#this is the most consistent I've ever been

[pinkrangerv]

Oh, the Virgin of Guadalupe is so much more than that, too.

In Catholicism, the saints are departed souls who sometimes help God out with miracles and such. Mary, being a mom who loves her Son, also does so; it's a kind of special 'saint+' thing with her.

She's appeared to convert various nations before. And conversion involved varying degrees of bloodshed...until Latin America. Then it involved *flat-out massacres*.

I'm on mobile so linking is difficult (my phone needs upgrading so I can have two tabs open at once), but basically various European nations saw the Americas and said 'hey, free slaves!'. To which a minor hero of the Vatican said 'you can't just say it's okay to enslave non-Christians and kidnap folks; morality of slavery aside, the religion bit was intended for folks who actually knew what Christianity is in the first place and rejected it. These guys really obviously aren't that, no slaves for you'.

He was legally completely correct on many levels. So after the politicos agreed to run on that provided he never ever invoked it for Africans--and the poor bastard decided to save who he could and agreed--the politicos...sent missionaries to climb on the roof of a public building, recite what I'm going to say was John 3:16 (because that is the most lied-about verse ever) IN A LANGUAGE NO ONE SPOKE, and when there was not a mass conversion, rampage through slaughtering the place and presumably enslaving the survivors.

Mary, when visions of her appeared, were normally visions of a white woman in blue robes. (No idea why, but it's really damn consistent. The blue especially; it still is considered a fashion tribute to Mary for a girl to wear sky or pastel blue in a lot of Catholic circles.)

The Virgin of Guadalupe appeared clothed as a goddess. According to what I learned growing up, she was surrounded with symbols of having conquered the native gods. She was standing on the moon for a throne and the sun shone only at her whim.

And she told her newest follower to convert, and bring others with him.

Mexican Catholicism is unlike ANY branch of Roman Catholicism in the world. Most pick up local traditions, sure, but Thanksgiving sure isn't a holy day, even if Mass is said on it. These guys have holy days I've never heard of, clearly referencing prior religions. Good Friday involves a palm frond being handed out to parishioners, and bored children often make little cross toys during Mass; *every single frond* in the hands of a Mexican ends up a very complex stalk of macrame maize, maize being a symbol of the gods like bread is for Christians. The list is basically like looking at a Wiccan anthropologist's dream of survival.

The Pope called on THAT Mary vision. The one who said 'I can't stop these people, but I can try and bring aid'. The one who had been a Jewish woman in Rome, who had probably stood by the well plotting how to slide Judean law into the Temple taxes of Rome ("no one will notice my 'best' lamb is a bit scrawny this year, right? Such poor rain...").

The refugee and scared mother and the one who looked for ICE in Egypt's garb at her door.

Sometimes Francis has a brain.

[knotyourdeer]

Okay so this one is a continuation of @spinfins ' observation namely, but damn the Veilguard is dangerous and they do dangerous shit!!! Like what!!!

And gods forbid (yeah like they'd ever) something happen to sweet Emmrich, who seems to be the only confident practitioner of any sort of healing magic. This turned out way longer than I originally planned-- the gang kind of grabbed me by the neck-- and this is the most I've consistently written in a very long time. Anyways enjoy hurt/comfort in the key of TEAMWORK under the cut.

“Bellara! Neve!” Taash bellowed, carrying Emmrich splayed across their arms, a trail of rubies drip drip dripping in rapid succession with their steps.

Rook jogged alongside the qunari, puffing as they bullied through a cluster of alarmed wisps in the hall and slammed their shoulder into the door of the infirmary.

Varric startled where he'd been propped against the wall, a book snapping shut in his lap. “Rook?”

Shit. Field medicine now. Like the creekbeds in the Arlathan. The crumbled rocks, the clinging streaks of rashvine on calves. Thorns. Minor blade wounds on hands, on shoulders. Fine. Fine. Shit. “Table,” Rook barked.

Gently, despite their haste, Taash lowered the gasping necromancer onto a cot. The boards creaked slightly. Emmrich's eyes were screwed shut, his brow furrowed and twisted against the pain, his breathing– normally so soft, controlled, came out in uneven, ragged pants.

Rook dunked their hands in a basin of lukewarm water, scrubbing furiously as Taash ripped open the necromancer's tattered lapels, wrenching the blood-soaked leather aside and chucking it to the floor as if it were the source of the injury. His undershirt was in similar shape, ragged satin blooming with the iron tang of viscera. His chest expanded, shuddered, froze. His head lolled.

Taash made a noise, somewhere between a growl and a yelp of alarm as they lifted their hands from Emmrich's body. They looked to Rook helplessly, eyes wide and frantic.

“Hey, hey hey– Don't you do it–” Rook hissed, uncorking a vial from the shelf in their teeth. “Emmrich! Shtay writh me, man–” Scarred hands cradled the back of the older man's head, lifting it slightly off the cot. They lifted the healing potion to his lips and tipped, watching its contents glimmer in the werelight and candle glow.

A shrill hiss announced two pairs of bounding boots. Manfred bustled into the infirmary, took one look at the state of things and began to wave his arms with the rattling of bones, shrieking. Davrin leaned on the doorframe, panting. “What happened?”

“Venatori,” Taash snarled, beginning to pace, arms folded tight to their chest. “Ambushed us on the beach. One of the mages hit him with something.”

Manfred's frantic hissing grew to a higher pitch, mostly nonsense. Maybe the necromancer's name.

Rook spit out the cork. “Fred! Run to the library– get me any of the plants Emmrich had for medicine– or Harding's room–!”

Manfred spun on his heel with a soft wail, plunging out of the infirmary once more. Davrin straightened. “What can I do?”

“Find Neve,” Rook breathed, snapping a dagger from their hip to slit open Emmrich's shirt and examine the impact wound. Or was it a laceration? Could something be both? “I don't know what they hit him with. It was very red. Not quite fire.” Bits of raw flesh clung to pearlescent white specks, slick with blood, nearly unrecognizable in its cohesion. Just… wet. Warm. Pulsing.

Ribs. Oh Maker, the white specks were their friend's bones.

They tamped down the wave of dizzy nausea. No glimpse of the inflating pink of lungs or other organs underneath– not yet. Had to clean this first, find out. But the potion, thank Andraste, was starting to take effect. The gush was slowing to an ooze, even as Rook lifted their hands once more and plunged their marred red wetness into the basin– ribbons of scarlet dancing in the cool water.

“She's out,” Davrin said, hands working restlessly at his sides.

“Out? Where?” Taash demanded. “Where's Bellara?”

“Docktown, with Harding. Tarquin asked her to look into– she'll be back soon.” The Grey Warden eyed Emmrich's prone form on the cot, as if unable to tear his gaze away. No doubt it was a familiar sight, but a more disturbing one with one so close. “Bel's–”

Emmrich shuddered a rattling gasp, eyes flying open as Rook pressed an elfroot soaked rag over the sucking wound.

“Sorry!” Rook barked on instinct, body rigid. They bent over their work, zeroing in on cleaning the drying splatters with new focus. Taash moved to hold his legs down below the knee, expression grim.

“Keep it together, corpse guy.”

The necromancer loosed a ragged cry as Rook dabbed at what they hoped would become a shallower, bruising gash. To their horror, the effects of the potion only seemed to slow the bleeding and cover the shy bits of bone in a thin film of new flesh. Blood continued to ooze, slowly and steadily, from the marred muscles that dove straight down between his collarbones to his navel, thick as their palm.

Now, strange marks, like raw burns, about the size of Rook's thumbnail, swirled the margins on the skin that remained whole. “Maker's will– what'd they hit you with, Emm?”

Pale and wan, his lips graying to an alarming near-blue, Emmrich wrapped a bony hand around Rook's wrist. His eyes locked on their face with distant urgency, cloudy with pain but still sharp. Alert. “Are my manubrium… or costal grooves, exposed,” he rasped.

“Emmrich, you know I love you, but I don't know what that means,” Rook breathed, bent over the wound, fingers dancing across the strange runic burns as if trying to read them.

“I can not look for myself,” he wheezed, his tone clinical and matter of fact in its wispiness. “Or I will pass out. How many bones?”

“None, now,” Rook replied, locking eyes with the professor as if searching his face would bring more answers. So often now had Emmrich been the one wrapping their wounds. Listening intently to Harding and Davrin mutter about blindspots and chinks in armor so perfect for arrows as he patched them up with a wave of his hand, or treated a deep cut on Lucanis’ brow with a more intent press of mana across his fingertips. Gently chastising Neve for lingering too long at her desk with a black eye, or Bellara for tinkering intently in the small hours of the night– hold on now, had the necromancer been doing rounds?

A little late to realize now, and Rook felt stupid for missing it, eyes burning with moisture as they recalled how just yesterday the necromancer had rapped politely on the doorway to Bellara's room, where she and Rook had been wrestling with a particularly stubborn set of bronze focus rings they'd picked up outside D'Meta's Crossing.

