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miraculouslbcnreactions · 4 months ago

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The fandom can't make up its mind on what's supposed to be a joke and what's supposed to be serious because the show can't either half the time. It's a tonally disjointed mess that wants to have absurd over-the-top humor as well as a plot and moments of drama, romance, and angst that demand you see the characters as people and feel for what they're going through. Except you can't do that without also treating the dumb bullshit in a somewhat grounded way. Like, you're still dealing with the same characters. You can't just go "Oh, that? Let's ignore that!" the moment it's no longer convenient to you. You've opened this can of worms and now you have to sleep in it. So, every character flip-flops between two different versions of themselves depending on what the writers need in any particular scene.

This is not to say surreal humor can't be used right alongside characters you're supposed to empathize with, Teen Titans (not Go) did that and it worked. It's just that the absurdity can only come from the setting (Mad Mod, Mother Mae-Eye, pretty much anything Control Freak is in) or from designated joke characters (Date With Destiny). Teen Titans never had the main characters acting in clearly absurd ways as the butt of a joke unless those characters were brainwashed somehow, because the writers knew that would ruin any of the more grounded moments they wanted to write. The writers of Miraculous missed the memo on that one.

I don't disagree. A perfect example is Derision where the show takes all of the bad jokes about Marinette's crush and decides to take them seriously as if you can possible take them seriously without making Marinette come across as unhinged and dangerous. You can't, which brings us to the topic at hand: how do you even begin to understand these characters when the show is constantly making character-breaking choices?

My approach - and the approach I recommend others take if they're going to keep watching the show - is to focus on the characters' cores and reject anything canon does to violate those cores. I don't argue for this stance because I love the characters so much that I only want the good things to count. I take this stance because, if you don't, then the characters fall apart. There is no way to make them work as fully realized characters while embracing every choice canon has made. Miraculous has massive characterization issues that go well beyond the humor.

For example, Adrien has multiple moments of terrible behavior that are played in a serious manner such as the moment in the episode Frozer where he tries to start a fight with Ladybug in the middle of an akuma attack because she wouldn't accept a rose from him earlier:

Setup

Ladybug: I can't accept this rose from you. I told you already. I'm in love with someone else. Cat Noir: I know, M'lady. But if he weren't here, would things be different between us? Ladybug: Well, you know, I can't even begin to imagine him not being here. I'm sorry, Cat Noir. I really gotta get going, and you better do the same. (Swings her yo-yo to head back home; Cat Noir is sad, looking downwards, with one petal of the rose falling.)

Payoff

Ladyice: Cat Noir. We need to set up a trap for whoever turned the city into a giant ice rink. (throws yo-yo) Icecat: (bitterly) My feline instincts prefer to track and observe before I attack. You go your way, I'll go mine. Ladyice: Please don't tell me you're mad at me about the rose. Icecat: There may be a certain chill now between us. Ladyice: I get it, but we should really focus on saving Paris right now. Icecat: We don't always have to do everything together, after all. It's not like we're a couple. (skates away)

There's no way to argue this off as a bad joke. While Adrien has every right to feel hurt, those feelings don't excuse him acting like a pouting child in the middle of an akuma fight. It doesn't excuse him acting like this at any point! Ladybug is not a villain for telling him no. She wasn't even mean about it!

I clearly fully agree that Adrien looks awful and selfish here, but I'd still argue that it's not something that should be used to define Adrien's character if your goal is to tell the "ideal" version of Miraculous. "Ideal" being the version that canon seems to be going for based on the overall picture we can sort of make out if we back way, way, way up and look at the extremely abstract picture canon is clumsily painting.

Unless canon is going to do something monumentally stupid, Adrien is Marinette's endgame romantic interest. It's also clear that there is no plan to cut him from the team. He's going to be Chat Noir for the rest of his life or at least well into his adulthood. This means that he is supposed to be a good hero who deserves his miraculous just like he's supposed to be a charming and cute romantic lead. These are the two things I keep in mind when trying to shift through canon to figure out what writing choices I should fully embrace and what writing choices I have to either ignore or treat as true flaws that get an actual character arc. In my book, either approach is fine because most of the characters are deeply flawed at this point and you can't give them all arcs without bloating the story to nonsense levels.

My goal with this approach is never to say, "oh, that moment shouldn't count in terms of how people feel about the character." It's more, "that moment goes so hard against who this character is very clearly supposed to be that I can't take it into account if I want to tell the kind of story that Miraculous is trying (and clearly failing) to tell."

As an example, let's list off Adrien's worst behaviors. The things that make him look terrible:

He sucks at communicating his needs and feelings, leading to multiple moments where he gets mad at Ladybug for things she's totally unaware of

He has quit or considered quitting without warning multiple times and only one of those was because of something he did "wrong" (NYC Special)

He puts his feelings before the safety of Paris on multiple occasions, even going so far to purposely miss akuma fights to see what happens

He is incredibly pushy about his crush, often ignoring Ladybug's feelings on the topic by continuing to bring it up even after she asked him to stop

There have been multiple instances where he almost cataclysmed multiple people in a fit of anger

His love for Ladynette isn't strong enough to let him break free of things like akumas and nightmare dust even when he's looking her in the eyes making him a pretty crappy romantic lead

People will argue that some of this behavior makes sense for his character because of the abuse that canon has technically introduced, but that the writers seem blissfully unaware of. I don't disagree with that argument, but that doesn't change the fact that none of this is acceptable behavior for a hero and Adrien is a hero who keeps doing these things. A sad backstory doesn't give you the right to behave poorly without consequences.

At the same time, if I fully embrace these elements of canon, what I get is an Adrien salt fic where he loses his miraculous for good while Marinette finds her real true love or even just a non-salty fic where Adrien leaves for his own meatal health and gets replaced by someone who can handle being a hero right now. Canon's not writing either of those, so the only way to engage with these flaws while enjoying canon or aiming for the same end goals as canon is to say, "I guess this doesn't count" or "I guess I need to tone this way down and work through it via a character arc" or even "I guess that was just a bad joke maybe?"

That is the essence of what I mean when I call myself a writing salt, character sugar blog. It comes from looking at canon and seeing that there's simply no way to embrace the worst moments and the best at the same time. We're not dealing with a coherent plot and/or complex characters. We're dealing with a nonsense plot that will warp the characters to bizarre shapes to make random ideas work even if those idea go wildly against canon's end goals.

As an example, Glaciator and Frozer should not exist in the same universe or, at the very least, something should explain why Chat Noir randomly changed his stance on Ladybug's crush from acceptance to pushiness. As is, the pieces don't fit together. The behavior is too contradictory. Remember, this is how Glaciator ends:

Perhaps Ladybug will love me someday. I mean, like, I love her. I have to believe. In the meantime, her friendship is the best gift of all.

Where did this version of Adrien go? Why did he regress in Frozer? There's no in-universe reason. It happened because the writers weren't ready to let the love square date or grow close, but they also wanted the love square to cause drama, so Adrien ends up looking terrible just like Marinette ends up looking terrible when it's her turn to cause love square drama. Her terribleness takes a different flavor so it can be hard to realize that this is a systemic issue, but that's what it is. It's deeply frustrating, but it also clearly stems from cheap writing and not quality characterization.

This is also why my stance is that canon as a whole only supports my Doyalistic core-character analysis style of approach. The writing is too poor quality to do Watsonian analysis where you embrace the full picture and try to put it all together. The closest I'll get to Watsonian analysis is pointing out how much the writing botches a Watsonian take by showing you all the way the writing contradicts itself, twisting into a nonsense pretzel of frustration where the payoffs never satisfy! (See the season four rant for an example or anything where I talked about Chloe's supposed damnation arc.)

There are even characters where canon is such a total mess that you can Doyalistically argue for two separate takes! Gabriel is a perfect example. He is all over the place and his ending was so poorly handled that you can make strong arguments for writing him as a cold-hearted villain or a sympathetic villain without the end result feeling like it spits in the face of canon because both takes maintain his one core element: villain.

That's the big thing I keep in mind when I look at the characters and the lore and the plots and try to come up with versions that the average fan would like. I don't think that there's one true version of any of these things, but I do feel comfortable saying that there are versions that will very clearly only appeal to people who are salty about a specific thing that canon did poorly. That's not who I want to appeal to in my adaptions, so while I'm not going to argue that those takes have no backing in canon, I will argue that those takes are not supported by canon as a whole. Embracing them requires you to take the worst parts of canon at face value while ignoring what canon is clearly trying to do with the overall story.

I get the appeal of that, but it's not fun for me because that approach feels like rolling around in the mud with the pigs. I don't want to sink to canon's level! I want to have fun! That's why I talk about how to make canon into its best self, not its worst self. If you want its worst self, just go watch the actual show. I will be shocked it if disappoints you.

#anon ask #ml writing critical #ml writing salt #pandaofsecrets #character core #Once again none of this is meant to excuse any specific actions as “not that bad”#This is just me explaining how I approach the characters #I know there are fics out there that try to be sugar while embracing some of the bad parts of canon and that rarely works for me #To address these issues correctly you basically have to rewrite canon with the goal of properly setting up and addressing a specific issue #You can't just jump into canon as-is and fix anything in a truly satisfying way because canon is such a disaster #Lila and Alya is a perfect example #Alya's writing in Lila's episodes goes so hard against who Alya is supposed to be that you have to completely rework Lila and/or her lies #Which is why my list of favorite Lila takedowns is so short #Even the ones that are kind to Alya have her painfully gullible because of how badly written the Lila stuff was #You can't have Alya smart and clever while including all the things she's canonically done in the Lila plot and I hate it #Season five at least temporarily killed the fun of writing for this fandom for me #I hope to get it back so I can finish my in progress stuff because I really do love these characters #Canon just makes it so hard to have fun these days #The stuff I've heard about season six is just depressing #I hope my love for the characters and ideas comes through on this blog in addition to my frustration #I wouldn't be here if I just hated everything about the show #Canon is so beyond saving that I can't even read a lot of non-salty fanfic these days #The stuff that tries to embrace the later seasons while also giving happy endings just depresses me because it never works.#I can only read early canon stuff AUS and reboots #Only way I can enjoy the fandom is to treat canon as a popular but horrible fanfic that a bunch of the fandom is embracing for some reason

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seokminfilm · 3 months ago

Text

all i want ♫ lee seokmin

♫ pairing, lee seokmin x reader ♫ warnings, non-idol au, rock band au, lead guitarist seokmin, angst, hurt/comfort, secret relationship, kissing ♫ synopsis, seeing your boyfriend on stage just made you want to scream to the world that he was yours.

