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[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

I'm so relieved. The words are still there

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Random worldbuilding: A culture where everyone's social status is expressed through how their hair is braided.

Children all have the same kind of a simple, unisex "child's braid" which is meant for their parents to be easy to do - traditionally boys were only taught how to do a "wife's braid" while women braid both their husbands and their children, but a modern man is naturally an attentive father and contributes to both cleaning and feeding, and clothing and braiding his children.

While this kind of knowledge is more accessible in the modern age, the art of braiding is still seen as an intimate family thing, and it's not unusual for a youth to come out to their parents by the way of braids - for example a daughter asking her father to teach her how to do the "wife's braid", or a son asking her mother how to weave the "husband braid" for their future spouse. Or a trans kid asking their parents to give them the other gender's braid when it's time to transition from the child braid into the "unmarried youth" one.

It is nonetheless still somewhat common to see an older gay man with a "wife's braid" or two older women both wearing "husband braids", because that was the only way they were taught to braid a future partner's hair when they were young. They could learn the "appropriate" braid now, but it has become a part of the culture, an old-fashioned gay thing to do. It's pride - if you wear this braid to show that you're an adult with a spouse, why try to hide who braids your hair every morning?

The only braid that one is expected to do on themselves is the widow's braid - the only one that is also unisex, braided in reverse from the simple children's braid. Sometimes, young unmarried adults who have no interest in starting a family switch directly into wearing a widow's braid to signify that they are not looking for a partner and are independent adults on their own.

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Find the Vibe: "I told you so."

I miss this game and found a draft of a(n apparent) tag on the old sideblog. Thus, I am bringing back Find the Vibe. (Not that it's gone. I'm sure it's floating around somewhere lol.)

Unfortunately, at the time, I didn't say who tagged me or where the post was. I tried to do detective work on blogs that I thought were likely to have tagged me around April 2023, and uh, idk. Curse you, past Kate. And my sincerest apologies to whomever tagged me.

So we're just jumping in.

Rules: Find an excerpt from a work of your choice that fits the assigned vibe.

My vibe: "I told you so."

Your vibe: "I failed you."

From The Queen of Lies, far in the future:

“I’ve listened to you quite enough,” he said. “I can already tell you’re concocting another scheme, and now you want my help. I tell you, I want no part of it. Didn’t your last grand plan send you straight to the hospital? I warned you all it wouldn’t go as you expected. I warned you it would end in disaster.”

Gently tagging (no pressure): @kaylinalexanderbooks, @i-can-even-burn-salad, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams,

@clairelsonao3, @pleasestaywithmedarling

@oh-no-another-idea, @actress4him + open tag ✨

Yep. It literally sat in my drafts, on my old blog, for a year. 😅

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Sin of Purity, Purity of Sin: Part XVI

previous masterlist

see end note for content warning

Growling into the coarse rag that filled his mouth, Anden tugged angrily at the ropes holding his arms suspended by the wrists. But as always, he was powerless to do anything but watch as a sobbing Kiri was half-carried back to the inner chamber, leaving a trail of water in her wake. He couldn’t even feel relieved that her part of the ritual was over, not when Edric was the one dragging her to her cell. The thought of her alone with that bastard, even for the few moments it took to cut her bonds loose, made his vision go red.

Of course, he knew wouldn’t have to think about it for long. He’d soon be in too much pain to think of anything at all.

With mounting dread, he watched as Emitis opened one of the cabinets lining the wall. After an endless moment, the High Priest selected a tool Anden hadn’t seen in months: a scourge of multiple thin, knotted cords attached to a single handle. At first glance it looked less intimidating than the whips or knives Emitis most often chose. But fastened to the end of each strand was a small stone, the edges harsh and jagged. There was a reason this particular instrument was used so sparingly; Anden’s knees nearly buckled as he remembered how little of his skin he’d been left with the last time.

The horribly familiar sense of shame rose up within him like bile. He hated this—he hated being so damn scared.

Forcing a scowl, he glared as the High Priest turned to him, but the man only smiled and stepped out of his line of sight. Though it was probably for the best that Anden’s words were lost into his gag when he told Emitis exactly where he could put that scourge handle, Anden still hated that he had no control over even his speech. But he knew that he’d be grateful for the thick cloth that cleaved his jaw soon enough—it was much safer to have something to bite down on other than his own tongue. 

From behind him, Emitis declared, “You may begin.”

That night’s worshipper was a thin, reedy little duke, who’d spent his entire prayer of gratitude attentively observing Kiri’s torture as if she was the specimen of some scholarly study. Now he turned his attention to Anden, and began the prayer of confession in a bored drawl. But there was an ill-concealed fascination in his gaze that shone all the stronger as he reached the end of the first stanza.

