#layer of tragedy to him that often gets ignored

[waltzing-rats]

Ok so i was researching individual trivia and facts for all the kny characters, which i could use in my Wisteria Street AU and

His character as a whole is a lot angstier than i first thought and i am. So digging this.

[multidimensionalmusicalmess]

A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder and the subversion of expectations

I’ve been thinking a lot about GGLAM lately, and I wanted to write a quick post about the way it subverts expectations and why it’s so absurdly funny in a very particular way I don’t see often.

The plot of GGLAM—that is, what’s technically going on—is a tragedy right up until the last ten minutes. We have a poor, disowned man who, to avenge someone he dearly loved, is tempted into becoming a serial killer, in the process still fails to win (again, until the last minute) the girl he loves, and is captured for a crime he didn’t commit and ultimately planned to be executed. You could make a Shakespearean tragedy out of that and nobody would bat an eye.

Except that’s not how the story feels, because those are only the events. Despite having all the plot elements of a tragedy with a protagonist who engineers his own downfall out of a desire for revenge, through several bizarre twists of fate, he simply finds that vengeance is actually what he needed to be happy, gets all the money, and gets both of the girls.

There are also so many individual moments where the show sets up some audience expectation in a very stereotypical way and then just. Ignores it, which is where a lot of the comedy comes from.

For example!

Monty visibly leaves his scarf at Chisolmere, and then immediately worries in voiceover that he might’ve left something behind. Traditionally, this would come back to disadvantage him in the end. It doesn't, however; in fact, it never comes up again.

Monty ends up falling in love with Phoebe, someone whose beloved brother he murdered. We’d expect in any other story that, eventually, Phoebe would find out about this and it would ruin their fairy-tale romance—but Phoebe just never finds out, and ends up helping break Monty out of jail (more on that in a bit).

This is a brief one, but Monty temporarily vacillates over the idea of having to kill Asquith Sr, because he’s grown close to the man who helped him escape poverty. We wonder for a few seconds how he’s going to deal with this—

And then Asquith Sr. dies of a heart attack and Monty immediately shrugs and moves on, moral quandary forgotten by both him and the story.

Something similar happens with Lady Hyacinth—after being the hardest to kill, she shows back up again, and you wonder briefly if that might cause problems, but she dies in the very same twenty-second scene.

Now, none of this is especially unique; the show is a farce, after all. However, there's another layer of misdirection, because GGLAM not only subverts the conventions of non-comic stories, but of the ironic tone it sets up itself, particularly in act two.

In act two, we meet Adalbert and Eugenia D'Ysquith, the present earl and countess of Highhurst—and they're absolutely miserable in the position that Monty is trying to attain for himself. Adalbert clearly has PTSD, and while this is (successfully) played for laughs, his behavior calls into question the straightforward nature of Monty's quest for revenge. Essentially, seeing a character miserable in the position our protagonist is aspiring towards begins to create the expectation that Monty is simply trapping himself in an ironic cycle whereby he takes the place of the D'Ysquith family and inherits all of their miseries with it.

This is furthered by Chauncey's scene. This is a personal favorite of mine; in it, Chauncey (the janitor in Pentonville Prison) reveals himself to Monty as a D'Ysquith, and, when asked by Monty if he's never felt ill-treated by the family, says "They don't even know me. I ain't got none of the advantages of being a D'Ysquith, but I ain't got none of their troubles neither." This scene is just dripping with the energy of a moral lesson; Monty, on the eve of his probable execution for his crimes in the name of attaining a title and avenging his mother, meets a man in nearly the exact position Monty himself started in, who elected not to pursue anything ambitious and ended up content anyway. The obvious implication is that Monty has made nothing but trouble for himself with his actions, and will end up just another miserable rich person even if he isn't executed.

Immediately after that, this tone is compounded by Phoebe's arrival, during which (in direct response to Monty's expressed optimism, no less) she bursts into tears at the revelation that Sibella loves Monty. The love triangle has been revealed, and seemingly had its expected consequences. Everything is falling apart.

It's worth noting when this happens as well. From the beginning, the show has been set within a framing device of Monty's recollections as written in his memoirs, and, immediately after the conversations with Phoebe and Chauncey, that framing device concludes.

The show, however, does not—and immediately after Phoebe leaves in tears upon learning of Sibella's love for Monty, "That Horrible Woman" begins, in which it's made clear that the only reason either Sibella or Phoebe cares about Monty's unfaithfulness at this point is that it'll allow them to get him out of jail. Famously, the love triangle ends not in conflict, but with both women deciding to share Monty (and, we imagine, with the death of one Lionel Holland immediately after the show's conclusion, though that's a personal theory rather than anything specified).

Not only that, but a number of things quickly make clear that Monty is not inheriting the "troubles" of being a D'Ysquith; instead, his release from prison is greeted by cheering crowds and public acclaim, alongside Phoebe and Sibella. Rather than an ironic ending, we get a straightforward one: Monty just gets everything he wants. There are no consequences. Violence and power and the misery of the rich do not beget themselves. Having escaped the framing device precisely when everything looked darkest, we get a literal fairy-tale ending, and we realize that the writers have demonstrated masterfully their knowledge of how a normal story would conclude for the precise purpose of throwing that conclusion out the window. The grandest joke of the show is that the happy ending is not, in fact, a joke.

Of course, one might say that there's still an ironic ending—after all, Chauncey appears in the finale and is implied to attempt to murder Monty, continuing the cycle!

But this is an aftershock of the ending's joke, not a contradiction. Monty feeds Chauncey the belladonna flower from "Inside Out" during the curtain call—after the show has ended. Having constantly evaded any negative consequences of his own actions in the most unlikely and slapstick imaginable ways, Monty concludes the show by one-upping himself and retroactively deleting this particular consequence from outside the boundaries of the story itself. We are shown, once and for all, that the rules do not apply to Montague D'Ysquith Navarro.

Oh, and Chauncey's little segment in the finale also provides a nice twist on the moral implications of his first scene by literally inverting them; rather than Monty realizing the futility of his quest for revenge, Chauncey is inspired to to pursue his own. Luckily for Monty, it doesn't end quite as successfully for him.

[cassynite]

For Ophenia:

27. Has a chance encounter ever had an unexpected effect on them?

For Vonzi:

44. Who, if anyone, would they trust with their deepest secrets?

For Sparrow:

10. Do they have any regrets?

OOooh thank you so much for the good questions Dujour!! (I'm sorry I already got Sparrow's tho lol)

Openia: Has a chance encounter ever had an unexpected effect on them?

Yes, in fact! As I've touched on before, Ophenia's first wife's death devastated her pretty badly. One of the things she ended up doing towards the end of her life was write a novel where her wife was the protagonist; after she died, Ophenia had it published, but it wasn't a big hit or anything--much too sad, even with the hopeful ending Ophenia had given it because she couldn't bear to leave her wife in a story of tragedy. The book was more of a vanity thing, to get it in binding, than an actual attempt to make it marketable.

But it was sold, and a few years after Ophenia did it and was deep in a pretty long depression/detachment slump, she ended up running across someone who had, in fact, read it--a Forlorn elf who had seen his own lost spouse in the pages and who thanked Ophenia for giving him something that he could hold on to and cherish the rest of his days.

The interaction didn't last long; Ophenia hadn't felt terribly comfortable seeing someone who ultimately shared her fate of outliving everyone they loved. But it did cement the idea that, while those people died, the books she wrote about them would stay forever. She'd start writing her second novel shortly afterward, and her career started to flourish.

Vonzi: Who, if anyone, would they trust with their deepest secrets?

*Alicia Keys voice* No one, no one, no one~~~

Vonzi's deepest secrets stay where they belong, in a box she's got locked in the back of her mind and suppressed under fifteen layers of self-assurance. Why would she ever share those when she can just bury them and ignore it all until the day she dies?

Hypothetically, someone could get close enough that she'd be willing to divulge those secrets. But even then it would be difficult and not something she'd be able to talk about very often.

[tumblingxelian]

I think we have very different opinions on this comic and situation, sorry, I actually liked the contrast. Not that being sympathetic is a bad thing.

But a big part of what I find enjoyable about Stephanie is the contrast in her usually cheery persona and the deep anger always welling inside her. I like the fact she works to embody hope and heroism while always having this behind the scenes undercurrent of cynicism.

Jason, Barbara & Bruce all had good parents (I ignore the Willis retcons) while Stephanie's father abused her and her mother but keeping being let back in. Trust is not something she gives easily and that's valid.

Jason, Barbara & Bruce see the man first, Stephanie is seeing the people he hurt & both those are valid standpoints to me.

I also like it because Bruce is usually framed, be it by authors or his more pushy fans, as this peak logical, no emotions badass. Which is blatantly untrue when he's actually incredibly emotional, he's just not expressive.

This is something Bruce himself often thinks while tearing down others, especially Stephanie, as too emotional or irrational to be trusted.

So, a comic that very bluntly makes it obvious Bruce is in denial about how much his personal feelings influence him and Stephanie whose usually dismissed being the one to highlight it works for me.

I also think we have a disagreement on how the comic frames Harvey's father. I took everything Harvey said as basically a layer of like, sardonic hinting. With the framing and his fathers general attitude making him come off not as noble but as cold and cruel.

Basically the public perception of the man and the man himself not matching. So it was still very much Harvey killing is abuser, its just the kind of abuser his dad was and his rationales were different.

Broadly speaking as a categorical Steph enjoyer, I think she'd not be super sympathetic beyond a general, "Yeah that sucks man." This isn't meant to be stanning ever aspect of her. Stephanie's often underlying dismissal for sympathetic motives is one of her more negative traits.

Though I doubt she'd use right wing talking points to frame it. She's more given to sarcasm along the lines of, "Oh daddy was mean to me & I'm poor so I needed to murder to teenagers with a chainsaw!" Again, not exactly an ideal attitude.

However, sad trait makes sense for her character given Arthur and the like, and its one of those situational things. Cos abusers do weaponize stuff like their own tragedies be they real or not, or exploit others empathy in order to maintain their position and control.

I think we have very divergent opinions on Harvey as well. Don't get me wrong, I like him, but I am not sure why he'd give Cluemaster the time of day on Stephine's behalf. Like maybe if enough circumstances aligned it could work, but it'd take a lot of labor or contrivance.

Though as to her feelings, hard to say. She's usually not thrilled when he is dead but has also tried to kill him. I think she'd maybe not appreciate the choice being taken out of her hands regardless.

I also think its worth noting one of the big things she highlighted was that Bruce is not normally this sympathetic to criminals.

Yes, I know in some comics or cartoons he is, but in those same comics and cartoons he'll also engage in terror, torture or slam a random muggers head against a wall so hard it makes a blood splatter the size of their chest cavity.

IE, Bruce isn't showing ideological purity here, he isn't reinforcing his beliefs anyone can change and do good. He isn't even being sympathetic to a troubled person because empathy.

Bruce is very specifically giving Harvey Dent special considerations he would not give others in Harvey's positions, that he wouldn't even give Stephanie, solely because he likes Dent personally.

People are never going to be their ideological purest self & that's fine, personal feelings happen. But Steph got called out all the time for that stuff but its so rare to see Bruce called on the same. But the truth is we all need that person whose like, "You are letting this get too personal & need to back up or you're going to make mistakes." That's just human.

A part of why I enjoy the comic is because Stephanie spent so much time, so many comics and years and arcs. Being treated as this stupid, overly emotional incompetent.

Someone who so often existed to be wrong and talked down at by rich guys & people with far more power, resources & influence than she did. Who faced elaborate 'tests' that were designed to make her fail & relied on taking advantage of her trust.

Who was just generally treated like garbage & eventually was tortured to death & died just so Bruce could angst more while the narrative went out of its way to assure us none of it was "his" fault. But instead it was hers and everyone else around him.

After all that, I very much take joy in seeing her come out the gate swinging.

"You are letting your personal feelings cloud your judgement. You are giving someone whose hurt you and so many others another chance while not taking any precautions & that's a problem."

Then has Bruce avoid any of her observations or points (As usual) and instead start jabbing at her trauma and treating her as hysterical,

"He's not your dad, I'm not your mum, the people he hurt aren't you, so stop being irrational."

IE, missing that she was drawing from experience but not projecting said trauma, which is not something Bruce can do. He's one of the worlds biggest projectors.

But for once she gets to be right for once, rather than Bruce once again being able to strut around like he's cock of the walk because only 'his' emotions are rational.

Like, there is a complicated conversation to be had regarding abuse, survivors, forgiveness, mental illness, trauma and more.

But I don't think that conversation is necessarily helped by an abuse victim expressing understandable skepticism, being framed as wrong, bad or unfair-

-Really she wasn't even being unreasonable, just telling Bruce not to let his personal feelings cloud his judgement & be aware people you love can hurt you even when they say they won't & even believe it-

Because she wanted to be cautious about just blindly trusting the guy who has a history of doing them harm. Cos unfortunately, speaking from personal experience here, that can and does happen.

Honestly Batman comics are kind of a hot mess to discuss the treatment of those struggling with mental health in general. Like I get wanting them to do it but by gods is there a lot of fucking baggage there.

I think a big thin in regards to how people respond to Harvey is that given how... Extreme his situation is,

IE, mass murdering criminal master mind, mob boss, but also heroic defender of the little people, who has tried again and again to pull himself out of hell & risked it all for others, & deeply troubled and traumatized man.

Is that responses to him are always going to come from different angles, be they focused on the tragedy he represents, the terror he spread or the tremulous line in between. But I don't think that's strictly a bad thing because the scale he operates on makes him far more complicated than someone just to be sympathized with.

I hope this made sense.