♫ author's note, angst back to back two times in a row?? god what is going on with me 😭 trust me though this one does have comfort!! saw a instagram reel of seokmin shredding on an electric guitar and it just reminded me that he was in a rock band while in middle school so......this had to happen tbh it's been on repeat in my head all day 😞 anyways enjoy!!

♫ now playing, paranoid (xdinary heroes)

♫ word count, 1.1k | for @kstrucknet

as the venue cleared out after another successful show, you sat at the back of the cafe, face wet with tears as you hid your face from people passing by.

you should be happy right now, you know it: your friends had finally gotten their first big venue tonight, and the crowd loved them. heck, you loved the music they were playing, and you weren't even a big rock fan. you should be jumping with joy and ready to tackle them all with a big hug or high five, but you couldn't bring yourself to even smile.

the eery quietness of the venue did nothing to soothe your churning stomach, and it only made it ten times worse when you heard that familiar voice calling for you.

seokmin was hurrying over to you, still dressed in all black from the concert. his makeup hadn't been taken off yet, and he was still slightly sweaty, face covered in a sparkling sheen as he caught his breath. it still shocked you how pretty seokmin could be after 2 hours of jumping around on a stuffy stage like this.

"hey, i was looking everywhere for you," seokmin sighs, presence now hovering over you as you keep your eyes away from his. you knew if you stared, you'd break, all the tears you'd been holding back finally ready to flow.

"are you ready to go home? i just told everyone i'd take off my makeup and stuff at home. i'm so hungry right now, i could eat literally anything." seokmin laughs lightly, and you still can't bear to look up at him, trying not to let him see your face as you hold your breath.

"baby? hey, are you okay?" seokmin must catch onto your silent treatment quickly, slender, string-ridden hands cupping your wet face as he turns it to face him. once he sees your reddened eyes and flushed face, his eyes widen, dropping to the ground in front of you as he frowns.

"baby, why are you crying? what's wrong?" seokmin's voice is worried, stressed tone apparent as he searches your eyes. you can't bring yourself to speak, shaking your head as seokmin sighs.

"let's go outside, okay? get you some fresh air?" seokmin asks softly, and you nod, letting him stand to his full height and take you by the hand as he leads you outside. the street is quiet now, save for the breeze of cars in the distance and chatter from people walking up and down the sidewalk.

seokmin's hand is still holding yours, leading you down the sidewalk as he sticks his hand in his pocket. he looks ahead, obviously trying not to pressure you to speak, although you can tell he really wants to know what's wrong. he was just considerate like that, letting you take your time when you wanted to tell him things.

the two of you veer into a little park just a few blocks away from the venue, swings barren of children as it's almost ten p.m. it's refreshing, the spring breeze a respite as you and seokmin sit on a bench, finally able to be close to each other without the looks of his band members or your friends.

you and seokmin had been in a secret relationship for almost a month; seokmin and his band members were finally growing in popularity now, and their manager had realized it too, quickly banning many things to keep their band's image clean, one of them including dating.

thankfully, you two were already dating before that ban happened, and seokmin had sworn that he wouldn't let that ban stop him from loving you. you believed him, too, every word of it─it was just so hard pretending like you didn't love him.

you couldn't give him a quick kiss in the dressing room like you used to do without the fear of getting caught, and lord forbid you had tried to hold his hand while leaving venues─people always had a way of seeing things, even if you thought you were being the most secretive you could be.

"is this better for you, baby? does the air feel good?" seokmin asks, breaking the silence you had been comfortable in. you nod slightly, sniffling from the leftover tears as you let the wind beat your face.

seokmin's eyes are trained on your figure, studying your reddened eyes and quivering lips as he turns to face you.

"could you tell me why you were crying? i was really worried about you. i just came from the dressing room and you had tears on your face. did something happen while i was gone?" seokmin presses, eyes worried and face blushed as he holds your hands.

"no, no seokmin, i just─" your voice threatens to break, and you turn away quickly, willing any tears trying to fall to disappear. "i just want you. i want us to be a real thing."

seokmin falters just a bit, eyes falling as he stares at your sad, tear-stained expression. he knows what you're referring to─you've been telling him your desire to make your relationship known to the public every night before you would go to sleep, and he got choked up every time you would dream about the future the two of you would have when he revealed his relationship to the public.

"i know you do, baby. i know you do and i'm...god, i'm sorry─i want to be a real thing, too." seokmin's voice is pained, and he tucks your hair behind your ear, slender fingertips brushing your wet cheek and hot ear as he leans in.

even though the two of you were an official couple, the world around you didn't know it yet. there were rumors, sure, but nothing was confirmed yet. even the other band members had their suspicions, but you two were careful enough to not fuel their fires.

you couldn't care whether you were fueling any fires or not anymore. you just wanted to scream to the world that lee seokmin was yours, and you were his. that's all you wanted.

"give me time, baby. i'm going to let them all know soon. no matter what happens when i reveal the news, we'll be together. no position in a band could ever change that. all i want is you. all i need─is you." seokmin's voice is soft, supporting his comforting words in an even stronger way.

you nod, face now in seokmin's hand as he pushes his soft lips to yours. the light lipstick rubs off on your lips slightly, and you sigh against his mouth, feeling all of your worries and apprehensions disappear.

seokmin is careful with you, treating you like a fragile vase as his hands slowly ghost over your hips. his pace is steady, every kiss ensuring his promise to you.

all i want is you. all i need is you.

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petit-etoile · 1 year ago

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Astarion/Tav prompt (or Reformed Durge): "I would have you smile again. You will live to see these days renewed. No more despair." I know it's a Lord of the Rings quote but gosh if it doesn't remind me of them ;-;

this is the end of the world ( a time for something biblical )

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 5,219 content warnings: canonical mentions of death, spoilers for the dark urge storyline & astarion's act iii romance, graphic mentions of injuries, references to cann.ibalism as a metaphor for love, mental health issues & physical ramifications from the tadpole + rejecting bhaal, i highly recommend listening to the exogenesis symphony by muse other tags: canon compliant, canon-typical violence, character study, introspection, hurt/comfort, whump, canon temporary character death, the dark urge as player character, codependency, religious imagery & symbolism, p.orn with plot archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, @ghosts-and-ink, @b4um3pfl4um3, @gunslingerorchid, @hypopxia, @m0ssytrees, @erysione, @odette-attackattack, @catching-fire-in-the-wind, @ashrio20, @wills-mental-illness, @queenofcarrotflowers-s, @kirahlene be added to the taglist here

summary: ‘Stay,’ Astarion says weakly. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘Your life is mine,’ he says, cruel eyes gazing at you. ‘Accept your inheritance, or I will reclaim it.’

‘I would rather die,’ you say.

His hateful eyes narrow dangerously. It was never a good idea to betray a god, nonetheless one who had created you so lovingly. His voice is a low growl when he dismisses you — and suddenly, white-hot pain shoots through your veins and threatens to swallow you whole. Bhaal raises his hand and your blood obeys.

‘You were made to conquer,’ he snarls. ‘To devour!’

‘I don’t need any of this,’ you spit out. ‘I don’t need you. The only family — I know are those who fight by my side! I will not be what you made me!’

The sickness in your belly surges until you think it will overcome you. You stagger forward until your knees hit the stone floor. Bhaal is forcing you to submit, to become what he had made Orin. This thing won’t have you, Astarion whispers against the curve of your ear. It won’t win. You’ve got this, darling. And I’ve got you. You want to believe him, but your blood-kin has done damage beyond repair. What were children beyond the sins of their father?

‘You reject my blood?’ Bhaal asks.

‘Yes,’ you whisper.

‘Then I shall reclaim it,’ he says, his promise a growl in his throat.

You were your father’s seed cultivated to perfection by determination and bravery. Now, you were nothing more than a disappointment to be snuffed out root and stem. You choke on the warmth in your throat. Your veins seem to have exploded beneath your skin. You sneeze, red oozing from every orifice.

‘I will make another who is worthy,’ says Bhaal, lifting his hand.

As he raises his hand, you are forced to kneel. Every single one of your muscles contracts in agony. The others might be shouting but you can hardly hear them over the roaring in your ears. Your blood is rejecting you. Festering inside your flesh like a disease. Like the skeleton carved into the wall, you weep blood down your neck. No matter how hard you try to close your eyes to prevent it, your rich ichor abandons you.

No, you want to tell him. The rot of his blood will end with you as it had with Orin. The abomination of murder will never set forth and harm another. You reach for the dagger at your hip and raise it, but the Avatar of Bhaal dissipates before you can strike. The weight of your body collapses forward.

Like a wounded beast, you keen loudly, shaking your head as if that will free your ears from the blood inside of them. You were born from this blood. You were created by this blood to be who you are today. Rejecting it should be like a sin — but if sin is a seed, you have eaten it willingly from the hand of mortality. If Bhaal is to reject you, then you will reject his godhood.

You close your eyes as blood overtakes your sight. You press your forehead into the stone to fight your fever. You shiver and gasp. You gargle on the proof of vitriol and lean into the chilled floor, resigned to your fate. At least you wouldn’t become a mindflayer…

“No!” Astarion wails. Your heart shatters. ‘No, please — Not you!’

I’m sorry, you say. You close your eyes and remember the color of the sun in his hair. I didn’t mean for this to happen. This isn’t what I wanted. Your fingers curl against the stone, and then — There’s nothing. Astarion touches the sleepless bruises beneath your eyes with such tenderness you forget his strength. You lean your cheek into his palm and sigh sleepily, but even as exhaustion overtakes your body, you shudder. You’re afraid to sleep, to dream. You don’t want to hurt anyone else ever again.

‘You have to rest, my love,’ he murmurs. He allows you to lay on his hand as though it were a pillow. ‘When was the last time you slept through the night?’

‘I’m not sure,’ you confess.

‘I might be a sleepless creature of the night,’ Astarion says, ‘but you… You needn’t fear your dreams when I am here. I’ll protect you no matter the cost.’

‘And who will protect you if I sleep?’ you ask.

You must be frowning, because Astarion uses his other hand to soothe the crease between your eyebrows. He sounds so outrageously heartbroken that you want to cry. You don’t want him to think he isn’t a comfort… You haven’t slept beside someone in so long, and the warmth of his body has always lulled you to your dreams peacefully until recently.

