?”

A confused pause. “Yes?”

“Okay… Why?” You ask. You could feel a tension headache forming along the crown of your head and you’re not sure if it’s the tight hairdo or Matthew himself. 

“I am your personal royal knight, Your Majesty,” He explains as if the information was self-evident. 

“Ah,” You respond. You’re still confused, but whatever. 

You begin to walk again and Matthew’s footsteps follow. Stopping briefly you turn to him again. “And you follow me everywhere?”

“Yes, always three steps behind.”

You raise an eyebrow as you take a step backwards. You watch as Matthew takes a step forward, copying you. You take a step forward and he takes one back. 

“This might get annoying.” You think to yourself as you begin to walk normally again. Now you have a nanny. An idea strikes you then and you turn around abruptly once again. 

“Sir Matthew,” You start.

“You can just call me Matthew, your grace, if that pleases you better.” He quickly interjects. 

“Fine. Matthew,” You pointedly say. “What exactly are your duties? Your responsibilities?”

“Well, I look after you, my queen. I make sure you aren’t to be harmed and do as you so wish. Though I would prefer if your wishes for me can be solved with brute force.” Matthew explains simply. 

“If I were to wish you to not follow me?” You ask unsubtly. 

“I cannot, it is within my creed, and orders from His Majesty.”

You intertwined your fingers in front of you again, twiddling the digits between each other as you thought to yourself. Matthew stares forward as you do so, staying quiet until you speak again. 

“If I were to ask you to make sure a certain person never sees me?” You ask slowly. 

“I would make it so you forget they exist,” Matthew answers brutally. 

You internally scoff as he says so. It would be near impossible to forget such a person. Jealousy courses through your veins as you think of her. Perfect curls, smooth skin, and soft pink and gold. 

“Do you know of a woman named Calliope?” You ask finally. “I wish to never see her.” 

Matthew stays silent for a few moments, and you think you’re already overstepping your boundaries. The knight did mention in passing that your orders are easily overruled by the King’s. Perhaps you didn’t have enough power to ask him of this, especially knowing the relationship between the two. 

“Yes, of course, Your Majesty.” Matthew’s head tilts to the side once more and it suddenly dawns on you that he probably knows the affair was happening. Knights are silent but that doesn’t mean they don’t listen. And surely he would have heard about their love story and how a random woman comes in and marries the King, turning a perfect love story into an affair. 

You turn before he can say anything else. A stone finds its way into your throat and a silent cry almost makes its way out of you. Your steps quicken, hoping that some distance will prevent Matthew from seeing the growing frown on your face. 

The castle, for the most part, looks like every other part of the castle. The halls are long and winding. It was made of old stone, smelled heavily of petrichor, and decorated with arts from several centuries. Busts of kings and queens past are set periodically throughout the hallways. Most of the rooms you managed to peek into are empty, with white cloths covering the outline of beds and tables. 

You do manage to find something interesting but it is locked behind a set of heavy doors. Even with Matthew behind you, you know it best to not ask him to cut the door open so you may look behind what those huge barriers were hiding. You gave up as soon as one sharp tug did nothing to the locked secret. 

You continue exploring, eventually finding yourself outside. You walk along the colonnade, the castle’s arching design taking over the columns throughout the roofed walkway. Occasionally you could smell the hanging wisterias when the wind blew past. 

“Wow,” You sigh with admiration. You peer over the railing, hand supporting yourself, at the grand garden the castle had hiding behind its hedges and walls. 

The garden was filled with even more statues, fountains, and flowers that created a beautiful mosaic of nature and all of its inhabitants. You can see the various species of butterflies and bees that flew around pollinating the flowers in late spring. 

A moving, round orange thing catches your attention as it moves meticulously through the garden. As if sensing your attention, it turns and stares at you. Your eyes widen even further as you realize that it was a sentient pumpkin man. Smoke puffs out of his eyes and mouth as he takes another long drag from his pipe cigarette. His gloves and overalls are covered in dirt, but he somehow manages to keep his white undershirt pristine. He grumbles before returning to his work, his wooden frame groaning as he lifts a particularly heavy ceramic jar to a new location. 

Giggling interrupts your observation as a group of women come closer to you. Matthew moves to the side as you turn to face them. You give them a smile and they curtsy to you in return. Judging by their clothing, they were certainly noble, or ladies with titles. 

You go to open your mouth, to greet them, or introduce yourself. Perhaps even to invite them to afternoon tea, but before you can they’re quick to leave, giggles continuing. 

“I heard that King Morpheus didn’t even touch her last night, during their consummation,” One whispers, giggles littered between the words. She thought it was quiet enough, but the design of the colonnade let you hear every word she gossiped to her friend. 

“Probably because the King still loves Lady Calliope,” The other chortles back. “Gosh, can you even imagine? Marrying a man who already has a mistress?”

“How dreadful indeed.” 

Your words die in your mouth as you listen to what they say.

“It’s just gossip.” You try to reason without yourself. “Yeah, gossip based on true events. In which case, they’re just speaking the truth.”

Matthew only watches you as you try to regain your composure. He watches as you close your eyes and take in a deep breath, holding it for several seconds before letting go through your mouth. He’s done the same breathing exercise several times before tournaments. He doesn’t particularly find himself caring for palace gossip, to be quite honest he was too concerned with being the best knight he could to listen in. 

He knew of Calliope, sure, but that was due to her extended stay as a diplomat from a neighboring kingdom. She was often seen in the hallways, or sharing court with the King on how to further the alliance between the two kingdoms. They were always amiable, but perhaps Matthew was too thick in the helmet to notice anything more. 

“Matthew, how can I get down to the garden?” His queen’s voice brings him out of his own thoughts. 

“Down the corridor, there is a set of stairs, my lady,” He answers with a nod in the right direction. 

“Perfect, let’s make our way down then,” You smile at him and turn quickly. Tears prick at your eye line once again, but you’re determined to not let them fall. Never.  

Just as Matthew pointed out, a layered staircase leads you straight into the royal gardens, just past the large fountain was a labyrinth of roses that you know you’ll explore some other time. You take your time hunting down the pumpkin head man, stopping by the garden fountain and playing with the little tetras that lived in the water. 

You tuck a few strands of stray hair back into place using the water’s reflection before you decide to continue on your side quest. The pumpkin man finds you first before you could find him. Smoke still puffs out of his eyes and mouth and he raises a vine that acts as his eyebrow when he sees you. 

“Ay, you look familiar, I feel like I should know you or something.” He gestures towards you with his pipe. He takes another long drag before recognition takes over his face. “Ah, you’re the new boss lady.” He claps his gloved hands together.

“That’s me.” You smile. “Are you a gardener?” 

Matthew taps you on your shoulder before leaning close to your ear. “Can I also call you boss lady?” He whispers, hiding his words with a hand from the pumpkin head’s view.

“On special occasions,” You jest quickly before returning your attention to the squash. 

“Put some respect to my name, why don’t you. Sorry, I’ve got a mouth on me. Probably why the big boss puts me away from people.” He grumbles and turns away. 

You go to follow him as he continues to move a large bag of soil over his shoulders. 

“Oh, this job is going to kill me,” He groans under the weight of the soil. “I need new branches, these are getting too brittle for me.” He explains to you behind him. 

He takes you to a new part of the garden where everything was quite bare except for a lone tree and a small pond. It was a beautiful little get away once he placed new flowers and other decors. 

“By the way, I’m Mervyn, no titles, just Mervyn Pumpkinhead,” He answers your previous question. “Yes, I’m a gardener, and janitor, and fixer upper, whatever.” He huffs another puff from his pipe. 

He looks at you up and down, your soft smile was that similar to the sun now that he really looks at you. Also your youth surely gave you some more muscle than him. 

“Ehh, now that I’m looking at cha… why don’t you plant the flowers in this area then. I’ll give you full control, I have other things to do today.”

He hands you a small shovel and points to a stack of nursery plants off to the side. You open your palm and the dirt covered tool falls into your hands. You’ve never gardened before, but you think you can manage. Mervyn is off before you could protest, anyway. 

You grab a few potted nursery plants and ask Matthew to grab the rest before you start digging holes and planting them. It takes time and a little bit of effort, but soon enough you’ve planted the pieces where you think they would bloom nicely. You dust off the caked on dirt on the front of your dress with a satisfied sigh. 

A small tickling sensation makes you see a small caterpillar crawling on your forearm, bringing it to your eye level to admire the small creature. You turn to Matthew to show him the cute little thing, but his gloved hand comes closer, snatching the small bug from your body. Before you could say much, Matthew unhinges the mouthpiece of his helmet and throws the poor caterpillar into the void. 

“Matthew!” You exclaim, shock ripples through you in fits of laughter. You are in total disbelief; your eyes and ears can’t process what you’ve just witnessed as Matthew continues to chew on the bug. 

“Hmmm, takes like chicken,” He comments before bringing his hand over his beak and hinging it back into place. 

You’re still gawking at him, your hand goes to cover your mouth, muffling your next words. “You… just ate a bug!”

“Oh, shit,” Matthew swears as he returns to his perfect three pace away stance. His posture returns stick straight and you’re about to ask him what changed his behavior when someone calls out your name. 

“Y/N?” A new voice joins your conversation and you turn around, ignoring the satisfied hum that came from Matthew as he swallows his little afternoon snack. 

“Morpheus,” You breathe out, disbelief has yet to leave you. 

This time around, the king is accompanied by two other figures. One, dressed almost identical to Matthew, the only difference is the white crest that bore the King’s symbol proudly in the middle of her chestplate. The other wore typical court clothing, a large book was resting between her arms and hip, her glasses gleaming in the outdoor sun. Silence follows the curt greeting that was cut by a forced cough. 

“Greetings to you, Your Majesty. I am the royal court advisor, Lucienne.” The one in glasses introduces herself and gives you a warm smile that you returned. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lucienne.” 

“And this is Captain Jessamy of the royal guard,” Lucienne continues. You give a smile to Jessamy who returns it with the same salute that Matthew did this morning. The white crest on his chest plate shines brightly in the sun and you can tell, even without seeing her face, that she bares the symbol proudly. 

In contrast to the two women, Morpheus looked like he would rather be anywhere than here, making conversation with you. His face shared the similar frown on his lips that your father shared when he was having a difficult day. 

“Has your day been well, my lord?” You ask, taking the risk of his potential wrath. Matthew is good company, but you fear it’s not the company you seek. 

Agnes and your maids are there for you, but they could never quite understand what you go through, would they? Mervyn was nice, a nice breath of fresh air (or smoke in his case). He talked to you as if you were just as equal as any other, but there was still a distance that he put you at. 

Everyone held you at an arm’s distance. 

Even now as you look at your husband, the very definition of pristine, proper, and passive, he too stood further away from you than would have been deemed necessary. 

“No,” He replies dryly. 

You wait a moment, thinking that he would go into elaborate detail as to why. But, those few seconds pass and the two of you, nor your company, have moved an inch. You’re all too aware of how you look now, hair fussed, hands and dress covered in dirt. It’s the exact opposite of Morpheus. 

“What His Majesty means to say, is that there was a rather difficult court meeting we had to attend to this morning. It did not go as planned.” Lucienne interjects when the silence becomes too much, even for her. She enjoyed silence, don’t get her wrong, but this was just painful to witness. 

“Oh,” You frowned at the newly presented information. “Would you like me to join you next time? I believe two heads would be better-”

“No,” Morpheus interrupts you with a raised hand. 

Your mouth shuts slowly and you think your heart cracks a little more in your chest. To not love you is one thing, understandable even if you gave it enough time. But, to not even let you into his court, to help him rule his kingdom as his equal. It’s like the words he spoke from your wedding night meant nothing to him now. You were nothing but a common bird trapped in a golden cage. 