Bruce, Jason, and Babs feeling sorry for Harvey

[jackdaw-kraai]

Every time I reread the Guides verse I'm of course stunned by how amazing it is. The humanity of the characters, the richness of the culture, the engaging plot, it's all absolutely fantastic. But also it's a truly Shakespearean comedy and I adore it for that. The dramatic irony of it all makes me giggle every time. Luke has like, five different identities and just doesn't bother to mention the last name that would reveal the entire conspiracy. Vader, Mr. War Crimes himself, grows to love Luke as his son entirely unaware that Luke is his blood son. Obi-wan and Bail think Vader knows the truth and is trying to turn poor innocent Luke to the Dark Side or might even kill him. Vader is planning to make Luke Heir to the Empire. Luke does not know this either, and in fact does not realize even when everyone around him figures it out. Leia, Luke and Vader co-exist in the same room together, without violence and ignorant of their blood ties. Somehow, across the vastness of space and their respective positions, and by the grace of Space Youtube, father finds not the daughter who was hidden in the literal Imperial Court but the son that was hidden on a planet who's only distinctive known characteristics were sand and how much Vader hated even thinking about it (except for, you know, the badass secret religion of which Luke is a devoted warrior monk of dedicated to freeing slaves and taps into a similar something to the Force). Obi-wan handed Luke off to Owen thinking he'd be raised an simple farmboy safe from the Empire. Luke became a Runner and joined the Empire right under Obi-wan's nose with his aunt and uncle's approval. Palpatine has Luke in his throne room and they small talk with like ten different layers of subtext that I'm pretty sure neither entirely understood. Obi-wan and Bail are living in a permanent state of distress and no one else knows just how badly their plan screwed up. No one else in the galaxy knows what tf is going on with Luke Lars, some random kid from the Outer Rim who just revolutionized the stormtrooper armour, but the memes are great. I could go on, it's just hit after hit and I don't know how you keep track of everything people do and do not know but it's wonderful.

As I often say: all good comedy is only two steps removed from tragedy. And, of course, the same is true vice versa.

The Guides runs on this stuff, and I can't even begin to tell you how many more layers of absolutely ludicrously dramatic irony there is to everything about Luke and Vader. Absolutely no one has the full picture here. No one. The one who possibly knows the most is Vader, and you've seen his PoV. Everyone is an unreliable narrator, and no one knows it.

Everyone has their own agenda, and yet, barely anyone seems to realize that everyone has their own agenda, with the person most consistently dodging suspicion of having one being Luke. The sheer fact that the rising star within the Empire, known to be mysterious and having suddenly appeared as if out of thin air, still manages to avoid being suspected or having designs on pretty much anything outside of Vader's will, is wild. The fact that someone so clearly rising in power could be thought not to be playing the game while he's redefining it is so stupid it shouldn't be allowed and yet—

And don't even get me started on all the interactions of everyone's agendas, that's a whole 'nother layer of ironies upon ironies. Honestly, it's irony all the way down and that just how I like it.

[amethysttribble]

List ten different favorite characters from ten different pieces of media, and tag ten people!  

Thank you so much @himemiyaaah for the tag, I’m sorry I took forever to do this! We’re organizing these by piece of media

Celegorm: by god, if you look at his character for a little bit, there is so much going on with him! He’s friends with Orome, he has a magic angel dog, he’s super close with Curufin despite the age difference, he’s friendly with his cousins and he gets Finrod killed, he’s an elegant speaker, his followers commit the most abhorrent crime of the kinslayings, he’s assaults Luthien, he’s close with Aredhel, he’s a renowned hunter and failure as a military general. There’s so many layers and contradictions and I love him. (Silm)

Elwing: She is my baby girl, and once I write my ‘conversations between Elwing and Maglor’s Wife’ fic, it’s over for you bitches. She’s just... so resolute, and so sad, and so angry, and she turns into a BIRD and I don’t know what more you want from me. (Silm)

Curufin: Every time I write Curufin I black out and then pages upon pages of the most miserable words on the planet are recorded on screen, and I don’t know what that says about me (Silm)

 Percy de Rolo: this tragic white-haired anime boy with a gun has entranced me, mind body and soul. He really misses his family, you guys T_T (Critical Role, C1)

 Veth Brenatto: This woman is one of the most fascinating characters at the Critical Role table, and that she gets reduced to “Caleb’s mom” so often is fucking criminal, I LOVE her and want her to be happy and blow shit up (Critical Role, C2)

Hubert von Vestra: listen... I’m a sucker for the loyal (male) retainer to the driven at all costs, morally questionable (female) leader. And also they were platonic soulmates. Hubert is a spooky vampire who lives on devotion, and I fucking love him. (fe3h)

Catherine Morland: I recently remembered why Northanger Abbey is my favorite Austen book, she’s just a fucking hoot, I wish I could be her (Northanger Abbey)

Sanji: Sanji, sanji, sanji, WHAT am I to do with you? The most character of all time, so well written sometimes, so poorly written on others. He is forever and always my One Piece blorbo (One Piece)

Catelyn Stark: This woman... Need it be said how goddamn amazing Cat is? I’m not sure it does, my the unbridled tragedy of her watching lose her family one by one, how war steals her young son from her and she is forced to watch, rattling against the bars of the patriarchal cage, and she STILL has a higher on page kill count than Robb? She was already perfect and then she died and cam back a wraith bent on revenge, no one is doing it like her. (asoiaf)

Shimura Shinpachi: MY FUCKING SON! The most important Gintama character and also the most underrated, he’s just a sweet lad, doing his best!! He’s so good to Kagura, and so good to his sister, and so good his friends, and he just wants to be a samurai but also he’s a son of the new age, and he’s trying so hard and I LOVE HIM. (Gintama)

Again, can’t do 10 people, I can give you 5. @agroupofcrows, @aipilosse, @arofili, @shrikeseams, @shiroandblack, feel free to answer or ignore at your leisure!

[starshipsofstarlord]

There was a Girl...

Pairing | Jace Wayland x reader

Summary | When Clary becomes a shadowhunter, she notices how cold and ruthless Jace is. Every one seems to relate to his pain, not resonating at quite the same level. They’re all mourning nevertheless.

Warnings | Mentions of death, brief smut (handjob), angst, heartbreak, unrequited feelings (for Clary)

Requested ✖️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Opening your eyes, you awoke to Jace's chest, his blonde hair falling over his face. You preferred how it looked when it was a little bit scruffy instead of slicked back, and you reached for one of the hanging strands. They were like seams of gold, reflecting from the light that hid within him.

Most people had the wrong perspective on the young man, they only saw a well skilled shadow hunter. But they ignored the smart and witty, yet simultaneously charming person that he was underneath all of his runes. His parabatai Alec was familiar with the set of abilities that his brother figure had, and all that he would accomplish. People thought, because of Jace’s distorted, and confusing past, that he was just another warrior to serve whatever institute that he was sent to.

But in fact, he was not. His duty would always be, to put his family and friends first. He liked to put you on the top of the list, but you always felt the need to scrap that idea, claiming that you could not be his priority from start to finish. It was as though you knew what you future held for you, and how indeed, he could not manage to protect every person that he cared about. The prospect was a great responsibility, far too much for one shadow hunter, even if they be among the best of their kind.

To put such a weight on your own shoulders was defiantly cruel, it would always end in failure, no matter what was done to prevent said downfall. There was never a possibility of saving everyone, that was insanity. The monsters had to kill, in order for you all to remain outside of Idris, and continue on with your heaven sent duty.

“Jace?” You could tell he was awake from how he smiled at the sound of your voice. “Come on.” It was an attempt to encourage him, but you were quick to realise that it wasn’t working. He didn’t like mornings all that much, for good reason too, after all you were shadowhunters.

“Jace.” Your voice became louder and clearer, up to the point where it no longer sounded like your own. He looked away from the screen, to see the new girl watching him. She had an expectant glaze to her green eyes, which were much different from the shield that was covering his own. His pools were surrounded by a shadow of grief, pulling down the entirety of his face to the point where it looked as though he no longer wanted to live.

And that wasn’t entirely incorrect, he struggled at life, often never finding a moment of happiness, and if he did, then he would paint a smile upon his face and wear it to satisfy everyone else around. He had tried to cope with the loss that burdened his heart so gravely, yet nothing made it feel okay. You’d want him to move on, whether it be to lose his vengeful esteem concerning your passing, or find someone else to confide in late at night, to stay up with talking as his head rested upon the pillow, that he needed to wash, so it didn’t smell like you.

Or even, if not to share a bed with this new person, your overall plan as you sat with the angels above would be to find some kind of peace. But that appeared to be the last thing that he wanted as he digitally scoured the city of New York for monsters to uncover, and kill. If he couldn’t protect you, the love of his life, then he would settle for doing so with humans, after all, that had been the way that you had gone. The job had been your passion, yet simultaneously your downfall, and he’d be fine if one of these days he failed to tackle a beast, and it got to him first.

“Clary.” He greeted her, wanting to remove a dangerous monster from the streets by decapitating it. In memory, he would use your favourite blade, spilling blood upon its glowing stake to keep your legacy continuing, although, it did not do much but serve to release Jace’s frustrations. It was a day in which he wanted to speak to nobody, have nobody following him, nor asking him mundane questions about what it meant to be a shadowhunter. Hell, he didn’t even know! To him, the lifestyle was nothing more than accommodated anguish, though, he had been told not to promote it using those words, otherwise, there wouldn’t exactly be many people lining up to join the adverse fight.

And one of the people that he had in mind concerning excitement over a dire and ‘exciting’ lifestyle was Clary. She was naive, and whilst she didn’t know everything, today wasn’t particularly the day in which he wished to explain it to her. It, being predominantly anything. Whilst he had managed to be nice to her during the first few days, it was out of courtesy, considering Alec had an instant distaste towards the wide eyed redhead; he wasn’t sure why, but he supposed that Clary could see a detail of himself that was hidden from the others.

However, even through Jace’s welcoming exterior, was in pain. The feeling tormented him, denying him a break from the patronising pressure, leaving him to hold blame to nobody but himself. The hurt was cemented into his eyes, reflecting as he watched all other tragedies with a stone cold expressions, them hardly affecting him, because he had and was experiencing the worst routine of torture that was possible to him. He had watched you die, and nothing could take those horrific memories from him, no matter how much he wanted them gone.

That was the last time that he saw you. When you passed in his arms, a large wound in your abdomen pouring out with blood, drowning his desperate hands as he tried his utmost to put pressure on the life threatening injury. He wanted to save you but he didn’t know how, his training had always claimed that killing the monsters was more important than saving the life of a shadowhunter from an unknown bloodline. There had been nothing to prepare him for that day in the field, he was a fighter, and taught to be so, not a healer; he wasn’t a medic, he was just a warrior. “What do you want?” Blatantly fell from his round lips as he cast an eye towards the newbie, unimpressed by her timing, or her presence at all.

Clearly, she hadn’t received the memo to leave him be, especially today out of all the rest. Alec, having the personalised intel as to why Jace was emitting a solitary rut understood why he wished to be alone, and respected the space, granting him as much time to himself as he wanted. And whilst Alec was your friend also, he could feel the deep longing that was stabbing his parabatai in the chest, and it killed him too. Your death had been so unexpected, and now without you, there was a void within the institute. And the archer felt as though Clary was trying to fill it, and he saw that as nothing more than disrespect, though she was probably ignorant to the history that wandered the halls.

Her face revelled back at his tone, but nevertheless she continued on with her prying. “I was wondering if I could join you on the hunt, I’m getting better, Izzy even said so.” Jace refrained from rolling his eyes, and contained the feeling that was trying to burst out of his chest. It was anger, directed at everyone that was still alive, including himself. There was no fairness in it, to say that he was sad was an understatement, he was eternally devastated, the death of you had broken him, crumbled him into a figure that he no longer recognised.

“No, you can’t Clary.” He dismissed her, walking away, and going to grab his seraph so that he could hunt this sucker down, and bring upon the same kind of pain to its family as its kind had down to him. God, did you look badass as you swung it, and the thought alone had tears resonating in his unmatched eyes, thinking of how it was the last relic that remained of you.

Walking casually into the armoury, Jace had his hands prized in the depths of his pockets, as his expert and quick fleeting eyes focalised on you, and the weapon within your hold. Your body leant in harmony with the blade, the sound of it woosh-img in the air satisfying to all that could hear; that being only you and the Wayland boy.

“Can i not train in peace?” You groaned, lowering the blade whence you realised that you were being watched. The eyes trailed up your side where your shirt had ridden up, raking over the rune that you had drew upon your skin only this morning. A light laugh fell from Jace’s lips as he stalked forward, taking your seraph out of your hand, and going to lob it upon the ground, but the stern look in your eyes stopped him. Instead, against his nature, he placed it down as though it were made of glass, and rose to stand before you once more.

“Not when you look that good.” The blonde retorted with a sly smirk, sliding his hands up the sides of your hips, finding absolute solace in the feel of your skin. He could be against you forever, and he would not complain, so long as it did last for such a time. “Makes me want to do things to you y/n y/l/n. Terrible things. What would the heads think?” He asked, in reference to those that were in charge of the institute.

Stifling down remarked laughter at his sensually intended words, you raised your forefinger to the space above his brows, and poked him with enough pressure, so that he would pay attention to the notion. “That you’re not thinking with your own.” You went to cross your arms, but instead, Jace grabbed them, moving down to cast his hand over your own.

“Oh, I’m not.” The shadowhunter confirmed, placing your hand upon the crotch of his sweats, applying enough force behind his grip so that you could feel him twitching. “I am indeed having thoughts from elsewhere, would you like to see my sweet?” Licking your lips, you nodded, watching as he peeled the layer away, wrapping your hand around his base, and giving him a few jerks, feeling his pulse race through his cock.

“Tell me more about what you’re thinking my love.” You bit your bottom lip, fluttering your eyelashes up at him, only to reverberate a groan from the blonde male. He panted as your pace quickened, and he was almost certain that he was going to spray his jizz all over the floor if you did not uphold your sexual administrations. His head leant back, as pleasured sounds broke through the clenching of his teeth.

And then, it all stopped as a voice, dressed in absolute disgust, written over with unmotivated shock, interrupted your little exchange. “Really guys, this is a gym, not your damned bedroom. The two of you really are disgusting!” It was Alec, and he cringed at the fact that he had seen his best friend’s cock being stroked in your grasp. Yeah, he wasn’t going to be training today, or at least, not in the asserted place for it.

“Clary.” Izzy called her name, wearing a short lived smile. Whence she studied the expression of the redhead, she was quick to pay attention to the disappointment upon her face. There was confusion laddered in her skin, masking it with creased that made her look worried all at the same time. “What happened?” The Lightwood woman asked concerned, bracing a hand upon said girl’s shoulder.