“Good evening,” he'd hazarded after a particularly loud pop of blue light scattered sparks across the stone floor.

Rook pulled off the scarf wrapped over their nose, grinning ear to ear. “We figured it out! It's aligned to the Southern Constellations, Emmrich! We've cracked it!”

“That's wonderful. Perhaps you both ought to ‘crack’ an attempt at bed at a reasonable hour? It's rather late.”

Bellara waved him closer excitedly. “Take a look at this, Professor! There's intrinsic glyphs, but only if you–” She took the orb in her hands and shifted its rings with two sharp metallic clangs, releasing it to allow it to unfold like a bronze lotus.

Emmrich's brows rose, clearly intrigued– before he dutifully shook off his interest and cleared his throat. “Perhaps in the morning.”

“But we've almost– I mean–” Bellara frowned.

Rook was still beaming. “Still got no idea what it does.”

“All the more reason to try again tomorrow,” Emmrich said cheerfully. “Now, Rook, I did ask you to rest that wrist?”

Rook dropped their hand guiltily where it was tangled within the mechanism, fingers splayed to try and pull it back together. “Uh–”

“Right. Goodnight, all.” He turned away, shaking his head slightly.

“Goodnight, Professor,” Bellara called after him.

Rook was jostled from the memory when it took shape in the form of the elf that burst into the infirmary. “Rook!”

The rogue shook themself and refocused on keeping pressure on the wound. Emmrich was still gripping their wrist like a vice, their bad one- funny- and the professor was strong. Good. Not fading away any time soon.

The necromancer sucked an agonized breath through his teeth and let it out. “Prop me up.”

“What?” Rook and Taash demanded.

“What happened?” Bellara trilled, horrified. Davrin took her arm and led her closer. “They were ambushed.”

“Take a look at this,” Rook hummed to her, lifting the cloth slightly with a sickening squelch.

“Oh- I- Ohhh, I don't know, that looks bad,” Bellara observed disjointedly, eyes like saucers, looking both nauseated and terrified as she spoke between splayed fingers on her lips. “I mean, of course it looks bad, but I– oh, Professor.”

“Rook,” Emmrich panted. “Please. If the air is trapped– in my chest–”

“Right. Okay. Taash, on three.”

Davrin surged forward. “Where?”

“Legs,” Taash grunted.

Qunari and Warden pushed strong arms underneath Emmrich's knees and hips as Rook lifted him under his shoulders, one hand still pressed to the rag over his chest. “One.”

Emmrich screwed his eyes shut with an agonized hum that wrung his throat so tightly they could all see the tendons of his neck strain. “Gently.”

Taash huffed.

“Two.” Rook tensed their bicep under his back, hating how sharply they could feel Emmrich's shoulder blades digging into them without his usual layers of finery and armor. Was he really so skinny? “Three!”

With a collective heave, possibly not all that necessary, the necromancer was surprisingly light– the heroes lifted and shifted Emmrich so that he could sit up, legs out in front of him, where he slumped slightly in favor of the worst of the gash. Sweat slick strands of his usually terribly neat hair clung to his brow in disarray. He gulped another breath and exhaled it with a clearly painful wheeze, in doing so, his chin dropped and he caught a glimpse of his own raw interior and the blood soaked rag Rook was pressing to it.

“Oh dear,” he managed primly, lashes fluttering slightly as his eyes rolled and unfocused– whether from agony, moving too fast or the far too intimate demonstration of anatomical distress– which surely was much different painlessly observed on a mortician's slab or long cold in states of decay– Or, maybe it was just blood loss.

Emmrich went limp, unconscious, slumping against Rook's shoulders. They made a high noise of panic, deep in their throat, and it took them a moment to realize it was indeed they that made the sound.

Bellara muttered to herself, hemming as she gestured with trembling hands. A cool breath of air swirled and culminated as light, a glimmer of blue and gold threads weaving together. The magic stuttered, started again, and stopped, vanishing into thin air. Bellara sagged, distraught, ears pulled all the way back. “No no no, I can do it!”

“Bandages,” Rook hastened at Davrin, who stepped quickly away from the cot. They peeled the soiled cloth from the deepest remains of the wound– now about the size of their fist in the center of the necromancer's sternum. The rest of it was like the outside of a ravine, flesh raw and scraped, but the oozing was drying to a halt in rusty patches. The magical burns had stopped spreading, but still pulsed angrily, like fresh beestings as they rose up on either side of the gash.

Hurriedly, Rook folded another white cloth and pressed it to the sucking wound once more. Emmrich didn't stir. They pressed their fingers to his neck. His pulse was weak. If this were anyone else, if he hadn't fought so damn hard– a barrier of emerald light flaring ferociously out to blind the cultists coming after Taash– he wouldn't have left his front so open to the blast.

A flare of rage surged to life from the pit of the Veil Jumper's belly, which they forced down again. When Emmrich had fallen in the sand, Taash had enough time to whirl and breathe white hot flame into the ranks.

The murders had been swift, but not painless. Rook shook away the memory, throat tight, chest squeezing. Emmrich's pulse was still featherlight under their fingers. If this had happened to anyone else the necromancer could have mended them with a few gestures, a gentle word. Effortless.

Why hadn't Rook been faster? Why hadn't they heard the rustle of robes emerging off the abandoned dock? Maker… why weren't they a mage, for fucks’ sake!

Bellara grimaced with a soft whine and pressed her palms on either side of the rogue’s, whispering as her fingers steeped in the elfroot solution and darkening pool of blood that made the fabric slick in some places and coarse in others. Her hands glowed softly, weak sparks flickering to life on the raw flesh around the rag, as if beginning to knit and reform it, before winking out one by one. “Oh, please please please…”

“Save your mana, Bel,” Rook whispered hoarsely.

Davrin returned to their side with a thick roll of gauze, helping Rook unwind long soft strands. Bellara made a helpless sound. “Have you already given him–”

“A potion? Yeah. Stopped the bleeding, not much else.” Taash was still pacing by the door, white braid swinging.

“It looks like someone used a sundering rune–”

“But it was just magic,” Taash insisted.

“Lift him forward a little, let me help,” Davrin said gently, leaning past Rook to place one end of the bandages under Emmrich's waist on his other side, broad hands sure and sparkling with damp from where he must have just washed them.

Manfred returned with a loud hiss, balancing a concerningly broad array of potted plants in his bony arms, a few more leaves poked tellingly out of the flap of his pack, just as Lucanis skidded into view behind him. “Rook? Is everyone– mierde.” He let his hands fall to his sides. “Manfred rushed past the kitchen and… what can I do?”

“Stay right there,” Rook huffed, winding bandages over the tightly folded wad of blood soaked elfroot and gauze they'd pressed to the wound around the necromancer's frail midriff, knuckles stained red.

Davrin supported the necromancer half upright on his forearm to give the Veil Jumper room to work, hand over hand.

Manfred hissed insistently, as if to remind them all he was still there. “Plants!”

“Good job, Fred. Let me see what you've got.” Rook beckoned without looking up. Manfred clattered over, harried, and laid out the pots in a meticulous, colorful row at the foot of the cot.

Bellara was squeezing Emmrich's hand in both of hers, having fallen silent but looking stricken. Davrin gently set him down as Rook finished their work. They kept Emmrich upright against the wall as best they could, his weight on Davrin's shoulder and hand still clutched in Bellara's with the warmth of flesh and heated bronze. An anchor, perhaps.

The Grey Warden had pulled up a stool beside the mage, his free hand on her shoulder. “All we can do now is wait. He'll pull through.”

Rook snarled half heartedly in frustration, kneeling on the cold stone floor to examine each plant leaf by leaf. There were a few they didn't recognize– damn it, Emmrich– but ever since he had mentioned off hand to Harding that he may have one day liked to be a botanist, Rook had made a habit of bringing him fresh clippings and sketched notes.

They were passionate about growing things too, but they were no herbalist. Blue flowers, round leaves, black leaves, red flowers… elfroot, not much good on its own now… dawn lotus. Beautiful. Useless.

Wait a tick.

Long, slender green leaves and flowers like little beads of orange fire. Rook lifted the pot to examine the strands of greenery and inhaled its stem of ember-blooms. Spicy sweet. And a bit like home. A grateful smile tugged at their mouth. “Prophet's laurel. Holding out on me, Professor?”

Humming in approval, they began shredding the stalk in their hands. They'd have to ask just how the hell he'd had enough natural light in his study for such a thing, and where he found it– later. “Great work, Manfred.”

The skeleton knelt beside them with a soft whimpering sound. Rook clapped the skeleton on the shoulder and got to their feet. “I need boiling water. Lucanis?”

“Right.” The assassin was gone as silently as he had come.

“Elfroot and potions are great, slowed the bleeding and now it's clean, but Bellara, I can't undo whatever spell is on the wound– it'll need to be dispersed before we can heal it completely. For now I'm going to try something.”