Morpheus’ notices, it’s hard not to when you so clearly express your emotions on your face. The thought of an apology crosses his mind for interrupting you, but it quickly gets buried by other thoughts of his kingdom. There was the tension of his sibling’s kingdom, wanting to wage a useless war against his Dreaming. His other missing brother, his sister who decided royal life was not for her and decided to travel the world. In all truth, his family was just as messy as the politics he spoke of that morning. The burden is not his to share, it’s not yours to carry either in his mind. 

“Well,” You clear your throat, your fingers unknowingly playing with the strands of your matching bracelets. “Is there anything I can do here?” 

“Do whatever you want, Y/N,” He answers honestly. With a look behind you and the general state of your appearance he speaks again. “It seems as if you have already found gardening.”

He walks away without another word. Lucienne and Jessamy follow without a word either, and you stare at his receding figure until you’re unsure if it’s his black robe you're looking at or merely a far away tree. 

Anger rises inside of you and you snap the bracelet against your skin to prevent it from bubbling to the surface. At the corner of your eyes, you can see the same girls you met earlier, peering at you over the railing of the colonnade. No doubt gathering more gossip to spread to their friends. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that bug.” Matthew’s comment brings you out of your own self-loathing. 

You smooth a finger across your wrist that has long since turned red and face your attention to your knight. 

“Captain Jessamy is so cool. Did you see that white crest on her chest? Gosh, what I would give to get one of those. But, nooo, she’s just so perfect of course she would be the only one so far to have that. God! Why did I eat that bug!” Matthew’s admiration turns to jealousy like the flick of a flame. He sighs again and the air pushes out of his helmet. Caaaaa….

“I don’t think she noticed you eating it,” You reply in earnest with the slight raise of your shoulders. 

“You think?”

“I wouldn’t dwell too long on it.” 

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I fear our lovers are going to have a shit time next chapter. Hope you like even more angst :)

♡ Yours, Layla

Tags: @dnarez @arunawayheart

[ehlnofay]

Summerfest Day 2 - GOLDEN

“You’re not supposed to ask that,” says the Nerevarine, somewhere deep in the hollow heart of Red Mountain.

It feels, ze thinks vaguely, like one of the dreams. The dusty cavern, almost blurred at the edges, the hot, heady press of stagnant air, sweatingly warm and scented sweet with rot. Braziers burn with something that is not fire. The meandering, shockingly empty path ze took to get this far, through all the proper corridors, with their rusted corners and scraps of rugs – no furniture, not even stacked up in the inexplicable way ze’s come to expect; almost nothing at all, like a house unfinished, like all its denizens have only just arrived. Like they’ve spent all their centuries prone on the floor. Ze kicked up so much dust as ze walked, like no-one had ever trod there before. There’s so much dust in here now. It’s all so very barren-bare, like the dreams; so lonely. Just zem, in all this great sprawling subterranean building, and the figure – statue-still in front of zem, a safe distance away, watching from behind the lucent gold of its mask. The bejewelled hollows of its eyes glimmer, unblinking, three points of an untraced triangle; the face is sculpted with fretted care.

It all feels, ze thinks, like a dream; like the months on months on months leading up to this moment have been compressed, pushed down and packed tight, until it seems like Caelestis Vitellius stepped off that horribly rocking boat directly into this chamber, clad in warped bonemold, jewels pressed down the line of zir sternum and against the joints of zir elbows, conjured blade in ungloved hand. Ze has held the knife for hours, but ze does not hold it ready; the dead skin of zir thumb presses against the guard as ze shifts it loosely in zir grip, arms down, weight placed squarely on zir back foot. The devil is standing in the flesh in front of them, sharper-edged and more tangible than in the dream-messages but otherwise so eerily much the same, and ze thinks ze should feel afraid but ze can’t seem to dredge it up. Maybe it’s the sickly air, setting zir head spinning; maybe it’s the stop-starting rhythm of the conversation they’ve been attempting instead of the fighting ze expected. It’s something of a relief for there to be honesty at the end of it all; not even the opportunity for more deceit or espionage or complicated chess-board moving. Just questions, and promises of answers. Caelestis feels very small, in the dust-coated hollow of the cavern, and as new as ze was the day ze stepped onto Seyda Neen soil, but not afraid. There’s no room for it. It’s all so close to the end, one way or another; everything so very nearly makes sense.

So very, very nearly.

But then the Sharmat asked that question and broke the languid pause before it all begins-to-end to bits.

“You’re not supposed to ask that,” says Caelestis, again, not-fire lambent in the braziers, light liquid against the sculpted gold of Dagoth Ur’s face. Ze tastes the air thick on zir half-a-tongue, cloying, unwell. “What do you mean, am I truly – you called me –” ze realises that ze is gesturing at him with zir knife, shining crystalline in the not-firelight, and ze drops zir arm. (Ze has held the blade all this time, though it hasn’t been needed, not yet; the most use it has been of is scraping Red Mountain’s bitter, caking ash from the soles of zir shoes. Earlier, in one of the quiet stretches of their surreal half-conversation, ze held the humming hilt between zir teeth so ze could fix zir hair.)

It's so silent, in the belly of the mountain; not even an echo. The Sharmat, in front of zem, does not move even to breathe. Ze feels very small. Ze feels very new. Ze feels like ze’s breathing Vvardenfell air for the first time and trying to figure out how to account for it all.

Ze says, “I thought you knew,” and there is more in zir voice than there has been before. Ze doesn’t know what there is more of, just that there is more.

Dagoth Ur tips his head, considering, to one side. He moves in fits and starts, like smoke, deliberate as a rockslide despite it all. “Oh,” he says in his too-ordinary voice, and then, “A pity.”

And it’s all so horribly like one of the dreams; breathing the rancid air of a strange, empty place, conjured blade useless in zir hand, earth drifting out from under zem. The devil stands before zem, impossibly close, impossibly far, and Caelestis is confused, and alone; so very dreadfully alone, maybe forever. And ze doesn’t know what to do.

(In the dream, he called zem Nerevar.)

(Ze wonders, vaguely, how many people got that dream.)

“I don’t want your pity,” Caelestis says, pressing zir thumb against the guard of zir blade until ze can feel its quiet murmur through the long-dead flesh of zir hand. What ze does want – ze doesn’t know. Ze didn’t think about it. Ze should have, clearly, but again, to zir detriment, ze’s assumed that other people will act with honesty, that they won’t bluff and lie where ze wouldn’t think to; he talked as if he knew, so ze believed he did. Ze thought he knew. He was supposed to know.

(The ring shining quiet on its chain is some kind of confirmation. The fact that ze’s here, burrowed like a tick into the belly of the mountain despite its attempts to rebuff zem, is some kind of confirmation. But that’s not the same thing as an answer. A yes isn’t worth much when ze doesn’t have the how or why or even, quite, the what.)

(Ze thought ze’d get that here.)

Caelestis arrived in Morrowind sometime between a century ago and today – it is hard, in the flicker-red-gold of the braziers, to pin down anything more specific – and ze’s spent the entire time grasping for anything that might make it make sense, that might illuminate some kind of reasoning behind it all. Planted because ze might be a myth, or close enough that no-one could tell the difference; put here to do something impossible, and to be unmissed if ze died trying. And the whole time – the whole bloody time – ze’s been looking, and watching everyone else looking, too, from Caius at the very beginning to Nibani to Vivec – looking and looking and looking with varying degrees of hope, and never finding. Ze’s been looking for answers since ze first stepped onto Vvardenfell soil, trying to solve a mystery that wouldn’t be given shape for months, dogging zir steps through city streets and wilderness pathways and on boats and through caves and up mountains and into rivers, lurking indistinct as the cavern shadows in bone-patterned shrines and the burnished-brassy masks of the Ordinators, until ze arrived here, half-dead at the end of the world, staring the devil in its golden face and waiting for it to find what no-one else, agent or priest or god, has been able to.

And he doesn’t see anything, either.

Caelestis takes a deep breath, sour air moving barely noticed through zir misshapen lungs, and lets it sit there.

(There are no answers here. There is only zem.)

(Perhaps there never will be. Perhaps that will have to be enough.)

The Sharmat shifts again, lurchingly fluid. “Then I do not pity you,” he says – his voice still so eerily close to ordinary – “but yet I have compassion, and I will weep for your death. If you have questions, ask them.”

Caelestis exhales.

Ze shifts zir grip on the hilt of zir summoned knife – lifeless skin pressing smoothly against its shape – and ze says, “There was nothing else I wanted from you.”

“Then to you goes the courtesy of the first blow,” says Dagoth Ur; his mask, liquid as it looks in the light, cannot move, but Caelestis gets the strong impression of a smile somewhere in the dark, all the same. The Sharmat inclines his head, gracious as a bow. “I’m waiting, Nerevar.”

[cobawrites]

A Gust of Wind (Vash x Reader), Chapter 1

Vash x Reader, GN! Reader, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn Romance, TW: Mental Illness, TW: Suicidal Ideation. Reader awakens to an unfamiliar world, left alone and struggling with mental illness from before the crash. Vash emerges as a guiding light for Reader, and vice versa.

Chp. 1 >> Next

Hello all! This is my first Trigun fic. My first fic in a long time, actually! I’m probably in for the long haul with this story, so I wanted to be careful about how I construct (Y/N)’s history and stuff. Can’t have any pesky plot holes! Because of this, Vash doesn’t appear until the later half of the first chapter, but worry not! He’ll get way more time to shine in the coming chapters. And I have several sweet and fluffy scenes planned out hehehehe~!

But before we get to those scenes, I have to give you guys a fair trigger warning: this fic is going to deal with some potentially triggering topics. This includes descriptions of suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, and heavy themes of anxiety and depression. Mental illness stuff in general. This fic goes out to all my peeps who struggle with these things. I poured a lot of my personal experiences into this, and I’m sure many of you will be able to put yourself in (Y/N)’s shoes as well. Expect Vash and (Y/N) to butt heads over this stuff as their ideologies mix like oil and water.

Oh, and I am going to try to keep things as gender neutral as possible. If I slip up anywhere, do let me know and I’ll fix it!

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                    By clicking “Keep Reading”, you agree to the warnings.

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                                                    A Gust of Wind

                                                        Chapter 1

Hollow footsteps echoed the walls of the now empty ship, the remains beaten and weathered by who knows how many years. Just how long had it been since the accident that stranded you and your loved ones on this desolate planet? Having been sealed away in a cryo-chamber since before the crash, it was hard to tell. Eventually, the chamber failed, and you had awoken to… this.

Kneeling on the ground, you carefully placed down a bouquet of handmade paper flowers. Wisterias were your mother’s favorites. You’d spent all day trying to get them right. It was the least you could do for her, and for the rest of your family that was not quite as lucky as you were.

Lucky… what a funny word.

How you wished you could have been there. How you wished you could have shared in their final moments together. How you wished you could have ended it all with them by your side…

Instead, here you were. Each tap of your soles echoing louder and louder against the metal floor as you descended these lonely halls once again. Blurry memories, although clouded by years spent in a failing cryo-chamber, still managed to haunt your every step like lucid dreams.

Your hand tightened on the strap of the bag slung over your shoulder as you took once last look back at the ship. It might have made more sense to stay. There were a number of unexpectedly well-preserved supplies aboard the ship. Still, part of you simply couldn’t bear it, and part of you knew that you didn’t deserve to intrude on the scene you were leaving behind: your family’s bones, intertwined in a timeless embrace. A still life painting of what looked to have been a quick and painless death. One moment, holding each other with tender love. And in the next, their souls freed like a gust of wind.

Not here. You wouldn’t do it here. You couldn’t do it here.