“Jace snapped at me.” The newcomer informed her, frowning at the prospect, and then after all that, he had stormed off, as though she didn’t even matter. She felt well and truly rejected, like a newspaper that had been tossed in the street, and ending up in a horrible puddle. “I thought he might have liked me, but his attitude says otherwise.”

Izzy twitched her nose; she knew what day it was. There was no way to break it to Clary easy that Jace had no amorous emotions towards her, and so instead of being blunt with the new resident at the institute, she decided to tell the woman a story. “There was a girl...” she began, knowing that after all was explained, that Clary would understand.

[undertale-data]

[Image description: An Undertale chatbox with the name “Asgore” in the middle in uppercase, between two of his talksprites. The left one is smiling, with his brows lifted in surprise and an open mouth; the one on the right shows him smiling, too, but this time his mouth is closed. End of ID]

Asgore, the king of all monsters, sure is an interesting character. As we move on our journey as Frisk, we receive different opinions of him, both positive and negative. Now we will talk about what his fans have to say about him. He received a total of 73 votes, representing 2.8% of answers.

Asgore’s complex role in the story of Undertale is one of the aspects appreciated by his fans. Many have pointed out that Asgore is seen as an antagonist, but his soft attitude and kindness subverts their expectations of him. He is described as tragic, as a leader, as a kind man, and someone who’s made big mistakes. All of these elements help to make him an interesting character.

Now we will break down those layers, based on people’s answers:

Some of the responders manifested a desire for his character to be more appreciated. With statements like “he deserves more love/he is misunderstood.” A few manifested that they believe he gets a lot of hate in the fandom because of his actions. Therefore, they show their preference to Asgore as someone who deserved a better treatment, either by the game itself or by the fandom.

Many people praise his sense of responsibility and his wish to keep monsterkind hopeful by being a leader. “He was determined to find a way to help his people,” “He understands what he has to do and he shows signs of being upset about it.” It is important to mention that statements like this were often followed by highlighting how much of a burden said responsibility is. In other words, Asgore has a duty as a king and people believe he did his best for his people, even if many disapprove of the means Asgore used to obtain his goals. Many of his fans state that the weight he feels because of it makes him their favorite character.

The tragedy of the Dreemurr family is also mentioned in many responses. People lament what he has gone through, and the effect it had on him. He is described as someone who lost his family, but despite everything tried his best not to let people lose hope. His story is touching, and this is an aspect that has made people love this character.

Another group of people addressed Asgore’s appeal by highlighting his virtues and positive qualities. Many call him “soft”, “gentle” or “kind”. These comments are linked to the people that sympathize with him or who recognize the multiple layers of his character. Other people even state that they find him attractive or show interest in him as an ideal partner.

In short, Asgore “big soft goat dad” Dreemurr is loved for his complexity as a character, his tragedy, sense of responsibility and his many virtues. While his actions were not approved by many, people are able to sympathize with him and his story.

Highlights: (under the cut)

Asgore strikes me as someone who did what he believed was right when forced into a horrible situation. He was wrong, but it’s understandable how he could have come to believe that what he was doing was the only way forward. I feel like he gets ignored by most of the fandom compared to the rest of the cast and this disappoints me.

Big soft goat dad. Comfort man.

I just saw how under-appreciated he was. He has a pretty complex character and an interesting dynamic. I love the themes of loss, duty, and regret. He was referenced so many different ways that you didn't know what to expect when you actually met him. It took me a long time to realize how interesting he was, and I can't say he's the best character, but he's my personal favorite.

He was determined to find a way to help his people, and his overall story is just sad. Also he's a gentle goat dad so that's also something.

[Excerpt, read the full answer in the document.] I love him...he's built up so much throughout the game, in so many contradictory ways, long before you ever meet him. Initially, you probably go into the final area thinking he'll just be a standard boss encounter. [...], you expect that Asgore will still be vengeful and angry towards you, but I at least didn't blame him at all - how could I, after everything that happened? Even after an unprovoked war and their long, cruel imprisonment, Asgore was kind and forgiving enough to adopt a human child as his own. Sure, he finally snapped after the humans ALSO murdered his children, but how could anyone blame him for being angry after THAT? How long can anyone be expected to just lay down and take whatever their oppressors throw at them without trying to stand up and fight back? What do you do when you're only ever met with relentless violence? I could afford to die and come back as many times as it took to find a peaceful resolution, but that was because I could reset - other people didn't have that luxury.

[Image description: A wordcloud in the shape of Asgore’s smiling talksprite. His face and horns are colored white while his hair and crown are yellow. Some of the most visible words are: Asgore, Dad, Kill, King, Feel, Kind, Want, Big, Guy, and Love, which represent the most common words in the essays people wrote about him. End of ID]

Read the complete listed of responses shared with permisssion by clicking this link.

[tellerluna-stories]

ii. rex lapis

The sands of time shifted once more, and now Rex Lapis ruled over Liyue. His land overflowed with wealth, and all who passed through Liyue saw their businesses prosper. The people who now walked the paved streets of Liyue had happily never known the tragedies of war, and they lived out their lives in blissful ignorance.

Within the Golden House, Rex Lapis paced around restlessly. His horns and claws were nowhere to be seen, as Liyue had no need for such instruments of war. The simple white robes he had donned for battle had been replaced with layers of multicoloured ceremonial robes and intricate headdresses that only the finest artisans could craft.

With these robes came great honour and responsibility, a reminder that the fate of Liyue rested solely upon the shoulders of Rex Lapis. Though they were made of mere fabric, at times Rex Lapis felt that they weighed heavier than chains of pure gold.

He sighed and fiddled with his sleeves— though he was, in fact, the reason mora existed in the very first place, he had to admit he was tired of seeing the same golden shimmer that surrounded him everywhere he looked.

“My lord.”

Without even turning around, he replied, “I told you not to be so formal with me.”

“Alright, alright.” You smiled and spread your hands disarmingly. “Thousands of years, but you’re still as legalistic as ever.”

Unlike Rex Lapis, you had not chosen to change too much about yourself in the years following the Archon War, whether in appearance or personality. It somewhat brought him comfort knowing that in a world that was constantly changing too fast for him to keep up, there was still one person who could keep him anchored; no matter what era you were in, you could always quickly adjust to the practices and customs around you without forcing yourself to mold to them.

“Thousands of years, and I still need to remind you that titles are unnecessary, my friend.”

“Ah, but the question is: am I genuinely forgetting to drop them, or do I keep using them just to irk you?”

He turned around, face carefully devoid of any emotion. “My friend, do you happen to fear the wrath of the Rock?”

He watched in satisfaction as the smug look on your face quickly morphed into one of fearful respect. “As a matter of fact I do, so let’s change the topic. Your robes are simply majestic, my— I mean, Rex Lapis!”

“Do you not have one just like this?” Rex Lapis looked down at his embellished sleeves— the people of Liyue had gifted both of you with ceremonial robes, but he had yet to see you wear them. “If I recall, yours had the phoenix embroidered on the front.”

“Oh yes, I still have it with me.” You bent over and inspected the nearest pile of mora, brushing the golden coins with your fingertips. “I don’t wear it much since it restricts my movements, but maybe I will if there’s a special occasion.”

“I would like to see you wear it someday, if you choose to. You’d look absolutely stunning.”

He waited for some witty comeback, the usual jokes you’d make in response to his compliments— but you remained oddly silent, hunched over the little pile of mora like a bird guarding its nest.

“My friend...?”

Gently, he placed a hand on your shoulder, unknowingly sending an electric current running through your veins.

“Ah, yes, yes! I was just, uh—“ Hurriedly, you jumped to your feet and dusted your hands off on your clothes. “I was just trying to remember where my robe was, that’s all. I stored it away but I don’t exactly remember where— you know how it is, right?”

Yes, you had just forgotten where you had last put that phoenix robe, as though you still didn’t clean it and carefully air it out at least once a month. That robe was one of the few things you treasured dearly, as it was a gift from the people you watched over... and perhaps also because it was a gift that matched with his.

The heat rushing to your face and the quickening of your heartbeat upon hearing him say you’d look stunning— that was out of pure embarrassment, nothing more. He only meant it out of kindness, now, don’t misinterpret his words.

Clearing your throat hastily, you tried to change the subject. “Did you know that there’s a full moon tonight?”

“Is there, now?” He tilted his head to the side; a somewhat endearing habit of his, left over from when he had horns. “I have not left this place in quite some time; the people of Liyue are a little too concerned for my safety to let me venture outside often.”

“They haven’t....?”

But Rex Lapis merely smiled in reply, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. “It’s only natural for young people to be overprotective of the ones who take care of them. I’m sure they would do the same for you if you just let them, my friend.”

“You sounded very old when you said that, my lord.”

“Pardon?”

“I said your words shone like gold when you said that, my lord.”

He narrowed his eyes skeptically, but you only returned his gaze with a look of pure, angelic innocence. There was no way he could say anything against you, especially not with that look on your face.

“My lord,” You said, with that innocent look still plastered on your face. “Given that you haven’t gone outside in a while, what say you to accompanying one such as myself on an outing this fine evening?”

“An outing, you say?” He put a hand to his chin and pretended to contemplate the idea, silently observing as your eyes lit up with poorly-hidden anticipation. “Where would one go at this hour? It would cause quite a stir if Rex Lapis were to suddenly disappear from his position, with no reasonable explanation.”

To that you raised a finger upwards in reply, pointing to the cavernous roof of the Golden House.

“Technically, you wouldn’t be leaving.” Holding out your hand to him, you smiled and said, “Shall we watch the stars together, then?”

———

“This is incredibly reckless.”

“It’s also incredibly exciting, don’t you think?”

Barely-suppressed laughter bubbled up into your throat as you looked at the great Rex Lapis, who had awkwardly bunched up his robes around his knees. There was no way he could climb to the top of the roof without either damaging his (very costly, one-of-a-kind) robe, or getting him tangled into a mummy wrapping of fine silk.

“Your laughter does not go unnoticed, by the way.” He said, glowing amber eyes trained on the vast ascent of roof tiles before him. “Since this was your idea, how about you think of a solution to this problem?”

The cool night breeze whistled in your ears like a distant flute, and he shivered slightly; it was best to think of a solution quickly, lest Liyue be in uproar over the dignified Rex Lapis catching a mere cold.

You squinted at the rooftop, trying to analyse the best way to scale it with as little collateral damage to your superior as possible. It was certainly possible, especially with your talents as an adeptus (and also because your position did not require such cumbersome clothing), but there would have to be some rather... unusual measures taken.

“Do you trust me?”

He blinked in confusion. “What strange sort of question is—“

Before he could finish, you lifted him off the ground as though you were carrying a princess.

“Hold on tight, my lord.” You whispered, your lips only a few breaths away from his ear. “It may be a little bit unstable.”

He barely had time to wrap his arms around your neck as you leapt into the air, nimbly bounding off the golden tiles like a deer.

What exactly was this situation he was in? Moreover, what was this odd sensation swelling in his heart?

“Mind your sleeves, Rex- I mean, my lord!” You huffed. “I can’t see where I’m stepping if you decide to obscure my sight, which isn’t exactly the best choice for you right now.”

With one final jump, you landed safely on the topmost roof of the Golden House. He could only stare at you blankly as he tried to process what had just happened in the past few minutes— however, you caught onto his stare too easily.

“What, are you surprised that I was able to pull that off?” Shaking your head vigorously to remove the flyaway hair from your eyes, you frowned at him in a jesting manner. “Don’t tell me you’ve been underestimating my abilities this whole time, my lord.”

“No.” He replied immediately. “I would never.”

“That’s what I thought.” With a nod of satisfaction, you gently set him down onto the roof. “Here is the moon and stars for you, as promised.”

Rex Lapis raised his eyes to the sky that he had not seen in some time, and the heavens did not disappoint.

Overhead, the galaxy stretched out in a rich tapestry of hues, stars interwoven in between the threads like beads of precious stones. A full moon hung in the sky, a pearl of great price that took all the beauty that surrounded it and unified it into a beautiful symphony of colours.

For the first time in a while, he felt free— up here with you by his side, there were no such things as duty and responsibility. There were only the two of you in this quiet, peaceful place, with the heavens above as your only witness.

“A lovely night, don’t you think?” You grinned and put your hands on your hips, the wind toying with your hair ever so slightly. “The minute I saw this, I knew you simply couldn’t miss it; not in a thousand years.”

His gaze lingered on the picture of you bathed in a soft halo of moonlight, smiling dreamily at the stars above. “...Very lovely, indeed.”

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Jolting suddenly, you fumbled as you brought out a brass bottle and a pair of teacups from seemingly thin air. “I figured it would be cold out, so I prepared something, just in case.” You gestured for him to sit. “Have a seat while you’re waiting— can’t have the ruler of Liyue standing around waiting for me to serve him, can I?”

“Your judgement is as impeccable as ever, my friend. Whatever would I do without you?”

You rolled your eyes as you began to unscrew the cap of the bottle. “Such flattery is unnecessary. We both know that you could manage Liyue just as well if you were on your own.”

“That doesn’t mean I would want to.” He hesitated, unsure if what he would say next would make you uneasy. “You have done more for me and for Liyue than you could possibly imagine, and I... I sincerely wish for you to know that. You have just as an important role in Liyue as I do, and this place would not be what it is today without you.”

Pausing in what you were doing, you slowly raised your eyes to meet his— there was nothing but pure sincerity in his eyes and words. He truly meant what he was saying, and the way he worded it made your heart- no, no, this wasn’t the time for that.

“...Thank you, Rex Lapis. Those words mean a lot to me, especially coming from you.”

“Do my ears deceive me?” He put a hand to his mouth in mock disbelief. “Say that once more, my friend, I do not think I heard you well the first time.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” You glared at him. “It seems that your age is showing, my lord. Perhaps I should carry you back inside, if your age has really advanced so rapidly.“

“You called me Rex Lapis, for once. This is a day that this aged man shall remember for the rest of his life, and shall be inscribed into the history of Liyue as a momentous occasion—“

“The tea will grow cold long before your long-winded speech finishes, my lord. How about you drink first and talk later?”

Rex Lapis gave you an unimpressed stare. “Perhaps if you cease calling me ‘my lord’, I will think the matter over. When did you learn to brew tea, by the way?”

You returned his stare with one equally matched in unimpressed energy. “Over the years, I’ve found that the art of tea-brewing helped greatly in calming myself, and so I’ve been practicing ever since. Your cup, please— my lord.”