Astarion swallows thickly. ‘I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of this. I’m with you forever and always.’

But what if there isn’t an always?

‘There is always a future for you and I,’ Astarion vows. ‘Now sleep. He can’t control you as long as I’m around.’ When you open your eyes again, you’re greeted by the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. His eyes are a soft cerise, and his cheeks are high and sleek, his lips plump and his hair soft and curled. An angel. You’re unable to control the way you reach your hand to touch his cheek, smearing a crystalline tear across his wan skin.

‘Who are you?’ you whisper, voice caught painfully in your throat.

‘Hush now, my love,’ he whispers. He presses a sweet kiss to your mouth, and when he pulls away, his lips are ruddy and wet. ‘Thank the gods… I thought I had lost you.’

Oh, you think. You remember now. This is the man from your dream… You try to recall the details of how you know him, but it’s hard to follow a train of thought. You turn from side to side. It’s so hard to move, to focus. Your limbs feel as though they are made of lead and marble. Everything aches. The tips of your fingers and your nails down to the little bones in your toes. Your head, though, is the only part of you free from intense pain. It’s as though a weight has been lifted from the veil of your memories. You rest your arm across your waist, too tired to keep it lifted.

‘Who…’ Your brows furrow in confusion. ‘Who am I?’

‘I know you were once a child full of life and love,’ the angel says to you, gently cradling your face in his hands. ‘I know one day you were afraid and unsure and half-mad. I know you stained the streets red with cruelty and devised a plan larger than all of Faerûn. But I know you are strong and that your heart is good. You saved the tieflings, and you saved the refugees, and now you will save the world that threatens to be plunged into darkness.’

You smile. ‘That doesn’t sound like me at all,’ you confess.

The angel shakes his hand, fingers pressing hard into your skin. His voice breaks. ‘But I know it to be true, so you must believe my every word. You are brave. You are kind. You are good. You are my love, and I know that I am loved by you in return. You are a protector,’ he tells you. ‘You have protected everyone, and now it is time to protect yourself. You have survived two gods and now you must survive a third.’

The knot in your throat grows larger with every word. You think you remember now. Yes, you can remember it all very clearly. You know the weight of his hands like baptism. You turn your cheek and kiss his palm, smudging his skin pink.

‘Astarion,’ you whisper.

Your love smiles down at you, your blood dribbling down his chin.

‘What happened?’

‘Let’s not worry about that,’ he shushes you, massaging the bruises beneath your eyes. ‘Come, let us get you cleaned up.’

‘I don’t think I can walk yet,’ you say. Admitting it makes you feel weak.

‘Don’t worry,’ Astarion says softly. ‘I can carry you.’

‘I will bloody your clothes,’ you say.

‘Bloody them,’ Astarion says. ‘I don’t care.’

Astarion does carry you. He carries you all the way back to the inn, to a private room just the two of you share. He orders a tub to bathe you in and then takes an hour to scrub your skin clean, carefully cleaning your gore from your hair and scalp.

You watch as Astarion passes a bar of soap against the skin of the top of your arm over and over again until it is red then pink then flesh. Then, he gently twists your wrist. He cleans the underside of your arm next, and your palm. He washes your fingers until they do nothing but shake in the cold air. You curl your fingers around his.

‘Was it hard?’ you ask him.

‘I will never forget the smell of your scent,’ Astarion replies.

He moves to wash the hollow between your collarbones, encouraging you to recline in the water. He washes your chest and your stomach until his grief washes over him in waves. His chin shakes until a sob escapes. He presses his face into your hair and wails softly into your crown. When he’s done weeping, Astarion returns to his cleansing. He speaks not of it again. There is so little of you left.

You often wonder how much of your brain is left between the parasite and the hole your father has left you. Sometimes Jaheira still looks at you as though the rot of your father isn’t entirely gone. You don’t blame her. You’re waiting for your control to snap. You were good once. You could be good again. You want to be good again.

Shadowheart smiles at you now. Lae’zel no longer frowns. Even Wyll has taken up eating beside you again when it’s nighttime and the adventure can go no more. Gale pours you an extra serving of wine. He says you need it. Karlach lets you hold Clive at night when Astarion goes hunting, and he goes hunting often now. It makes you wonder if your blood is vile.

Part of you wants to ask him if you’ve done something wrong. You’ve committed no crime, but you feel like you have. Your memories of before are slipping away. Your memories of now seem to do the same.

You wait in your tent that night for Astarion to return, your blanket pulled around your head and shoulders. You rehearse what you’re going to say. You want to reassure him you’re not angry. You just…feel loss. Empty. The loneliness nips at your bones like crows at carrion.

When Astarion slips inside, he looks guilty. It almost makes you want to change your mind, but you have to know. You feel as though you’re going mad. A flightless bird trapped in a cage. Like Dame Aylin trapped in Shadowfell. He refuses to meet your gaze.

‘Have I done something — ’

‘You,’ Astarion says through gritted teeth, ‘are perfect. Every time.’

You want to cry. ‘Then why do you avoid me?’

‘Avoid you?’ Astarion repeats incredulously. He looks at you now despairingly. ‘No, that isn’t what this is at all. I would never avoid you.’

‘You’re hunting more often,’ you say in a low tone, a whisper. Accusatory.

‘Can you blame me?’ he asks plainly.

It’s your turn to look away in shame. ‘If it’s too much, you should sleep somewhere else.’

‘I don’t want to be apart from you,’ Astarion says.

‘Then how do we fix this?’

‘You cannot fix what is not broken.’

‘Astarion,’ you plead. ‘Hold me or — I don’t know who I am anymore.’

Astarion wraps his arms around you before you can say another word. His lips are like a halo against your head. Each kiss he presses against your scalp is a prayer from a sinner. You turn your cheek, and he kisses you so passionately it makes your empty head spin.

You relearn who are you in his arms that night. And as he regales you with tales of your history, you think you can imagine them in your mind’s eye. He kisses your wrist. He tells you a happy memory when he kisses the curve of your belly, and when he kisses your ankle, he promises you that everything will be worth it.

It wasn’t you that was the problem. There wasn’t a problem, not really. Only an impiety he wanted to atone for. He struggles with telling you, but when he whispers it against your thigh, you understand.

‘Your blood,’ he says, voice strained. ‘I cannot escape the smell.’

‘I’m sorry,’ you say, but he shakes his head and his hair tickles your sensitive skin.

‘No, I — It is my shame,’ he confesses. ‘I’ll admit I’m a lech.’

Astarion struggles to put his words in a coherent structure. When you died, he was horrified and distraught. Only the gods know how hard he wept seeing you lifeless. Yet it was his vampiric nature that had betrayed him almost as much as your life’s blood had betrayed you. He felt hunger.

How could he be sad when he was so ravenous? Was he not an evil man, or is this what made him evil? That, in all of his beautiful tears and lamentation, the urge to devour you, bones and all, nearly consumed him? Your death was horrible, ugly, wretched. Your death was beautiful and coveted.

Astarion devours you again that night, mouthing and licking and sucking at your swollen core. He makes you a martyr in his grief. His tongue teases you over and over again. When you’ve climaxed once, Astarion seeks out to make you do it again until your legs are shaking violently and your voice has gone hoarse. He doesn’t take you that night, not in the traditional way, but he swallows you up regardless.

It isn’t until afterwards when he’s laying with his head on your chest that you understand his tragedy. It’s a misfortunate impossibility trying to grieve when you can’t stop salivating. Astarion thinks you’re horrified by the admission, but after knowing your past, it was hard to feel scandalized by anything.

You pet his curls away from his face, watching as he listens to the hum of your heartbeat. He might have it memorized by now, but each time it beats, Astarion’s eyelashes flutter with admiration. It is a hymn, a doxology, a liturgy that only he knows the words to. After all, he wrote them on your skin and immortalized them forevermore. He is so beautiful, you think, when there is no trouble to be seen.

You were once both trapped by your dark god’s design. You had set yourself free. You had sprouted the wings of a swan guided by the empathy you had planted in a garden as a child. It would be Astarion’s soon, and you would carry him in compassion until the thorn crown was placed upon his brow.

Astarion’s eyes are closed. In your perpetually confused state, you mistake him for having fallen asleep and resort to doing the same. The city becomes chilly at night and your skin is decorated with gooseflesh. He rises almost immediately and you try to chase after him, fingers piercing through a ghost.

‘I wasn’t going anywhere,’ Astarion says immediately. He drags his cape from the corner of the tent and lays it across your shins. ‘You were shivering.’

‘I’m not used to this — ’ Will my mind ever be the same? ‘ — chill.’

‘I will be here,’ he promises. ‘Here, let me hold you for the night.’

You clumsily trade places with him, and he tucks your blanket and his cape around your body as tightly as he can. He kisses you passionately and you taste your familiarity in his mouth. It’s so sweet that you sigh. ‘I know what you did,’ Orin says hatefully, spitefully, cruelly. Her voice is like honey.

‘What have I done?’

‘Did you think I wouldn’t know?’ she asks. ‘Filthy rotten blood-kin undeserving of our father’s gift!’

You repeat yourself. ‘What have I done?’

‘You,’ Orin spits, ‘think your grey matter deserves to be loved! I should carve it out! I should make it disgusting and sticky again! Split it’s skull open! You foul traitor!’

Slowly, you pull Orin into your chest. You hug her and smooth her hair down her back. Her arms wrap around you begrudgingly until the lovingkindness causes her to rupture. She sobs into your neck hideously, clinging to you. She wails and she wails until you are both children again staring up at your grandsire for approval.

‘It isn’t fair,’ Orin tells you, hiccuping. She wipes her nose with her fingers. ‘It isn’t fair.’

‘I love you, blood-kin,’ you say. You kiss the top of her head.

‘Slaughter kin,’ she says sadly. She holds your hand with her snotty palm.

‘Sister,’ you say. In the coming weeks, your mind hardly gets better. Memories are still missing. You catch yourself gazing at the mirror longer than you expect to. You used to be so beautiful. It’s hard to recognize the face staring back at you. You touch one cheek and then the other. You turn your head and watch your jawline.

No, it still isn’t you.