Bellara shot to her feet. “Right. Okay. I'll look in the library– or, I might have something– okay! I'll be right back!” She darted out of the room, fleet as a halla.

Taash was staring expectantly at Rook. The rogue smiled gently, understanding and trying to slow their racing heart. “Grab that mortar and pestle. I'm going to give you these.” They stripped a few berry-like blooms off the laurel and held them out to the qunari in an open palm. “Take that whole dawn lotus root out of the pot and grind them together into a paste.”

The dragon hunter complied, movements jerky with forced purpose. They sank down beside Rook with the jingling of armor and bangles, frowning deeply as they mashed stone on stone with vigor, the sound of angry scraping filling the room. Then came the smell of wet earth and unmistakable green.

“Stay calm, kid. You're doing everything right,” Varric encouraged gently, his voice low from where he sat on the cot beside Emmrich's, nearly hidden by Davrin's broad frame.

Rook released a slow breath and nodded, rising on creaking limbs to dunk their hands in the basin once more. They scrubbed with the clean, soft white soap Neve had brought back from Minrathous all those months ago, when this had all began. It smelled like her, like rain and the faintest breath of vanilla whiskey. Vehemently, the rogue wished the mage were here. Her steady pragmatism was never unwelcome in counsel– even now, after everything.

Ah, balls. Keep it together, Rook.

Dragons, gods, screw it. Dirt and blood and plants. Rook could do that. Didn't need mages for that. Just friends.

Those didn't seem to be in short supply here.

Manfred lingered at Emmrich's bedside where Davrin supported him. The skeleton was mopping some of the cold sweat from the necromancer's brow with one of his embroidered handkerchiefs.

Lucanis returned with tea towels dangling from either hand as he carried in a steaming pot of water. He eased past Taash and set it down beside Rook, tucking the towels under his arm. For a moment, as he rose, his hand reached out. Rook looked up, startled from where they'd been shaking diamond droplets from their fingers.

Lucanis’ hand curled back inches from their shoulder, his gaze warm as he frowned and instead offered them the soft cloth at his arm.

Rook hesitated, but took the towel. Why waste it, even if there were others folded on the shelf. Their hands almost brushed as he handed it off to them, then it was over, and Rook was drying their hands. “Thank you,” they murmured.

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Um…” Rook frowned, listening to Taash attack the stubborn grains of root with new vigor. “Yes. Actually, would you help me–” they tugged another leaf from the vine of prophet's laurel, where it was starting to wilt in its neatly packed dirt. “Take the leaves and fold them, rub the insides until they warm up and start coming apart, there's a really thin coat of moisture in the leaves, then press it into the boiling water with–” they looked around and plucked a thin wooden splint from the shelf. “Just don–”

“Burn myself? Right,” Lucanis reassured gently, taking the splint. “I could go back to the kitchen for a real spoon?”

Rook waved his words away. “I don't think it matters.”

Lucanis nodded and sank to the floor, dutifully working the plucked leaves between his thumb and forefinger and then pressing them into the hot water, where they grew saturated and thin. Rook was doing the same to a few stalks of elfroot from Manfred's pack.

Afterwards, they dipped their fingers in Taash's mortar and pestle, crossed the room, and with one hand peeled back the bandages on Emmrich's chest. With the other, they smeared the amalgamate of prophet's laurel and lotus over the gash. With a less bloody pinkie, they did the same thing, albeit more delicately, on each of Emmrich's temples. They set to cleaning and rebandaging again. With any luck, the balm would numb some of the pain for a time and keep everything clean, as well as encourage healing with minimal scars. Not that it would matter if the necromancer was up and casting again.

For a long time, they worked in silence. They heard Bellara before they saw her, footsteps charging up the stairs and plunging back into the infirmary. She carried all manner of strange bits and baubles, some metal and some wood, all beautiful. Under her arm were at least three massive tomes, which she dropped beside Taash and started flipping through. “Alright, I just have to reverse the mar of the intention– There were two runestone's left in the lin’renan focus and one of them is definitely for cleansing–”

“One of them?” Taash looked up.

Bellara wrinkled her nose, hands trembling slightly as she pulled two smooth, geometric stones from her belt. They glowed softly in response to her touch. “I just have to figure out which.”

Rook rubbed their temples, then pulled their fingers away regretfully as the sticky sap of plant life clung to their skin.

Emmrich stirred slightly with a groan that crackled in his throat. Davrin squeezed the necromancer's forearm. “Hey. Emmrich?”

Manfred hissed and touched his other arm, mirroring Davrin, and still gently wiping the professor's forehead. Rook wandered back to Lucanis, who helped them strain the herbs into a bucket with a cloth over it to catch the steeped stalks.

Emmrich took a shuddering breath, luckily with the wrappings and semi-mended internals it didn't sound like a leaking balloon. His eyes lolled open, his face still torturously pale, and he managed a grunt.

“Rook. We should set him down, elevate his legs so the blood can get back to his heart and brain.” Davrin leaned back in his chair to regard them, expression severe. “He's not in any danger of leaking out his front now.”

Manfred made a distressed noise of protest. “Rook.”

“Manfred, Davrin's right,” Rook tossed over their shoulder with more confidence than they felt. Gods forbid all this jostling around tore him open again– but what was important was getting him conscious safely. The last thing they needed was for shock to land their defacto physician with brain damage.

Then there'd only be three brain cells between them all. Rook smiled grimly at the thought.

Bellara flipped another page in her tome, muttering under her breath, the runestones at her fingertips beside her. Taash passed the mortar and pestle to Lucanis, who held it, looking somewhat lost, and came over to help Davrin lift Emmrich once more. The necromancer whimpered in pain.

Rook tucked three pillows under the professor's ankles and Taash set down his legs so that they were higher than where his head rested.

Emmrich gripped Taash's hand suddenly, catching the qunari by surprise as he squeezed and gave them a weak, reassuring smile.

Taash's lip wobbled, but they worked their jaw and squeezed him back. Manfred pulled another handkerchief from his jacket pocket, even though there was not much more sweat to speak of. Maybe it helped the wisp feel a bit better.

“No,” Lucanis was murmuring. “No. Stay out of the way.” He furrowed his brow. “He will be right again in time. No.”

Davrin cast the assassin a tight lipped glance. Rook lingered at Manfred's side, looking back towards the herbal water bucket still trailing hot steam. They'd wait a few more minutes. “Can you hear us, Emmrich?”

“Dully,” he managed, voice hoarse.

“Blood roaring in your ears? That's good. Don't want you passing out again.” Davrin smiled down at him wryly.

“My dear Davrin,” the necromancer breathed. “Often that is one of the first signs of losing one's consciousness.”

“Ah, but you're thinking. Blood's in your brain. That's a start.”

Emmrich's mouth twitched in derision, but he winced and didn't seem to have another comment.

“This is, at least I think it– ohhh, we just have to try. It's worse not trying, right? Or what if it makes it worse? I don't work with these a lot, and the focus is so old– what if he grows more arms or–”

“Bellara,” Rook soothed. “Are you reasonably confident that rune is what you think it is?”

“Um… sixty-forty?”

“Sixty-forty it is. Emmrich, this spell. Sundering. Gonna undo it. Need to bite down on something?”

Bellara fumbled the rune in her hands with a whisper of protest. “I don't think–”

Rook shrugged a shoulder. “Need any help?”

“Um, maybe, just make sure he doesn't fall off the–”

“Right.” Taash sank to one knee and placed a hand on either side of the necromancer's shoulders. “You're gonna be fine.”

“Sounds like a threat,” Davrin observed, letting his hands rest on his knees.

“It is,” Taash ground out.

Emmrich smiled weakly as Manfred hissed his agreement, shaking a rattling fist. “Manfred, my boy, take a few steps back– the harmonics might–”

Lucanis stiffened suddenly, eyes flashing violet in the dark, where he seemed to be keeping a healthy distance. “Curiosity. Come. Here.”

Manfred turned with a soft shriek, taking long strides to the assassin's side to grip his forearm, conversing with Spite in a series of low rumbles and hisses. Emmrich sagged slightly in relief.

Bellara huffed and balanced the rune in mid air between her palms, standing at his bedside, brow furrowed in concentration as mana crackled and glowed like arcs of electricity. The rune spun gently in the air, then faster, then even faster until all facets were lost in a whirring, glowing mote of light.

“Lucanis,” Rook called softly over the buzz, more calmly than they felt. “If you could mix in that dawn lotus in the bucket?” A kettle would have been nicer. Oh, well. It was clean. There were cups up here, little wooden ones. Good enough.