“—that I may be deserving of my place in Ilyrna, the kingdom of Your rule.”

With an ugly thwack, the scourge fell upon Anden’s back, ripping through tunic and flesh alike. The pain struck hard and fast like lightning, before settling into a low, steady fire. A muffled groan escaped him, despite his best efforts to hold it in.

The duke continued reciting the prayer in a monotone, but his eyes gleamed with interest. The worshippers who paid for these private rituals were usually the kind of devout zealots who truly believed in all this bullshit; they paid Anden no real mind except as an object to be used in their prayers. It was always discomfiting, to be ignored as less than human. But to be seen, really seen, when he was strung up and bleeding and so fucking helpless, was so much worse.

The fierce burning down his back was almost a welcome distraction.

That’s what he tried to tell himself, at least, but his heart was racing in panicked anticipation as the second stanza drew to a close. Schooling his face into a neutral expression, he bit down hard on the gag and braced himself.

It was a terrible game he always played, refusing to react the way these sick bastards must want him to. It was a game he could never win; he knew that far too soon his screams would be ripped from him as violently as the skin was ripped from his back. But it was a game he had to play. He couldn’t just lose without a fight—he couldn’t give anyone that satisfaction.

The duke, though, was watching his attempts at stoicism with the same fascination as he had Kiri’s terrified cries. And Anden realized that whether he held himself together for another blow or fell apart, this man would enjoy himself either way. Anden had lost the game before it had even begun.

Another strike—the flash of white-hot pain drew out a low, anguished cry. He couldn’t get his feet back under him, and he couldn’t stop shaking, and he couldn’t hide how pathetic he was. It didn’t matter—it didn’t matter that he was losing control because he’d never had any to begin with. He’d already lost. But that thought was far from comforting.

With each new blow came a new wave of agony. Though he tried to keep track of how many lashes he had left to endure, he soon lost all awareness of the prayer—he knew nothing but the excruciating pain of sharp stone slicing his flesh to ribbons. When his bonds were cut at last, he collapsed to the ground and howled as the movement tore even further at his back. Panting hard, he squeezed his eyes shut and fought back his rising nausea. When he dared to open them, it was to the sight of the duke and the High Priest looking down at him, one in curiosity, the other in contempt. For one awful moment, their gazes pinned him in place, and for that one awful moment Anden wished he could die—anything to escape the sickening shame of his helplessness laid bare.

At last the High Priest and the worshipper were escorted out, and the two remaining guards hoisted Anden onto one of the stone tables. It took the healer priestess far longer to mend his back than it had taken Emitis to rip it apart, and her unsympathetic caretaking hurt nearly as much.

Gods, when would he ever stop hurting?

Flickering in and out of consciousness, he was prostrate on the stone table at one moment, and had been dragged halfway across the chamber in the next. And then he was jolted awake by his own sharp cry as yet another burst of anguish shot through him—through his tears, he saw that he’d been dropped to the floor of his cell. He was dimly aware of the guards’ taunting voices as he tried and failed to pull himself to his cot; their laughter seemed to echo through the chamber even after the thud of the iron door announced that he’d been left alone with Kiri.

Kiri—where was Kiri? He willed his fading vision to hold out just a bit longer as he sought out her form in the opposite cell. At last he could make out the shape of her, her hands clinging to the bars. He didn’t have to be able to see her expression to notice that she was scared for him. He wanted to reassure her, but first he needed to know—

“You okay?” he asked, his voice raw.

He passed out before he could hear the answer.

The next day was absolute hell. It was shamefully obvious to everyone that he wouldn’t be able to stand at attention for the entirety of the daily temple rituals, so the guards bound him to his pillar in the High Chamber. The scarlet cords wrapped tightly around him and the column in a series of loops running from his ankles up to his shoulders. It had been months since they’d needed to resort to such measures to keep him upright; it was just as humiliating as he remembered, and even more painful. His back was pressed so hard into the pillar’s surface that, even through the thick bandages wrapped around his torso, he could feel each stone ridge burrowing into his wounds. No sooner would the fiery pain begin to dull, than the slightest shift in his position would send it burning fresh through the latticework of torn skin. By midday, he was earnestly grateful for the padded muzzle that encased his lower face—he didn’t have the energy to even try to hold back his pitiful moans.

And then there was Kiri. He stole a glance at her twice that morning, before he could no longer afford the additional pain it cost him to turn his head. She was far from okay—she was too still, too unresponsive to anything around her. But her mind was often far away, or perhaps far inward, in the days after a private ritual. She always returned to him, he reminded himself. Something in his chest tightened, though, when he saw that even her endlessly-moving hands only hung limp at her sides. In his more coherent moments, when he wasn’t overwhelmed with the simple task of breathing through his suffering, he was all too aware that something was very wrong with Kiri.