He rolled his eyes at your smug face and held out his cup.

A faint wisp of steam curled from the bottle as the dark liquid trickled into his teacup, along with some unknown plant matter. His thoughts must’ve shown clearly upon his face, for you burst out laughing upon seeing it. “It’s not poison, for Celestia’s sake! If I were planning to assassinate you, I would’ve done it eons ago.”

“And how is that meant to bring me any reassurance?”

“Oh, it wasn’t intended to.” You poured a cup for yourself and downed a sip of your concoction. “But no assassin would be fool enough to drink the poison intended for their target... except for me, possibly. Drink up!”

Rex Lapis still eyed the teacup in his hands suspiciously— but then again, you had never given any reason for him to doubt you, so why should he start now?

“So, is it good?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the unique flavours on his tongue. “If I could, I would drink the tea you make everyday for the rest of eternity.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words; you choked, nearly sending the bottle of tea tumbling off of the roof. “Ah- er, well—“

“What, is that too humble of praise for it? I mean it from the bottom of my heart.”

“No, it’s just- well, it sounds like a phrase I’ve heard among the merchants of Inazuma— oh, never mind. I’m glad you like it.”

“What did you put in it to make it taste so exquisite?”

Leaning closer to him, you whispered, “Petals of peach blossom and glaze lily flowers. Along with some other choice ingredients, but what truly gives it that taste and aroma is the flowers.”

Your face was close, closer than he ever even dreamed to approach in a million years; in the pale moonlight, your eyes glittered brighter than any jewel the earth could give. Any dragon would covet such a treasure and guard it with their very life.

How had he not noticed how mesmerizing your eyes were till tonight?

“Absolutely fascinating,” He murmured, before belatedly realizing he said it aloud.

“Isn’t it?” You hummed in agreement. “It’s my special brew. I experimented on it until I could perfectly balance the flavours to my liking.” Your gaze swiveled to the elaborate water gardens sprawled in front of the Golden House. “Do you want me to plant a peach tree and some glaze lilies by the front of the gate? I could do that, if you really do enjoy my tea that much.”

A mix of relief and disappointment washed over him; you hadn’t realised he wasn’t talking about the flowers.

He mused over the idea— it didn’t seem so bad, after all, but...

“I’d like to plant them somewhere more.... permanent. Somewhere we can watch them grow together.”

“Say the word, and your wish is my command.” You beamed at him. “Just tell me when and where, and I’ll have them in full bloom for you in no time, no matter the season.”

A warm, fluttering feeling filled his chest, and Rex Lapis suddenly found it harder to breathe than before. His face felt oddly warm, while his hands were cold— was it a result of the night air? He wasn’t that old yet.

Anxious to change the topic before you cracked another joke about his age, he quickly asked, “How are the affairs of Liyue doing, my friend?”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “The trade routes are thriving splendidly. Many merchants from the other regions come to seek permission to transport goods to and from their lands, so I’ve been handling most of their affairs. Even picked up some of their languages while at it.” A mischievous smile spread across your face as you said, “Tu ne me comprends pas, non? Je t’aimerai pour toujours et à jamais, mon amour.”

“Impressive.” He hadn’t understood a word of what you had said, but he was almost dead certain that you were poking fun at him. “It is good to see that Liyue is in such capable hands. What about the—“

“—the adepti? Oh, they’re all doing quite well, I believe. They don’t really leave their abodes anymore, save for Madame Ping and young Ganyu.”

“How about—“

“Xiao? I visit him every now and then, to make sure he eats well and is doing alright. And yes, I bring him the painkillers you have specially made for him.” You paused. “He sends his greetings, and it is very obvious that that boy misses you, even if he won’t admit it himself.”

Rex Lapis breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. “You really do know what I’m going to say, even before I say it.”

“What can I say? Even before you need to ask, you can consider it already done.” A chuckle escaped your lips as you scuffed the sole of your shoe against the roof tiles. “That’s why I’m here, after all. Who better than I to carry out the word of Rex Lapis?”

“You had best watch yourself there, my friend, lest your head grows too big for your shoulders.”

“Oh, but my lord, who was the one who gave me this position?” Propping your chin on your steepled fingers, you give him a smug look. “I seem to recall a certain someone appointing me as his right-hand, after all.”

“What has been given can just as swiftly be taken away.”

“You’re no fun.” You stuck your tongue out at him and turned away, pointedly staring at the moon.

“So, what is the real reason you brought me up here?”

In an instant your head whipped back to meet his gaze, eyes wide and mouth agape. “How did you—“

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin, and now it was his turn to look smug. “You’re not the only one who can practically read minds, my friend. The facade you put up is better crafted than mine, but I can still see right through you.”

“Well...” You fell silent for a moment, fingers tracing along the sides of the brass bottle and etching invisible patterns into the metal with your fingernails. “I wanted to ask how you were doing.”

Rex Lapis tilted his head slightly, confusion and curiosity melding into one feeling. “How I was doing?”

“I struggle sometimes... with the memories of those who have passed on. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment I forget; I get distracted or actually feel happy, but then I suddenly think of them, and I wonder if I actually have the right to enjoy myself.”

Shifting slightly, your expression was unreadable in the pale moonlight. “But lately, their faces have become blurry, and I get scared when I can’t remember what they look like. It’s the least I can do for my comrades, since I’m the only one left.” You pursed your lips. “Do you have the same problem?”

The somber look on your face stirred up the remorse that still gnawed at his heart, even after all these centuries. You had been suffering alone because of his mistakes, and it pained Rex Lapis even more knowing that no contract he wrote could remedy the empty gap in your heart. All he could do was sit with you and be something you could anchor yourself to, just the way you had been a steadfast rock to him.

He shifted to sit closer to you, no longer caring whether his robes would be dirtied or not. “Not quite the same problem.”

“...Oh.”

“Like you, even after so many years I still cannot help but think of them. Every detail of their lives, their voices and faces— I remember it all.” Rex Lapis looked up to the stars, where perhaps the constellations of your friends lay, and laughed dryly. “Mortal men have been blessed with forgetfulness, but it seems that I have been cursed to remember.”

Tentatively, he raised a hand to gently pat you on the head, just the way his caregiver used to when he was feeling out of sorts or upset. “But worry not, my friend. If what you worry about is forgetting, then I will be the one to remember everything for you.”

“You needn’t worry about me forgetting you, by the way.” You said quietly. “Even if I forget everything else in this world, I know that I’ll always remember you, no matter what form you take.”

The strange, fluttering feeling in his chest returned, coursing through his veins and flowing through his fingertips— subconsciously he pulled his hand away, fearing that those feelings would somehow reach you.

It’s merely the chill of the night air, he told himself.

You said nothing as he pulled away, but Rex Lapis found himself wishing you would say something, anything; complain, or make a joke out of it, or perhaps even ask him to do it again— no, he couldn’t dare dream of that.

Not for your sake.

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” You said suddenly, breaking the silence and the maze of thoughts his mind was trapped in.

Rex Lapis looked to the moon over Liyue Harbor, admiring the way it bathed the city in silver light. Though Liyue in the daytime was loud, filled with many colours and sounds that overwhelmed the senses, this version of Liyue was also beautiful to behold.

Perhaps... perhaps this is what she meant by living treasure, he thought to himself.

Caring for this city of people, nurturing them and building a better future for them and the future generations— that was certainly something close to his heart. It didn’t feel exactly like the living treasure he had expected, but as long as you were there to watch over Liyue with him, then perhaps... perhaps it would grow on him as time passed.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It truly is.”

But that evening, he failed to notice that you weren’t looking at the moon.

[konako]

It might just be me but there is not nearly enough conversation about that werewolf hunter guy that kidnapped Snow in the episode "Heartless" in season 6. "Must be the Woodcutter. A bounty hunter who usually specializes in hunting down werewolves," says Snow.

It's not just you, my dude. It's.... It's true. We are overlooking this. Because... Look. I recognize canon has made a decision, but given that it's a stupid-ass decision, I've elected to ignore it.

It’s too much to even attempt to—

There’s so much wrong with that.

To have— To have Blue— BLUE— OF ALL PEOPLE—

Deep breath in, now...

THE FUCKING BLUE FAIRY?!!! REALLY? Really? Oh really?!!!

Hmmmmmm!!!!

Look. Full transparency: I haven’t watched a single episode of season 6 or season 7 (though I’m told the last one is not as bad). I was barely conscious during season 5, only holding on to the promise of seeing Ruby again. I was entirely checked out after 5x18. 

I’ve just watched that episode. Just the scene with the Woodcutter. Just so I can understand what’s going on and, seriously?

Taking a step back out of the universe and looking at the writing objectively, as a consumer?

You can tell it was not supposed to be Blue there. She’s painfully out of place (and time) there. She’s not Snow White’s fighting buddy. She’s never been. She’s the shady one. Blue was not the one for that place by Snow’s side. It was the other color.

But Meghan wasn’t available to bring in Red for this storyline — Which is a shame, because that would have been a juicy storyline for her. But I get it, she was done with the show, the show was done with her. It actually pains me, that it was the case.

It’s a tragedy for the story.

It truly is a great loss. We missed out on having Red Snow (first of all, an excellent dynamic that could have made for thousand more fascinating storylines!) facing, for a brief moment, A Werewolf Hunter. 

Sit on that for a second. Red Snow vs. A Werewolf Hunter.

Think of the potential there!! The expansion of the world! The depth of that story, the many possibilities to be explored for Red Snow pre-curse, pre-Charming. The weight it would have added to Ruby’s past, present and future and for Snow’s character by association! What a great way to evolve her angst into something even bigger!! Wow. 

(But this is OUAT and, by season 6, we had learned that having potential is not a guarantee for a good thing. Sometimes, it’s quite the opposite).

It is truly sad. My grumpy entitled little inner child feels cheated, robbed of a great thing. 

But my adult brains knows better. OUAT has always had great pieces, but often couldn’t put them together (or keep them together for long).

That’s a deception I have to live with, thoughts and prayers for me please.

What I don’t understand is: (two things, real quick, as brief as I can be)

1) Why make it explicitly a Werewolf Hunter, if the implications of that wouldn’t be explored further?

I mean, before I get into why I’m bitter about it, let me be clear: thank you! Honestly, thank you for that! I’m grateful. I’m not even kidding! That’s precious and I appreciate it, thank you for that addition! My headcanon was starved and I needed that!

Because now I know that hunters specialized in werewolves are a thing in the Enchanted Forest (and maybe beyond) and that’s another rant on its own (you can hold me to that). File that in the special folder in my headcanon drawer, Jessica.

That’s an excellent detail to introduce, so the story has yet another layer and can (could 💔) later branch out into interesting confrontations, character relations and dynamics. That’s good!

But... it went nowhere. Not only it wouldn’t be explored further and the one werewolf we know and care about wasn’t there to react to it, but the next best thing: The Werewolf’s BFF had no particular reaction to this.

This is a man that specializes in HUNTING WEREWOLVES FOR A LIVING. He has a nickname, he’s known for it, so we’re to assume he’s good at it, has been doing this a while, has a decent reputation and people call him when needed.

The existence of this character implies that there are people weaponizing silver, studying werewolves and their patterns, learning to recognize them in human form to better kill them, finding ways to imprison them and/or selling them off to buyers with nefarious intentions. Does that mean there is a market for werewolves? For silver weapons? Are there people teaching others in the art of killing a werewolf? (I COULD GO ON!!!) 

Not only that, but SNOW WHITE acknowledging The Woodcutter and taking the time to explain it to Blue means that at least she’s (THEY, and by THEY, I mean RED SNOW OF COURSE!!!) ran into him (or hunters like him) before.

What does that mean for Red Snow as a friendship, as An Outcast Partnering With A Fugitive? How does Snow feel about it? Surely she would outlaw that practice, once she’s Queen. And, most importantly, what about Red? What kind of impact does it have on her life, her self-image and self-esteem? On the way she interacts with people, with the world, on the people she decides to trust with her secret or not. (FOLKS WEREN’T EXACLTY UNDERSTANDING) How does she cope with that? (I COULD GO ON!!! 2)

ALSO (AND THIS IS ME BEING BRIEF, MIND YOU!!) 

2) WHERE THE FUCK IS RED!?!!

“There’s nothing holding me here”, said Snow. 

BUT EXCUSE ME? What the fuck. Where is Red. Where is RED?? (I know where Meghan is, but here is RED?) That’s the question that OUAT has never attempted to answer: Where is Red, while this is happening? 

It’s one thing for them (RED SNOW!!!) to part ways after Snow meets Charming and gets into fighting Regina and all that. But here?! She knows Blue already, she’s not yet met Charming, I’m guessing. So, in this moment in the timeline, WHERE IS RED?!??? What the hell is she doing? Is she in hiding because of the werewolf hunters? Could be! I don’t know!! 

Snow could throw an axe like that, so I’m guessing she’s had some fighting training (first with Red, then with the dwarves I guess), she’s selling stuff, she’s thinking ahead, still in hiding, she’s smart and she’s fast making decisions, so she’s been at it for a while, she’s not the young naive Snow we met during Red Handed. She’s a bit hardened already: SHE’S MAKING PLANS TO LEAVE. ALONE. 

What about the cabin in the woods? WHAT CHANGED? WHY IS SNOW PLANNING ON LIVING THE KINGDOM? ALONE? WHERE IS HER GODDAMN FRIEND?

Deep breath out....