Before they heard him reply, the rune crackled and an arc of blue-green energy lanced down into the necromancer's chest. His whole body arched under Taash, who scooted their side away from the magic with a breath, eyes wide, before they were forcing Emmrich's shoulders back into the mattress. The whirring grew to an alarming pitch as the rune cast out spidery legs of magic, each touching a point on the necromancer's palms, the center of his forehead, motes of light popping and coalescing over and under all the bandages over the wound. The strange runic burns fizzed with the same turquoise light, visible even under the gauze.

A ragged yell pulled itself from somewhere deep behind Emmrich's chest, and it was heartbreaking. Rook felt their stomach clench.

“Sorry sorry sorry sorry–” Bellara uttered like a prayer, her eyes tight shut, the rune glowing and crackling so brightly the infirmary shadows grew and stretched and began to look more like that of the meditation room– all blue glow and fuzzy details.

“What the–” A new voice sputtered from the doorway. “What is going on in here?”

“Hey, Neve,” Taash grunted, grimacing as they kept the shuddering necromancer pinned to the cot.

Assan shied between the detectives’ legs, looking wary, feathers puffed, having followed her up the stairs. In the crackling chaos and light Rook could see she was holding her arm close to her side under her coat. Harding puffed up the stairs beside the mage, armor covered in mud and hair soaked, trailed by a small army of wisps. Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head at the sight waiting for her.

Without warning, Emmrich thrashed as the glyphs flickering over his skin flared an angry red, ruby glow seizing the strongest lance of blue magic and creeping up its stem, towards the stone itself.

Bellara cried out, her magic flaring brighter as if to fight off the stubborn ribbon of red. The sundering magic coiled like a snake, malicious and festering, before it changed tactics. It gathered itself up from the necromancer's chest as the glyphs flashed blue again, leaping from under bandages and under skin, twisting and surging like an arrow straight for Taash.

Neve slashed her hand through the air and the temperature of the room plummeted. For the space of a single exhale, Rook swore they could see their breath. The bubbling lance of red was wrenched from its path, scattering across the far wall in a small mountain of still misting ice– tainted from the inside as if by a frozen arc of rusty blood and blackened edges.

Lucanis stepped back from it, looking more than a little alarmed as he gingerly swept a few snowflakes from his sleeve. A collective sigh of relief sagged through the Veilguard.

Bellara murmured a word and the runestone's glow calmed to a steady thumb, falling into her palm. The remaining light washed over Emmrich like the surf seafoam before sinking beneath his flesh. Some of the blood seemed to have vanished entirely, and a little color returned to the necromancer's cheeks as he fell limp, lips slightly parted, clearly unconscious once more– oops– but less rigid with agony.

Neve stepped into the infirmary, prosthetic clicking as she surveyed the damage. “...You are all very lucky.”

Davrin scrubbed a hand over his eyes as he leaned forward in his chair. “Thanks, Neve.”

“What was that?” Bellara whispered, turning to face the detective, cleansing rune still cradled in her hands. Taash slumped back on their haunches with a thud.

“Something I didn't like the look of, and don't want to see again. Please tell me you took out the caster,” Neve said, hand on hip, examining the spike of ice against the stone.

“Rook got him,” Taash supplied.

The rogue shook away the memory of the cultist's throat giving way under their blade. The same sword that hung on their hip. “Yeah. I got him,” they said grimly. “Emmrich was faster.”

Davrin checked the necromancer's pulse beneath his fingertips. “Stronger now.”

“So what happened to you guys?” Harding breathed, apparently shrugging off the fast paced alarm the way only a veteran fighter could, slogging her way into another chair at Emmrich's side. Assan cooed and flowed under Davrin's seat, ears pinned.

“Jumped between docks in Rivain. What were they doing there?” Taash seethed.

“Blood magic, from the looks of it,” Neve hummed, once more holding her arm close to her chest, sounding not the least bit surprised. “Find any summoning circles?”

“No. But I'd bet my left eye they're wondering after dragons, same as we are,” Rook growled. “Maybe Ghilan'nain wants a new pet monster.”

Taash ground their teeth, but was set upon by a few wisps fluttering in before they could answer, a small swarm chattering overhead and whizzing around the prone necromancer between them all.

Harding sighed and rested the back of her hand against the professor's forehead. “He's got a light fever. Understandable from the stress he's under. Can we–”

“Right.” Rook spun on their heel, swept up two cups and dunked them in the herb water bucket. An almost-tea. “What did you two run into?”

Neve grimaced from beneath the lace of her fascinator as Harding scowled and clapped her hands on her knees. “You would not believe this. A templar pushed me into the canal!”

“What?” Rook asked, even as Taash snickered and handed the sodden dwarf a dry towel.

“You okay?” the qunari asked.

“Oh, not a scratch! But you should have seen Neve!”

“He was a rat,” the detective said coolly, gaze flicking to Rook as they gingerly handed her a steaming cup, relief seeping into their bones when she accepted it. “Selling out Threads he'd been following. He got me. Nothing serious, but it hurts to move it.” She lifted her elbow beneath her jacket, where hasty bandages caught the light.

“The tea works fast, it'll help,” Rook supplied lamely. “There's still potions.”

“Right.” Neve crossed over to Bellara, and the chill around her seemed to lessen. Rook felt the pit in their stomach gnaw a little harder on their heart and slinked back to lean on the wall beside Lucanis, eyes on the scene. “Solid work you did. How old is that rune?”

Bellara laughed awkwardly, scrubbing the back of her neck. “Uh, a few hundred years, I think. Maybe. If I carried the one, you know?”

“Impressive. Did you know it would work?”

“Uh…”

Lucanis smiled slightly as Rook took an absent sip of the cup still in their hands, grimaced, and cradled it to their chest instead. “Is that for you?” he asked incredulously.

“No. For Emmrich. In a few minutes.”

“Where did you learn…?”

“Oh. I like plants. Not like Lace and the professor but… enough. My brother's mother taught me.”

Lucanis nodded slowly, studying the stiffness of their frame and the tight angle of their jaw. “...Would you like some coffee instead?”

Rook cast him the smallest of smiles. “You are wonderful.”

“I know.” Lucanis smiled back, just a little bit, his tone light. He flitted about for a while, hands on shoulders, asking after drinks, before disappearing into the halls beyond.

When Neve and Bellara were safely absorbed in soft laughter and conversation as Davrin rebandaged the detective’s arm, Rook gently roused Emmrich. His eyes fluttered open, disoriented, before he winced at his own sharp inhale.

“Augh… Well, this is less than ideal.”

Manfred was at his side in an instant, somehow with worry drawn all over the skeleton's eternal grin. Emmrich offered a weak smile. “Hello, Manfred.”

“Hello,” the wisp hissed sadly.

“Hey. Got some tea for you if you can drink it. You've got a fever.”

“And a gaping hole in my sternum, it seems,” the necromancer commented hoarsely, glancing up at the rogue. “You have a black eye,” he murmured, his brows knitting together in disapproval.

Rook touched their fingertips to their cheekbone with a breath, surprised as the gesture left them painfully tender. “Oh. So it seems.”

“You will… want to ice that,” Emmrich panted, grimacing where he lay.

“Worry about your damn self? Please?” Rook scowled and gently lifted his head. Woozily, Emmrich took a few sips from the cup the rogue pressed to his lips. Rook let his head fall back gently.

The necromancer hummed weakly. “I think... I might just rest here… since you've asked so politely.”

***

The only sound was the shifting roll of the Lighthouse's walls and stone, as if it too were breathing.

Neve was reading by the light of a single wisp that had drifted inside, Bellara dozing against her shoulder where they leaned against the wall. Lucanis had propped his legs up on a cot, perched in a chair he'd dragged up from the kitchen, nursing a cup of espresso and a romance serial in his lap.

Davrin snored softly, passed out on the neighboring cot, Assan snoozing sprawled across him with his head on the Grey Warden's chest. Harding had brought up a nest of round pillows and canvas blankets, where now she slept like a rock beside Taash. The dragonhunter had one arm around Lace and the other thrown across their eyes. Manfred was busying himself repotting what was left of the dawn lotus beside Rook, who found themselves blinking awake with their head in their arms on the mattress. The scent of iron and elfroot reached them first, then the coffee. A thick quilt had been draped over their shoulders where they'd slumped over in their chair.

In the flickering dim, they saw that Emmrich was awake, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling with his hands folded over the bandages on his stomach. Rook sat up quickly with a sharp breath, wincing as the world spun with the movement. “Ow.”

Emmrich tipped his head in their direction with a slight smile. “Careful, now.”

“How long have you–”

“A little less than an hour, I think.”

“Are you– well– how do you feel?”

Emmrich considered the question, still looking very pale. The dark shadows under his eyes seemed more purple and just a hair deeper. “Drained. Very sore. But Manfred has assured me that I was well taken care of, and Lucanis says my fever is nowhere to be found. I am very much alive, thanks to you.”

“No,” Rook corrected quickly. “It was your green thumb that clinched it and Bellara’s judgement. I just remembered all those pots you'd been cataloging, and Bellara– and Neve–”

Emmrich took a rattling breath, it seemed less painful than the last as he smiled slightly. “My dear Rook, I must continue to thank you for your quick thinking.”