You take the knife in your belt to your hair and begin cutting away pieces you don’t remember. You lean forward and smudge your eyes before sitting up straight and trying again. You recognize a part of yourself. You chase that feeling. You press your hand against your heart. You smile faintly. Astarion sobs so hard you think you might lose yourself. You’re at a loss of what to do. He’s alive but he keens like a dying deer. It’s supposed to be healing, you think. Cazador is dead. His reign of terror should end. Astarion is saved and he saved himself. You couldn’t be prouder of him.

Slowly, you step forward one foot after another. You collapse to your knees at his side. It’s easy to pull Rhapsody from his fingers. You drop it by his side. Slowly, as if in a dream, you hold him like you held Orin. Astarion sobs harshly into your collarbone and clings to you so tightly you might break.

‘I thought — I thought — ’ he cries brokenly.

I thought it would make me feel better, he says without saying. You shush him and pet his hair. Cazador’s blood smears against your cheek when Astarion burrows his face into your neck. You let him linger. You aren’t sure how long you sit on the hard marbled floors, but when you stand up, your knees creak so loud you’re almost insecure about it.

This time, it’s your turn to carry Astarion. He won’t let you pick him up, but you hold him by his waist. You carry him past your allies, past the onlookers who once saw you in opposition. You order the maids to bring you a bath, and as Astarion hiccups in the water, you bathe him.

You wash the taint of Cazador from his body. The soap cleans the dirt and the blood and the memory. You wash his chest and his belly and Astarion thanks you hoarsely. He looks at you, and his eyes are so wide and beautiful that you cry too.

Dying isn’t easy. It isn’t beautiful or romantic or a sweeping gesture. Dying is painful and hideous and ugly, and you have saved Astarion from a lifetime of torment. Rather, he did it by himself with your help. You swipe the soap against his cheeks and use a rag to clear it away. Astarion’s hair is somehow curlier when it’s wet, and you part the curls so they’ll dry without tangling.

Astarion watches you miserably as you towel his hair. You wipe droplets of water off his skin and slowly slide him into his smallclothes. He accepts your blanket and wraps it around his shoulders, staring at the wooden floor, at his feet.

‘Stay,’ Astarion says weakly. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘I would never let you be alone,’ you say.

It isn’t what you bought the room for. Really, you only wanted to wipe the blood from his face but now, you climb into the sheets next to Astarion and hold him tightly. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about the future. He doesn’t want to talk about his siblings either or the thousands of spawn waiting to hang on his every word.

And you can’t even blame him. The gods know how long it took for your tongue to become free from the weight that held it still after you betrayed your father. Karlach said you talked a lot before, but now it’s hard to say anything without wondering if your words are in the right order. Astarion cries softly as if to not awaken you from your slumber, but you can’t fall asleep. You can’t toss or turn either, but dreams evade you.

Dawn peeks through the window. Dawn-bringer, Jergal had called you. You slide out of bed carefully then and cross the room. You draw the curtains shut. Astarion watches you curiously from where he burrows in the sheets. His brow furrows adorably when you climb back into bed and plaster yourself to his spine.

‘Ah,’ you say monotonously. ‘The sun is gone. I suppose we'll stay in until it returns.’

After a day of lounging, Astarion still isn’t ready to talk about what’s on his mind but he watches you do your favorite mundane mortal things with explicit interest. He has you read the book you’re reading aloud, and if it takes you a few hours to struggle through one chapter, he says nothing about it.

Every once in a while, another one of your companions comes to sit in.

Lae’zel tries to commend Astarion for his warrior’s heart without sounding stilted, but eventually she gives up on complimenting him to sympathetically let him know she understands. They had all seen Vlaakith. Karlach brings Clive by and carefully arranges him in the bed next to Astarion. She tells him that he’s fucking awesome and asks permission to hug him.

The touch nearly sends him spiraling.

Gale approaches in his usual manner. He brings Astarion a bottle of wine spiked with blood and lets him know he’s available to chat whenever Astarion feels up to it. Wyll spends thirty minutes apologizing for the bad blood between them, which is funny considering their bickering was hardly vitriolic. Shadowheart visits and gifts him a perfume that makes his lip wobble dangerously.

Jaheira, Minsc, Boo and Halsin come together solemnly. They might be the least offensive of the bunch. Boo gives Astarion a thousand kisses on his cheeks, and Jaheira finally tells them a story of her youth. Halsin has Astarion drink a potion, not because he’s injured physically, but because it should help with his pain. Minsc tries teaching you a Rashemen dance, but Astarion laughs for the first time that day and you do too.

‘It is good,’ Jaheira says, ‘to see you both smile again.’

You touch your mouth shyly. Your cheeks are sore. Astarion’s smile fades slightly but returns in full, timid confidence lighting his features once more. Halsin crosses the room and opens the curtains you’ve closed. The light douses the room in holiness, and you turn your face to watch the sunset, unafraid of what the future will bring.

‘That which troubles you will soon be over,’ she promises. She pats Astarion’s hand, and although she doesn’t say it, you know he’s her son. ‘You will live to see these days renewed. There will be no more despair.’

You’re both left alone again together. Astarion beckons you to the bed instead of your chair and you join him, carefully sitting atop the covers, a respectable distance between your thighs. You inhale carefully.

‘You did the right thing,’ you say. ‘Not completing the Black Mass.’

‘Perhaps I had inspiration,’ Astarion replies. ‘You had a chance to become the Slayer, a being more powerful than you could have known. But you didn’t.’

‘I betrayed my father,’ you whisper, staring at your hands. ‘And he killed me for it.’

‘And if I had completed Cazador’s ritual,’ Astarion says, ‘I would have become Mephistopheles’s whore. I refuse to bow to the whims of others. Being an Ascendent…was blinding me to the truth.’

You look at him curiously then. He confesses to you his sins. He has thought of ascending, and thought of it often but it was never to protect himself. After a certain point, he wanted to protect you too. Your Urges had been mistaken for something else then. A possession, an invasion. Astarion sought to exorcise you of your demons.

But when you had died and the diseased lifeblood fled from your veins, Astarion realized the truth. The ascension would not have helped him protect you. It would have tainted him. It would have contorted him. Rising above all other vampires, Astarion would have become cruel like those before him. He does not want to be cruel to you. He wants to learn kindness as you have. He reaches for it like he chases the sun.

Astarion takes you by the hand, smoothing your skin with his thumb over and over. His skin is cold beneath yours. You curl your fingers into his. He did not want to make you a slave, not again. Not to him.

‘You are the dawn-bringer,’ Astarion says. ‘Even if I never see the sun again, I am free.’

‘I love you,’ you say, voice shaking. ‘I’ll be with you. In the darkness.’

‘You fool,’ Astarion laughs affectionately. He leans across the distance and kisses your temple. ‘There is no darkness. You are daylight incarnate.’

You look at him sharply.

‘I’ve been thinking about something,’ he says. ‘It’s…been on my mind all day, but I think it’s time. Say you’ll come away with me.’

You and Astarion dress slowly. You would follow him almost anywhere, but this is different. There’s something to be done. You don’t dress in armor, and for that you’re almost grateful. You’re tired of fighting. You’re tired of seeing blood.

But it isn’t blood or anything blood related that Astarion takes you to see. One minute, you are wandering Baldur’s Gate at night, and the next, you’ve come to the hollow of a tree where a gravestone is coated in vines.

‘This…is where my old life began,’ Astarion tells you softly. ‘Beneath there, I was turned into a monster. But Cazador is dead now and I get to decide my own fate.’

Astarion tells you in painful detail about his transformation. How his wounds fused themselves shut but the pain never went away. He tells you about breaking through the wood of his demise and the fear that flooded his veins and how, just when he thought he had found his savior, Cazador had laughed wickedly with his cruel glowing eyes.

‘I was his,’ Astarion murmurs, ‘but not anymore.’

He kneels before you on the dirt before his tombstone and bows his head. The prodigal son returned home. The sight of it causes your heart to squeeze. You want to step away but you can’t. You’re afraid.

‘There is nothing left of the person I was before,’ he tells you. ‘I am free to become who I want to be, free to start a new journey. I have all the time in the world to figure out who I am and what I want, but I think I know.’

‘I love you,’ you say again. ‘You’re what I want.’

‘You were by my side through all of this,’ Astarion says, eyes glimmering in the moonlight. ‘And now I want you to christen me. Inaugurate me here on the site of my rebirth.’

This is another dream. You hold your hands over Astarion’s head and sprinkle imaginary water over his head. His eyes close instinctively. Love washes over him, something golden. You kneel down and pluck a flower from the earth and it does not bleed. Relief floods your veins. For once, you touch something and it does not rot. Carefully, like a ghost, you slide the flower into Astarion’s hair and watch as his crimson eyes spill open with tears and devotion.

Astarion kisses you, and for the first time in a long time, he presses his body against yours. He takes you that night in the dirt. His leg is tucked under yours, his cock against your core, his lips never leaving yours. Astarion recites verses in your ears until you burst with ecstasy, tightening around him so much that he can hardly move. He cradles the back of your head to comfort you as he drinks your blood. He cradles your head tonight because he loves you.

‘I am yours,’ he whispers against your skin, ‘and you are mine.’ You aren’t sure when or how Astarion has the time, but he presents you with a gift the night before the world ends. He wears a matching flower from his grave pinned to his armor at all times now. And on his hand, a ring with a silver band. He slides one over your finger as well and kisses your palm as you slowly realize what it means.

The family you’ve chosen throws you a celebration. The next day, Dammon arrives and shows you your repaired armor now dyed white.

You cry for hours out of happiness. ‘This could be the last chance we have for this,’ you whisper to Astarion.

Everyone keeps telling you that a light has returned to your eye, but you don’t see it. It isn’t until you’re laying naked with Astarion again, his skin pressed against yours, that you think you can see it too.

Astarion fucks you tenderly until you’re sore, and you cry and plead sweet things against his shoulder while he holds you safe in his arms. When the pleasure becomes too much and your spine arches from the mattress, he pulls you into his lap and holds you safe against his chest. You kiss him until your lips are sore.

‘Your life is mine,’ Astarion murmurs. ‘You belong with me, my love.’

‘I’ve never been happier,’ you moan weakly.

He has taken you again and again this evening. He doesn’t say it, but Astarion is afraid of what tomorrow might bring. You have outsmarted gods and men. You have found goodness where there was nothing but darkness. You refuse to be afraid now.

‘We were made to conquer,’ Astarion says. His mouth is like a fire across your cheekbone. You shudder around his cock.

‘Take my love,’ Astarion commands you, so you do.