But as the day went on, such moments of lucidity grew more fleeting. He was so exhausted that he felt like he was losing his grip on reality; his vision swam, and every worshipper who stood before him warped into something grotesque and inhuman. When he was at long last being half-dragged back to the Chamber of Vessels, he even thought he saw Omika passing through the halls, before he realized it was only a temple attendant.

The following two days—or was it three?—passed in the same endless blur. The one thing that kept it from being fully unbearable was knowing that this would all soon be over. Midsummer would fall in less than two weeks. He’d survived nearly a year—he ignored the way his throat tightened at the thought—so surely he could survive just a bit longer. And so could Kiri.

He had to remind himself of that last fact frequently. As the pain began to dull, somewhere around the fourth day, his concerns for Kiri only sharpened. His wounds were healing well, but she’d clearly found no ease from whatever was still plaguing her mind.

At least she didn’t seem to feel any compulsion to hurt herself. In the weeks following her mother’s execution and Edric’s assault—gods, Anden was going to burn down this place and everyone in it for putting her through that—he’d had to keep a close eye out for signs she was about to start scratching or biting herself. But even on the worst of those nights, when she’d seemed so wholly overcome with grief, he’d still seen her constantly combing through the end of her braid or tapping her thumb and forefinger together or flapping her hands at her sides. Yes, the endless movements were a heartbreaking gauge of just how distressed she was at any given moment. But they also showed Anden that some part of her was still seeking to comfort herself with her usual repetitive motions, however unconscious it may be. Some stubborn, beautiful part of her had always remained determined to help herself.

But now her hands were so still. And Anden didn’t know what to do.

That night was the first all that week in which he didn’t immediately pass out from pained exhaustion. Laying next to the cell bars, he slipped his hand out into the narrow hallway. He held back a groan as the movement pulled at his back, but Kiri must have noticed him wince.

“Don’t,” she admonished softly, even as she edged closer to her own set of bars and reached out toward him.

He clasped her hand and squeezed it tenderly. “Worth it.”

“But—” Kiri’s brows knit together in concern; it was the most emotion he’d seen her express in far too long. “How bad is it tonight?”

Pretty fucking terrible, he thought. But he only said, “Not so bad now. Healer says I’ll be fine.”

Her thumb brushed softly against the back of his hand, then again and again in soothing repetition.

Gods, he loved her.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he pleaded gently. “Please, I just—did something happen?”

Her hand stilled once more, and his heart dropped.

“I—I was just so scared. I've been so worried about you,” she said truthfully.

“Yeah, but you’re always worried about me. There’s more to it, isn’t there?” At her silence, he swallowed down his rising frustration. There was a whole city of people who deserved his anger far more than Kiri ever could.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he continued, as a reminder to himself as much as to her. “But I’ll be worried whether you do or not. I, uh, I’m always worried about you, too, you know?”

Something in her expression cracked. He pressed on. “That night, during that last ritual—”

“No.”

Anden froze.

Kiri wasn’t looking at him anymore. “No. No, I can’t—I—gods, please, I can’t—”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit—he’d pushed too hard. “Kiri—hey, Kiri, it’s okay.”

Her breathing was growing erratic. “I can’t do it. I can’t, I can’t do it.”

Her fear tore at his heart. Maybe he should forget the whole thing, just focus on helping her breathe and settle into the present. But damn it, this might be the only time he could get some answers.

“What can’t you do?”

“Please—please, I can’t—”

“What can’t you do, Kiri?”

“The—the water!” Shoulders shaking, she sobbed, “The water—I—I can’t, I don’t want to—”

The water. Anden was relieved to think that nothing else had happened that night—he’d been so worried about what Edric could have done to her in her cell while everyone else was focused on his flogging. But gods, did he feel like an asshole. He hadn’t even needed to ask her what had been troubling her because apparently he’d already known; all he’d accomplished in his ill-conceived interrogation was making her relive her torture.

Guilt gnawing at his core, he slowly coaxed her into matching his breathing. His arm ached from stretching it out into the hall for so long, but he would happily hold her hand for as long as she wanted him to.

When her tears ran dry, Kiri’s voice came out small and fragile. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Anden insisted. “I shouldn’t have hounded you like that.”

“But I made you worry. And you—you’ve been hurt so badly, you shouldn’t have to—”

“It’s fine. Really. Hell, worrying about you’s been a nice distraction from it,” he joked grimly.

Kiri clearly did not find it amusing. “Will you be able to make it through the procession tomorrow?”

“I mean, I’ll have to. At least it’s our last Fifth Day.” When he felt her stiffen, he was quick to reassure her, “Hey, that’s a good thing, remember? Means we’ll be out of here soon.”