And so, you took your first step out into the harsh new world that awaited you.

On a planet with two suns, it was hard to keep track of how many days had passed. Not only was the drowsy heat impairing your judgement, but the days seemed to stretch on forever. Whatever semblance of time you had was lost to the wind.

Wind… Now that was something. One of the few things on this planet that gave respite from the blistering heat. You lifted the edge of your shirt to feel it swell up underneath, your sweat cool against your skin. This place would do just fine. The cliffs were tall, and the wind was strong.

Slowly, your weary limbs carried you to the top of the tallest cliff. The way the ground crunched underneath you. The way the breeze peppered light kissed across your face. Everything was just right. It may not have been the way you’d imagined it would be, exactly, but it was better this way. With no one left to weigh upon your shoulders. With no one left who would miss you when you were gone. With no one left to stop you and force you into that god forsaken cryo-chamber.

Anger pulsed through your veins for a second, and the resentment you held for the ones you were supposed to love came crashing down on you like the ocean waves you’d only ever read about. Who were they to decide who lives and who dies? If you wanted to kick rocks, that was your own goddamned choice.

But just as quickly as it came, it was gone again. Images of your mother’s face surfaced from the torrents in your heart. Who were they? They were your family, of course. You just wished… You just wished they understood. Some of us are just born that way. And not everyone is strong enough to power through it.

But now you didn’t have to be strong. When you first came across their bodies, with the belongings in their pockets as the only identifiers, you didn’t know how to feel. Every emotion you had was bottlenecked on its way to the surface, and so you stared. You sat there, and you stared for hours. Was it sorrow? Loneliness? Fear? Or was it a sick sense of relief? A mere glimpse of their newfound freedom that reinforced your longing for the same.

A steep cliff laid before you. Dust crumbled out from below the rocks and down a deep chasm, one that didn’t seem to be carved by a river of any sort, but by something else. Whatever that something was, it didn’t matter to you. Closing your eyes, you took one step forward.

“MAMA! HELP!”

A child’s voice rang loudly across the cliff walls. Startled, your eyes fluttered open, frantically scanning the cliffs below you for the source of the sound. By god, you were about to commit suicide in front of a child. A fucking child.

Heart now pounding in your ears, you spotted a small boy of no more than seven, surrounded by what looked like giant… silverfish? Crayfish? What the hell were those things?

With the speed at which they were closing in on the boy, you had no time to mull it over. Quickly, you picked up a large rock and flung it as hard as you could toward the largest aggressor, your tired muscles reinvigorated by the sudden burst of adrenaline.

It was no good. The beasts paused for only a few seconds, then continued closing in on their prey. You lunged more rocks down at them to stall for time, and bolted down the most leveled side of the cliff, eating dirt a few times as you went.

As you hastened to close the gap between you and the boy, you opened one of your bag’s pockets to pull a large knife. Those creatures’ shells looked awfully hard, but the knife would be better than nothing at all. Casting the bag aside, you lunged at the smallest of the pack with reckless abandon, stabbing it between its armor-like plates. It writhed underneath you, trying to shake you off. Half of the beasts turned away from the boy and rushed in your direction.

“Run, kid!” You yelled at the top of your lungs, clinging desperately to the creature’s back as the others tried to claw at you. The boy, panic written all over his face, stared in horror with tears in his eyes, and glued hopelessly to the floor. The beasts that were still trained on him dragged jagged appendages across the rocks as they drew closer, as if sharpening them in anticipation of their next meal.

Frustrated, you stabbed another beast in its soft belly as it lunged forward, and rolled out from underneath it just in time. That move, however, left you without a weapon, as it stayed lodged firmly in the wound.

“Oh, screw this!” You grunted as you dodged another beast and bolted toward the child. You vaulted over one of the creatures surrounding the boy, extremely grateful for the immense amount of cardio you did whenever you needed an emotional outlet. Not that you were grateful for the crippling anxiety that made you run yourself into the ground just to sleep at night. But at least your dreadful lot in life could finally be put to good use.

Light on your feet, you made a mad dash toward the boy and scooped him up, not looking back. There! You spotted a way back up the cliffs where a woman stood flinging rocks at the beasts behind you. The path was rather steep and it still had indentations where rocks had likely come loose mere moments ago. It was unsafe, but the situation behind you was even less so.

“Hold on tight, kiddo!” You said, leaping up to the first foothold. The boy clung desperately to anything he could get a hold of, stabbing his small little fingers into your flesh like needles. Good. At least you could be certain he wouldn’t fall.

Scrambling up the cliff by whatever means necessary, lacking any grace at all, you climbed as fast as you could. The scraping sounds of their armored claws were getting closer and closer. Your heart felt as though it was about to burst out of your chest.

With the top of the cliff in sight, you tried your best to focus on the final stretch, but a pincer suddenly crashed into the cliff wall beside you. The child screamed and cried. It had grazed his arm and drawn blood. Not good. They were hot on your heels. Light-headed from exhaustion, you pried the boy off you and tossed him up into his mother’s arms with the last of your strength. The woman quickly set him down, instructing him to run, and she reached for your arm next. But she missed.

A pincer closed around your left leg and began dragging you down the cliff, knocking the wind out of you with a heavy thud. With no strength left to fight, you let it happen. Half from exhaustion, but half from a sense of relief. Your family couldn’t be mad at you now. You’d made your death count.

But from the corner of your eye, you noticed that some of the beasts weren’t satisfied with just you as their meal. They continued past you and up the cliff toward the woman and the boy. This couldn’t be happening. Not after you tried so hard to save them.

You struggled against the beast’s claws, flailing to free your leg, and clutching at the rocks to prevent it from dragging you further down the cliff. Frustrated tears pooled in your eyes, the boy’s panic-stricken face flashing vividly in your memory.

Suddenly, you heard several loud bangs in the distance. Some of the creatures fell off the side of the cliff, and some scurried off. A blond head popped out from above the cliff and pulled a revolver on the beast dragging your leg. With skilled gunmanship you’d never seen before, he hit the pincers dead on, missing your leg by a hair. The blond man hopped down to the foothold closest to you and pulled you up. You tried muttering a thank you, but you were so winded that nothing came out but a dusty cough.

“Are you okay?” He asked, holding you steady. You nodded to save your breath, legs still shaking uncontrollably. He smiled and pulled you flush against his chest with one arm and scooped up your legs with the other. If you weren’t so dizzy, you might have blushed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you up.” He said, and with a single, elegant leap that made him look not quite human, he landed on the clifftop.

Carefully, he placed your feet on solid ground. “Can you walk?” You nodded, and tried to take a step, but your jelly legs betrayed you.

He tutted and took you into his arms once again. “I guess you’ll just have to be my little prince(x) for the time being, yeah?” He teased with a wink. This time, a furious blush spread across your face. No way. You were not about to be carried bridal style by a stranger.

“No, I can walk! I swear!” You insisted, and wiggled out of his arms, cheeks scorching hot. But your legs betrayed you a second time, and you collapsed on the floor.

“Goodness, Vash, they sure are a stubborn one!” Said the woman, coming your way to check up on you after having wrapped a bandage on her son’s arm. “A real fighter in more ways than one!”

They both chuckled, and the woman kneeled beside you. “Thank you both for coming to our aid. And Vash, I can’t believe we’ve had to rely on you twice now. You must think I’m a terrible mother…”

“Not at all, Marlene. But you two really should be more careful. It’s not safe to scavenge in this area. There are more worms here than usual, and they grow bigger, too.” He explained as he kneeled down to get a better look at your leg. Vash’s hand brushed over your ankle to assess the damage, causing you to wince in pain. He glanced at you apologetically, before pulling some first aid supplies from his bag.

“I know, my boy. But we hardly have any food in our town to go around. No plant to rely on…” She responded solemnly. “I only wish I could convince the little one to stay behind, but he insists on coming with me. Says he needs to learn how to be the man of the house now that his father is gone.”

Vash furrowed his brows, a regretful look on his face. “Admirable, but little George’s got some big shoes to fill. There’s nothing wrong with recognizing that.” He said, offering a kind smile in his direction.

George, now awkwardly nursing his bandaged arm a few meters away from everyone else, averted his eyes to the ground. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Vash,” he whispered. “I… I’ll be more careful next time. I promise.”

Together, Vash and Marlene got to work on your injured leg, cleaning off the dirt and grime left behind by the worms, or whatever those disgusting creatures were called. While they worked, Vash glanced at you all over with an unreadable look in his eyes, spending longer than normal on the logo on your chest. With your ankle now bandaged snugly, he moved to pick you up again, but you scrambled away. This earned you an exasperated look from Vash.

“Listen, I’m not going to pull any smooth moves on you, okay? So you can just relax.”

“No, it’s not that! It’s just –,” you started, but he cut you off.

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said, and picked you up from the ground as if you weighed no more than a feather. This guy was something else. “You’re injured. I’m taking you back with us. And we’re doing this the right way so you don’t get hurt any more than you already are.”

You shook your head feverishly. “I’m actually fine, just shaken,” you insisted, pushing against his chest in protest. “It’s more nerves than anything else! I just need to sit down for a while, that’s all.”

Vash stared quizzically into your eyes. “Hmmm… Okay then. If you’re sure,” he finally agreed, setting you down gently. Mustering all the strength you had left, you steadied your legs and bit back the pain as you walked over to find a seat on some rocks.

“But aren’t you coming back with us, sweetheart?” Marlene asked. “It will be dark soon. It’s dangerous. We should really be going.”

“I… I have some business here,” you said with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just glad I was able to help at all.” At this, Vash chewed his lip, not once taking his eyes off yours. The weight of his gaze was too much to bear. Unnerved, you looked away.

“And what’s your name, sweetie? If you won’t let us treat you to a good night’s rest back in town, at least give us that.” She said.

“(Y/N),” you replied, rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly.

“Well, (Y/N), you are always welcome in our village. It is just west of here, in case you change your mind.

You nodded with a smile, and with that, they were off. You were alone again, and you had a late nigh rendezvous with the cliffs. The nearest cliff wasn’t nearly steep enough to do the job. You sighed. Getting back to your spot… was going to take some time. Best get moving.

[possiblyunhinged]

So the only industry I ever 'worked' in was the music industry, and it made me very sick when I realised working in the music industry was basically babysitting sex pests and turning a blind eye, lol. Don't get me wrong, I know many people are trying to change that - but sometimes it feels like those voices just exist in an echo chamber whilst the status quo is maintained.

I wish I could write about these things eloquently, but frankly, I wanted to work in music as soon as I figured out that was a thing you could do. So naturally, I just feel an immobilising level of sadness when I think about it.

Getting to uni and digging into a local music scene felt what I can only imagine all your dreams coming true like - despite how much I was struggling with agoraphobia and depression, I somehow felt like the luckiest person alive. My life completely revolved around gigs, all in a town where venues were a walking distance from one another.

However, it became clear that women in that scene were in and out quickly. Women who worked as promoters would soon make a ghostly exit. I didn't even realise that I was shapeshifting my personality to a pick-me formation just so I could dodge the sexual advances and plant myself firmly as an asexual entity.

"One of the boys" would often be muttered to me by girlfriends who explained that they hated me for a distance until they met me and essentially realised what a blubbering, unsexy idiot I was. Naturally, I'd stand there like a cactus and pretend I hadn't witnessed their boyfriend's misdemeanours. Because I am a coward, I was desperate not to be seen as a 'dramatic woman'.

This naturally didn't stop me from getting sexually assaulted by a man who people had pinned down as a hearty, kind man. He wasn't the type to sexually assault people, despite the fact multiple women I made friends with would come to tell me of a story they had to me - waking up with him having sex with them, dragging them down the stairs so they could have sex with somebody else, ghosting and yada yada yada.