You kiss a ruby bruise into his neck, and Astarion fills you with a grunt. He doesn’t part from you. He guides you back down into the sheets and burrows against your body as if determined to climb between your ribs. You smile. Astarion has already made a home in your bones and flesh. He has eaten the rot from your core and recreated you anew. You were not his sin but his salvation. Perhaps he was yours too.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x oc #extremely #aeristarion #coded #from ，carcosa .#anonymous #my fic #this might be my favorite thing i've written in a really long time #i think it vaguely fits the prompt i tried my best #sometimes...................sometimes.

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buskingalbatross · 6 months ago

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lo! the conclusion of my phanfic bookbinding quest!

I finished binding together two final books! each one is a 144-page, 28,863-word collection of six of the phanfics i've written in 2024. the book with the starry-cover is unquestionably the neatest, prettiest book i've made since I started learning about bookbinding back in august. but i'm actually kind of emotional over both of them and think they turned out to be really cool objects.

here are some pictures i took of them on this rainy sunday morning (+ a few more under the cut) 🌧️🌧️🌧️

previous bookbinding updates: 1, 2, 3, 4

#i very much want to start binding some of my favorite phanfics written by other authors now #also i may consider gifting phannies some of the four books i've made so far #as they all contain mostly the same contents and i only really need one of them #they are my imperfect first tries at ficbinding - but still pretty and cool i think #yeah #maybe someone would want one idk #dan and phil #phan #dnp #phil lester #dan howell #phanfic #phanfiction #ficbinding #yale binds fics

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necrotic-nephilim · 10 months ago

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Sorry if this might be a rude question but why don’t you just make a seperate account for your nsfw fics?

not rude, it's a valid question! tbh it's a combination of a couple reasons.

i started posting anonymous dead dove batcest fics long before i had the balls to make a tumblr. at first i was content to just leave them unassociated with each other because i didn't really care about them being tied to me. i made this blog to actually show solidarity to my partner who wanted to make a sideblog for Sandman comic stuff so we could cheerlead each other and be brave together, since i've wanted to make a batcest sideblog but i've been nervous about actually having to get it going. (mal ik you're reading this go be brave and actually make your blog so i can cheerlead you damnit-) only did it dawn on me then that i should probably mention the fics i've written on the blog after like, three of them were posted anonymously. and it would've annoyed me to have half of them anonymous and half of them not, because notifications for them would've gone in different places. i could go back and take my fics off anon if i wanted to, but i can't switch the account they're on without taking them down entirely and that'd fuck over people who have them bookmarked already.

which, ties into my second reason, if i made an entire second ao3 account it'd be harder for me to see notifications, reply to stuff, and post things for both accounts because i'd have to constantly switch. and honestly i'd be terrified of accidentally posting on the wrong one on a brain fog day. posting fics is always the most tedious part of writing them for me lol. it's easier for me to stay logged into one account and have all of my stuff in one place for me and just use the anonymous collection when i feel like it. if ao3 pseuds worked like tumblr blogs, where you can't see all my side blogs but i can, i would've used pseuds, but since you can see all pseuds on an ao3, i felt it was a moot point.

and the last reason is i just feel more comfortable being anonymous on ao3 because of the rise in anti culture. on tumblr it's very easy for me to just filter that out and find the people i want to follow and block the people i don't. i don't mind getting hate, on tumblr or on ao3. but i think, for whatever reason you want to blame it on, there's been a massive boom of antis on ao3 who are very entitled about how they read on ao3. i tag extensively, but i just feel safer from getting targeted attacks if everything i write on ao3 isn't attached to one profile. if people like a fic i wrote, want to find more i always link my tumblr in the notes, but if an anti wants to get huffy with me, they can't easily track down my other things. they definitely could if they wanted to, but being anonymous on ao3 just makes me feel more secluded, in a weird way. it's like saying "if you want you can come find me but on here i'm just a weird faceless guy throwing stuff in the void". i've used ao3's anon feature a lot, actually, i used to be a hydra trash party dumpster kid back when that was in it's prime.

i also used to be vaguely popular on a different tumblr blog and my main ao3 and while i think it'd definitely be cool if i got a decent chunk of followers on this blog too, i don't really miss having fanfiction do so well i got targetted hate on all of my fics from the same people, i had my fics stolen, etc. it was really exhausting for me. i have 120+ works on ao3, not counting what's anonymous, and that level of exposure tires me, even when i use my main ao3 to post things that aren't trashy. it's just a weird feeling knowing so many people are subscribed to you on ao3 and what if you post something they won't like because you jumped fandoms again, or you're posting something niche, or you don't think it fills enough fandom tropes to be well-liked. i used to obsessively think like that, and it made me not write the things i wanted to because i cared about numbers. and i don't want to slide back into that hole. writing on anonymous is mostly to remind myself i wrote this for me, and if other people like it, they can come find me, but i don't have to perform like that anymore. if i get a really weird fucked up idea, i can write the really weird fucked up idea. at the end of the day, just makes me more comfortable! but i get it's a super confusing set up from an outsider perspective so, i really don't mind the question, thank you for asking!!

#necrotic festerings #batcest #pro ship #necrotic answerings #tbh asking the question gave me the chance to explain it so ty!#might link this in my about me or my masterlist for ease of access #i don't want to like. overstate how big i was on an old blog bc i was not like. a celebrity by *any* means.#but i had a ship-specific blog and i was certainly a “big name fan” for that specific rarepair #and it like. took over my life when i was a teen #i look back on it fondly now but i really regret that i would obsess so heavily over numbers and what made a fic do well #my favorite fics to write were htp back then bc for htp culture writing on anon was normal since that was during the dreamwidth days #and i just. liked that veil of anonymity and i think i defaulted to that when i decided to finally start posting batcest stuff #(all of this makes me sound so old i'm only 22 i just started fandom really fucking young which i don't recommend)#and when i say one fic got big. i mean it. i have found that fic on instagram and pinterest and tiktok and even. facebook.#do you know what it's like when your fic gets reuploaded to facebook without your permission and you see what boomers think of it.#that was so mortifying.#funnily enough the boomers were actually really nice i was just shocked to find it there scrolling one day.#it was instagram that was super mean to me and traumatized my ass. man ppl dug into me for the tinest things. do not miss that.#anyway the point is #i've tasted vitality and niche fandom status(tm) and i hated both. and i just cannot do that to myself again #ergo #anon on ao3 and a blog to post my thoughts when i have them.#it's a nice system for me #i have some stuff on my main ao3 that toes the line of like. dark dead dove trash.#and i had antis get mad at me bc their fave fluffy fic was written by. gasp. a proshipper.#and yeah that soured me to existence on ao3.#getting into the rise of anti culture is a whole other discussion that'd have me going on for hours but i will shut up now.#wow this got long. i like to fucking talk don't i.

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thetomorrowshow · 7 months ago

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Whumptober 4 - Hallucinations

title: marked

fandom: empires smp

this is an alt pov of my fic hubris killed the god! i recommend reading it first

cw: blood, hallucinations, implied/referenced character death

Jimmy doesn't say a word when he feels something almost fuzzy brush against his wrist.

He just finishes drawing his chalk arrow and keeps going.

Pix isn't here. He's still clinging to a little shred of hope, the only thing that's stopping him from pulling the entire group out right now, the only thing keeping him from telling them he was touched.

If Pix was here, it all would have been worth it.

But Pix isn't here.

And the further they get, the clearer it is.

But there are plenty of those varmints around, and one of them appears out of nowhere to scare them, so Jimmy turns and makes a break for it, calling for them all to follow him.

He can't bear to let another one of them fall.

But he's too late.

When Shelby climbs onto the airship, the first thing she does is run to the staircase that leads to the stern, wedging herself in the little corner between the stairs and the captain’s cabin.

"I'm dying," she sobs, when Jimmy approaches her, hands out. "I'm going to die!"

"I know," he calls back, over the sound of the ship.

He doesn't know what else to say.

"I don't want to die," Shelby cries. Her hands tear at her face, at the place where a little red mark is already forming on her cheek.

Gently, Jimmy pulls her hands down, holding them in his own. She shakes, bends over just a bit, as if her body is trying to curl up without her input.

"We're here," he shouts, the wind whipping away his words. "We're not gonna leave. It's okay, we're right here with you."

"I didn't do anything wrong," she chokes out, tears running down her blotchy face.

Jimmy's heart twists.

She didn't. She only tried to survive.

He pulls her into a hug, sets his chin on her shoulder. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do.

He just lets Shelby cry into his chest and stares at the wooden deck behind her.

Jimmy hugs all of them.

Quickly. Just a pat on the back, really.

But he hugs them. He hugs Shelby again, then Scott (Scott is close to tears, standing on his own by the railing), then Katherine (who stops in her pacing to acquiesce to an embrace). He takes the five steps up to the stern two at a time, hugs False briefly (she leans just slightly toward him), then heads belowdecks, to the little makeshift bed of False's.

That's when he checks for critters.

There aren't any. Of course there aren't.

But on his wrist is a tiny pink mark, an innocuous sign of the end. If he looks at it for long enough, it could just be a mark from pinching himself, a bruise about to form from bumping against a door jamb.

It isn’t that, though.

Jimmy has known for weeks that he's been living on borrowed time.

He started this. There was never any real hope that he would survive.

He's felt marked, almost.

Marked, ever since he stood over Joel's body, hands shaking and legs weak, covered from head to toe in the blood of a god.

He pushed his bloodsoaked hair out of his eyes, unable to look away from the tear down the god’s body from the enchanted axe that Jimmy had dragged from his collarbone to his waist.

Blood leaked from the bullet hole between Joel's eyes.

That had been the wound to take him out. He could have survived just the cleaving.

He was a god, after all.

Jimmy stared, even as dark clouds rolled in.

Even as the blood dried on his body.

Even as bile rose to his throat.

He stared, and with the first drops of rain, Joel's body began to go fuzzy around the edges of the wounds. Fuzzy and black, and Jimmy thought for a moment of mold before falling to his knees and vomiting.

And there he kneeled, trembling and ill, stained with blood and vomit, and screamed.

He screamed his apologies.

He begged the rumbling sky for restitution.

He buried his fists into the dry grass of the savannah, as his words dwindled hoarsely into nothing, and sobbed.

When nothing came, nothing but thunder and pouring rain, Jimmy hefted the crown off Joel's unmoving head and dragged it home.