[mego42]

I know it’s the writers fault, and I feel like this season rio is a different person than seasons 1,2 and even 3. But if I ignore my opinions on the writers and the odd choices they’ve made for him, and just watch the show as a normal viewer, rio is fucking pissing me off. Like all he had to do was tell Beth she was being followed. He made the mess. And he’s such a dick. Like at this point kill her or don’t. But this whole “Rio can’t hurt Beth/rio has love for her/brio love triangle” thing? Like nah I’m not seeing it. He’s being literally stupid for no reason.

i'm v sorry he's pissing you off and you’re super entitled to feel that way! but tbh, personally i don't totally agree that he's different or that he's being stupid for no reason (though, if you're not buying into the idea that he's genuinely into beth than yeah, i can v much see why you would feel that way, i think that's a p significant puzzle piece). 

imo, the primary difference between the rio of s4 and the rio of previous seasons isn't in the character, but how much more context/insight/backstory we're getting for him. we’ve seen bits and pieces before, but they’ve been very sporadic (something that’s been a p consistent complaint since i joined the fandom) and i think s4 has really dug into shading rio’s character and backstory in with much more detail and depth than we’ve seen so far. i also think the show's p steadily developed the idea that he has some degree of genuine feeling for beth (and that they make him act rashly and stupidly) along the same pace.

putting the rest of this below the cut bc it got long and should you continue, do so with the caveat that i’m not here to change anyone’s mind, i’m just breaking down why i disagree.

in s1, rio was a p one-dimensional character (like, on paper he's basically a walking first page google search result for "mexican gang banger stereotypes") and it's a testament to how much manny brought to his performance and the way he sparks with his scene partners (particularly christina and jim) that he came across so engagingly and elevated the character far enough that people so easily overlook that. over the course of s2, they peeled back the curtain a little bit and rounded him out more in ways that (imo and ymmv) really efficiently counteracted that stereotypical portrayal like introducing marcus, being softer with beth, and the different faceted glimpses of him we saw through his personal and business spaces (the club, his loft and bar). in terms of his feelings, while a lot of the softness with beth was him working an angle, we still caught glimpses that hinted at something real developing in his reactions to her that either served no purpose for keeping her in line (the way the camera lingered on his face falling in 209 after beth had turned away and couldn't see him) or, most significantly imo, doing things for her that actively undermined his authority (retrieving!!!!!!!! the!!!!!!!!!! dubby!!!!!!!!!!!!).

and speaking of 209, we also saw him react in increasingly more irrational and outlandish ways (ignoring her calls/texts about the fbi closing in on a business he’s somewhat tied up in, sending her body parts in the mail, kidnapping her) in reaction to beth quitting him, underscoring both the idea that 209 (and beth) meant something to him and that he gets real dramatic and questionably intelligent when he’s in his feelings. 

there's nothing to really say any of this was a swerve from s1 bc s1 left p much everything on the table. s3 built that out a bit more both in terms of what we know about him (thinking specifically of fitz's rundown of what he gets up to when beth's not around) and his feelings for beth (how he handled the wake of 213 was, uh, illuminating and it’s been made even more illuminating with the context s4 added with nick’s involvement in rio’s business and the fact that nick knew nothing about lucy).

s4, to me, is building on all of that (see the above comment about the new layer of context to lucy and repeat, for one). we’ve met his family (who they’ve already hinted he’s very close to through the photos in his loft), we’ve found out how he got involved in crime in the first place (and i've seen criticism of the tragedy aspect of it and how that disproportionately applies to characters of color and that’s super valid, though i do think there’d also be a lot of valid criticism if they’d gone the opposite route and written rio as knowingly and gleefully deciding to be a criminal. the show kind of put itself in an impossible position there, but that’s something that goes back to s1 and the entire concept of his character. i’m not saying there isn’t a nuanced way to tell this story but, i don’t think anyone in the fandom would argue the gg team doesn’t often do so well with narrowly threaded needles, hahaha), and we’ve also seen that rio’s got some kind of big, complicated feelings for beth that result in him making moves and choices that both are and aren’t in his best interest/at her expense and the dichotomy is sloppy bc, as established, those kinds of feelings make rio sloppy. 

honestly, i think one of the biggest reasons rio’s deepening characterization is so controversial is bc by holding off for so long (a choice that i admire conceptually from a storytelling angle—keeping him shrouded in mystery keeps the audience firmly rooted in the girls’ POVs which is where they want us to be—but v understand how it hasn’t worked for a lot of people and do think they’ve fumbled it at a couple of key steps), it allowed people to sort of choose their own rio and now that the show’s committing to their vision, it’s demolishing a lot of people’s personal versions and that sucks! if the show ever canonically says rio and mick haven’t been friends since they were kids, i, for one, am going to elect to ignore it bc FALSE!!!!!! but this phenomenon is also, you know, part of watching tv. someone else writes it, you ultimately have no say in it, you can really only decide for yourself when it no longer sparks joy enough that it’s a dealbreaker and you walk. 

BUT yeah, i guess to wrap it all up, i do think s4 rio tracks with and has been directly built on the rios that have come before, but also think that accepting that he has big messy feelings for beth is a crucial part in understanding the choices he’s making, and if that’s not working for you, i don’t see this trajectory ultimately being v satisfying bc uh, yeah, i think it’s only going to get exponentially messier as we go. 

[moonlightchess]

I’m an atheist. I used to be extremely religious, mostly because I was thoroughly brainwashed, conditioned and indoctrinated since before I could really talk to be terrified of my grandmother’s church’s hell and demons (whom I was told were responsible for everything from my childhood epilepsy to my birth parents abandoning me, usually because of some grievous sin I’d committed. At like, 4 years old.) This post isn’t about my incredibly traumatic history with organized religion so I’m not really going to get into that, but the point is that I have long since lost all ability to accept anything I can’t prove or see, touch and hear. And believe me, I MISS it - I miss the security and comfort of faith, the fulfillment of feeling like I’m part of something so much bigger than me, the warmth of love from a god I used to be absolutely sure existed. I miss the sense of purpose and mission, I miss the identity. I can never go back and find those things in religion again, but my friend Adrian has. 

He’s a Catholic priest now, officially, he finished seminary recently. We met when I was in college and he was part of an outreach program from his church to help mend relationships between the local church presence and my college’s LGBT support group. Adrian is one of the kindest, gentlest, most optimistic and compassionate people I’ve ever known. He’s shockingly (at least to me) progressive for a priest, and I fully admit to grilling him when we first met, trying to root out his hidden conservative shittiness that I was sure lurked under the surface of his patient smile. I would try to trick him into admitting that he secretly thought gays were going to hell, or black people didn’t belong in the priesthood, or even things like his opinions on American borders or healthcare reform. Adrian shamed me with how incredibly understanding and tolerant he was of my constant barrage of attempts to prove he was as awful as the people who raised me and saw me in church every Sunday.

Once, when I was doing just this, he laughed and said, “Teddy. Jesus was black, science is real, and god loves gay people. There really are those among the clergy who know this to be true, and I promise I’m one of them. I completely understand why you’re suspicious though.” The thing that gets me is, knowing him makes the loss of faith hurt more than it would otherwise I think. I might have become someone like Adrian, had I not been exposed to the horrors and lies slithering under the shiny surface of religion early on. I wish I could know Adrian’s religion, his faith that clearly brings him so much peace and serenity and love for the world and everyone in it, even the worst of us. 

Getting to know him has scraped that old wound raw, one I thought I’d healed by embracing only the proven and logical and dismissing anything that demanded blind faith. If god were real, I told myself, he or she or they or it wouldn’t need or want to demand blind faith. Nothing worth believing in requires you to close your eyes and stick your head in the sand and ignore rationale. The justifications always grated on me too, the easy and convenient defense that “well, if my prayers aren’t answered it’s because god had a different plan, and if they were then that was also god, hooray!” It smacked of deliberately tailored comfort, a defense mechanism to protect our fragile human brains against the vast meaninglessness of reality.

But sometimes Adrian will text me and ask if I want coffee, he’s always up early in the mornings because that’s who he is and I usually am because I sleep like shit and I often have early work shifts. And when I meet him, sometimes it’s cool and brisk and pearl-gray and we’re in knitted scarves and boots and his collar isn’t visible under his layers but it is, it radiates all around him like a halo of his own and he sips his dark roast and tips his head back to look up at the quiet dawn blooming like he knows something I don’t, something he’s aching for me to find on my own because it’s the only way I will. In those moments, I remember the stirrings of faith, how it felt to wonder if maybe the violent, furious, terrifying god of my grandmother’s was a complete misinterpretation of the kind of god who was really out there, sharing those dawns and that coffee and that peace with us. I used to look for that quiet god in between all the screaming and shrieking in tongues and judgment and hellfire and horror and hatred of my family’s church, but I could never find them and finally I gave up. I told Adrian about this today, on my day off during our early coffee run.

“Of course you did,” he said. “They didn’t just demand blind faith of you, they yanked a blindfold around your heart and made you stumble through all their hellfire desperately looking for the living god. They had no right, and no one can blame you for escaping as soon as you could. They were screaming in your ears so loudly you couldn’t hear the quiet god whispering, calling you. That’s the tragedy of it all, really. They took god from you and left you deaf and blind in the cold, lost and scarred. God doesn’t scream or swing fists. God whispers, and waits.”

[aces-to-apples]

C, D, I, L and M for star wars if that’s ok! :)

C - A ship you have never liked and probably never will.

Honestly I've just never been the target audience for f/f pairings, so stuff like Barrisoka probably? Totally cool, just not my wheelhouse.

Edit: I just remember Asajj ships exist and also ObiMaul! Iyam also not the target audience for those, although the latter is extremely funny because I like them separately and with other people, I just can't get it to click in my brain.

D - A pairing you wish you liked but just can’t.

Oh that's a tough one. Uhhhhh. Oh! Ships with Quinlan are often something I've never really connected with. I don't know the guy besides I think that one episode (arc?) with Ziro the Hutt, but I swear everything with him in it doesn't really give him a personality besides "dude who probably smokes weed and flirts" and like. Who am I to say "flesh out that minor character in your fanfictions that are for fun and neither homework nor profit" but I still can't be bothered because I have no emotional connection to him even as a jumping off point. (And that's ignoring that I think everything I've ever seen about him in Legends suffers from being, you know, A Star War, so I just accept him as a one-off character I barely remember in a TV show I don't even really like.)

Edit: Per the last question's edit: I wish I could get into ObiMaul because I have a couple friends who are into it and there's a bunch of really interesting content for it, my brain just doesn't vibe.

I - Has Tumblr caused you to stop liking any fandoms, if so, which and why?

Yeah I used to be into Teen Wolf on another blog, er, many years ago now, but there were some assholes who were assholes to a friend of mine and that ended up turning me off the fandom. Also I was very into Voltron after the first couple seasons dropped—dark times, I know—but, well. I think we all know how that went. I actually never got more than a couple (or maybe just one?) episodes into I think season 3 (whichever one introduced the Galra twink??) and then after that it um. Was all just terrible, so I cut my losses. I was also into Fantastic Beasts (Despite The Warning Signs) after the first movie dropped and then dipped after Assholes Being Assholes, but that was on discord more than tumblr. Other than that, I donut recall.

L - Say something genuinely nice about a character who isn’t one of your faves. (Characters you’re neutral about are fair game, as are characters you merely dislike. Characters that you absolutely loathe with the fire of ten thousand suns are exempt, as there is no point in giving yourself an aneurysm over a character that you hate.)

Ahsoka is a good addition to the Star Wars mythos, actually. (Same for all the other survivors of the Jedi Purge that continuously pop up because, you know, that's literally how it goes with genocides.) She creates more layers of intergenerational trauma to the Disaster Lineage, helps contextualize where the Jedi we know and the Order as a whole are mentally and emotionally by the end of the war as compared to the start, adds yet another facet of inevitable fucking tragedy to Anakin's dark side-fueled break with reality, has a cool character design, and becomes an intriguing and engaging character in her own right. She's a valuable and worthwhile addition and I appreciate her creation and inclusion.

M - Name a character that you’d like to have for a friend.

Every single person in the Star Wars universe is a disaster and a half who's probably committed crimes against humanity in the background (or foreground!) of at least one Clone Wars arc. They all need incredible amounts of therapy and couldn't maintain a healthy relationship if their lives literally depended on it, and sometimes they literally do and thus my point is proven.

........Darth Maul.

[winterhawk-olympic-bang]

Emotive Writing

Guest Poster: @thepartyresponsible​

Emotive writing is about making people Feel Things. People use this all the time to sell you stuff, but we’re out here giving emotions away for free. Here are a few tips and tricks I’ve found to make people feel the most emotions.

Word choice:

This is the most straightforward part of emotive writing. Your word choices add an extra layer of complexity to your message. You aren’t just telling readers what happened; you’re signaling to them how they should feel. Most writers do this unconsciously, but being deliberate can make it especially effective.

Here’s a non-emotive, just-the-facts sentence: The soldier lifted his weapon and turned toward the enemy.

Here’s the same sentence reworked to make you care a bit more: The exhausted soldier raised his broken shield and faced the invading army.

The actions here are fundamentally the same, but exhausted and broken invoke sympathy while invading skews negative.

The words you choose are sign posts for the reader. They indicate how to interpret the story and help your readers orient themselves and form expectations. Subtly building expectation is important because, while surprise can be effective, shock is generally numbing and confusion tends to be irritating, so word choice helps you frame things and guide your reader along.

One of the keys here is to attempt some subtlety. If every sentence about your protagonist reads like an ad campaign (effervescent, brilliant, impervious) and every sentence about your antagonist reads like a political diatribe (cruel, spineless, malicious), you’re probably overusing your sign posts. People want to know who to root for, but too much emotive language can make them feel manipulated.

Think of word choice like adding spices to food. If you put oats in boiling water, you’re making oatmeal, and the spices you use won’t change that. But if you throw in some honey and cinnamon, I know we’re headed somewhere wholesome. If you sprinkle in little discordant notes of garlic powder and cayenne, what we’re cooking is a tragedy. And if you upend an entire bottle of cinnamon, a quarter cup of nutmeg, and toss in seventeen whole cloves, I am not staying for breakfast.

Narrative distance:

Narrative or psychic distance is the space between the reader and the character, usually navigated by the intermediary figure of the narrator. Your narrator can be an omniscient figure that knows the thoughts, feelings, and intentions of every character in the world. Or your narrator could be sitting on the shoulder of your main character, close enough to hear their thoughts and know their story but not so close that they speak with the character’s voice. Or your narrator could be your character.

If you want to ramp up emotion, you usually want a narrator who is very close to one character (or, alternatively, to separate characters in turn). But you don’t have to stay at one distance for the whole story, and, just like word choice, shifts in narrative distance can be helpful indicators to your reader about the story and the characters.