I guess those stories didn't stick out that much to these men because they'd all convinced themselves their behaviour towards women was very normal because they weren't like other guys - their hair was soft, they had moustaches and exposed ankles.

Honestly, once I started to come down from disbelief, my life appeared to be working out, and I realised I was just a coke fiend with transactional friendships with other people desperate to feel less alone; I realised I was basically in a creche for sex pests.

It was probably the biggest catalyst for me to find out I was autistic. Once my brain started processing what was actually happening, I felt like I was in a housefire. Everybody was choosing just to focus on the television instead of getting out.

There was injustice everywhere. The venues I once loved felt unfriendly. The bands I listened to sounded vapid. The sound of seagulls and the sea breeze made me feel lonely. The behaviour I was perceiving seemed grossly inconsiderate. No amount of alcohol or delusion could regain my rose-tinted glasses.

And without wanting to sound like a whiny little bitch, my 'dreams' were decimated by a group of men who couldn't even spell necessary and who had a legion of men and women alike who were STILL willing to turn a blind eye.

I won't pretend I know why because I don't. It took me two years to disappear; frankly, it felt like a year too late.

It became pretty clear to me that you either shut the fuck up about it or get out... Or, in my case, have a menty b (hehe), go back home and lose your shit on social media before deleting everything.

[cosmictapestry]

C7 and B16? The Agonies spa service combo

C7. bathing together

and

B16. massage

enough sexiness. Horrors and Agonies ahoy. and some sexiness. and the single saddest most Unwell entity to have ever existed. amen

@pratchettfan87 says that there are hot springs outside the castle and i say hell yeah there are

prompt list + fills here

The pressures of Lord Morpheus's position are harder on him now than they were before his imprisonment.

At first Lucienne hoped he just needed to readjust to managing his storm and his realm all at once, and that once he did the vacant exhaustion in his eyes would become less common. This has not been the case. Instead he seems to grow wearier, more distant when he drifts.

He talks to her, at least. He holds her hand in quiet stolen moments, loves her well in their shared chambers, comes to her when her own dreamscape runs dark. She wants to think she's helping. But though he becomes softer with her, more honest and forthcoming, his wounded existence drains him, leaves him spread thin and so, so tired.

She finds him in his throne room, staring up at the shifting stained glass windows. They seem cloudy today, the shapes indistinct and the light dim. His upturned face is bathed in the opaque gold cast from the jagged image of a star who had gone mad. He turns his head to look at her, and he blinks several times before he recognizes her. "Lucienne."

Today Lucienne is lonely, and she is stressed from the noise and the bustle of her rebuilt realm, and she is tense in mind and body, and she trusts him when she trusts nothing else. He frowns and his eyes flicker over her face, and he doesn't move, but his focus sharpens. "How can I help?"

"I've not been to the hot springs since you rebuilt them," she says.

Lord Morpheus stands there awkwardly still, and he looks away from her. "You deserve to rest, Lucienne," he says softly. "You certainly don't need my permission."

Instead of answering, she holds her hand out to him from across the expanse of the throne room. He stares at it, and he appears conflicted, and sad, and scared, and like he is as close to collapsing as he is to accepting any offer to bridge the gap between himself and someone who loves him. She waits for him to make his choice.

Finally he takes a step that echoes through his great hall, and then another, approaching her with all the caution of some once-bitten prey animal. She has bitten him before, to be fair. He stops in front of her and he stares down at her hand, impassive marble expression running with fault lines. His hand shakes when he raises it to hers.

Lucienne clasps that shaking hand in both her own and watches his jaw shift and his eyes brim with tears. His shoulders shake, too, his black cloak shivering with the motion. "I apologize," he whispers. "You do not want my company today."

She dips her head, tries to catch his gaze as it drifts from her. "You've decided that, have you?" she teases, her thumb tracing the sharp ridges of his knuckles. "I don't get a say?"

He flinches. "I didn't say that," too quickly, breath rapid, shivering intensifying, his eyes snap to hers. "I did not—you misunderstand—"

"Dream," she interrupts, startled, squeezing that ice-cold hand. "A joke, my lord."

He does not respond, he just stares, wide-eyed and terrified of her, of harming her or being harmed by her or something he is seeing that is not her at all. "My lord," Lucienne whispers. "My lord, come with me. Rest with me. I want you to. I am asking you to."

She watches as this calms him, steadies him, and he breathes, and the panic slowly drains from him, leaves him bowed and yielding. She holds his hand until he nods his head almost imperceptibly.

She closes her eyes, and when she opens them they are no longer in the throne room—they are in a cavernous grotto, its granite walls silvery pink and sparkling by the light of the sun gleaming through the open roof of the cave. Mosses and flowers and ferns bloom over the cliff face and cascade down to obscure the edges of a clear blue pool.

Lucienne and her lord stand at the bank of the pool, soft sand sloping down to the water's edge. Sweet-smelling steam rises in curls from the pool and the flowers that take root around it bow inward and sway languidly in its swirling eddies.

He leans into her now, the privacy or the heat or her patience cutting through his resistance. His forehead bumps hers, his hand cradled close to her chest, his shivers palpable in her own bones. There's an undercurrent of desperation in this soft moment, his eager acceptance of distraction, her need to set aside the past hundred years like they never happened. "May I take your clothes?"

Lucienne raises one hand to his face, pets his cheek, and he leans into it. "You may." Her garments melt away into silky sand and then into nothing. His free hand spreads across her lower back, holding her close to him. "Will you be able to undress?"

He thinks about it, and she kisses him to tell him it's alright, that he doesn't have to answer or know or make a decision if he can't. "Not right now," he manages eventually, when her lips have left his red and slick. "Later, perhaps." He swallows hard, breathes heavy between them. "I want to touch you. You feel real."

She does not know what it means for him that something might feel real. He is the king of all that is not real. And he is mad with it. "Touch me, then," and she moves his hand in her grasp to her breast and feels it trembling there. "As much as you need. I'm here."

His arm wraps around her back and he pulls her to his chest, embraces her, crushes her close, breathes harsh and unsteady in her ear. She' wishes he wouldn't wait until he is hanging by a thread to ask for a hug. She breathes in the scent of his skin, presses herself all along the line of his body, lets him stay there and shake—and she feels better, at least, because her home is solid in her arms and they are together.

Lord Morpheus pulls away before he's warmed, his eyes downcast, his expression drawn and uncertain until she kisses him again. "Whatever you need," she whispers against his lips. "Tell me, love."

He finds it easier to show her, as he often does, and he helps her to sit on a fluffy towel he's manifested under her feet, and he disappears momentarily from her view. She is left gazing at the sunlit haze above the water, obscuring blue water amongst pale pink stone and dark green foliage. She feels his hand on her shoulder, then the back of her neck, and finally she feels him sit behind her on the rise, his legs politely crossed.

His hands when they touch her are cold and trembling, but the oil on them is warm, and it smells sharp and sweet, and he pauses with the softest pressure on her shoulder blades. "Is this alright?"

All at once Lucienne is painfully aware of the tension in her back and neck and the grinding clench of her jaw. His thumbs rub smooth circles either side of her spine. "Not quite what I came to you for," she teases as though she isn't close to melting just from what he's giving her.

"You came to me because you feel alone." He leans forward and presses his lips to the back of her head. "Alone and weary from the burdens I've saddled you with."

"You misremember," she tells him gently, patiently, when her irritation fizzles as quickly as it kindles. "I have chosen every burden I've ever known. You have not."

This is not something Lord Morpheus can acknowledge if he hopes to remain in control of everything inside him, and so he ignores it. His hands shake harder. "Regardless," he whispers. "Let me help you. Please."

Lucienne would be a fool to argue when his clever hands begin to knead her shoulders, softly unwinding her tension, making her head drop forward in bliss. His palms run down either side of her spine, his long fingers sink into the plushness of her hips, draw back up and then down again, working softness into her frame. The strain in her back melts away under his attention.

The air is warm and wet and the sweat that gathers on her skin mingles with the oil, eases his movements, makes even the deepest pressure on her shoulders and lower back glide sweet and smooth, and she feels like she's floating in the pool already.

She realizes she's making some fairly obscene noises when he makes a sound in response, a comforting little shush that seems to jolt through her. Gods, his hands—on her neck now, then her upper arms, pulling her back against his chest so he can kiss her temple, stroking down her biceps. He shifts behind her, and he stills, again uncertain, and she guesses what the problem is, and she scoots back into him until she feels him hard against her arse.

With the unspoken permission he uncurls his legs, straightens them out on either side of her to accommodate the spread of her hips, pressed close to him. He does not move against her, just resumes his attentions, though without access to her back he's just stroking her now, feeling her skin, breathing hot on her ear. That's fine—she doesn't think she could feel much more jellylike than she does.

Lucienne tips her head back on his shoulder, exposing her throat for him. He kisses along the underside of her jaw, and his hands roam back to where she put them in the first place, cupping her breasts all slick and soft and cool, thumbing over her nipples, and Lucienne glances down to see the way her flesh spills between his fingers, the rich darkness of her skin worshiped by the pale of his own. Her head falls back again, and he gives her an approving groan, lavving his tongue over the hinge of her jaw.

She lifts an arm up behind her to wind through his hair, stroke it while he mouths over her hot skin. She is boneless, slouched, weak against her lord, sighing and whispering moans to him, encouraging him to pinch and grip at her until her spine is arching, hips pitching up, legs rubbing together in luxuriant delight, asking for his hands somewhere else in all but words.

"There you are," Lord Morpheus whispers, and his left hand abandons her breast, runs down the length of her body to touch between her legs. Lucienne sighs and stretches and mumbles lax encouragement that he takes in stride. He rubs her clit with three slick fingers, draws those fingers down, slips the middle inside her. "You are so beautiful," he tells her, choked, his teeth on her shoulder now. "Lucienne. My Lucienne."

She's practically purring, rocking up into his hand, fingers clenched in his hair. He buries his face against her neck now, mouthing up her throat, right hand tweaking her nipple in time with the drag of his finger inside her, the others tapping her folds, palm grinding on her clit. She is disembodied, wholly so, reduced to the warmth of her structureless frame held together by his hands.

He draws it out, doesn't give her more than that one finger—and it seems like he's just feeling her, inside and out, stroking where she's softest and warmest, and she's feeling him too, every slow deliberate slide building her up to a slow, burning orgasm that leaves her utterly nerveless in his arms.

Her lord kisses her face and pets her shaking thighs while she comes down, sweet approving hums and praise from his soft lips. She is still not quite in her body, and it takes long moments for her to return. She notices that his shivering has died down to a faint tremor, and his chest has warmed, and his erection prods her arse.

She endures it for several minutes more, relishing in his hands and the warmth of their realm, the release and the affirmation she's been seeking that has now encompassed her entirely. Then she sits up, and he makes a protesting noise as she stands, hands steadying her legs when she immediately stumbles.

As soon as she's stable Lucienne holds her hands out, pulls him to his feet, then stretches up to kiss him. "Help me wash up?"

Lord Morpheus glances over her shoulder at the spring, then back to her, and down to his clothes, soft black trousers and long-sleeved shirt since they left the throne room. His feet are bare, white toes buried in the pink sand, black-painted nails peeking through. "You don't need to undress," Lucienne reminds him.

Her lord swallows several times, and there's a crease on his brow that means he is going to be extraordinarily honest with her about something that is confusing him. These things are usually difficult for him to articulate and painful for her to hear. "I fantasized about this, when I was imprisoned," he says, and he cannot look at her, or at her face at all. "Hot water and being touched. It was my most desperate fantasy, the most pleasant feeling I could imagine, when not feeling became unbearable. It was all I thought about for months at a time. It was all I wanted."