Then he scrubbed the gore off his body, changed clothes, and replaced his hat on his head.

Despite the terrible storm, despite his people, Jimmy strapped the crown onto Bullseye and headed for Dawn.

Maybe Gem's god would pardon him.

But there had never been any pardon, had there?

It had all been a waiting game. It always had been.

Joel's blood marked him the first day.

And now, just like then, Jimmy can only stare.

He deserves this.

He deserves this, and he relishes in that.

He isn't stuck in that awful waiting phase, death looming over him like a dust storm over the horizon.

This can finally be over.

He can finally just be gone.

If there was anyone left to rescue, Jimmy would go do it now.

He's as invulnerable as he ever will be. It doesn't matter if they touch him. He could be in and out quicker than ever, able to defend without needing to worry about the vermin touching him.

But the only person to rescue is Shelby, and there's nothing he can do to help her.

All Jimmy knows to do is patrol. There isn’t anything else he can do, and everyone else is so busy with Shelby that they haven't been able to pick up their patrol shifts.

So Jimmy patrols, making sure nobody steps outside of the steadily shrinking border, keeping an eye on where the mites are piling up as a better reference point than their stakes in the ground.

He sees Scott, sometimes. Scott paces the border, marks precisely where it's changed, sometimes staring a long time out over the land beyond Sanctuary, as if he longs to leave from this place, as if he can see it as something of its former glory.

Jimmy does the same. He often finds himself wandering to his favorite place in all of Sanctuary, the flat boulder in the woods that looks out over the plains that remind him so much of the land where he grew up, before he was ever a sheriff in the beautiful mesa.

He can pretend that everything is normal, looking out there.

Sometimes, he can't see the darkness that runs through the grass.

Sometimes, he can see other things.

It's two days after the trip to the catacombs that Jimmy's forced to admit that the hallucinations are in full force.

He'd wondered morbidly, for some time now, what it was like. How long would it take to succumb to the illness? How gradual is the appearance of the hallucinations? How long until the fever starts?

He knows, now, that the hallucinations aren't gradual. He'd simply woken up by the campfire to find Lizzie standing before him.

"I can't believe you," she says disgustedly, arms crossed. "Sleeping on the job?"

"I'm dying, I think I deserve a bit of slack," he mutters. She scoffs.

"Why would you deserve slack? You caused this. You killed all those thousands of people."

Jimmy goes to say something—he isn't sure what—but Lizzie is gone.

After that, the hallucinations are frequent. He sees long-gone friends—Lizzie, Norman, Pix—and abandoned buildings, forgotten memories and lost messages, and . . . dark creatures of shadow.

It’s unsettling and deeply disturbing, but not even the most bone-chilling hallucinations can keep him from sleeping.

He's so tired. He's been digging himself deeper and deeper into sleep debt every night for weeks, and now he can't find the strength to push through it.

Jimmy sleeps. All the time, everywhere. By the campfire, slumped in a chair in the inn, at the table in the planning room of the church.

So often he wakes up on that boulder overlooking the plains, the rock warm under his back and the sun pleasantly shining through the leaves of the tree behind him.

His body starts to ache.

His bones start to weigh down with exhaustion.

His hands start to shake.

His body is fighting, he can tell. Trying to put off being sick as long as possible. Trying to conserve his strength for healing.

There isn't any healing to come.

The others are going into the Rift.

Well, Jimmy's meant to be going, too.

He'd proposed himself going (he had spoken to them, laid out the plan in exactly the way he thinks he would have, but it's hard to remember how to act like himself when there's gaping black maws where everyone's eyes should be), even though he isn't planning on it at all.

Scott is going.

He doesn't know it yet, but he's going through the Rift. The spark in his eyes hasn’t died yet, and despite every doubt he has and the mistakes he’s made, Jimmy knows that the others look up to him. They’ll follow him, more willingly than they had ever followed Jimmy.

Jimmy isn't sure how to change the plans right after he presents them, though, so he just leaves, back to lie on his boulder to watch the wind ruffle the grass.

The sun is gently warm on his face.

His hat slips back, flopping off his head.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment. It isn't sleeping.

His body's just so tired.

Time passes.

It must pass.

Because the next thing Jimmy knows, the sun is not on his face and there's a scratching noise from beside him.

He blinks his eyes open, casts his gaze around.

fWhip is sitting beside him, writing in a journal of some sort. That's the source of the scratching noise—his tiny pencil going back and forth on the page, scurrying like a little mouse.

"Sorry," Jimmy mumbles, biting back a groan as he sits up.

It's so hard just to sit up.

fWhip chuckles a little. "It's cool. Just glad you're getting some sleep."

Jimmy doesn't respond to that.

"You know, you've been running yourself into the ground. You deserve a second to rest."

Definitely not a hallucination, then. Seeing as his hallucinations tend to hate him.

"What are you writing?" Jimmy asks, in lieu of arguing about his sleep habits.

fWhip shrugs self-consciously. "Nothing much. Just journaling." He gestures around at the plains. "Describing Sanctuary, us, the things we're doing. Just in case."

"In case of what?"

"In case . . . well, I dunno," fWhip says. "I keep imagining this scenario where we go through the Rift, and we end up in a different world, and we forget all of our history just two or three generations down. So I'm writing down all of this."

"Don't forget to mention Tumble Town," Jimmy says. "The most . . . uh, the best land for miles around."

fWhip shoots him a toothy smile. "Want to write something? I have pages for everyone."

Jimmy stares at his proffered pencil, then carefully takes it in his left hand, before transferring it to his right. He doesn't want his cuff to pull up even the slightest bit, revealing the mark on his wrist.

fWhip flips through his journal—a repurposed sketchbook, actually—until he finds the blank page he's looking for. He sets it in Jimmy's left hand.

"Just write anything. I'm planning on filling it in later with a bunch of biography type-stuff, but I can work around whatever you want to put."

Jimmy sets the pencil to the paper, willing his hand not to shake.

The Sheriff, he writes, in his quick, sharp cursive. Then, just below:

Jimmy.

It's not his best. It definitely doesn't look quite like it normally does, when he signs warrants of arrest or bank notes. Not as careful, the lines not as straight.

The J has a little divot in the line. The second h falters just the slightest bit.

He doesn't want to write anymore.

Or, rather, he doesn't have any more that he wants to write.

He slides the book back into fWhip's lap. "There," he says. "Now you can sell it for lots of money, it has my signature."

He can tell that fWhip's laugh is more to humor him than anything else.

"If I ever get Katherine's hands on this, absolutely," fWhip says. "I want her to draw everyone—have you seen her sketches? Like, in her workshop?"

Jimmy shrugs.

"She's actually really good. Scott, too. I just . . . don't know if I'll see Scott again, so. . . ."

He trails off with a bit of a cough.

Jimmy looks back over the fields.

He can't stay here.

He can't stay here, sleeping and aching and hiding until he dies.

He can't convince them to let him stay here. fWhip, at least, would insist on staying with him, and if Jimmy’s learned anything, it's that he wants his friends to survive.

He's going to have to leave.

"Actually, Katherine is what I came here for, I totally forgot!" fWhip snaps his journal shut. "She was wanting to talk to you. Do you wanna come back with me?"

"I'm sorry," Katherine says after a long moment.

Jimmy blinks. "Sorry? About what?"

She shrugs. "Pushing us to go look for Pix. If we hadn't gone for him. . . ."

For a foolish, hopeful second, Jimmy thinks she's referring to the death mark on his wrist.

Then he remembers that she doesn't know it exists.

She's talking about Shelby's condition.

"Don't worry about it," he tells her. "It was my fault."

"No—you didn't want to go, you—"

"But I let it happen," Jimmy cuts her off. "It was my fault, okay?"

He can take the blame.

What's another sin on top of ending the world?

Katherine frowns. "Are you sure? Because I know Scott's beating himself up over this, too. And if you really thought that it was your fault over his, you would go tell him."

Her face has gone from open, apologetic, to practically glaring at him.

And, really?

Jimmy absolutely deserves it.

"Sure," he says, trying not to let show the exhaustion dragging on his bones. "I'll talk to him."

Katherine nods.

She looks like she's sparkling.

She looks like she has wings.

It's long past midnight when Jimmy slips into the chapel.

Scott is there, he notices immediately—curled up and asleep on a pew near the entrance. Scott hasn't ever slept in his own bedroom, as far as Jimmy's aware. Every night when Jimmy checks on everyone, he finds Scott here, wrapped up in a blanket.

He ought to tell Scott that he's leaving. That he wants Scott to be in charge. That it was his fault.

But he can't bring himself to wake him.

The candlelight is low, and at the front of the chapel, muttering under his breath and holding his hands to a sleeping Shelby's head, is Sausage.

Even from afar, he looks exhausted. His hair falls limply into his face, his shoulders are slumped and his clothing is rumpled. He doesn't even look up until Jimmy is right beside him, spurs clicking all the way down the long aisle.

"You should rest."

"So should you."

"I'll wake Shelby, all right? She can hold down the fort for an hour or so."

"I feel close."

"You feel tired."

"And you don't?"

"This ain't about me."

"I can't. I can't go to sleep. I can't fail them."

"I reckon I understand. But this won't get fixed lest you take a rest. Just an hour."

". . . Okay. Pero, necesitas dormir también, okay?"

"I don't speak whatever that was."

"Stay here and rest a little. Just pretend like I'm giving a sermon, then it'll be easy to fall asleep!"

"Right. I'll wake Shelby."

fWhip never locks his room.

So it isn't hard for Jimmy to sneak in and tuck the Deputy Norman badge into his packed backpack.

Dawn breaks early the next morning, and Jimmy feels surprisingly lucid.

He feels like—no, he knows, somewhere deep within—his body is giving him a brief respite before it starts fighting the next stage of the illness.

Jimmy lingers outside the chapel, absently twisting his hat between his hands.

The others still have a day to prepare.

But Jimmy had packed his satchel with a bit of food, his waterskin, and a couple of papers with a pencil.

He's ready to leave.

He just has one person left to speak to.

As expected, Scott heads out from the inn to the church soon after dawn, likely having grabbed something quick to eat before returning to his self-imposed work of watching Sausage and Shelby.

Jimmy catches him by the shoulder.

His sleeve rides up just slightly. He hopes Scott doesn't notice the pink mark.

"Could you walk with me?" he asks quietly.

Scott glances uncertainly toward the church.

Then he nods.