“Really, don't mention it. I wasn't– well, not a single one of us was ready to let you go under. Shit, after your stunning career you were going to let some nameless priest of Razikale take you out?”

Emmrich chuckled, wincing at the effort as he delicately rested a hand on his chest with a groan. “You flatter me,” he said through a grimace.

“Not nearly enough, Professor. Now please don't die. I quite like you.”

“I had no intention of spoiling your evening in such a manner.” With a grunt, the necromancer propped himself up on an elbow. “I don't suppose you have any lyrium tonic tucked away in that blanket?”

“In your condition? Now?”

“Hmm.” Emmrich’s brow furrowed as he took stock of his internals and frayed nerves. “I might be able to… clean up the remaining gouge with a little magic. Of course, returning to homeostasis might be advisable. It's only that I am in considerable pain, and do not yet have the energy to rectify that.”

Rook smiled, unable to help it. “You are largely coherent for a man that was spilling his lungs on the floor mere hours ago.”

The barest edge of a wry grin touched the professor's mouth. “One must never lose their eloquence, my dear. The worst of it is over. Thank you.” He tipped his head cautiously to look around at the sleepy tableau of the infirmary all around him. A nameless emotion touched the hazel of his eyes, lingering. “All of you.”

[k3n-dyll]

I really dont know why I expect anything from any fandom ever as a black woman lowkey like yeah, they're all shitty and racist and god forbid there's a black girl as a main love interest anywhere in the media at any point ever because I'm going to have to see the most misogynistic, anti-black, backward, stereotypical, downright fucking braindead takes about her. Especially if - god for fucking bid - the fandom ships her love interest with:

A. A white person or B. A man.

And fuck me if the love interest is a man, and the person the fandom ships him with (outside of the black girl - his canon love interest) is both white and a man. The most self proclaimed 'man-hating, anti-racist' feminist will come out and say/do/write some shit that would make a Klan member gasp and clutch his fucking pearls.

I wish I wasn't so easily hyperfixated on the things I like, I wish I could just be a casual fan that never interacts with fan art or fanfiction or even merch sometimes because the only consistency about every fandom that I've ever interacted with from the time that I was like ten or eleven has been the glaringly blatant hate for black people - black women especially - that so many of you bitches possess. That consistent racism is only rivaled by the amount of gaslighting that the fandom will put you through if you so much as have the audacity to bring up the fact that something they did was racist.

[shyphonics]

Salad Days Chapter 3: When I was born, my mama cried, and picked me up with gloves.

(babypunk!Rodrick Heffley x reader)

part one | part two | part four

I wanna be stereotyped

I wanna be classified

I wanna be a clone

I want a suburban home

Suburban home

Rodrick wakes unusually early, 8 AM, still feeling weird. The rest of the band are still asleep. He grabs a beer from the fridge because, fuck it, nobody can tell him not to.

Getting shows is harder than he’d expected. He’s nervous, but he has to keep up a front, for the sake of the band. If he tells them he’s worried that they’ll never get a show, they might just give up. He can’t let on that there’s any negativity in his mind. He has to be a fearless leader. This has to work. This is their life now. It’s gonna be fucking amazing.

There are seven missed calls from home on his cell phone, and he decides to ignore them a little while longer. He doesn’t feel like talking to his parents, he knows they’d just be disappointed in him. He'd just have to hear about so-and-so from down the street who just got into law school. Or medical school. Or whatever the fuck kind of school.

No matter what he does, he knows he's a failure in their eyes.

Rodrick hadn't had any interest in higher education. He'd figured he didn't need it for the kind of life he was after. No matter how much his parents had guilted him.

He'd felt maybe a teeny, tiny bit guilty when everyone around him got their college acceptance letters. People started cliquing up based on which schools they'd gotten into and everything.

I hope we're dorm mates!

Are you taking psych 101?

Wow, you got a full scholarship?

Fuck off.

At one point, his dad had even caved and said, you can major in music theory!

And what, Frank? Show up to venues all like, here’s my degree! My masters in drums! Give me a show, please?

Yeah, right.

At least he'd had the rest of the band. Through everything, they'd always been on the same page. Always plotting a way out.

He takes a deep chug of his beer and pops his laptop open. He checks The Strike's website, and notices a radio feed in the top corner.

A nasally man's voice comes through his headphones. He's mid-rant, "-because they didn't understand us. And they never have, and they never will. My parents thought I was the devil. My dad loved The Eagles. I hated The Eagles with every fiber of my being. If I could say one thing to my father- and Glenn Frey- right now, it'd be: suck it. Punk never dies."

Rodrick suppresses a laugh as a song starts. He's pretty sure he recognizes it, and the words are really resonating with how he's felt since he left home.

Clicking through The Strike’s event calendar, he almost does a spit take. Friday night. They’ve got a show.

Suck it, Frank and Susan!

“Wake up, fuckers!” he yells, causing bodies to stir around the living room.

“Dude, shut up.” Ben groans from the couch.

“You shut up! We have a show! In 2 days!”

That does the trick, and everyone is up and shouting in celebration, drowning out their downstairs neighbor hitting the ceiling with a broomstick.

His email blinks with a new message:

Let’s see what you got, diaper boy.

~

Gettin’ high with your friends

On the basketball court

Sunglasses on when you sleep

Yeah, that's a sport

They're absolutely decked out. Denim, leather, patches, and studs as far as the eye can see.

You recognize Rodrick from your post at the bar, dressed like an aging member of a hair metal band, desperately clinging to his youth. He’s fumbling with his ID and a pair of dark sunglasses while Jimbo, the bouncer, impatiently crosses his arms. The rest of his band, you assume, make it through easier.

“The show’s in two days! What are you doing here?” you shout, drying a glass with a rag.

They look like a child biker gang, hopped up on sugar.

“Making ourselves known!” one of the others replies. He’s got a high pompadour, and a leather jacket that is entirely too small for him. You chuckle as they all take a seat.

“What’re you havin’?” You toss the rag over your shoulder and meet Rodrick’s eyes.

“Beer?” He says, unsure.

“Type?”

“Uh. Cheap? Cheapest, please.”

“Natty Light. Two bucks. Plus tip.” You wink, rooting around in the fridge under the bar.

“Tip? You got it out of the fridge.” Rodrick raises an eyebrow.

“And I opened it,” you pop the beer open, setting it down hard to make your point.

“Okay, okay. Uh, what’s a tip on that?” He looks panicked, digging in his wallet.

“I’m fucking with you. It’s a two dollar beer.”

He sheepishly hands you three singles, and you tuck the third into your bra. You hate to say it, you really do, but he’s kinda cute. All dressed up to drink shitty beer with his friends. He’s got a nice nose, despite the visible break, and enough eyeliner on to join a family of raccoons. It suits him.

He takes a sip and flinches, “This is awful.”

“If you hadn’t said cheap-est, you woulda had more options!” You laugh.

The rest of the guys order a round of PBRs, a four dollar option, and well whiskey shots.

“Ooh! Classy,” you mockingly fan yourself, “What fine young gentlemen.”

“Hey, how come it’s empty in here?” One of them asks.

“It is…” you check the clock behind the bar, “four pm.”

They stare at you.

“Broad daylight.” You deadpan, setting four shot glasses down on the bar.

The Strike is an old building, all chipped red paint and rickety metal. Rodrick’s eyes linger on a giant sculpture of a flaming match above the bar. Posters from their heyday line the walls: Agent Orange, Circle Jerks, Violent Femmes, Adolescents. There’s a weird song playing; the chord progression seems all out of whack, and from what Rodrick can tell, the singer is chanting suicide, suicide.

“What song is this?”

“You don’t know? it’s your favorite,” you tease, smirking at him.

He’s got nothing. You figured.

“Dead Kennedys, ‘Straight A’s.’ Come on, man. It’s a good one, too. Sixteen on the honor roll, I wish that I was dead. That was me!”

“Whoa. What? What happened?” One of the others asks. He’s got flat ironed blonde hair and big hipster glasses, and his mouth is hanging open.

“Well,” you tilt your head, “Let’s just say my hair and eyebrows have fully grown back, and my parents don’t know my whereabouts. The punks took me in, and I never looked back.”

“What do you mean they took you in?” The one with the shaved head looks at you with genuine concern.

“Okay, so like, this is a bar. People play here. People also play empty buildings, and shitty old houses.”

They’re hanging on your every word.

“I used to run the doors for house shows, collect the five bucks or whatever, stop fights, and then I could sleep in the houses. Then they started paying me, I met my band, I met Mike… and now I’m here!”

You pose, attempting to look successful.

“That’s really cool, but also, like, sad. You don’t talk to your parents?” One of them asks, eyes glittering.