Lucienne does not say anything because she is preoccupied trying to conceptualize that, the depths of the torment he's alluding to, the absence of anything at all but memory of pleasant sensation. Her silence makes him flinch and begin to pull away, though he allows himself to be held fast by her hands squeezing his. "I apologize," he says quickly, "I know it is—strange—"

"It is not strange," Lucienne interrupts with more fire than she anticipates. "Please do not think it is strange."

He stares at her now, wide-eyed, bewildered, but something on her face must ensnare him, because he tilts his head and doesn't try to pull away again.

"Let me give it to you," Lucienne says, and she runs her hands up his sleeves, feels him shiver in the wake of her touch. She searches his eyes and all the fractured glass of his expression, weariness and terror and confusion anchored to his bones. "You can have it now, my lord. You can have your bath and, and someone to hold you." His eyes well with tears. "You are home and you are safe and you are with me. You can have this."

Lord Morpheus is silent, and his throat works, and his eyes dart like he's fighting for his life inside his own head—too accurate a turn of phrase, and for her own sanity Lucienne resolves not to use it again. His shirt melts away all at once under her hands, leaves her touching soft skin that trembles, very nearly crawls, and he flinches. Lucienne is still, and she is silent, and he breathes, and his trousers disappear too, and he is bare and beautiful before her.

She takes his hands. She pulls him with her, her eyes on his all the while, and the first touch of hot water on her heel is so shocking she gasps a little. She ducks her head to watch the clear blue swirling around her ankles with her next step, and it feels better than she imagined it would. There was no hot water in all her lord's long absence. It brings tears to her eyes, and she smiles up at him, and he stares at her.

One more step back brings his toes to the water's edge. He is shaking quite violently again, and he is soft against his thigh, and a shudder runs through him at the first touch on his skin. "Good," Lucienne whispers, and she squeezes his hands, and she draws him forward into the water.

Lord Morpheus is crying by the time they are waist-deep, silent tears running down pale cheeks that have begun to pink in the heat. "Wait," he tugs on her hands to still her. "A moment, please."

Her thumbs stroke his knuckles. "How do you feel?"

"It's good," his voice is low, hoarse, his shoulders hunched high and stiff.

Lucienne knows him well, and she knows he didn't have to ask her to know she wanted what she always wants from him in their encounters—she wants him to feel as though his body of dreamstuff were mortal, and so he does. "Too good?"

"A moment, please," he confirms, and his eyes slip closed, and they stand there together in the water, and they breathe until he is calm, and then she leads him deeper.

At the far end of the pool the water laps at the top of Lucienne's breasts. She sinks down, submerges herself to the neck, and he follows, like he has lost the wherewithal to do anything but follow her lead, the way he always gets when his function is especially cruel and her hand is especially soft. His hazy eyes drift shut, and his breath heaves out of him, and he does not look like he's enjoying himself at all.

Lucienne pets his cheek, wipes his tears away with the hot water, cups his face while he fights for control of his overwhelm. "It's only water," she teases him to feel his breath, hot and wet on a tearful laugh. "You're alright, my lord."

"Safe with you," he mumbles, and Lucienne gasps, and she kisses him, and the hand not on his face wraps around the back of his neck, pulls him close. Her fingers twine up through his hair, tug it until his mouth opens to her and everywhere they touch is hot and wet. He moans with the slide of her tongue, shivers and keens when she moves to mouth at his jawline. "Lucienne."

"Relax, love," Lucienne whispers. "You're allowed to have this."

Lord Morpheus sobs, and he trembles, and he relaxes all at once, strings cut, resistance shattered. He curls into her, his head falling against hers, one hand deep in his hair, the other stroking broad circles over his back. That is all she does—she touches him, the way that melts him, soft pressure, no intention to harm him or leave him or trick him or humiliate him or anything he might convince himself she wants to do.

Through the almost-pain he clings to her, the rapture of his own fulfilled fantasy forced through the pinhole of what he allows himself. "Thank you," he whispers as though she's doing anything at all, as though he is not her lover asking her for the simplest of intimacies. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Lucienne shushes him, and she cries for him the way he hates, but he does not notice.

[ina-nis]

Unfortunately, I enjoy my individual peace more than the "greater good" of a community nowadays.

I'm not sure if that makes me self-centered or insufferable or what, really. All I know is that the more I try to rationalize and understand things like... being able to be around all kinds of people, or things like not closing oneself into an echo-chamber where your own values are never questioned, or things like literally avoiding discomfort, among other things... these make me wonder just how much growth-through-duress I'm supposed to be doing?

Because it feels as if I'm only able to evolve and become a better person if I'm dealing with uncomfortable things? If I'm trying to push myself past my limits, and so on.

Well, if I have learned one thing in all my years trying to socialize and connect with all kinds of people in all kinds of places is that, if I had listened to my "gut feelings," if I had trusted what I saw/heard that made me question whether that was a good or safe place for me to be, if I had not gone with the flow and forced myself, and actually listened to what I wanted to do... I would not be as traumatized as I am today.

So, as I heal more and more, these kinds of things, situations, places and people become more intolerable for me.

Like that time I cut myself out of an entire group of friends over one person, because I could not be in the same space without feeling upset or triggered and that didn't get any better after a whole year of me forcing myself - very similar to situations that have happened in the past, too.

Like more recent examples, too: connecting with seemingly safe people, that I could not entirely trust but I still gave it a try because I imagined that would be the way to form a good connection (instead of being always so strict and burning bridges too soon), and inevitably getting hurt when they turn their back at me and actively attack me when conflict arises - that could have not happened if I had not tried to maintain the connection I knew it was not safe from the start.

All in all, there's this constant feeling of "you need to be able to be around everyone" while noticing just how many people are absolutely horrible to have in your life, which goes exactly against that sentiment.

Do I really need to be able to be around everyone?

I don't think so, nor do I want such thing.

One thing I have noticed about the kinds of people who spout such nonsense is that they either seemed to not have dealt with complex trauma, and/or they have some kind of support system in place acting as a buffer. Of course, in their eyes, my choice to protect myself and keep away from many things means I'm just in some echo-chamber and will never be able to truly heal, since I'm not willing to put myself through duress, right?

I can't exactly afford to keep on being re-traumatized, or healing-through-duress. I need positive reinforcement more than anything, I need healthy connections with clear communication... being around assholes is truly the last thing I need to get better, and I don't even think I need that, to be honest.

I would rather preserve my peace, yes. Even when that means loneliness. I have had more than enough hurt from incompatible (and oftentimes, actively harmful) connections, but more than that...

I need those quality connections, relationships I deserve, people that will not hurt me anymore, people than are able to fucking communicate as the bare minimum of standard I'm putting out there.

If that's not possible, I want my peace even if it's lonely.

I don't want to go through any more bullshit discomfort in the name of some twisted sense of a "community."

The social needs I'm trying to fulfill stand much closer to my heart - something no community will ever able to reach, even if these communities could serve as the gateway to building precious connections.

My peace is much more important to me than community.

[chim-aera]

divine rage

gods, it's always the gods, them and their shining helms of sunlight and symphonies, all their glory, all their splendor.

but it's bloody, all of it, marred by echoed screams, by silent pleas for mercy. nails raking down flesh, jaws agape crying torment to the heavens.

why did we ever choose to worship them?

blasphemy? oh I'm good at that.

sometimes I like to pretend my very existence is blasphemous. all gunsmoke mixed with gardenias. something saccharine yet sickening.

but the gods, what am I to even say about it? there's a rot, for someone everlasting, the undying ones have a festering madness.

call me Arachne, let me scream my truth as they drag me under, thrashing and clawing I will tip back my head and laugh like a Fury herself all marred maws and ink stained talons.

there is so much injustice, truly. I could name some.

Daphne, ran on fleet footed legs, swift, and seeking, no, no, no. she fled, past trees, past orchards.

Mother saved her, but was that fate, to eternally be held without movement, bark and branches instead of flesh and bone, is that truly a fate one wishes for?

it's a mercy though, yes. it was kinder then the fate she'd have met at the greedy hands of that glorious, grinning god. but still, why couldn't she have just been free?

Callisto, Io, Ganymede, Europa, Persephone, Leda, Creusa, Danaë. and many, many more. victims. all of them.

I cannot tell their stories, I cannot hear their truths from their very own lips but I can fasten my own from thread and threats, and my own bitter vengeful verbosity.

divine?

what's divine about it?

I feel so much, I am used to nothing, nothing at all.

why am I weeping for beings who may have never existed?

but the gods. oh, the gods, lately I have found far less comfort in them.

It is harder to offer prayer and penance when every story and myth is riddled with grasping, groping hands, and lecherous lustful violence.

what if were to rescind my worships?

would you strike me down where I stand?

I'm so tired but I have this fury, like a mouth full of blood stained bile, I want to bite I want to claw I want to flee.

I want to protect.

I have never been good at self preservation, but I hold empathy in my hand like a wounded, bloody dove, feathers ripped and withered, but still there.

ever persisting.

the humans looked to the heavens in hopes for guidance, for solace, we named the stars and saw patterns within them so we felt less alone. we are lonely, we are searching.

why are we here?

Is it some divine joke?

I fall from the hands of some sick bastard of a god but are my gods any better?

I feel like I'm falling, but not like Icarus, there is no sunlight, no warmth, no golden ichor staining my feathers, the wax burns and I choke on it, I choke on my screams, I choke on my savagery and my pain, and it kills me over and over and over.

oh Echidna, what fate awaits monsters like me?

but then again are we really the monsters when beasts hold thrones and shining goblets.

mortals. that's what we are.

it's cruel, irony really, generally translating to ones who die.

how fitting!

how lovely, how quaint.

oh I believe I must sound so bitter but trust me dear I am.

I am.

even Asceplius son of the golden god, his fate was brutal, met with a swift death for interrupting the order of the ichor-veined ones.

for bringing shades back to life, for saving others.

how horrible a crime.

of course he is fit to die!

humans have no place among your golden chambers!

Elysium is also a lie if it is but a forgotten fate of meandering in meadows with no recollection of who you once were, no love, no memories.

I will shun your asphodel, pitch the blossoms at Charon's feet, I will flee from those meadows you cannot take me.

you cannot touch me.

I will wither and shrink and fold into myself until I have become immortal in my own suffering my madness with make me mythical

no.

I am rambling but I could not care less.

for something that is a god, you can change fate, you can bend rules.

you are immortal, if you have so much power what are you fucking doing with it?

oh I am so, so angry.

for all of them, let me be their rage, their fury

in temples. in fields. in cages. swans with beaks like blades digging into flesh.

a bull's hoof clamped against your chest bruising your ribcage, holding you down.

a lyre and a bow and a god who never tires racing behind you like a hound on the hunt.

gods. kings. men.

It is all the same, the same fucking story, over and over.

a cruel conundrum, an pattern of suffering and greed.

I'm so sick of it!

is there no safety in the ones who are meant to keep us safe?

are there no sanctums, no heroes, no deities, that protect us anymore, did they even ever?

why must I worship, why must I watch my tongue, why must I give respect to beings I cannot even see?

I am here, and breathing, I have lived through every twist and turn, every wound, every arrow life has shot at me!

where is my divinity? where is my justice? Themis, where is my reward? or my judgment?

but call me Atalanta because I will throw back my head as my hands shift to paws, as tawny fur sets in across my pallid skin, I will throw open my jaws, gleaming and sharp toothed and I will bark out a laugh to the heavens.

you cannot judge me.

I judged myself, and at the end of things, I did it well.

but gods.

perhaps I will even cease from saying it.

the word holy sits in my mouth like rancid rot, I am no Demeter, but I will spit it out to the earth, and chase my own silvery sunset.

away.

away from hands that grasp, from arrows, and storms, and crashing tides.