A sudden, dramatic shift in narrative distance is quite jarring, like a sudden zoom-in during a movie. It can be effective, but it’ll lose its punch if it’s overused. Generally, if you want to shift narrative distance, you should build to it slowly. Here’s an example of shifting from a distant third person to a closer third person:

They wake the Soldier because the archer is missing. He has a habit of slipping his lead, disappearing post-mission. The chase grew tedious years ago, but the Soldier runs it just the same. He’ll do as he’s told. But it bothers him, when he lets it. The why.

Why does he do this? the Soldier wonders, when he shouldn’t, when it isn’t his place. Where is he going? he thinks, when he can’t stop himself. Who is he running to? But he tries to think nothing at all.

Another trick of narrative distance is to suddenly pull back to show a character who’s been compromised, shocked, or deeply hurt by something. Imagine spending a long time in a close Bucky perspective, hearing his thoughts, and then being abruptly walloped across the face with: The machine went quiet, and the Soldier opened his eyes. Zooming out can emphasize what’s been lost. Because you aren’t just taking the soul of Bucky Barnes right out of him, you’re also taking that closeness away from the reader. You’re silencing the voice they’ve been listening to.

Whether you zoom in or out during highly emotional moments depends on what you’re trying to accomplish and also on who’s involved.  Some characters have loud, messy emotions that will get louder when they’re hurt. Some characters will freeze over and push a narrator further away. You can use narrative distance to show a character slowly opening up or suddenly slamming a door. But you need the reader to have a solid understanding of the character in order to follow what the shift means, which leads to the next component.

Know your characters:

So, here’s the thing. You gotta Velveteen Rabbit this. Every character is Tinker Bell. If you stop believing, they die.

If you want people to care about these characters, you have to treat them like living, breathing, fully feeling people. They have favorite colors. They have phobias. They have Friday night plans and blisters from new shoes and sesame seeds stuck in their teeth. They have superstitions and secrets. You don’t need to know all of these facts, but you should try to give the impression that someone could know them. The more real your characters are, the more we’re going to care about them.

Since this is fanfiction, you start with a receptive audience. Your readers are fond of these characters. Figure out why. Figure out which parts of the character you can relate to and dig in until you feel like you can understand the parts of them you can’t relate to.

Try to collect things that make you feel close to that character. I always have music playing when I’m writing, so I make playlists for characters and playlists for stories. If I feel like I’m losing a character, I’ll go back to their playlist. But you could also use Pinterest boards, reread favorite fics or comics, rewatch movies or fanvids, or spend an unreasonable amount of time researching bows and tactical knives. Whatever works!

Also, remember, your characters don’t know what story they’re in. They don’t know it’s going to end well (or terribly). Maintain that tension, because that’s where the emotions are. When you watch a good horror movie, you’re not really scared of the monster. You’re scared for the characters, because they don’t know if they’re going to survive.

Emotions come from the characters. That’s why it’s still sad that Tony Stark dies, no matter how many times you watch it happen. Tony Stark was brave and flawed and usually right and often sarcastic, and it hurts to watch him die because that’s a full, unique human we’re losing. We know him well enough to know he’s choosing to sacrifice himself and why he made that choice and who will mourn him.

Know your characters, and let them be messy and weird and wrong and hopeful and cantankerous and unique. Fear is relatable, flaws are relatable, and awkward, ungainly, stubborn progress is relatable. Just remember what it is that makes their progress their progress because, if you can swap Dominic Toretto in for Ted Lasso and have the exact same story, you’ve probably lost your characters.

Plan your emotional trajectory:

Okay, time to get a bit technical. This is for people who like to plan. For those terrifying, godlike writers who just sit down and write, this might not be helpful. For my fellow planners:

There’s a theory (which you can get a general overview about here or, if you’re very into data, right here) that there are six core emotional trajectories in narratives:

1)      Rags to riches (rise)

2)      Riches to rags (fall)

3)      Man in a hole (fall then rise)

4)      Icarus (rise then fall)

5)      Cinderella (rise then fall then rise)

6)      Oedipus (fall then rise then fall)

Since rise and fall can mean different things, I find it helpful to combine these building blocks with emotional axes, which you can find some examples of here.

So, basically, for my winterhawk baseball au Got a Heart in Me, I Swear, I planned to follow the “man in a hole” trajectory (fall then rise) along the anxiety-confidence emotional axis with some bleedover from the humiliation-pride axis. Which basically means Clint started comfortable enough, nosedived deep into anxiety and humiliation, and then slowly built his way to confidence over the rest of the fic.

If the listed axes don’t appeal to you, you can very easily create your own. Just think of an emotion, identify what links it to its inverse, and then list the related emotions between the two opposites. Disgust and adoration are opposites, but they’re linked by attention, right? You can’t ignore something you find disgusting or adorable. So, here’s an example emotional axis you could follow: Disgust – Resentment – Obsession – Fascination – Reverence – Adoration. Enemies to lovers, anyone?

Emotional axes help provide a natural framework for your character’s emotional trajectory. They can be subtle; you don’t have to start on one end of the spectrum and go all the way to the other. A story that moves just a step or two on an emotional axis can be incredibly compelling. That small progress from discomfort to hope can hit really hard if the progress feels fought-for and earned and real.

Tips for writing emotions:

·         Get physical: If you want to show an emotion instead of telling it, describe its impacts on the body. Most characters won’t think I’m embarrassed. They’ll feel a drop in their stomach like someone cut the elevator cables and a hot stinging in their face like they’ve been slapped by some disappointed version of themselves. The more visceral your descriptions, the more the reader will feel them. If you want your reader to feast on feelings, you have to set the table.

·         Dramatic zoom: When something very intense happens, shift the narrative distance. In or out is fine, but a sudden, dramatic event should result in a sudden, dramatic change in focus. Characters might hyperfocus on their physical bodies (the mechanics of breathing, the ringing in their ears, the mad animal urge toward flight) or they might be kicked so far out of their own heads that they feel like they’re dreaming or watching the scene play out from overhead. This distance is useful for two reasons: it feels real, and it allows readers to absorb the situation in pieces, without being overwhelmed by it.

·         Unreliable narrator: Some emotions can be so charged that people don’t want to own them, like grief, shame, jealousy, rage, lust, and guilt. Characters might unconsciously misrepresent these to themselves as something else. A grieving mother might insist she’s tired. A rehabilitated assassin who’s fallen in love with an absolute dork might tell himself he’s just tracking a target. Everyone knows what it’s like to lie to themselves, so this makes characters relatable. And, also, everyone likes being in on a secret, so, sometimes, this is just fun.

·         Face the monsters: We’re often conditioned not to dwell on unpleasant things, which is part of why it can be powerful to examine them in stories. From small things like inglorious emotional states (envy, cowardice, resentment) to character flaws (recklessness, withdrawal, arrogance) to personal tragedies (loss, betrayal, abandonment), the negative parts of human emotional life pack quite a punch. Acknowledge them. Not only are they relatable experiences, but redemption and recovery arcs are some of the most compelling stories we have.

[marshmallowprotection]

Iris

Pairing: Choi Saeran/Reader, 707 | Choi Luciel/Main Character

Description: Was there faith in a false paradise with a savior that spilled honey sweet lies to make you agree? There is no life to be found amongst those in a rotting flowerbed, only those clinging to the roots as the world awaits your demise. Why is he still here when others had long been plucked from the dying earth? And better yet, why are you still here after everything, clinging to his roots as if he'll bring you life? Or is he the one clinging to you?

SE Saeran x Former Believer Reader

Word Count: 5900

Next Chapter 

[Read On AO3]

Chapter One

The sky was unbelievably blue for what it was worth. A blue with a vastness of light and color that he never thought that he would be privy to seeing. A sea of endless white and blue that had always felt like a fickle dream because he could never reach out with his hand and touch it with his hands. He could dream that he did, but he couldn’t actually touch it.

Dreams were like that for Saeran. 

In his dreams, he could be anyone, he could be no one, and he could just exist without the weight of his past sinking him deeper and deeper into the abyss of despair and suffering. He could see a sky and fields of grass right in front of him and that vision had been enough to sustain him for two and a half years. 

Two and half years of living of hiding and working himself to the bone. That was behind him in the eyes of the rest of the world but to Saeran, it wasn’t behind him. It was a part of him. There’d be no escape from Mint Eye no matter what he did. 

It was etched on his body in the form of ink, it was burned into his lungs and guts with elixir, and it caked his hands in blood. 

No matter what he did, no matter what he said, and no matter how far he ran, Mint Eye was a part of him and he accepted this. It made him sick to his stomach at times, and the longer he was disconnected from the cult, the more he realized just how badly he had been hurt and how much hurt he had caused in return. 

Shame, guilt, and trauma all wrapped up in a messy bow that contained his life. It wasn’t perfect and he had his doubts that it was ever going to be more than what he had at this point. Even as he was a year away from the aftermath, it still blanketed him with feelings that he hardly spoke aloud as those thoughts were grim and washed over with disrepair. 

Saeran didn’t dare talk about it with his brother. It wasn’t that he wasn’t allowed to do that, it was more of the fact that Saeyoung would want to know everything in grim detail because he felt ashamed of what happened when he trusted the first people to offer safety to his brother without trying to think it through. 

They were children when that happened and while Saeran could now understand the position that Saeyoung was trapped in, the shame that his brother wreaked was something that he didn’t at all have the time or energy to deal with in his own right. Saeyoung had his own problems to face about the past and that wasn’t on Saeran’s time yet.

They tried not to talk about it too much in the present. It was there, humming in the background as they existed in that bunker together, just waiting for the moment for something to blow up and the past to be wrenched out of its hole in the ground so they would have to talk about it. Neither one of them wanted to open that can of worms. 

Given the fact that they both struggled to talk about their emotions outright, it turned into a mess where Saeran would get upset and scream without thinking if Saeyoung kept pushing his buttons, and Saeyoung would realize his mistakes, apologize, and take the blame as he would have back when they were children. 

Their mother wasn’t here and she wasn’t going to beat them if they fought. Which meant that his twin didn’t have to sit there and take on the blame and weight of his mistakes. People said things because they were angry and upset, it didn’t always mean that they meant it. 

It just meant that it would be better to leave the room instead of screaming and shouting. Which is what Saeran would do every time. He would shake his head and leave the room before closing himself off for a few hours. It made things tense sometimes but he would rather be alone than to be stuck dealing with another emotional mess.

It was bad enough that people would walk on eggshells around Saeran. 

He didn’t want to do that in this bunker. He was stuck living here and trying to make the best of it. For a while, it felt like he was being monitored and watched like some kind of child that was going to throw a tantrum. Yeah, he was volatile and upset about his place in the world. He had been a caged animal for years and it was only obvious that he was going to lash out if poked.

Saeyoung had to learn that the hard way. He had to realize that Saeran wasn’t a child anymore and they didn’t know each other the way they used to. They were different people and that had to mean that there was a need to start all over again. Saeran wasn’t sure that he wanted to build any relationship from the bottom up—

His brother needed to establish something about his survivor’s guilt. Well, that was just the pot calling the kettle black, wasn’t it? In retrospect, therapy had given him the ability to poke holes in the logic that had been taught to him as well as being able to see when enough was enough for other people. Giving him the power to see what wasn’t okay and what was a good thing. 

It wasn’t like he had anywhere to go. It wasn’t like anyone was going to hire him. It wasn’t like he could get very far knowing that somewhere out there, his father was lurking and just waiting for either himself or his brother to be caught in the middle of the daylight where he could strike them down. 

Staying with Saeyoung wasn’t about being with his twin happily ever after, it was a matter of his safety and survival. His brother was giving him a place to stay, a roof over his head, food to eat, and the clear safety in knowing that the layered security would keep out anyone that dared to try and hurt him. 

He could say that he didn’t completely despise Saeyoung the way that he used to, but it wasn’t like he wanted to be his best friend or something like that. They both needed to survive from a countless league of players that wanted them dead and gone from this world. It was simply this matter of convenience. 

Saeran was giving him a small chance because of the circumstance and while his therapist noted that wasn’t the best reason to give someone their chance if you weren’t comfortable with them, it was still his choice at the end of the day to pick what he was willing to tolerate and what he wasn’t. 

It was the freedom to choose that Saeran wanted and even though everything had always been chosen for him, he was getting to decide what he wanted now. Saeyoung had always done what he wanted and dragged him along, then Jihyun extended a hand to him and led him into the gardens, and then Rika pushed him down to the ground and made him submit. 

Even now, it wasn’t like he had chosen to live here. Saeyoung had made that choice for him in a moment of desperation. He dragged him from the hospital and here they were now. It made sense given what was going to happen but… it was something that always burned him to think about in any way. 

Another reason to bite his tongue during the conflict. 

Saeran’s ability to choose had always been taken away so these little things that he was able to pick for himself meant a lot. Just in the same way that he would want others to be able to do as they pleased. As long as he had the right to decide what he wanted, then so did everyone else in this world.

Saeyoung could believe whatever he wanted. If it made him happy to think that after a year of dealing with this, their relationship was on the mend, then that was his prerogative. If it helped him sleep at night, whatever, he could think anything he wanted. 

That partner of his seemed to think things were getting better, but they weren’t ignorant enough to think it was all bubblegum and ice cream in the bunker. They, at least, were able to see when enough was enough. They would nudge Saeyoung away if things got tense in the middle of the day and make sure that he knew better. 

Them, he could tolerate somewhat to a lesser degree, but there was a painful sting in the back of his chest whenever he saw them. That kindness was otherworldly and beyond reason. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was a personality and perspective of the world that he would never be able to understand. 

Perhaps, it was because he had chosen them for those eyes they had. Those eyes sparkled warmth and confidence that Saeran did not know. A perfect shiny star that would twist the RFA to their knees if they followed everything that he’d planned, and by the end of it, they had been the very reason for his undoing from torture. 

In a way, they had saved plenty of people from suffering. 

Just not in the way that he had intended for them. 

Either way, living in the bunker with his brother and his brother’s partner was like a minefield. A mess that he didn’t intend to walk into. 

A disaster zone that was just out there and waiting to envelop him in ways that he wasn’t sure that he wanted. It wasn’t always the worst but it wasn’t always the best, either. However, his life had always been a tragedy that he never wanted nor did he ask for it. Nobody would want to live in this mess that was called Choi Saeran. 

Not by choice. 

Not if they knew what it was like. 