Jimmy leads the way, and perhaps he can sense how unwell he truly is by the way his boots land a bit heavily against the dirt path and his legs feel almost too tired to pick his feet back up.

He probably has . . . a week, at most. Maybe a bit longer, if he takes it easy.

Right. Take it easy.

He doesn't want to leave.

He can't stay.

"Nice out," Scott comments, and Jimmy jumps.

He'd forgotten that Scott was there, or maybe assumed that he'd imagined him.

"Yeah, I guess," he says, looking around. "Bit warm for this early, but I ain't complaining."

It is a bit warm.

Sanctuary has had fairly warm temperatures the whole time they've been here, but the morning is usually more moderate.

Maybe there's a heatwave building up—one last hurrah of summer, before autumn properly takes over.

Sanctuary has been looking rather fall-like of late. Orange and yellow leaves making up the majority of the trees. It's quite pretty, really. Jimmy's never been to Sanctuary in the fall.

They pass under the trees, down the winding dirt footpath that Jimmy's trodden into the ground almost on his own (although there were remnants of it that he followed those first times), so many days and nights out patrolling the same line. He goes just beyond the trees, right to his favorite spot.

The boulder is almost wavering in the weak morning light.

Jimmy pauses beside it, looks out over the plains.

His view is framed by red leaves, and out beyond is rolling green-and-yellow grass, long and waving, the sky still such a young blue behind it. It looks like it hasn’t been devastated by the apocalypse. It looks calm, welcoming, lovely.

It looks so much like home.

"This is the most beautiful part of Sanctuary, I think," he murmurs.

Scott shifts beside him.

Right.

Time to delegate.

That's all he's doing. Delegating. Adjusting a former command.

Jimmy takes in a deep breath, then turns, looks Scott in his mismatched eyes. "I want you to go through the Rift," he says, willing his voice not to falter.

Scott blinks. "Sorry, what?"

Jimmy sighs, then sits on his boulder, tugging one knee up to his chest. How can he present this? "I'm not going," he says, and prays that Scott won't ask why. "I want you to take my place."

"Wh-why?"

Shoot.

Jimmy doesn't want to speak.

So he doesn't.

He looks out over the plains.

It isn't just his childhood that he misses, he supposes.

He's a cowboy. A traveler. He isn't meant to stay in one place for too long.

He's meant to feel the grass underfoot, and the wind through his hair, the dirt on his face and the sun on his back, fresh air in his lungs and a horse at his side.

Jimmy has a chronic case of wanderlust, and Sanctuary only grows smaller by the day.

"I can't do that," Scott says suddenly. "I—you're the leader, I can't—I don't—"

"Scott," says Jimmy, and it comes out smaller, softer than intended.

Jimmy can see, out of the corner of his eye, that Scott freezes.

"I'm not going. And they'll follow you. Even False will follow you, if you can convince her." False doesn't trust easily, if at all.

Jimmy doesn't think he ever really got her trust. Just her approval.

"But I can't go through the Rift."

"Why not?" Scott asks, nothing stubborn in his tone, nothing angry.

Jimmy can say he wants to find a way to protect everyone left.

He can say that he's going to go looking for Pix.

He can say that he left something important in Tumble Town, and he needs to go get it.

But Scott is a lover of truth. He’ll see through any lie that Jimmy tries to give him, so distrusting after everything he’s already put him through.

And honestly, he deserves the truth.

It's not going to be easy to say.

But Jimmy fixes his eyes determinedly on the horizon, and twists the loose button on his vest, and makes his choice.

"It was in the catacombs," he says, and he can't make his voice any louder than a near-whisper for some reason. "I was marking our path with chalk. And. . . ."

He can't say it.

Luckily, he doesn't need to.

Jimmy shakes back his right sleeve, just enough that death's mark shows.

Scott stares.

"I didn't know what to say," Jimmy says simply.

That's the most truthful of it all, isn't it?

"Not when we couldn't stop moving while we were down there. Not when Shelby needed comfort. Not when we needed to focus everything on her."

Jimmy supposes he ought to feel something about that—sadness that this is the end, that he'll never see his friends again. Or relief, that he can finally stop running. Or maybe even despair, knowing that there is nothing he can do to protect his friends anymore.

He doesn't feel any of that, though.

He mostly feels tired.

"We might be able to heal you," Scott suggests, and he sounds as tired as Jimmy feels. "If it works with Shelby, we can do it with you, right? We can just put off the Rift thing until you're both better."

Jimmy isn't going to get better.

He isn't going to give himself that chance.

"And if Shelby doesn't get better?" he asks.

Scott looks away.

He's about to say something placating. Something kind and fluffy, to make Scott feel better about not trying.

The truth. Jimmy needs to tell the truth, not soften the blows.

"I want to stay," admits Jimmy. The words tear from deep within, yet pull free almost easily—like tugging a barely-formed scab off a wound. "I do. But I can't. And maybe it's selfish, Scott, but I don't want them to know that . . . that I've been hiding this from them."

He doesn't want to face their anger, possibly their grief. He doesn't want them to force him to stay.

Because if they find out, and he's already gone, he'll be just another rescue mission.

Someone else could die.

And . . . he's kind of been lying to them this whole time.

People don't like being lied to.

"Like you hid the stuff about Joel from me," Scott's saying, and Jimmy grimaces.

"Yeah. I'm not really good with confrontations like that. You saw what happened. But I couldn't just leave without telling someone, you know?"

"So . . . you're leaving."

He is.

He has to.

"To—what, become like Oli? Instead of staying here, where we can help you . . . go peacefully, I guess?"

Jimmy shakes his head practically before Scott's done speaking. "I don't care much for the idea of staying in bed, all still and sick 'til it's over. I figure I'll just head out quietly, yeah? I already packed my bag. Just wanted to make sure someone could be in charge."

"I'm not a leader," Scott says, sounding a little bit panicked. "What about fWhip?"

Jimmy almost laughs. "fWhip's a follower. He gets too stressed to actually lead."

"Katherine?"

"I don't think she'll want to go through the Rift," Jimmy says thoughtfully. She'll want to stay with Shelby, he's sure of it. "She said she'd come, but I bet my bootstraps she'll back out last minute."

Scott opens his mouth, clearly about to suggest the next person in line.

"And not Gem, either," Jimmy cuts him off. "Scott, I chose you because you're the one who fought back when you thought I'd made a wrong choice. You spoke up. And not just then—you suggest your own plans all the time. You're a leader, even if you don't know it."

Scott doesn't respond to that.

Jimmy looks out over the plains. He can imagine that Scott is biting his lip, trying to think up some argument.

He can imagine that Scott has a lot of things he wants to say.

Somehow, Scott rarely ends up saying them.

After a moment, with a scraping of fabric against stone, Scott sits down beside him, quite gently leaning against him.

It's an invitation.

And he's so tired.

After a long moment, Jimmy lets his head fall onto Scott's shoulder.

It's peaceful, all quiet-like this early in the morning. The world feels almost sleepy, the sun rising but not blinding.

Gem worships the sun, to some extent. Her kingdom of Dawn revered its rising, held festivals and services in its honor. Jimmy understands why every time he watches it rise, every time he sees the orange glow that slowly spills across the darkened world, softly letting more and more light into the day to gradually pull the lands into consciousness.

The sun isn't going to be able to pull him with it.

He's going to die.

He's going to die before he ever feels fully awake again.

He's never going to be entirely conscious before he sleeps forever.

“You should go.”

The voice belongs to Lizzie, he thinks. Or Pix. Or Oli.

“It’s time to go.”

That one belongs to Joel.

Jimmy swallows, gathers every bit of consciousness and strength that he can find, then pulls away from Scott, stretching.

“I should probably head out before the town wakes up,” he tells Scott, and he can see his eyes, mismatched and conflicted, through the shadow that tries to darken them. “Get away before anyone can stop me.”

“Sure. What do you want me to tell them?”

He wants Scott to tell them goodbye. He wants them to know that he loves them, that if he deserved any better he would stay.

But he won’t put that on them.

He tells Scott to convince them that he deserted them. He tells Scott he’s leaving without any sense of direction, that he’s going to go out there and hope for the best.

He doesn’t tell Scott goodbye, either.

He deserves better than that.

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hero-of-the-wolf · 6 months ago

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For your fic "A Heavy Burden" <3

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA???????

OMG thank you thank you so much skshskhsksbaja this is amazing, I really love the colors in this 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

#A Heavy Burden is one of my favorite fics I've written 🥺#I should write more with Twi and Time......#thank you so so much friend 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺#this really means a lot 😭#fanart for emmie 🥺#lu twilight #lu time #lu fanart #lu

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vulpinesaint · 8 months ago

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nobody talks about how awesome vent fics are. you can put your character in the Situations and just keep them there and keep them there and keep them there and then you finish it and you feel better. and it's free

#eddie brock fic is gonna Have to be this for me. i can work through all the ********* ******** if i just write about that guy #wanting to kill himself enough. it's gonna be fine. it's gonna be just like my little alucard castlevania thing #where i was feeling really bad and then wrote like 7k words of him just Suffering. and then i felt better #like a ghost in your own home dead and dying darling i love you forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and #genuinely one of my favorite things i've written i think. in terms of fanfiction but also it's just something i enjoy #man. man. man. man. man.#guys i'm unwell did you know this #i will maybe just not go to class tomorrow no matter what i think i need to stay the hell home <3 and lie face down on the ground <3 #valentine notes #fanfic

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hello-eeveev · 1 year ago

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Rated T, 3331 words

When he was a block away from home, Caleb felt a ping from the wards on his house. Someone had teleported inside. Only a select few were permitted to teleport within the walls of his home, and as far as he knew, only one had the capability. His heart skipped a beat and he quickened his pace, fighting to keep the grin from his face as he rounded the corner onto his street, hurried to his door, and opened it to the most welcome sight he had seen in weeks.

Essek stood in the living room, turned away. His hand rested on the back of the couch, and the edges of his travelling cloak rustled in the sudden shift of air. He looked over his shoulder at Caleb’s entrance. The early evening light shone over his nose and hair and cheekbone, casting the edges of him in gold. He smiled.

“Hello, Caleb Widogast.”