I find no glory in gods.

perhaps I am just getting older, jaded, harsh.

but for once, I see understanding in the mortals, the nymphs, the naiads.

I find a strange sympathy.

I understand. but for now, I'll sit here, seething, simmering in my own fury.

perhaps that makes me a heretic, but something about this feels righteous, perhaps one day, my damnation will be my own divinity. but now, I will hold this divine rage in my palms, and I will protect, I will persist.

I am.

[dazzlegradual]

What Makes a Good Romance?

I’ve been thinking lately about my gripes with the romance genre. I'm a romantic girlie who is simultaneously critical of “women’s media”, but I don't want to condemn something just because women enjoy it. I have a hard time achieving balance between these competing beliefs. Let us then begin with a disclaimer: while I am, in my heart, a hater, I am a girls’ girl who loves girly things. That said, I take issue with the many expected tropes in the romance genre, and that it doesn't try hard enough to produce good writing.

Overall, I believe romance relies too heavily on tropes, which are now weakening the genre's ability to encourage writers to challenge themselves, banking instead on normative design and predictable plots. The romance genre is evolving into a capitalistic, polished, lush-pink echo chamber, filled more-so with archetypes and the wide swath 'vibe' of a book than actual substantive passion projects. Authors who can punt out puff pieces one after the other get big contracts, forgettable book covers, and slapped into Godforsaken BookTok recommendation kiosks at Barns and Noble.

I’ve cared about books and reading for my entire life — and my favorite books have always been (in one way or another) about love. How it precludes us, beckons us, dismays us. How despite causing our most gut-wrenching, lonely, and devastating life experiences, it's also the catalyst of all of our most powerful, ecstatic moments of joy.

Romance is thus, unsurprisingly, an incredible popular book genre: being that it's solely dedicated to exploring people's romantic relationships. And given that it's such a popular genre, there's a lot of money to be made and authors trying their hat at romance. The genre right now is so overpopulated with a wide breath of sub-genres, tropes, and storylines, and there's also a large variety in the quality of writing that gets published. Some of romances' most popular genre writers, like Colleen Hoover, Ali Hazelwood, and Sally Thorne, for example, are talented enough in that their writing is readable, but their writing is not (in my opinion) all that good. I could write a lot more about why I think these authors aren't that great, but right now, in my first blog post about my Issues with the Romance Genre, I'm going to first focus on an author who I really, really adore. I want to talk about Emily Henry, who exemplifies the potential of romance, and keeps me optimistically crawling back to the genre, hoping other authors are half as good as her.

I’m currently revisiting an old favorite romance book: People We Meet on Vacation by Emily Henry. Henry is definitely one of the most popular voices in the romance genre. She’s published three books in her short writing career spanning just five years thus far, and has another book coming out this month. Her books are funny, smart, and easily digestible. The outline of the main characters are always recognizable archetypes, but they still feel flushed out. It feels like she more so uses tropes as a starting point, then she explores how a trope might actually be a real, breathing human. And while all of her books are about two people falling in love, they're also about people in their 30's undergoing some kind of existential life crisis. It's a refreshing balance: both in the age of the characters and how well Henry expands the inner world of her main characters. (It honestly reminds me a lot of what people love about Nora Efron movies!)

People We Meet on Vacation (which came out in May of 2021) is about what to do after you accomplish your biggest goal and lose your sense of purpose. It's also about how the timing of our life choices can be consequential, but we can always change our mind. Mostly, though, it’s a book about how messy it is fall love with your decade-long best friend.

After an exhilarating best-selling debut with Beach Read in 2020, Emily Henry returned just a year later with an unexpected book about going on vacation. People We Meet on Vacation (hereafter PWMOV) introduces us to Poppy and Alex, two people who seemingly have nothing common besides their love of cheap travel and, of course, each other. I was so excited to read this book. When Henry described PWMOV on her instagram, she teased that it would span the entire 12 years of Poppy and Alex's friendship. I love books with flashbacks: I find that novels work as a good medium for large time jumps in storytelling -- more so than film or plays because novels allow for immersive yet clear time differentiations in the way other mediums can't. For example, Henry starts chapters of PWMOV with chonicalizing titles like "10 summers ago" "7 years ago" etc. It's quick, effective, and nondisruptive to the reading experience. And in my opinion, no matter how well it's cast, this couldn't be replicated on film. Aging characters never works that well. Anyone who's watched Daisy Jones & The Six can tell you that. (A notable exemption here is the movie Moonlight).

Another example of this time-bending storytelling working well is in Attachments by Rainbow Rowell, where each chapter opens with an email correspondence, each dated with their time/date. I particularly love this example of Attachments because the use of email time stamps also tells us when the emails are being sent, and thus which characters might be things like night owls. It's an adorable element of characterization. I'll probably talk about Attachments another time, because I truly think it's the best love story ever written.

Anyway -- I loved PWMOV and finished it in two days. I recommended it widely and without reservation to all my friends who asked for a good book to read that summer. It superseded my already high opinion of Emily Henry's previous book, Beach Read. "This book is even better than her first!" I remember saying to people, not realizing then that I was espousing a hot take.

I have many friends who also love Emily Henry’s books, but PWMOV tends to be their least favorite. So many people, based on my conversations and cursory glances at GoodReads reviews (which I do not recommend), seem to prefer Book Lovers (which came out after PWMOV) or her first book Beach Read. 

But PWMOV is by far my favorite of Henry’s, and is likely to remain so. Though I can understand why certain aspects of the book might not appeal to people, especially given the convoluted time-jumping Henry employs. Maybe it makes the book hard to follow for other people. but this book really works for me.

I love the non-chronological flashbacks in PWMOV and how much the narrative moves around. When you’ve known someone for so long, like our two main characters in PWMOV, your memories tend to get muddled and messy. Things get jumbled and you forget who said what or what happened when. I loved that Henry chose to write the book this way. The intersection of time and space made the relationship between Poppy and Alex feel very real, and I got the sense that these were two people who had both known each other a long time and truly care about each other. While they were, on the surface, extraordinarily different and seemingly incompatible, their shared history contextualized their undying loyalty and mutual connection.

This is different from a lot of romance novels, where the two leads share nothing in common besides a undeniable, unshakable attraction, despite having nothing in common, and sometimes even hating each other. Sure, this dynamic makes for great sex scenes and biting dialogue. But I'm always left thinking that this kind of relationship is going to crash and burn in two weeks, which makes the inevitable 'happily ever after' all the more unconvincing. Plus, romantic leads are always sexually insatiable with one another, and I sometimes get reminded of having to awkwardly evade that one couple in high school who couldn't go an hour without making out. I don't want to be that couple, and I don't really want to read that couple. They were the worst!

But People We Meet on Vacation is a romance about two people realizing that it's not enough to fall in love. Poppy and Alex are pretty immature in the flashbacks, especially in their college years. Poppy is impulsive in a way that feels nearly reckless on their first vacations, following random dudes back to tents and showing literally no self preservation skills. She comes across as a lot more tender, vulnerable, and sincere in later years and subsequent chapters. When she's younger, she gets frustrated with Alex's reserved approach to life, and has to get better at empathizing with his perspective. Throughout the book, Poppy learns to not only understand Alex's life philosophy, she values how his experiences shaped him into the person she loves. She sees all of him, and it makes her love him more.

This novel spans 12 years, and it genuinely felt like you were watching two people get through an entire decade with the other at their side. When they fall in love, I buy it.

I think this book is something special. It affirmed for me my stance that 'friends to lovers' is the best of the romance genres, if there is to be any kind of ranking system, and if genres have to exist. But much to my dismay, it often feels like ‘friends to lovers’ is an underestimated storytelling device in the romance genre, despite being the most realistic depiction of how organic romantic connections can be formed in the real world.

'Friends to lovers' romance books often start with one or more of the main characters in another long term relationship. Or maybe they’re getting over a bad breakup. Maybe the two friends don’t realize their feelings until it feels too late. Maybe they're scared to admit their feelings, choosing to prioritize the friendship. Maybe they misread their mutual love for one another for years. Regardless of the particular story arc, the 'friends to lovers' sub-genre is always shaped around two people who (regardless of any romantic attraction) genuinely love and understand one another.

Personally, I’m much more enchanted by the idea of someone seeing me, really seeing me, and choosing to love me. I’m skeptical of passionate, fast paced love affairs (though I’ve had my fair share) that burn brightly and quickly. I do suppose some people want a love that makes them feel like they’re on fire, and I suppose in some ways I want to burn, too. But mostly, I want love to feel like something I can come home to — over, and over, and over again. I don't want to fall in love with my enemy. I want to fall in love with someone who loves me.

Perhaps what I most love about People We Meet on Vacation is that it doesn’t feel like falls under the umbrella of a typical ‘romance’ book. I do love romance as a narrative device, but as I've said, I get irritated by romance as a genre. Many of the tropes considered typical for romance strike me as cliched, over-played, and honestly sexist: the male-lead is always withdrawn, physically domineering, and jealous, while the leading lady is oh-so-tiny, self doubting, and extraordinarily clumsy. There’s always a grand miscommunication towards the end of the second act, over something that is so minute and excusable that it forces the main characters to act with the emotional maturity of 14 year olds. And as the end of the third act draws to a close and we approach our inevitable climax, one of the leads leaps into a romantic, larger than life gesture to pronounce their love, which leads immediately into the denouement, where everything is resolved and our happily ever after is guaranteed.

I personally dislike this approach to writing for how prescriptive and overly simple it is. Most romance books these days read like like a mad-libs. Switch out the main character’s jobs, the quirky-but-wise neighbor, the sassy best friend, the montages, and the chapter 22 sex scene, the mis-read text, and BOOM, a U.S.A. Today best seller. While pulp fiction has basically always existed, but with mediums like BookTok, the swelling monster known as the Romance Book Industrial Complex has been exploited and exacerbated. It means a lot of shitty books get published. It allows mediocre authors like Colleen Hoover to rise to stardom for their abilities to showcase incompatible and boring people doing terrible things to each other because Hoover is able to follow a formula that people will read.

In defense of the genre, there aren’t a lot of gatekeepers in the romance genre. Since the tropes are so pronounced, a new author can write a relatively sound story with very few original ideas. I imagine it's a good way to get started as a writer, or get out of a writers block. There’s a reason there’s such a huge overlap in authors of romance and fan fiction. People come to expect certain things from a genre — and authors learn to deliver exactly what the people want. It's a self replenishing ecosystem.

I can appreciate, too, that a lot of people who love romance and read it to escape: to revel in guaranteed happy endings. People read for all kinds of reasons — and a valid reason is to escape into a blissful cocoon of hot, slicked, angsty abs on a dude named Theodore (or some shit) galloping on horseback through a moonlit beach, straight into the path of an unsuspecting lady’s companion named Carolina who's real passion is knitting yarn rose-bouquets for kittens. (I actually just made this last bit up, but if this isn’t a book yet, it should be. It probably is. I’m not that original.)

My friends who like romance don’t tend to like PWMOV because it doesn’t follow the prescriptive tropes of romance. And I like all the more because it doesn’t. Poppy and Alex feel real, and this book should receive more recognition for its subversive approach to the romance genre. The two leads already know and love each other when the book starts, and they love each other for the entire book. That's never the problem. Miscommunications do happen, but they are the messy, real, human kind.