“You seem to have something on your mind today, Saeran,” the feminine voice spoke from the other side of the room. Saeran snapped from his thoughts and glanced back in her direction, his therapist was just tapping the tip of her pen against her tablet. She often did that when she was able to hit the nail on the head. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Frankly, I don’t,” he returned. 

That wasn’t a lie. He didn’t want to dredge up what was on his mind. He and Saeyoung had a long conversation the night prior that had ripped up some old wounds that he didn’t want to try and deal with at the moment. It was about those last nights that they had spent together, and how Saeran had been left terrified on his own.

Saeyoung was always gone at the cathedral studying and trying to get them food, clothes, and any other thing that he could get his hands on. But, because of that, Saeran had to deal with his mother on his own and she hated him the most. 

The longer that Saeyoung was gone, the harder and harder it got for Saeran to lie and cover for him.

He was just a child. There was only so much that he could do. He tried to be brave for his brother even though it terrified him to be alone with that woman.

Their conversation had been about how that felt and how Saeran was frustrated with how his twin left without making sure that Jihyun and Rika would keep their promise and get him out of the house. It was always a touchy subject whenever those two names were brought up and it made him want to gag. 

He didn’t want to think about Jihyun nor Rika. He couldn’t bury their memories from his mind but he could avoid them as much as humanly possible. It was better that way. He preferred it that way. 

It was a conversation that they had now and again and it ended the same way every time. It ended the same way because they both weren't exactly ready to deal with that conversation properly. They were both stubborn in that way. Tensions always ran high and they always got too emotional to confront it properly. 

He just left the room and didn't want to deal with it. Saeran knew better than to yell and scream. It got him nothing, in the end, so he just disconnected. His brother would seemingly touch away from the subject and just let it simmer in the darkness. 

It went without saying that this was one of the reasons why it was so hard to live with him now, not that it was the main reason why or anything. It was why he wanted to spend a lot of time out of that place if he could. It was easier that way. If he and Saeyoung were always with each other at all times, it was easier to interact. 

That bunker felt like a prison. Even if it was meant to be a castle that protected them, it felt like a prison. It didn't matter if the walls were gilded, it was still a cage. A cage wasn’t what he wanted. But at least, he had the right to leave this cage. It wasn’t Mint Eye. It wasn’t locking him in until he wept. 

Distract yourself from it. He would think to himself to get by another day. Find ways to get out and make excuses so you can be alone. It was the only thing that he knew how to do. He knew how to be alone. He knew solitude very well. 

It was much like the darkness and it enveloped him like a waiting hand.

He knew how to like that way and it was the only way he knew. At the very least, he could pick for himself how he wanted to be alone. He didn’t have to sit on the monitors for hours to be able to watch everything and anything that was happening around him. He could go see the sky and get ice cream any time he wanted. 

Well, after ignoring the mortifying realization that he would have to ask Saeyoung for money. It was another reason why he felt confined. But, that wasn’t what he wanted to talk about today nor did he want to think about it. He shifted in his seat and sighed. Well, he was already out of there for the rest of the day. 

That was a start. 

With a noted look on her face, his therapist nodded, “Is there anything that you do feel alright or just comfortable talking about today? Oh, I recall you mentioned that you’d started working on a small garden last time we spoke. How is that going?”

She knew how to cut through the cracks whenever his bones felt tired. Her friendly smile was nice enough and he knew that she meant well. She was a foreigner and her grasp of the language had just the smallest twinge of an accent to it. Nothing horrible, but it did stand out to him as she spoke up. 

Jumin Han was the one that gave his brother a list of C&R affiliated centers to pick from that would be perfect for privacy and covering the tracks of anything that could put them at risk. His twin was seeing his therapist, someone else, but from that same list. This woman was only a few years older than him but she seemed to know how to read people. 

Saeran was used to having to learn how to read people quickly for his survival and whenever this woman spoke up, it always felt like she knew that same feeling. That feeling of knowing what it felt like to be afraid of anyone cornering you. To want to survive no matter what kind of person that you had to be to stop them from getting close. He knew that feeling and he had made many people feel the same way in turn before. 

Maybe that was why it wasn’t all that hard to talk to her about whatever was on his mind. She meant well but he knew that there was only so much that he could open up about right now. It had only been six months since he had started seeing her but she was easy to talk to and it was just another excuse to get out of the house. 

Saeran remembered to unclench his jaw, "I suppose it's turning out as well as it can given what I was given to start with. It was dead ground that needed to be resoiled and mended before I could even start considering what to plant in it." 

“Oh? What were you thinking of putting down this season, then? I imagine if it needed the extra care, you would want to start small with the process to heal the earth around it. If you think about it that way, it’s a lot like how humans recover. You start small and work your way up to the bigger issues and bigger challenges.” 

“You always find a way to work this back onto mental health, don’t you?” The tight line in his smile told her all she needed to know. 

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, Mr. Choi. But, yes, you’ve got me there. Don’t worry, I am interested in hearing about your garden without analyzing every little detail of what it could do for your psyche. I hear sunflowers are good this time of year, what do you think about that?” her chuckle washed away some of the dread but not all of it. 

“Actually, that’s a common misconception,” Saeran replied. 

He could focus on that. 

He could breathe when he was thinking about something that he cared about. He let his mind wander away as he spoke and tried to push back those lingering feelings of what had been lingering on the cusp of his mind since the night before. He just wanted to have a day where he didn’t have to deal with everything. 

—

Saeran didn’t go many places when he left the house. 

He stuck to a very specific routine but he would always travel different ways to get there every time. It was something that he did understand from his years of trying to stay out of sight and mind. He may have been granted the keys to a car but he had to watch his back for everything that lingered too close.

Their father was still out there in the world and if he found them, he would never let them go on living. Saeyoung had managed to hide their identities for as long as he could, but there was no way to know that they were safe. That’s why he always was so firm about staying safe, about staying in the bunker away from the world if possible.

It meant that he would have to take the scenic route into the city most days. That wasn’t so bad, to be honest. 

He got to see the cliffside, the mountains, and the ocean all at once. He got to see the forests slowly converge into the city and become a hub for life and humans. 

It was worth the time that it took to ensure that nobody followed him around to or from the few spots that he traversed. He’d go and leave the car parked on the outskirts and travel with the city on foot to better camouflage.

The walking cleared his mind when he needed to cool down from whatever had happened before that. Sure, he hated crowds and being trapped around people, but being around human life wasn’t like being locked away in a gilded cage for his protection. 

When he left his therapist’s office in the afternoons, he would nudge his hat back on his head to cover his red locks.

They stuck out to anyone that noticed him and the less attention he got, the better. It had been an eyesore the entire time that his natural color came back in. He wasn’t allowed to get his hands on bleach nor could he continue to touch up his hair. It had been fried considering how many times he tried to scrub the red from his head. 

It had to heal. 

So, he just stopped bothering trying to dye it and bleach it. It took months for the red to come back in and remove the traces of white and pink. Everyone would give him stares for it and he just covered himself up if it happened. It was easier that way for Saeran. A lot of things were easier that way at the end of the day.

He just took whatever chances he could. His options were limited, just as his freedom was very limited. He couldn’t change his hair because nobody would let him touch the stuff due to what he’d tried to do to himself in the past. 

He wasn’t allowed to venture out far on his own because his father would start hunting him down. He wasn’t allowed to live anywhere but the bunker for his safety. For Saeran, he had to take the easiest road for whatever was going on in his life. 

With gritted teeth and tired eyes, he would get to pick what happened within a small radius of options given to him. His hair was always something that he could control and seeing it red again these days left him feeling unsure of himself. 

He didn’t linger in the mirror. But he often wondered what it looked like to see him go from where he had been to this point. 

How haphazard was it to see someone go from being as white as a sheet to looking like a tomato that just bloomed out of season? 

Did it come with stares of pity? 

Did it come with the thought in their minds that he didn’t belong? 

That this world had never been created for him? It wasn’t like he had anyone to see or greet. He didn’t have to worry about looking a certain way anymore. He didn’t have to think about trying to appear to be a monster, yet he found comfort in dressing that way. 

The borrowed clothes that he got from Saeyoung left his skin crawling left and right. He didn’t like the hand-me-downs. It felt like he was losing himself and with only so much control over who he thought he was, he didn’t like that. 

If he couldn’t control his hair, he could control his clothes and outfits tenfold. With black tones and chains that protected him from being walled in by the rest of the world. If that meant that he searched for leather with a texture that didn’t make him cringe, so be it. 

The sound of a chain on his hip was easy to function with. 

Like a cat with a bell collar, he could remind himself that he existed just with sound alone. 

It was much better than clawing his nails into his forearms over and over again. His therapist had told him that that was not a good way to ground himself to reality. So, he had to find other ways to deal with it. 

These small things were what he had to get by. Saeran found safety in that. He just had to be himself and focus on whatever the hell that meant. It was only for his comfort. The only time that he had peace was when he was able to make sense of the hell that he had been placed in. At the very least, he had the sky. 

As he continued to make his way through the shortcut that cut through the park, he found his eyes watching the people around him very closely. He wasn’t going out of his way to interact with anyone per se. Yet, he was always seeing people chatting and doing things with each other whenever he got the time to come into the city like this. 

He wasn’t interacting with the world but it was interacting with him. Eyes would meet him now and again; that would cause him to look away or try to nod until they decided that he wasn’t the kind of person that they wanted to be around. People laughing, smiling and carrying on like it was no big deal to be enjoying the world. 

Friends, families, and alike would be able to exist without this overwhelming pressure against their chests. Saeran loathed and envied it. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to push everyone away or try to let someone in. 

He had tried the latter many times before and it never ended well. When his eyes flickered across the field, he noted someone with mint-colored hair, and his heart quickly dropped. 

“...!” 

He forgot how to breathe until his racing heart caught back up to him and hissed that that man wasn’t around anymore. He pinched himself and tried to ignore that sick feeling as it hissed and bubbled up. He was lost in a daze as the crawling feeling continued to follow his spine. Was it him? Was it that man? 

Was he just lost in a daze in Mint Eye? Was this him slumped over at his desk again? The feeling demanded his attention and he bit into his lower lip to suppress it. It didn’t make it go away but it did pull him from the memory long enough to make sense of his surroundings. He breathed in his much-needed relief. 

Rationalizing his memories didn’t help when this happened. He had to work backward to figure out where he was and what was fact or fiction. He counted off the things that he knew were real to him. The sunshine on his face was real, the fluttering breeze on his arms was real, the sounds of children laughing was real, the smell of freshly cut grass was real, and—

His vision jutted back into focus for him to realize that it wasn’t Jihyun Kim. 

That was a relief but it didn’t change the fact that just the sight of someone with his hair or eyes could send him into a frenzy. Saeran wound up sitting on the ground for a good fifteen minutes as he attempted to get the dread pooling in his loins down enough to justify the ability to walk back to his car. 

With that, he turned his head to the side and continued to hurry through the park once more. It was a shame but it had to be done if he wanted to breathe. Saeran didn’t want these ghosts. He didn’t want these feelings inside of his chest. 

He couldn’t even stop to lay down in the grass and look at the clouds today. It was better when he wasn’t a few yards from the bunker. He didn’t have to worry about people bothering him for the most part but that wasn’t the case today. Saeran had to cut losses and give up on that chance for this week.

The most that he ever talked to others willingly came from the little interactions with his brother or MC. He wasn’t big on talking to the RFA, either. So, none of them were going to look at him and have a word to say the way that he looked or the way that he appeared. He didn’t have to go and think of a flurry of masks and excuses to avoid them. 

He didn’t have to lie to his brother to step outside of the bunker when he was here. 

It wasn’t like he even thought any of them wanted to be close to him. Not after what he did, not after the revelation of his crimes and stalking, and not after they learned what he did. He couldn’t blame them if they didn’t want to see his face ever again and really, he doubted they would hold it against him for choosing to avoid them.

Who would want to be around the man that… did that to their former leader? 

No matter how good the excuse was that they sold, his hands were forever stained with the blood of Jihyun Kim. The sticky feeling of blood against his hands would forever whisper that he was a damned man. 

His skin continued to crawl as the thought fluttered in and out of his mind again. 

Not now, he urged his thoughts. You just did so fucking good today. Don’t blow it up and let it ruin what control you have. If you go home like this, the idiot is going to suffocate you with his bullshit care. 

His mood had felt so much better after he talked for an hour about the things that were meant to be his and his interests alone. But, it was always quickly soured by the act of seeing something, feeling something, or even letting in a single ugly thought. It was just the way that his mind had decided to work. 

A pool that recycled the same water over and over again without being cleansed. 

Better yet, why would anyone want to be around someone that was revealed to have stalked you and made a play-by-play guide on how to destroy you and the fabric of everything that you held so very near and dear? 

It didn’t matter what any of them thought. 

Anything that came from them was going to feel forced. 

He wasn’t going to be able to change that so why should he bother trying with any of them? 

They weren’t going to stop making him think of being trapped behind a monitor for hours, trying to converge plans that interlocked to control them for that woman. They felt only pity for Saeyoung’s precious traumatized little brother… none of them cared about him and it was obvious that they wanted the past back. They wanted that man back. They wanted that woman back. They wanted him to be gone and for things to be normal. They wanted everything to be the way that it had been before and—

It didn't matter. It didn't matter. It didn't matter. Saeyoung was purposefully not telling him what everyone else had been told. He didn't want to know. He avoided them because he had to... because he wanted to. He was the reason that someone was in prison and someone was dead. Nobody could change that fact that nothing would ever shirk that truth. He was the catalyst. He was the reason why it all changed. It didn't matter if they used him to get there, they saw him and they saw the end. 

Good on him, huh, he thought. He wanted to be a monster and now, they really believed he was. 

The thought was shoved away as he continued to walk down the sidewalk. The rest of the world felt like it wasn’t all there. He knew that it was. This was merely a feeling of detachment that he felt when he was riled up with anxiety. Saeran was alone and he could flicker and filter through his thoughts to find better ones than the intrusions. 

He needed to think about something—anything else—just to get away from the looming feeling that whispered that he was going to lose control again. 

He supposed that he could keep walking until his legs felt like they were going to cave, or he could just sit in his car for a few hours until he had no choice but to return home. 

The only thing on his mental checklist that didn’t sound exhausting was getting some ice cream. 