#it's here!!! the final chapter!!!#I'm getting really emotional about this lol #this is the longest fic i've written and i'm so proud of it #this chapter especially is one of my favorites i'm so happy to finally share it with you all #eve’s writing #how to rest #critical role #shadowgast #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #cr fic

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a-murmur-of-a-prayer · 2 months ago

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So in the midst of moving I half forgot about the post-Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes fic I had in my rough drafts! Fortunately, it's my first weekend at the new job where I actually have time to just chill, and I plan on posting it either tonight or tomorrow morning.

Either way, I'm almost done with my reread of TBOSAS, which I was bound and determined to due before starting Sunrise On The Reaping. And, because I'm certain things I wrote in the fic will not really match up with SOTR I wanted to publish it before I even opened the book.

#ugh moving really threw a wrench into me enjoying any form of media at all #but dw I'm now back to the hunger games in full swing #this fic also happens to be one of my favorite ones I've ever written #basically just Snow's pov from TBOSAS to the hunger games #written the way Katniss' is #posting this is also making me reaaally excited for sotr too #And if I've been less active on Tumblr it's because I have been dodging spoilers left and right #the hunger games #thg sotr #sunrise on the reaping #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #my fic #coriolanus snow #lucy gray baird

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doedipus · 2 months ago

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I spent most of yesterday decluttering my closet bookshelf. deeply frustrating experience, for many reasons, but that's neither here nor there.

one of the lower shelves has a bunch of the books I read in high school, and while I was reorganizing it I ended up rereading the first chapter of one flew over the cuckoo's nest, and man, I think that's still far and away my favorite book I've read. like the prose of it is so fucking wild, it's frenetic and surreal and misanthropic and nauseating in a really compelling way.

usually terms like "psychedelic" are much easier to apply to visual or audio media than print, just because like, it doesn't have to spend as much time in the thinking part of your brain, there's an immediacy there, on some level it's pure sensory input that gets processed by instinct and doesn't have to route through your language unit before it hits your imagination. stu mackensey making a weird noise with a guitar pedal and saying some quasi-nonsense, or SHAFT using mixed media and nonliteral colors while painting the screen with arararagi guts is like, easy mode. your brain wants it. but ken kesey managing to elicit those kinds of feelings purely through written word the way he did is kind of fucking incredible.

I hope someday I can do that.

#cuckoo's nest snow crash harrow the ninth neoreaction a basilisk and nevada all really do this for me #along with certain parts of kite runner dune and lord of the flies #also what the fuck I knew kesey was into LSD but I didn't realize he was an MK ULTRA test subject lmao #incidentally part of why I started adding illustrations to methods of bioterrorism #was specifically because I was having trouble making a dream sequence feel psychedelic enough #without just relying on visual descriptions like a putz #and that's also what the random bits of purple prose were about #I also dropped the jojo fic when I did because I wanted to do a fight between kaori and deerhoof that channeled some of those vibes #but never felt confident that I could stick the landing #I feel like I've gotten a bit closer in stuff I've written more recently #but I feel like as long as I'm writing that's always going to be the ideal I'm reaching out towards #books that do natively in prose what some of my favorite works in other mediums do natively to theirs

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sdwolfpup · 2 years ago

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Everything I want to share from my solarpunk AU is incredibly spoilery; this is about as un-spoilery as it gets right now.

“When we first approached your planet, it didn't seem real,” Jaime said quietly. “All that remarkable blue. Even with all that we'd seen, there was nothing else like it in the universe.” He turned his head to look at her. “Much like you.” She flushed and ducked her head, her hair falling forward in a curtain. “I'm just a person.” He turned to face her directly then, his fingertips brushing her cheek when he tucked her hair behind her ear. “You are not just anything.”

#jaime x brienne #six sentence sunday #solarpunk au #I really wish I could share some other stuff too #bc coming up are some of my favorite scenes i've written for this story #but I'm going to finish writing the fic before i post another chapter #my time and inspiration and energy are just not reliable enough these days for an hfog-esque posting schedule #anyway. we'll get there eventually i promise

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acacia-may · 1 year ago

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Could I have 13 for the ask game please?

Thank you so much, Greta! 💐 I'd love to answer this question from the writing excerpt ask game for you. Apologies in advance for the ramblings 😅

13. A excerpt of my writing that helped me understand a character better

(Warnings: Discussions of childhood trauma and abuse. Black Clover spoilers)

I write a lot of character studies, but the scene that immediately came to mind when I saw your ask was the flashback sequence I wrote in "Breaking the Cycle" depicting the first time that Langris presented with and ever used his magic.

This whole story was actually written because a friend of mine irl had been asking me some genuine questions about why/how I thought Langris was abused. Emotional and psychological abuse is often extremely subtle, and we spend so little time in Langris's POV in the canon that there is some reading the lines that must be done on the part of the reader/watcher to really see and understand that he's also a victim of House Vaude, just in a different way than Finral. Writing that story and especially that flashback scene was kind of my attempt at showing what I think it was like for Langris to grow up in that very toxic environment.

While he didn't suffer the same kind of abuse as Finral, he suffered in his own way. I think that depriving a child of unconditional love (whether that be by flat-out rejecting them like Finral or making them "earn" love like Langris) is one of the most horrible things a parent can do to their child--it causes lasting problems that stick with someone long into adulthood, like an empty space in their heart that they'll constantly be trying to fill. Finral tries to fill it with flirting/validation from romantic relationships and Langris tries to fill it with achievements, but it's a similar wound for both of them.

It was very painful but really interesting to try to get into Langris' head and really see House Vaude from his eyes. I think it gave me a much deeper understanding of his character and everything that he had gone through.

This is a very long portion of that flashback sequence, but I had trouble cutting it down beyond this. I've put it under the cut because of the warnings for heavy subject matter, childhood trauma and abuse, and spoilers for Black Clover

“The Noble House of Vaude has produced the premiere spatial mages of the Clover Kingdom for centuries,” their father continued, towering over Finral intimidatingly and glaring at him with a look that lingered ominously like a heavy, dark cloud before a thunderstorm. Langris swallowed hard and something twisted in his stomach. “This worthless excuse for magic is an embarrassment to this family.”

Turning away abruptly with a sharp wince, Langris shut his eyes. He swallowed hard as he felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder. When he turned to look at her, her face said what it always did: you have to do better. He knew this—had known it ever since Finral had presented with a magic power that only brought their parents shame, frustration, and disappointment—the only problem was he didn’t know if he could. He stayed awake at night hiding under the covers and trying to make the type of portals that his parents wanted but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t use magic of any kind. He wasn’t sure which would be worse: having magic like Finral’s or having no magic at all. He didn’t want to find out.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” Finral apologized again. His shoulders were trembling as his wavering voice grew softer, smaller. Langris’ hands began to shake as he watched the tears well up in his brother’s eyes. “I…I just don’t want to hurt anybody…”

“Useless coward! You’re a disgrace to this House,” bellowed their father. He huffed. “The humiliation—one son with such worthless magic and another who hasn’t shown any ability at all…” Feeling his father’s attention falling on him, Langris shuddered and recoiled. His insides were twisting, and he was torn between desperately wanting to run away and hide and being unable to move.

“Langris is still very young,” intervened his mother. “I’m sure he’ll present with a very powerful magic any day now.” Langris stared down at the ground under the weight of his mother’s tightened grip and pointed stare which warned louder than any words: you had better.

Langris’ toes curled up tightly in his shoes. He felt like he was going to be sick.

Finral turned to look at him with teary eyes, but he tried to smile at him slightly. “Let me try again…” he said wiping his eyes and taking a step nearer to Langris, stepping in between him and their parents, before trying to make another portal. It shined and shimmered in front of him before flickering and disintegrating. Langris had always thought it was remarkable that his brother could make something like that, when all Langris could ever do was stare at his empty hands desperately willing the appearance of portals that never came. Their parents, however, were always unimpressed.

“Pathetic,” scoffed their mother.

Their father frowned irately before shaking his head. “They’re getting even worse. Utterly worthless. You don’t deserve to call yourself a Vaude.”

Finral hunched over—seemingly curling into himself, and his eyes welled with tears again as he choked out a barely audible apology. “I’m sorry…”

“You incompetent good-for-nothing!” Their father glared at him. “And now you’re crying?” he scoffed in incredulous disdain at the tears that streamed down Finral’s cheeks. “As if it isn’t your fault that you’re wielding such ineffectual magic, you blubbering idiot.”

Finral sniffled and tried to wipe his eyes apologizing profusely, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry…I’m trying…I just can’t—” Whack. Langris flinched at the horrible slapping sound of his father’s hand striking Finral’s face and his brother’s painful whimpering.

“I told you to stop your whining and excuses!” their father thundered. Langris clinched his trembling hands into fists. His chest felt tight and heavy. Stop it. Make it stop. He desperately pleaded internally to someone…anyone…as tears poured down Finral’s face and he frantically and hopelessly tried to wipe them away as their father raised his hand again.

Langris’ heart beat faster and faster and his stomach warped and coiled into knots—a weight building up inside him too heavy for him to bear. His knees buckled, and he un-clinched his fists. Stop it. Stop! St…

Crash. Boom. Thud. A bright burst of blue collided with the nearby gazebo sending pieces of wooden debris flying. The world seemed to stop as the roof caved in and the structure collapsed on itself.

“Woah…” whispered Finral with wide eyes, but their parents were stunned into silence. Tears prickled in Langris’s eyes, and his heart was pounding so rapidly he was sure it was going to beat out of his chest. His whole body trembled as his father turned towards him, and he shut his eyes tightly flinching in anticipation of his father’s rage.

“That is spatial magic worthy of House Vaude,” said his father. His head reeling, Langris opened one eye in blinking disbelief.

“What wonderful power, Langris!” his mother exclaimed placing a hand on his head.

Langris blinked at them. Was this it? Was this the magic his parents so desperately wanted—the magic that somehow he possessed? It almost seemed too good to be true.

“I…the gazebo…” Langris began quietly and apologetically still completely bewildered by his parents’ reaction.

“We’ll have the servants clean it up,” answered his father dismissively before he turned his attention away from Langris to his brother. “Finral,” he began, and Finral looked up almost hopeful but his face fell immediately as his father said, “You would do well to wield your magic like Langris. You wouldn’t want the shame of being shown up by your younger brother again, would you?”

#thank you so much for the ask #i have too much to say about this topic clearly #langris vaude #finral roulacase #spatial mage brothers #my boys 💚💙#this is honestly one of my favorite fics i've ever written i think #i'm very proud of how it turned out #and it forever changed and really solidified how i see langris as a character #writing excerpt ask game #greta 💐

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