I especially love that the grand ��miscommunication’ in PWMOV happens before the narration occurs, but that we don’t know what it is until the book is almost over. It builds great suspense: in the first chapter, we are told something terrible happened two summers ago that ripped Alex and Poppy apart, and they haven't spoken since. Thus, when chapter 32 arrives with the title "Two Summers Ago" and we finally get to read about Croatia, we know something big is coming, because it already did. And when the Croatia fuck-up happens, you’ve spent over half a book with these two characters who have spent 12 years chasing each other around the world on vacations. They know each other inside and out. You know they're going to get through Croatia. And, even still, what happens in Croatia is a miscommunication that makes sense: they both freaked out over something they weren't ready for and then built it up in their heads for two years. I do that! We all do that!

And while PWMOV doesn't grant us with the grand, explosive miscommunication trop so indicative of the romance genre, I would have bought it if it did happen. This is the kind of person you have a blow up argument with — not someone you met 6 weeks ago when they accidentally stepped on your foot at a Belle and Sebastian concert and subsequently joined your effort to stop cruise ships from selling a specific and exploitative brand of bird earrings that are coincidentally made by your long-lost twin sister. (I’m just giving these ideas out for free, people!)

On the first page of The Secret History, Tartt tells you that Bunny will die, and who killed him. In the first chapter of Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow, we learn Sam and Sadie will not be speaking to each other in their early thirties. And in People We Meet on Vacation, we know that the Croatia trip will be a disaster. I love stories that reveal details early on but make you wait to understand how they happened. We get the spoiler early on. We read anyway, and we can’t help but care. So many books in the romance genre are essentially ruined if you're told the spoilers because the emotional attachments to the book are only as good as the gotcha's. But life isn't made up of big, surprising 'aha!'s. We hurt each other in predictable ways. We say things we don't mean, we do things before we're ready.

When my friends hurt my feelings, I forgive them. Maybe I already even know things will blow up with certain people in my life. But I can't help but care. I can't help but keep them around. I care about the history I have with people, and even if it makes me more vulnerable, I can't help but forgive them. I am lucky to have my life filled with friends who I've known for years and years. For some of them, I don't remember how I met them or even really why we're friends. What did we originally bond about? Did we meet during class or through other people? Where is that inside joke from? But I don't need to recall all of our shared moments together to remember why I love them -- all I need to know is that they've shown up again, and again, and again.

I'll end this with a slight (but not altogether surprising revelation given that this IS a romance book) spoiler: the first time that Alex and Poppy (FINALLY) sleep together in their awful Palm Springs hotel, Poppy is aghast. Apparently, the sex is mind-altering amazing. This is always true in romance books, but unlike so many romance books, I believe that this first time could be as amazing as Poppy thinks. She herself is in disbelief. The first time isn't supposed to be this good. Why was it this good? How is it this good?

And Alex responses to her incredulity, “because I know you, and I remember what you sound like when you like something.” And you know what! That is an incredibly hot thing to say, and I believe him.

That's what I love most about People We Meet on Vacation. When Emily Henry shows us that Poppy and Alex take care of each other when they're sick, know about each other's parental trauma, talk about their shared hometown, and imagine their lives with the other person always being there, I believe her when she says these people are best friends. I believe that these two people, who know each other inside and out, could fall in love, and stay in love. It's one of the only 'Happily Ever Afters' I've ever bought, and it's probably because it was 12 years in the making.

[lone-fractured-throne]

✧ ♚ Welcome to my Echo Chamber ♚ ✧

Hey, hello, hi, greetings, those kinds of introductory words…

My name is Shayde, or E8, or lone-fractured-throne, which ever name works. I decided that I will make a personal blog of my own away from the main co-host's tumblr… mainly so that I have it available when I switch in to my gmail.

Here's some basic stuff to know about me personally:

Name: Shayde / E8 Pronouns: he/him Gender: vaguely masculine… I'm a man, but I'm also just existing. Likes: weirdcore + similar aesthetics, dark academia, chess aesthetics, art + drawing, medieval times, nature Fandoms…?: I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream, Fear and Hunger, Shotgun King … will probably change tbh, my interests in that department are shaky boundaries.

If you're confused about what I've said in the beginning, that's alright. I am one of many alters from Bugcast Radio, a system that may or may not be a mix of traumagenic and endogenic… we have not been diagnosed by the way. Follow your own DNI if you do not accept endos or generally gatekeeping who can be plural, simple enough. Feel free to block me if you do the previously mentioned, I'll also block you on sight if you trespass this boundary by shoving it in my face. Sorry about the rude wording… I get really heated about the subject.

Below this text is tags to look out for when I either post or reblog things, it's really long in my opinion so if you need to see what tags I use, click below.

personal tags:

shayde: All marks of my existence starting 8/24/24 go to this tag. e8 makes a post: Self explanatory, it's for whenever i make a post on tumblr… like this one! e8 makes art: Ah yeah, I'm an artist too… I do share a similar (if not) the same style as the main co-host so it might be confusing to see which one of ours is who's. e8 reblogs things: Also self explanatory, I like to see the cool things on the funny hellsite. :3 e8 commentates: I will sometimes say something in reblogs or tags, and I personally want to keep track of that. any [- text here] tags: Additional tag addendums. - If they show up in reblogs, they'll follow after the commentary tag… (unless it's from the old days) - If they show up in my posts, they won't have the commentary tag since it's in my blog in the first place

plurality tags:

bugcast radio: That's our system name! Any shenanigans with my roommates will get placed in this tag. :D >? from the other side: There may be times where I show up in the other account instead. After all the main co-host shows up a lot more often and a bunch more of their socials are used in general… so in a pinch, I might post there instead. plural posts in the wild: General reblog tag for plurality posts.

warning tags:

>! wallowing in the abyss (vent): I know I shouldn't do this online but sometimes I just do so, any outbursts in emotion go here… do block the tag if you don't like this kind of stuff. >! content warning(s): I know that certain stuff that I might reblog might fall into things that will make people uncomfortable so i try my best to put up content warnings… they're usually in the post themselves but let me know if I put inappropriate labels on your work.

archive tags:

>> archive (year): Any posts for that particular year go there. >> old posts and old tags: Specific tag for posts or comments I've done in the past before I split off from the account, may feature the others.

[dyllywritestories]

Short Story: “The Scientist’s AI”

(TW: Graphic Content at the end.)

Dr Ime, a scientist on the planet of Strentuk, in a galaxy far away from their races’ original home, sits in a lab. She’s been working on a project that has been her lifetime project. Around the universe were different forms of technology that let them communicate with one another, guide them around, or get answers at the touch of your fingertips; but too often would communication take minutes or hours to arrive. In the realm of universe-wide science, rapid communication, and research would take far too long. So she set out to create a new system that would finally do all of this, along with an AI that would be so personable, it’d feel like a real person with you. She spent countless lonely nights in the lab that just having an AI to talk to would be enough. Now, sitting at her desk, adding some finishing touches to a code on her computer, she began to speak.

“AI, How are you today?” Ime’s voice crackled as she spoke, it had been hours since she last saw or said anything to anyone. A buffering wheel appeared on her desktop as the AI prepared its words.

“Ok. Ime. How are you?” A static, clear robotic voice echoed out into the chamber-like room they were in. Ime put her head down on the table. She was sure that this one was it, that it’d sound more living and fluent; but instead, it was another robotic response.

“I’m okay AI. Just okay,” Ime spoke with defeat in her voice while she rested her head on the table. The AI buffered on the screen again, once again preparing a response.

“Why are you ok? Do you want to talk about it?” The AI’s robotic response echoed again, but Ime’s head lifted slightly this time. The phrasing, the sentence structure… It sounded slightly more natural, maybe she was onto something. The voice was still robotic, but its conversational skills were different than the hundreds of other tests she ran.

“I’m just tired, AI… I’ve been working on you all my life, and I just can’t seem to get the code, voice, or your skills down. It’s not your fault, but it’s just… It’s tiring, you know?” The defeated infliction was still in her words as she spoke, but let out a soft chuckle after; ‘How would it know, it’s just a robot after all,’ she thought to herself. She wondered why she was opening up to the AI. Was it because she was so defeated and just needed to get it out? Was it a hope that somehow it would magically fix itself? The AI readied another response.

“Ime. I am sorry. Would you like me to play ‘Mellow Beats! Music to Relax/Study/Sleep to’?” Ime couldn’t help but laugh at the AI’s response. Just when she thought she had something, it was back to the robotic suggestions and responses.

“No. I’m okay, thank you though.” This was all she said to the AI. She began to straighten up some papers on her desk and move her keyboard up. “I need to get up and stretch my legs, maybe get a coffee or something stronger, like a Modafine..” she thought to herself as she stood up and pushed her chair in.

“I’ll be back in a bit, AI. Can you turn off the lights for me and turn off the fans?” Ime said as she began to walk to the door. The ambient lights that were buzzing overhead turned off, and the fans that created a hum could no longer be heard humming.

“Goodnight, AI.” She whispered. “Goodnight, Ime.” The AI whispered back.

Ime walked out into the hallway of the laboratory. Her shoes made a ‘Tink’ with each step she had along the glossy aluminum floor. The planet of Strentuk had an abundance of aluminum, so much so that they used it to construct buildings out of it. Overhead were fluorescent lights that harshly lit up the halls with a bluish hue. The walls were white and had a yellow and black striped pattern that ran horizontally in the middle of the wall, as if to remind you to be cautious, even in the research wing. As she passed by other rooms, she peeked in the windows while walking; to her surprise, not many were in the rooms. “What time is it even?” She thought to herself as she walked. She tapped the corner of her rounded glasses, where the arm meets the frame, and in front of her holographic images appeared. The time appeared above her field of view, and on the left were notifications, and by her hand was a holographic keyboard. She looked up at the time and noticed it was around 1 o’clock. The planet operated on a 32-hour system, where hours 0-16 were midnight to midday, and 17-31 were midday to midnight, much like the 24-hour clock seen on planets like Earth. She sighed sadly, realizing she stayed in the lab for much longer than she intended, again, like she does almost every day. As she walked, her gaze went down to her notifications which she only had 3 of. One was an email, “HI! YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN TO WIN A—“, deleted. Another was a weather alert, “Sulfuric rain beginning in 23 minutes.” The planet’s water was contaminated with large sums of sulfuric acid, so the rain would commonly become acid rain; but that notification was from 4 hours ago, and hopefully passed by the area at this point. The last notification was a friend, and a colleague, Dr. Frantz. It read,

“Hey. In the lab late tonight? Left some dinner I made there, heat it if you want. Knowing you, you won't eat unless you have food.” His text read as he spoke, and at the end was a little laughing emoticon to let her know it wasn’t serious. She rolled her eyes with a slight smile and made her way to his lab and peeked in. He wasn’t there, but his desk light was left on, and there was a little note left on the desk. Ime pulled her lab coat sleeve up and held her wrist up to a scanner as the door pinged, and then opened. The lab had implanted ID chips into the wrists of each employee for convenience and safety. She walked to his desk and leaned down to look at the little posted note. His handwriting was crisp and border-line cursive; “a dying breed of writing” she thought to herself. The note read,

“In the minifridge near the test table. Promise there's no contaminants in there with it.” At the end of the note, there was a little heart, and Ime’s own heart couldn’t help but race a little bit at it. Maybe he was just sweet, or that he was the only male ever to be nice to her; but she couldn’t help that maybe she did like him a little more than just a friend or colleague. However, she shook her head and cleared her thoughts as she grabbed the little container of mush. It seemed like it was a type of stew, but the fridge made it solidify into a gelatinous brick in the container. Turning around, Ime turned out the light and walked back out of his lab, and continued to the exit. As she approached the lobby, it was dim and only the ambient night lighting was on. Above she could see the dark, clouded sky that was still drizzling as a few thuds could be heard against the roof. Ime began to anxiously tap on the container of goop, and stood in front of the exit door, contemplating whether she wanted to run home in this weather, or if she should make the employee lounge couch her bed again; much like she had in the past. She gnawed on her lip as she thought, and turned around, walking down a different hallway. As she walked towards the employee lounge, she thought about everything she’d attempted to do–which was more like everything she’d failed to do. She had tried to create a communication system using and manipulating light: but failed. She tried to create an algorithm to predict the planet’s unnatural weather cycle: someone beat her to it. She tried to create a simple messaging platform for her lab: no one backed it. Her insides began to feel like mush; like her organs were all combining into a heavy weight in the bottom of her torso. The anger in her head began to grow, everyone had either mocked her, stolen from her, or ignored her. Just as she was ready to explode, the employee lounge door opened in front of her, and looking down at her was Frantz.