It was the only other saving grace he had apart from trying to enjoy the sky. He had ice cream, he had the sky, and he had himself. It felt like the uncomfortable feeling was going to follow him whether he was alone or not, so trying to salvage his day wasn’t going to change whether he did what he wanted or not.

At the very least, he could try to maintain his perception of the present if he proved to himself that he controlled some aspects of his life. Certain things may have robbed him of that, but he had the power to take back some of it. In a sea of triggers and things that left him feeling out of place. 

He just had to remind himself. 

That was all. 

Saeran took the long way around to get there so he could ward off everything. He didn’t want to be tongue-tied when he spoke. It was bad enough that he had to address people when he went to do anything but he wanted it to be blunt and to the point so it didn’t last longer than it needed to. The last thing he needed was someone pointing out how spread thin he was.

The colorful shop at the corner of the block always caught his eye when he was walking through this part of town. It wasn’t too crowded and it wasn’t too busy. The owners were elderly and liked to put smiles on the face of anyone that dropped by, be they old or young customers. 

That’s why the shop itself had such a childish theme to it.

Colorful characters and bright colors were decorating the walls. In a way, it was comforting because it was so far away from the stark walls of a hospital or of the lackluster world that he had lived in as he grew up. Saeran might have stood out against the pinks and blues given the way he dressed, but he didn’t care. 

He liked how warm it felt. 

He wondered if he would’ve enjoyed looking at something like that when he was young and if that might be the reason why he liked it so much now. As a small child, he believed in fairytales and happily ever afters. He wanted to believe the world beyond his reach was like a story that he could read whenever Saeyoung smuggled in a book or two to read to him at bedtime.

This was a memory that didn’t crush him whenever he thought about it. Those were few and far, far between these days. Beggars can’t be choosers, he guessed. 

Saeran paid no mind to the chime of the bell as he entered. It seemed mostly empty today given the hour and he wasn’t about to complain about that. 

The fewer people he had to concern himself with, the better. He could have some ice cream in peace and cool his brain down before it started to burn up on the way back to the bunker.

What would he have today? 

Something new? Or would he stick to the same flavor that his tongue had grown accustomed to? Who was to say. It was a double-edged sword. 

He would always pick mint because while he liked it, it'd reminded him that he'd never forget. Much like the tattoo on his arm that he'd had dug deeply into his skin. A reminder and a mark that would never go away. It was funny that he liked mint so much as the color often left him reeling, huh?

He paused, only briefly, as he turned his head to walk towards the small corner booth that he would always sit in when he came here.

Only to realize that someone was already sitting in his spot. 

That someone happened to be a person that he never thought he would ever see again. 

A person whose memory lay deeply entrenched in layers of guilt and shame and failure. A person who he tried to bury in the back of his mind to protect himself from thinking the worst of the worst, and that person was—

You.

[between-the-alchemist-and-god]

Dear Victor, Please Answer (Ernest study)

[click here to read on AO3]

Summary: On a cold winter night, as a snowstorm buffers at his windows, Ernest attempts to draft a letter to his late brother Victor Frankenstein.

Notes: CW // allusions to death, mention of incest (Victor and Elizabeth, but they don't have feelings for each other it's just their wedding), allusions to chronic illness.

Word Count: 2499-2511 depending if you ask Google Docs or AO3

Story after the cut

~~~

Dear Victor,

Ernest’s hands paused, twirling his quill between his fingers as he contemplated that phrase. Some of the ink bled onto his fingertips.

Dear Victor. Two words with the world as their shadow. How many times had Elizabeth written them? Henry? How often had Ernest wished to dip a pen into the ink and hash out those letters?

Would this be the last of them?

Ernest looked up from the paper, ripping his mind from the ancient memories unlocked between the familiar strokes of his pen. The window before his desk glimmered with ice. The panes had frozen with intricate designs of frost, like someone had traced their finger over the mountain silhouetted by the setting sun in the distance.

Winter had fallen so quickly. Ernest hardly had enough time to dust off his thicker coats before the mornings had grown later and the daytime shorter. A storm strong enough to blanket the entire house in white was coming soon, he was sure of it.

Ernest could never properly enjoy winter. His father used to preach about how he was “too frail for the cold but too stubborn for the fire.”

While other kids of his class and age would go about their days with more layers, drenching themselves in snow, Ernest’s winter was often spent huddled under blankets or trying not to singe himself as he embraced the fireplace in the hall.

This year, he didn’t even have the comfort of a home.

He had a house, mind. A large house at that. A house full of so many rooms and so many ghosts that he should be dead before he salts it all.

But ghosts weren't much company anyway.

The thing about houses and ghosts is that they don't do much but sit there and rot. Just last week the roof had begun to creak in an alarming fashion, and Ernest was sure some rodents had found their way from outside into the walls.

These developments had not worried him in the autumn as the season passed by, like a cow trudging up a hill to snowy days and freezing nights. But as winter took hold of the land and grew colder, so did the rooms, and so did Ernest. Where he was lethargic and blissful in the summer, this winter reality struck him awake with icy winds.

Ernest stared at the window. It was closed, but a deep chill still lay deep in his chest, regardless of whether the wind pushed at the walls or not.

His eyes shifted downward to the floral patterns etched into the window frame. Perched atop the wood stood a small carving of a dove, its dusty body curving toward the heavens, beseeching its maker for unknowable desires with rounded eyes.

Ernest eyed it for a moment.

His mother had loved doves in the way that all compassionate people did, for their symbolism and their association with large, over-romanticized events. Her dresses, her accessories, and even her make up all held that same disposition as a dove about to take flight, an olive branch in its beak.

Caroline had believed in that branch—that simple twig carved from nature and hearts willing to change. Her dying wish rested on that simple twig.

It was a dying wish never to be: Her wish for her eldest children to marry.

Ernest sighed, eyes shifting back to his paper.

Caroline had put her everything into that poor, rotten, old twig. She did not notice the apathetic glances from Victor and Elizabeth nor the way they never spoke of it except at her prodding. And on her deathbed, her head stuffed with fever, Caroline had held out that wretched stick with such compassion. Such ignorance.

Up until her last breath, Caroline had held that branch tightly, hoping someone would take it.

If Ernest had been by her bedside as she fought for breath—if she had entrusted him with her woes—if any of them had only known of the cursed disease of fate running through his cursed family, Ernest would have taken it. He would have taken the branch before it could be snatched by the cold winds outside. He should have taken it.

His breath hitched, but his eyes did not water. Ernest clasped his hands around his pen to stop them shaking.

Victor should have taken it. He should have honestly taken that final offering, not picked it up like some wretched apple meant for the ground and smiled up at their mother, as if the twig hadn't stabbed him in the heart repeatedly since the day Caroline brought home his sister and expected all of them—him, Victor, Elizabeth, and Henry—to play nicely together like perfect little children.

If they had ever truly been kids to begin with, considering the mental anguish all of them had endured, ingrained into their very personalities and strong enough to drive all of them into madness—for regret, for ambition, for recognition, or for love.

Caroline thought Victor had accepted her offer, and this knowledge had brought her peace in her final moments. It kept her from this sickness of mortal minds.

She thought wrong.

Dear Victor, the paper taunted Ernest as he finally loosened his grip on the pen. Dear Victor.

Would things have changed if that branch had been anything but selfish? Passed from one soul-seeking hand to the next? Or was it converted, the moment it contorted along the family tree, to a broken bridge hanging between the romantic apathy of cousins?

Ernest finally moved his hand, and onto the paper the ink bled these words:

Dear Victor,

I never asked you, busy as you were in grief and study, just how Mother was in her final moments. Was she scared? Did she accept her illness with grace as I never could? Did she ever blame me for my absence? I do not expect an answer, but if you should find a way to give one, I will wait. If afterlife does truly exist I trust your first (and most likely final) apology for mortal affairs be to our mother instead of me.

Ernest lifted the tip of his pen and rested his elbow on the desk, rereading his words.

He remembered how that wish had ended, when Victor and Elizabeth had endeavored to go through with it. He had been present for the wedding ceremony of his brother and adopted sister, as well as the preparation and the tragedy thereafter.

William never saw such white as Ernest did that day. He never had the chance.

More ink bled onto his hand as the quill rolled between Ernest’s fingers. He pressed it deeper into the paper and carved the message:

Victor, Mother did not deserve all that we gave her. Nor did she deserve her death, just as our brother and sister did not deserve theirs.

Nevertheless, they are dead, and I can ask only the afterlife how they fare.

His hands shook and the nib of the pen bent oddly, threatening to break, as Ernest pressed it deeper into the paper.

A question. He could write a question, surely. Just one thing to ask his brother, and then he would know.

He hashed out the words:

Is William there with you now, or have you two been separated for your mortal paths? How about Elizabeth? Have you yet reunited with Henry?

Do you think I could see you all again some day?

At this final sentence, Ernest inhaled sharply. His hands lifted from the page like it had become the surface of a heated stove, and he grasped at the edge of the paper, fumbling with the corner. He glared at the ink-blotted message a moment longer, then ripped it from the wooden surface with an audible cut of air.

He crumpled the paper in his hand and yanked open a thin drawer which usually sunk deep into the desk’s rim. From the drawer he produced another piece of paper which he slid into the last one’s place.

It laid quietly on the desk, waiting.

Ernest pulled his quill where he had dropped it and dipped the tip into the inkwell once more.

The wind outside rose in volume as Ernest stared at the new canvas. The sound was a scream in the ghost-riddled yard of the house, and for just a moment, Ernest wondered to himself how many of his resting siblings had screamed that same scream in their final moments.

With a shiver, Ernest stared deeper into the grooves of the paper, urging himself to move the pen. When no such movement came, he sighed and slouched lower into the chair.

Is this how Henry felt, slaving at a desk covered in paperwork and a half-written poem hidden beneath it? Ernest remembered how Henry had often appeared in his room on summer days, driven in by the heat and a desire to get away from that horrid desk of work.

Henry spent most days in the Frankenstein house, in part for the company and in part to evade his father. When Victor and Elizabeth were unavailable to tempt him toward more exciting adventures, Henry would grab a paper and a pen, sit at the foot of Ernest’s bed, and write poetry. His voice was calming.

“I must not go bland,” Henry would say as he produced from his person a copy of Swift or some other poet's work (Ernest could never figure out where he stored them in a jacket so thin), “for my father thinks it best I abandon writing all together! Can you believe that, Ernest? Abandon poetry for whatever ‘business’ he wishes me to attend.” At this he made a displeased noise that held a few seconds too many, along with a pout up to the Heavens.

Ernest laughed at the theatrics. Until those laughs turned into wheezes. Then wheezes into gasps. And then he coughed until the mirth finally disappeared under the need for air.

As usual.

“He sets me up with lessons and work all day,” Henry continued when Ernest had finally caught his breath, glancing at him cautiously every now and again, “like I am some mule to carry his business for him.” Now he leaned closer, his tie of bright hair falling from the perch on his shoulder and mussing his bangs.

Ernest would pitch closer, too, so he could hear the words whispered to him.

“But I always manage to sneak a few plays in with me. The secret is to keep them under the jacket and say how cold it is every few minutes. Oh!” Pulling back, Henry reached for his paper and began to scribble. “That’s a good theme for something, don't you think?” He smiled at Ernest.

Even if given a thousand years, Ernest thought he could never forget Henry’s smile. Henry smiled with his whole body, like he had a candle stuck inside of him and transparent skin; he always smiled like he completely meant it. Ernest admired him for that.

Victor had, too. Sometimes Ernest suspected that Victor wished to be more like Henry.

But Henry and Victor would never be alike, for Henry would rather have his own blood spilled upon the ground again than be tarnished with what vile substance staining Victor's hands. If that substance had not been Henry’s blood in the first place.

In truth, Ernest knew what killed Henry had not been his brother. In that same vein, however, he knew Victor had a trail behind him. Sometime between Caroline’s sickness and William’s murder, Victor had walked along a path of red, blazing with a human desire to see the fundamentals of the world break.

Victor had always been ambitious like that. He always sought what he wanted, and very often received it—at least, in some sense.

Sometimes Ernest wished he had inherited such a trait as well.

He stared back down at the paper.

Ernest pondered at his desk for a moment, the winter storm making the walls whine around him.

His back straightened with resolve.

Maybe, he thought to himself, maybe I could try.

And so he began to write.

What Ernest realized in that moment was that he didn't want answers. He had never wanted an answer, even before Clerval disappeared, before the wedding, before Ernest and William’s game had led both his brother and his friend to their deaths, and even before Victor had left for that cursed school.

Ernest did not care why Victor had left them for a school so far away. He could live without knowing who had really framed Justine. He never even had to ask his mother just how it felt in her sickbed if fate forbade it.

No, Ernest didn't want answers. What good would an explanation do in this empty house in the middle of winter? No letter he could write would ever answer all—or even any—of his questions.

What Ernest really wanted—needed to do, before this storm caved the roof of his psyche and he descended into that madness rooted within his blood—was trust himself.

Trust himself enough not to make the same mistakes as his mother.

To be there when someone else meets their maker; to never again lose sight of anything of worth in his life.

To enjoy life and poetry as he never could as a child.

To hoist himself out of bed, not because he is sick, but because he has rested with a reason to go outside.

But Ernest could live without all those. They were meaningless sentiments for a grieving man. He did not need to fix all of his mistakes, nor did he have to prove to himself that his life could, indeed, go on.

The only thing Ernest needed in order to finally rest without fidgeting all night in his bed, or to stop those recordings of old conversations and faces from flashing in his mind, was to trust himself.

More specifically, trust himself to let go of misplaced sympathy.

With a long inhale, which made his eyes water as he released it, Ernest put the quill tip back to the paper. The lines were messier this time, margins less defined and letters spilling into each other.

But beyond that disorganization the paper read:

Dear Victor,

You were a brother and friend. I looked up to you. I looked up to your wit and your drive—that same wit and drive which drove you so mad that I still feel the bitterness of your delusions in my morning drink.

I hope your death was quick and fair to you, because I know that is all that you wanted upon your deathbed, unlike our mother who wished only for you and our sister to live on without her.

I wish I could ask for a final word to William, but I know you shall not see each other. Your egotism has surely damned you. So instead I ask one thing of you— Say hello to Zeus’ eagle for me.

Your brother and legacy,

Ernest

The snowstorm wailed.