“Don’t need ‘em.” You try to smile reassuringly. You hadn’t meant to bring the vibe down, but hey, they’d asked.

Rodrick’s eyes are fixed on you. His expression is strange. You decide to break the tension.

“You gonna drink that, baby boy?” You tap your fingernail next to his shot.

He looks up at you, lips trembling like they’re trying to form words. His friends are cackling.

“Uh, y-yeah, totally.”

Oh. He’s never taken a shot. None of them have, you realize, as you look down the line and see full glasses.

“C’mon, losers! Take ‘em down! What are you here for?” You holler, channeling your best drill sargent, “I’ll do it with you, fuck it!”

You pour yourself a shot of shit whiskey, raising it in the air, “Let’s go!”

They mirror you and raise their glasses.

“Here’s to Big Rod and The Diapers!”

Gulp. You look around. They’re all puckering their lips and tearing up. You have a brief moment of recovery as well.

You exhale heavily, “Yeah, that’s what happens when you get well liquor. Does a body wrong.”

They laugh, still groaning.

You turn the music up from the big stereo behind the bar, and the guys are all chatting amongst themselves. They seem to be having a great time, and you’re prepping the back of the bar for the small crowd about to pour in at five.

The whiskey hits Rodrick’s head, and he feels pretty goddamn proud of himself. This place is awesome. They have a show here. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and decides he's finally going to call home. Hearing your story had made him actually miss his mom. Maybe she’d even be proud of him.

“I'll be right back,”

His friends wave him off, and he heads into a doorway where the bathrooms are. He dials the number and sighs heavily, shaking off his nerves.

“Hello?”

“Hey, uh, hey mom,”

“Rodrick! Oh, thank goodness, did you change your mind? Are you coming home? We can start applying to colleges again, and…”

“What? No, I… I got a show! At a real venue.”

“Oh.” She sounds disappointed, “Are you getting paid?”

“Wh- I don't know! It's in two days. I'll let you know. Nice to know you're still so supportive, though.”

“I'm just worried about you.”

Rodrick frowns, refusing to speak.

“Do you want me to put dad on?”

“No,” Rodrick scoffs, “tell Greg I say hi.”

He hangs up, standing there, sulking for a moment. Why the hell was he expecting anything different? Don’t need ‘em.

He hears a commotion towards the front of the bar. He peeks around the corner, and sees the bouncer restraining a short, stout guy with a shitty little mustache.

“Lemme go, Jimbo!” he struggles.

“Tony! We told you not to come back here!” You march around to the front of the bar and put your hands on your hips.

“What did I even do?”

“You got broken glass and blood all over the dance floor! You know who had to clean it up?” You're right up in his face, taunting him.

Tony is part of a small group who only come to shows to beat the daylights out of each other. They're sweet when you get to know them, but reckless, and horrible for the bar ecosystem. Last Saturday had been hardcore night, and Tony and his buddies had managed to turn a very respectful pit into an absolute bloodbath.

He's still squirming. The bouncer has him in a full Nelson at this point, he's not doing himself any favors.

“I had to clean up your fucking blood, asshole! That's a health hazard!” You land a light flick on his nose and he grumbles. It's probably broken, and you feel just a little bad. “Not cool!”

Jimbo carries him outside like a child and dumps him on the curb. Rodrick is slowly creeping to the front of the bar, eyes wide. He's cautious, but part of him can't help but think how cool you are.

“Dont come back! Remember what I said, I can put the Hell's Angels on your ass in a second!" The bouncer’s voice booms.

The rest of the band notice Rodrick’s presence and they share a frightened look. This is getting serious.

Jimbo shuts the door and laughs. He's a huge man, mountain-like even. He's got long hair with a beard to match, adorned with rings, like a viking. His laugh does not match how scary he is. He sounds like Santa Claus.

You're laughing too. Jimbo is the perfect bouncer; strong and intimidating, but a total softie underneath. He's the honorary uncle of everyone at The Strike.

“You're a Hell's Angel?!” Ben pipes up, shocked.

“Nah,” Jimbo chuckles, “I just have a beard and a bike. Little fuckers like Tony scare easy, though."

Rodrick feels his heart hurt a little less as everyone around him laughs. He could get used to this. It feels like being in a weird little family.

“Oh boy,” you say quietly, hearing the familiar sound of fuck, fuck, fuck! coming down the stairs. It's Mike.

“What’s goin’ on, Mike?” you ask, grabbing a glass and filling it with seltzer water, topping it with a lime.

“Fuckin, booze delivery Saturday, show Friday! Spring break! Fuckin… frat boys!" His voice is high and nasally. Rodrick immediately recognizes his voice from the radio show earlier.

He chugs the water in one go, and slams it on the counter.

“Mike, we got plenty. All the bottles are at least half full, and the walk-in has, like, fifteen cases of beer.” You say, refilling his glass.

“Frat. Boys.” He repeats, running a hand through his tall, silver hair.

Rodrick grimaces. He really, really hopes none of those frat boys will be from back home.

“Isn't this a punk bar, though?” Ward asks.

Mike moves his head like a meerkat to look at Ward, squinting through his Buddy Holly glasses.

“Who are you? And they don't care! They'll go anywhere there's noise and booze!”

“Alright. Focus. Ideas, solutions,” you try to recenter your neurotic boss.

“They said we could come get it, but that delivery’s not gonna fit in a goddamn ‘94 Corolla.”

Ben leans back from the bar and looks at Rodrick, raising his eyebrows. Rodrick gets it, and smiles back, pointing at Ben.

“We have a van!”

Mike whips around to look at Rodrick.

“Who are you?”

“We’re Löded Diper, uh, sir?” he cringes at his own words.

“Ew. Don’t do that.”

“I don’t know why I did,” Rodrick’s eye twitches, “but we’ll totally get your booze.”

Mike gives him a suspicious glare, then ducks behind the bar to grab a notepad. He scribbles furiously and waves Rodrick over to show him the paper.

“That’s where you go. That’s who you talk to. That’s our order. Be there at 11 AM tomorrow, get it here by 1.”

“We’ve totally got it!” Chris shouts from the bar, making Mike jump.

“Don’t fuck me over!” Mike turns to point at Chris, then makes his way back up the stairs.

You look at Rodrick, mouthing nice! and giving him a thumbs up. He nods, giving you a big grin. It’s the first real smile you’ve seen from him, and it gives you a little flutter in your chest.

Pretty cute.

~

Hold my head, make me warm

Tell me I am loved

Give me hope, let me cry

Make me feel

Give me touch

The guys are all passed out for the night. Rodrick finds the radio feed from earlier and puts his headphones in, laying back on the couch. This time, the host is different.

"This is 98.7, your last independent radio option in a hundred mile radius." A calm, warm voice greets his ears, and he has a pang of recognition.

Is that...?

"I've been thinking about this song a lot today," the host says, "this one's for whoever needs to hear it."

Brain death. Mind death. School damage! Straight A's!

Rodrick sits up. Holy shit. It is you!

He closes his eyes and lets the song take him over. For how dark the lyrics are, it's oddly comforting. Today had really made him feel less alone.

Life isn't just bullshit for him- he'd known that, of course- but now he knows it. He's seen it. He's not a disgrace for going after his dreams.

He's finally in a place where that's not such a crazy idea.

If you're okay, if four other bands are okay... he's gonna be okay. He doesn't need anyone's approval. Fuck 'em.

He lays back as the song ends and another begins, a sense of relief washing over him. Eventually, he falls asleep to the sound of your smooth radio voice mixed with crunchy, old punk demos.

Everything is gonna be okay.

He knows it.

[prbywoo]

EXCACTLY!!!! like imagine going on to anyone's account idol or not, and calling them names and shaming them, while still expecting that they're not gonna see them and just like keeho said "baby i have a phone" like I've never seen an idol be loved by everyone anfd they're bound to get hated on for whatever insane reason people have(just like in joong's case)

I didn't ACTUALLY watch the doc but I've been a big fan of the sserafim's ever since they debuted, and ik that some people were giving constructive criticism but yiu don't want to hear the sick things people were saying, like ok I get it the main point pf being an idol is having a good voice and a stable one at that, but how can you blame them when most of the members barely got any proper training and honestly hybe reverse trained them cause sakura used to be a really good and stable singer up until her 3rd debut with le sserafim and her voice seemed to be strained, and fun fact that sakura was part of a really large Japanese group(i forgot the name😔😔) and it consisted of 40+members but they never actually did any promotions together and fans would have to vote for who gets to be in the songs and mvs and sakura was one of the most voted both for her talent and beauty. Same things goes to all of the new hybe groups, they're barely trained and then blamed for their "unprofessionalism"

Yes I'm from Lebanon we're way too far apart, and 6HR???THAT'S INSANEE, in my country you can go from the south to Beirut in like maximum 5 hrs(if there was traffic) but we have alot of different spots in Lebanon so it makes it seem bigger than it is, even though compared to the US it's like a grain of salt, it's 10,543 km².