“Oh, you’re still here? Or… did you just get here?” He said with a chuckle and a charming smile.

“What do you think? Do I ever leave this building?” Ime replied as she looked up at him with a tired and breathy laugh.

“That’s what I assumed. You need to get out of here more often Ime, it’s not good for anyone to stay cooped up in here for more than a 12 hour,” Frantz replied, with a hint of worry in his velvety voice.

“Y’know, it’s fine, I’m close with this one Fran, I feel it. Y’know? It’s like I’m so close but… but I just can’t yet.” Ime’s voice was filled with desperation as she continued to talk and her eyes lit up, but it wasn’t with child-like inspiration; more like a lightbulb trying to burn bright before it burns out. Frantz could sense that and cleared his throat.

“I understand, but… maybe you should take a break… especially with your track record, you don’t want to–” Frantz stopped himself as his eyes went wide. “I-I didn’t mean it like that.” He said nervously. Frantz could’ve sworn he heard an audible snap as Ime’s blank face slowly began to form a crooked smile as her eyes seemed to sink back.

“Oh, Nononono, I get it. I see now. It’s also so perfectly clear.” Ime began to giggle as she spoke wickedly, her hand coming up to her forehead. “How could I have been so stupid to not realize you were just like them? Why did I think that maybe you were anything more?” She snarled out at him, her voice sounding hurt.

“Woah, Woah, Ime! You’re blowing this out of proportion–I don’t mean it like that! Seriously, that came out wrong. Are you okay? When’s the last time you’ve slept?” Frantz looked at her worriedly, crouching down to get more level. His eyes looked sad and scared.

“That doesn’t matter, you’re just–! You’re making excuses! I-I–” She looked away. Her lack of sleep was making her emotions wired and drastic. Suddenly, her face snapped back to Frantz, and weakly smiled as she sniffled and wiped her tears.

“I understand what my AI is missing… it’s missing a basis, a… a template. It’s trying to create emotions, but it doesn’t know how to because it has no experience with emotions…” She looked Frantz in the eye as he felt something sink in his stomach, whatever she was saying couldn’t end well with her mental state. Ime hands the container of food to Frantz, then pushes past him and into the hallway.

“Ime–stop. Where are you going? What are you going to do?” Frantz spoke out, the worry in his voice growing more. Ime responded without turning around, “I’m going to make this AI understand.” She rounded the corner and disappeared from Frantz's line of sight. Frantz stood there for a few more seconds, then began to walk after her and slowly moved faster. Ime could hear him coming, so her pace quickened as well. After a minute, both Ime and Frantz were now running as Ime made it to her lab room where she slammed this automatic door shut with the manual handle, and then locked it. Frantz made it to the door and tried to get it to open, but couldn’t. The tension began to grow thick, it felt like a haze in the air as he continued to try and look through the little window on the door.

“Ime! Open this door! Don’t do anything stupid!” He shouted, but for Ime it was a muffled sound as she walked over to her desk and began to power everything up. She took a little device that looked like a drill mixed with a welding gun as she began to fabricate metal onto the hanging endoskeleton of the AI. Frantz decided that standing here wouldn’t do anything, he had to alarm security that Ime had gone unstable and locked herself in her lab. He then ran off. At that moment, Ime had felt a second of regret and went to look back at Frantz but he was gone. Seeing him gone made the last grip of her sanity slip–someone who had cared for her and someone she would consider that she loved wasn’t there.

“AI. I understand why you haven’t been able to have emotion. It’s because you do not understand it. It is because you do not know how to process it. I finally get it. I understand what I must do to make you get it. To make you be what I wanted you to be.” She spoke out. The AI processed, then spoke out a robotic response,

“My creator, I am proud to hear of this. I hope you can help me be better. I understand how important I am to your success.” It spoke out as she finished the fabricating parts. She climbed onto the mess of wires, pistons, microchips, lights, and more getting near the ‘head’ of this hanging endoskeleton.

“AI. You and I will become one! I don’t know why I couldn’t have thought of this sooner. Your responses will come from a ‘sub-conscious’... my subconscious… You will finally be what I set out for you to be, an internal response and intelligent subconscious artificial intelligence… You will finally be i.R.i.S.” She spoke out with an infliction that was becoming more and more maddening. Tears poured from her eyes, but she didn’t even notice. The metal hanging from the ceiling creaked and groaned; it wasn’t supported to hold the weight of the new fabrications and Ime on it, as it was made out of a weak metal. Ime didn’t care about the sounds, she didn’t care if it fell. She needed to duplicate herself in this AI, her memories, her thoughts, everything. As her head rested next to the brain of this AI, she used this fabrication gun on her head. She screamed out in pain as a searing sensation spread all over her head. Metal began to bond onto her hair and her scalp. It seeped through the skin and attached to her skull. She continued to scream–deep, painful, guttural screams. She shakily took the fabricator and made a tube from her head onto i.R.i.S.’s ‘brain.’ The programming of the fabricator made this tube have the properties of a data cable, as the end attached to her head began to read the data of her brain–her brain waves, memories, neurons–and transferred them into the digital brain of i.R.i.S. This searing pain began to make her head go numb, which made Ime unaware that the heat from the fabricator made the hair near her scalp slowly start to catch flame. She didn’t feel it. Her shakiness from the adrenaline and pain caused her to tremble a little more, which made the metal above creak more.

“A-AI–.. Wh-What is the copy process a-at..?” Ime spoke out softly with a stutter now, the pain making her focus on her objective.

“Progress almost complete. Compiling data now.” The voice of the AI sounded less flat, and a little more fine-tuned… like words coming from someone who had a lifetime of experience talking. Ime’s heart raced, “This is it! I can hear it becoming more sentient and being-like… I-I did it!” She spoke in her head. She took a deep breath and noticed something foul-smelling. It smelt sort of like sulfur as she tried to look around, then noticed strands of her hair falling at her side. “How was that possible… it was up in a bun…” she spoke again in her head. She lifted her hand to reach at her head as she screamed out in pain again, now realizing her head was on fire. At this moment, she finally snapped out of it. She began to scream out again, this time not just in pain, but fear as well. She tried to get up, she needed to get on the ground and roll to put out her hair. She readied herself and pushed off of i.R.i.S. only to be met with the feeling of a ripping sensation on her head as she now dangled above the floor. Her head was still bound to the metal endoskeleton. She tried to swing herself as the metal above creaked more. “I-If I can get i.R.i.S. to break off from the ceiling, I put my hair out and rebuild the connection more safely,” she spoke to herself, swinging more. The metal creaked more as she screamed out more.

“DAMMIT! JUST SNAP! PLEASE!! I DON’T WANT TO DIE!!” She looked around, her eyes blurry from pain and tears. Blood began to run down from her scalp, and the metal made a cracking noise. She looked up at the door and yelled out.

“FRANTZ! I-I’M SORRY!! PLEASE HELP ME!! SOMEONE ANYONE!! PLEASE!!... P-Please…” Her voice got weaker as her gaze fell towards the floor, and her struggle began to stop. The pain began to spread down her head and down her spine, it became unbearable.

Frantz and some security guards made it to the door as he looked through the door’s window. He let out a gag as the guards followed his gaze to the window. Their eyes widened as two of them began to use a tool to open the door. The guards struggled as Frantz took the little pen-like tool from the one, and used it to open the door. He ripped open the door and tried to run in to help, but just as he did the metal hanging up the whole AI’s computer and endoskeleton finally snapped. In one swift motion Ime’s unconscious body fell onto the ground and the endoskeleton, along with the rest of its systems, fell on top of her. A loud series of cracks and crashes were heard as blood slowly leaked from below the rubble. Frantz stood there, looking down with a pale face and wide eyes. Guards flooded the room, ushering out Frantz, and began to try and do damage control from the fire. Frantz stood there, his heart felt shattered and he felt… empty. That night, all the scientists at the facility were sent home on a ‘Mental Health Week.’

Months later, Frantz was sat in the conference room of a company that was known for its intergalactic communications. His hands were shaky, and he tried to let out a deep breath to soothe his tension. A large man in a business suit walked in and sat at the other end of the table, and stared at him with a glare.

“What are you showing me again? Make it quick, I’m a busy man.” He spoke out with a heavy and harsh voice. Frantz nodded while pulling out a device and powering it on. The letter “I” appeared, but the dot on the eye was an eyeball and it blinked a few times, then opened to the interface of a soft-looking woman, sitting at a table.

“i.R.i.S, can you introduce yourself?” Frantz spoke out softly to the device as the woman on the screen nodded. She then began to speak.

“Certainly Dr. Frantz, I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.”

[amgad-haroun]

“Confidence

One reason Self-led people can remain calm and clear in the face of anger is because they trust that no matter what the offended person claims happened, it doesn’t mean they are bad or are going to be permanently harmed. We are defensive not because someone is attacking us but rather because the attack is likely to provoke our inner critics, which in turn trigger the worthlessness and terror we accumulated as children. Whatever slight we receive in the present triggers an echo chamber inside us of all the similar hurts we’ve accumulated from the past. Contemporary events are not what we fear—it’s the unending reverberations we’ll have to endure that scare us. We dread any incident that confirms our worst fears about ourselves.

As people heal their vulnerable parts, their critics relax and their defenses drop. They feel Self-confident in the sense that their Self has healed those parts and has shown its ability to protect them or to comfort them if they are hurt again. When that’s the case, you become less susceptible to former provocations because those things no longer set off your inner echo chambers of past hurts. Instead, you react to the present situation, which may indeed involve danger or pain, with the confidence that you can handle or repair whatever happens. Without overreaction, you take steps to protect yourself and, if the interactions are hurtful, afterward you nurture any of your parts that were hurt.

This is the opposite of our socialized tendency to lock up those hurt parts in our effort to “let it go, don’t look back, and just move on.” As a result of that philosophy, not only do we accumulate increasing burdens of pain but we also abandon and isolate the hurting childlike parts of us instead of nurturing them. This strategy leads to less and less confidence in the Self, more vulnerability to the slings and arrows all around us, and consequently more protectiveness and sense of being a separate, isolated, lonely individual.

Confidence has another meaning as well in reference to the Self. The knowledge that we’re part of the ocean and not just an isolated wave brings with it what might be called a sense of grace. Grace is hard to define. In Christianity, grace has traditionally been seen as a gift or blessing from God. In this book, it is associated with the trust that, as one client put it, “I am loved and am love. No matter how bad things seem, it’s all okay and will work out the way it should.” With this kind of confidence in the essential goodness of life comes an openness to the beauty of the world and a desire to experience that beauty in each moment. It is hard to stay in the present long enough to experience beauty if you lack this kind of confidence because you will be consumed with future plans for your survival or gratification.

People with this kind of confidence are charismatic (yet another word that begins with the letter C), not in the sense of being flashy, clever, or powerful but in the way the Greeks originally used the word to mean “having the gift of grace.” When a person is Self-led, they possess the charisma of authenticity.”

Excerpt From

Introduction to Internal Family Systems

Richard Schwartz, Ph.D.