I understand like whenever tickets are launched they sold out in like mere seconds especially this year of our boys as they're getting popular day by day and more fans means less chance of actually getting your hands on the tickets. Also I always think about how much people ACTUALLY pay like so many things to check in for and the ticket itself cause no one wants to be up in the sky watching the stage, it's crazy but then again just like you Said there's sooo many things companies pay for from visas to stadiums to alot of different hotels and other expensive shit

I honestly think it's the opposite, even tho idols are more respected nowadays, they still get paid little to none, and yeah promotions used to be a lot longer than what they are now, so idols currently are mostly profiting off tours and merch

Ateez are the motivators frr, but like it's actually really cool if I had the passion and motivation I would've done it (+if i didn't have ASIAN ARAB STRICT parents)

I was having a bad day and decided to watch some hongjoong tiktoks until I stumbled upon this shit ass account and I'm actually so pissed

Like girl called hongjoong a gdragon wannabe, said that he's selfish, taking "opportunities" from the vocalists of the group, and that he's the one not giving lines to his members

How can people be so stupid, I mean he's still making money and doesn't care about whatever these dumb haters are saying

[mimimar]

i've been completely charmed by witch hat atelier♡

(art prints)

[ellystral]

I just watched The Wild Robot movie...

Couldn't cry but my heart feels like this:

The soundtrack was beautiful too and I love Roz's voice so much.

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2025: THE LANGUAGE OF NIGHT: ESSAYS ON WRITING, SCIENCE FICTION, AND FANTASY by Ursula K. Le Guin.

So I didn't mean to pick this book up next, but it's been sitting on my nightstand for months staring forlornly at me, and the book I did try to pick up next (at 1:30AM)(a notoriously great time to open a new book) started with Dramatis Personae, and I Absolutely Did Not Have The Bandwidth For That.

But! I did have the bandwidth for separate essays and talks! So here we are, 44 real pages (plus xl introduction pages) in. I've always found Le Guin's nonfiction very approachable, like sitting down on a rock by a stream just to listen, and so far that's been the case here, too. I appreciate how Susan Wood introduces all the sections and supplies context, and I'm enjoying how Le Guin revisits her own work and ideas and seeing how her perspective evolves.

[undercover-stories]

YES. Let a-Yuan have all the softness and love wangxian never had. Just let that consistently be a thing in every universe. My favorite is definitely Lan Zhan, scolding inanimate objects for daring to cause his beloved son harm. But don't let me go too far on that tangent cause I will if you let me.

But i still just have to talk about one of the things that I absolutely adore about canon Lan Sizhui is how confident and self assured he is and for the life of me I've been trying to find the term they use for the type of parenting that typically produces these sort of children but I can't. But basically it's a type of parenting where the parent makes themselves available for their child especially on an emotional level. That allows them to form confidence and assuredness within themselves because 1) during their formative years you assured them that they had a place they could fall back on without judgment should they stumble and 2) the firm confidence you have in their abilities reinforces their own and it's basically a self-looping form of positive reinforcement.

And because of this I am firm in my belief that, while rearing Lan Sizhui would have been a more collective clan effort, it's also outright canon that Lan Zhan, despite most likely being a very busy senior Lan disciple, still made himself available for Sizhui should he ever need him. Ever. Always. From the moment he took him in at 4 years old to the blooming Junior radish that we see him now.

Imagine that. The one dude that's notoriously seen as being too strict, thought to be a tattle tale, who basically has no friends or any form of social attachments, is literally such a good father figure to his adopted son that he grows to actual be the best of his clan. The absolute goodest boy and the only reason Jingyi has not been kicked out because (Bonus for non-banquet readers) it is canon that Sizhui is also a rulebreaker!!!!!

Ok maybe a bit overblown on my part but basically Lan Zhan lost any real solid adult figure he could reliably lean on as a child and it's why he grew up to be so strict and uptight in his teen years because those 3000 rules were what helped him ground himself. He had no place he felt he could be vulnerable and soft so he used those rules to hold himself to a standard he could rely on. It's why he took them so seriously and so willingly accepted punishment because it was his way of punishing himself.

But for Sizhui, the fact that we find out he's actually more than liable to break rules should he need to and the thought doesn't break him or have any power over him is such a huge testament to not only how much Lan Zhan has matured as an adult but also how much Lan Zhan has realized that he himself should have been allowed the same room for softness and that would have been ok. THAT is why Lan Zhan can break the trauma bonds that birthed and shaped him.

Fluffy, Wangxian fic idea. (For Once)

So, this was inspired by the text post I made yesterday for the Wangxian family—one, I'm pretty sure someone already did, but unashamedly did anyway; you can never have too much Wangxian, after all, as the saying goes—and it was sitting in the well-worn (and sometimes, loved) backseat of my mind for a while and then I was watching Bluey before bed, and it set the ember aglow. 

I wanted to cocoon Wangxian in warmth, for once. Something soft and tender, this time around. And I was like, hey, can I turn this text post into something of a mini fic? Can this be something more? So I shot a text to @xiaokuer-schmetterlingand just like that, the idea took flight.  @xiaokuer-schmetterling, enabler of dreams (and unhinged ideas), king among mortals, fueled the fire with unwavering encouragement, and now, here it is—no longer a fleeting thought but something tangible, something that breathes.

Modern Wangxian AU which starts Lan Wangji being tackle-hugged by his family, laughing and golden in the sunlight. Feeling so impossibly grateful like the sappy man he is, where the gods feel close and love is as simple as reaching out a hand and finding one reaching back. Content. Loved. Happy. And he stumbles through the door and finds the walls - gleaming and shining - decorated with tiny little handprints all in different colors, a chaotic mural of sorts. 

“Why are there little handprints on the walls?” Lan Wangji asks, because, with Wei Wuxian, it could be anything. And it usually, is how trouble — though, a far more fonder, softer version of the word — begins.

His Wei Ying shrugs, before kneeling down to a-Yuan, who looks terribly shy and so unfathomably adorable in his little light-up sneakers and white, bunny jacket (with floppy bunny ears on the hood) and wringing his little hands together. He is so small, so precious, Lan Zhan wishes he could carry him around in his pocket always. There is a reason two pockets were invented for coat jackets, after all — one for his husband and one for his son. 

a-Yuan nervously wrings his hands tighter,  but Wei Ying’s voice is gentle and pretty, unbearably so, even as he whispers, “Why are there tiny handprints on the walls?”

It is a stage whisper. Lan Wangji hears it as clear as a crisp, summer day, but Lan Wangji is used to the (endearing) antics of his husband, and so he plays along, as he always does. Fondly. 

a-Yuan, who only months ago had been a trembling thing, skittish and afraid, peeks up at Wei Ying, solemn as the moon. “Because I have little hands.” And he lifts them, as if in proof. 

Wei Ying nods at them, equally grave. He rises, and a-Yuan immediately rushes to cling to his pant leg. Wei Ying ruffles his hair, soft from yesterday’s bath, still carrying the faint scent of calendula. Then, his voice still as grave as it was before, he turns to Lan Wangji. “Because he has little hands.”

a-Yuan raises them again, this time, to show Lan Wangji. 

Lan Wangji looks at them, serious, thoughtful. “Mn,” he says at last. A slow smile unfurls across his lips. He nods his head at the handprints. “Well. They look lonely.”

And so they add their own. Hands dipped in paint, pressed against the walls, an unspoken promise sealed in color. This is not just play—this is permanence, a claim, a declaration. A home built not of bricks and beams, but of belonging.

And later, when the night quiets, when A-Yuan sleeps safe and small beneath the covers, his hands no longer trembling, Wei Ying will turn to him, eyes too bright, too full, and Lan Wangji will understand, as he always does.

This is it. This is the moment.

For a-Yuan, who once flinched at raised voices and curled in on himself when the world seemed too big, who now paints walls with fearless little hands and tugs at Lan Wangji’s sleeve with the easy, thoughtless trust of a child who knows they will be caught. For a boy who had known only instability, who had been shuffled from house to house with no roots to anchor him—this is proof that he is wanted. That he can take up space without fear. That his existence does not come with conditions.

For Wei Wuxian, who had taken one look at a bright-eyed boy chasing a bunny plush across a too-crowded orphanage and felt something crack wide open in his chest, an instinct, something older than words—this is devastation of the best kind. This is undoing and remaking. This is ensuring that no other child suffers a hollowed-out boyhood the way he did. This is his heart, raw and aching, spilling over with love too vast to contain. With so many people to give it to. 

For Lan Wangji, who will be there, always. Who will feed the ducks because Wei Ying asks him to, who will wear hideous sweaters because Wei Ying knits them, who will stare down anyone who dares to scoff at Wei Ying’s art—and make sure they never do it again. To Lan Wangji, this is everything. He had known, from that fateful day in the park, when Wei Ying knelt and reached out a hand, that their guest room would never be a guest room again. That his uncle would be a great-uncle. That he would love this child as his own, with all that he is, with all that he will ever be.

If fate was a loom, perhaps a younger Lan Wangji would have woven himself a quieter life. A simple, unobtrusive thread, neat and pale. But this thread was spun golden, and it glittered in the sun, bright and unashamed. And Lan Wangji—

Lan Wangji has always reached for the light.

I feel like I get more incoherent with every post I make, for some reason. Lemme know what you think!

@xiaokuer-schmetterling, @undercover-stories, @sun-ashes, I am suffering. This is my 117th W.I.P. Grace me with some of your holy wisdom. Have mercy on the child. :((((

[tuesdayscanons]

Every now and then, I think about The Simpsons RPC and how there's an occasionally a spike of Simpsons muses that inevitably crumbles away and leaves me waiting for the next short lived Simpsons RPC Renaissance

[vaguely-concerned]

nothing makes me feel like a golden god quite like a new recipe turning out delicious on the first try. unfortunately, conversely nothing makes me feel more 'I am god's mistake' than spending all that time and effort on something and having to make a sandwhich b/c the results were inedible if you want to retain your capacity for delight. the duality of home chef

[turtlespancake]

me when i write a character who is prone to dooming themself and then they run off and doom themself. core traits are stubbornness and a willingness to disregard their own humanity gET BACK HERE IM NOT DONE WITH YOU

[notforhumankind]

My head cocks to the side at the sudden onslaught of her greeting, but the words land heavy and unfamiliar on my ears, which still rush with the blood of tonight's feeding. My hunger-sharpened instincts have dulled into a sort of sublime fog, and I vaguely wonder if human lifetakers feel this way after committing one of those crimes that will sell papers for a fortnight, the presses feeding off the crimes of those who prey on the most unfortunate creatures, beggars and trollops and the like. Do such killers wander the city in a luminescent red fog of blood-drenched satisfaction, too?

She's so angry and my mind tries to fit together the words like a puzzle with missing or misshapen pieces. She has offered me her own blood before, I know she doesn't object to my feeding, my survival. But she has also seen the price of that offering, she's felt the animal howl of wretched hunger coming from my very being, the scrape of my teeth over her pale neck, the very real fear in me last time she offered her life's essence. She cannot fail to see the wisdom in my feeding before our visit!

I try to work my suddenly-thick tongue and end up laughing instead when a pillow hits me square in the chest. Hazy or not, I know the laughter will only increase her fury and pain, and my eyebrows knit together in contrition.

"No, sweet, listen-"

I take a step toward her but falter slightly. Gods, I have not fed this well in so long, and never in this quasi-human form, and the wonderful crimson haze that hangs all about me fills my every sense.

Intoxicating.

The lingering flavor on my tongue tastes vaguely of some spice, and I wonder what voyages the woman had been on or what her diet consisted of to render the blood so fragrant yet with a delicious undertone like warm rum and cinnamon, perhaps a darker note of black cherry. I force my gaze to focus on Ophelia and listen to her angry words but through my smokescreen of satiation.

"Dear girl. You don't think this was for my pleasure, do you?" Some of the curt chill has re-entered my voice, and I step through the fog and closer to her, observing her angry, tear-stained face in the moonlight. My head tips to the side in consideration, and suddenly I feel lethal again, a being made of unholy power and potent attraction, and my eyes will her to recognize it, employing the very same charms that lured my prey tonight.

"Do you fail to realize... how close... you came to death last time?"

My words are musing but my hand extends toward her and my fingers thread themselves into her curls. I massage my way to the base of her neck, petting her hair, and watch her impassively. Quite suddenly, I tighten my fistful of her hair, not enough to hurt but well enough to remind her that I could hurt her if I wanted to.

"And do you think..." my voice is warm honey in her ear as I lean closer, applying those vocal tricks I've learned work even better on the streets than a flash of a coin, "that if I ever get beneath those skirts and taste your blood at the same time that anything in God's heaven or Satan's hell could stop me from drinking an ocean of you?"

The strength of my need in our last meeting shakes me more than I'm willing to admit. Her tender flesh, the delicate rise and fall of her chest, heart beating under a ribcage that might as well be porcelain to me as my strength growths, it could all be so easily crushed under my half-clawed grasp. The changes to my inhuman features have not altered my strength except to enhance it and cloak it in the form of a more tempting shell. My features have lost some of the pointed alien qualities and I look more human with each feeding, but the feedings are getting far harder to pull myself away from. My desire is a pestilence feeding on itself, as I draw nourishment from her the beat of her heart in her breast grows louder, the exquisite scent of her maidenhood intoxicates like an opiate perfuming some drug den, and my thinking gets fuzzy at the edges, slurred with agonizing need. To have been in her bed twice without making her feel the full weight of my claim on her, and in doing so doubtless devour and steal not just her sighs and maidenhood but every remaining drop of her life essence - that she is still alive seems a matter of fortune rather than my own sense.

I wait longer this time to come back to her. Indeed, I even withdraw from her mind as much as I can stand it, hoping to build up some form of stamina, some ability to even glimpse her without mentally sinking iron hooks into her, sinking myself into her flesh in unholy, irrevocable union.

What little comes through our mental connection is a confusing stream of thoughts and feelings: she yearns as I do, at first, but desolation gives way to something else, a flavor I am unfamiliar with, it is like a prick of anger but channeled into something. Perhaps she is occupying her days with writing, or - I fear this most of all - she may be occupied with the attentions of a suitor. While I prefer most anything to her pitiable loneliness, my blood stirs in ancient anger at the thought of another amusing her so much that I am stricken from her thoughts entirely.

I cannot wait any longer to see her, and I hope the result of our clashing passions will not leave her dead and my fading mind full of regret until our very memories are merely dust mingling together.

@2daydreamsmuse2

[lock-my-feelings-in-a-jar]

Please BE EXCITED about stuff you like/ want to be excited about 💞 That's what life supposed to be about, finding joy in the smallest things, in the things we enjoy and love. And the people that judge us for having that joy in our hearts lose their own life, because they spend too much time judging someone else's life instead of doing something with their own. FUCK them

this is one of my favorite asks and i love you

[copia]

this is weird and overly personal but blogging about it anyway. i started a silly project at the end of may this year to exercise every single day (with small exceptions for exams etc) until the first sleep token show - idk why i chose that (i do, it was 'do it for vessel') but having a finite goal is so much easier to work towards than 'i will continue this habit for the rest of my life'. long story short i've done it and i'll continue on even though the first show has passed (do it for papa v this time?) but just saw myself in the mirror in the hotel i'm staying at for the next ritual and jdbdhjdbdj i've got some defined muscle i didn't have this time six months ago thank u vessel

[swampndn]

Um, y'all. I think I'm the main character now or something.

Story time.

So, I'm teaching a class this semester. It's cool. It's great. I love it. Anyway, last week I was walking out with a student, and I was telling her the ways I like to stay grounded in this city, i.e. going to the water as much as I can, finding ways to be on the land. She's also Native and was struggling adjusting to this city. We part ways, and I walk out of the building with a random man who was leaving the same time we were. He opens the door for me, introduces himself briefly, and asks me if I teach here regularly. I tell him I do, just the one class though. He tells me that usually he teaches visual art at a local high school but was guest lecturing on his work in Afro-Futurism and public art for a friend's class. It's pleasant. He's nice. No weird vibes. Felt really normal. He walks me to my car out front. We part ways. Entire exchange lasted maybe 2 minutes.

Well, fast forward to today. He reaches out to me on Instagram. He says that he was thinking about me all week, and he wanted to get to know me better. We go back and forth. He's really sweet, funny, clever, charming, wicked smart, and matches my energy (which is RARE) - he also ain't said a single sexual comment to me. The respect. Also, I ain't gonna lie. He's tall, muscular, and fucking hot. And an artist??? Say less. I wouldn't have been mad about some explicit advances, although my traumatized ass probably would have reacted poorly (involuntarily), so good on him.

I give him my number after he makes a silly little joke that Facebook told him his soulmate is an Aries, and I said that he's in luck because I'm an Aries. Then boom. Dropped the number. (I still got it.)

Tell me why the first thing he texted me was a silly gif of John Cena strutting around then said "this me walking into your life as the luckiest man alive", then asks me on a FULLY PLANNED DATE: a PICNIC AT A LAKE NEAR A BOTANICAL GARDEN because he overheard what I was talking about to my student about last week, AND THEN I learn that he's also Native!!! That's really important to me, and he was telling me all about his family (we're here on his ancestral land, actually). And also he's asking me all about my work, and then straight up broke down how he was feeling about me in such a clear, direct way. He laid out his intentions. He may or may not have said he's gonna marry me, but he was trying to be chill about it 😅🫣

Anyway. This has never happened to me before. I'm like what the literal fuck is going on? Am I too traumatized for this? What is happening???