She hesitated, then jerked her head in a nod. “I guess it’ll be easier to escape with everyone distracted by the Midsummer preparations.” Something in her voice sounded forced, like she was trying to convince herself—though Anden had the oddest, fleeting thought that she might instead be trying to convince him.

“I’m sure that’s what my brother’s been waiting for,” he lied.

He really needed to tell her.

For so long, he’d been telling himself that he could protect her from knowing what was coming, always just for a little while longer. And now they were running out of time.

But how the fuck was he supposed to tell her tonight? She’d only just settled into something resembling calm, after he’d made her hysteric at the thought of being forced underwater again.

Her hands were so still.

His thumb brushed softly against the back of her hand, then again and again in what he hoped was soothing repetition, until he fell into an uneasy sleep.

The next day’s holy procession was by far the most difficult he could remember. He could still barely walk on his own as it was; pulling Kiri in that damned chariot she was always displayed on, through the entire city, seemed an impossible task. But he plodded on, trying to ignore the way the harness straps that pressed into his barely-healing scars. Nearly a year’s worth of experience had long since taught him that if he collapsed, he’d only be beaten for it later. He couldn’t afford any more injuries right now, not with so few days left till Midsummer.

Because they would escape on Midsummer.

They would.

And so he followed the vanguard attendants bearing the hideous statue of Vato, step by painful step. He pretended that he didn’t know how many thousands of people lining the streets could see him in such a pathetic state. He pretended that he couldn’t feel the revolting shame that welled up from his core. Even when he happened to spot that thin little duke, studying him with those same gleaming eyes with which he’d studied the flogging so few nights ago, Anden pretended that it didn’t bother him in the least. Why would it, with escape so near?

Escape was so near.

It was.

As they passed out of the craftsmen’s district, a familiar whistle, so low he nearly missed it, rang out from his left. And there on the sidewalk stood Antoni. Their twin green eyes locked for the briefest of moments. Anden returned his brother’s subtle nod, and continued on as though his heart wasn’t pounding in his ears.

There was still plenty of room for worry; there were so many ways something could go wrong. But a tightness that Anden hadn’t even noticed had been building in his chest for months, suddenly eased. The plan really was still on.

And he really needed to tell Kiri about The Seaman of Oshna.

That night, after the healer priestess finished repairing the stitches he’d pulled and he was left alone with Kiri once more, he told himself that he had to do it. He had to tell her. And to his own credit, he would have, if he weren’t interrupted by the hideous creak of the outer chamber door.

Fear and fury warred inside him. It was too soon; he’d barely recovered at all after the last private ritual. They couldn’t do this to him after all he’d suffered today—he truly didn’t know if he could take any more. And Kiri—he met her gaze and his heart ached at the primal terror he saw there.

It was for the best, he tried to tell himself, while he watched her dark eyes turn glassy as Edric took his time winding rope around her chest. He had to trust that her mind knew how to best protect her from what was coming; if that meant hiding her away somewhere deep within herself, that must be what would keep her safe. He couldn’t help but worry that she was in more than the usual danger, though he couldn’t have said of what.

Because no matter what Kiri had said, and no matter how much Anden wanted to believe her, he couldn’t quite shake the thought that something else had happened last time, something she wasn’t telling him. And he knew it was too much to hope that tonight would be any less a nightmare for either of them.

I am apparently incapable of writing in any state other than an absolute frenzy; I was wildly unproductive for a couple of days because I could not think about anything other than this chapter. I clearly need to make sure that my next one comes out in a more timely manner, cause I think the gaps in my wriitng time are doing weird things to my brain.

I can't say enough how thankful I am to everyone who's stuck with this fic, y'all have made this process so much more fun!!!

We're about to get into the chapters I've been most excited/most dreading to write, so...brace yourself I guess lol

taglist: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams @little-peril-stories @monarchthefirst

Please let me know if you'd like to be added/removed!

content warning: captivity, religious abuse, restraints, torture, flogging, mention of self-harm, mention of sexual assault

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

How would I go about portraying an autistic character in a world where there wouldn’t be the terminology for that sort of thing? It’s a fantasy novel that mostly surrounds fairies, and I’m considering having her family think she’s a changeling (something I know has ableist roots and could be shown to be wrong as she’s just an autistic human)

Hello, thanks for your question!

Using pretty direct Autistic coding would be your best bet for making the character as obviously Autistic as possible without having the in-world terminology for it. This could include showing the character stimming, having distinct speech patterns from the rest of the cast, experiencing shutdowns or meltdowns when relevant, fixating on particular interests, keeping a regular routine (and getting upset when it's disrupted), and reacting more strongly to sensory input than the rest of the cast, among other things. Readers who are Autistic or otherwise familiar with Autism will probably clue in quite quickly if you depict these kinds of traits.

While the idea of changelings being equated with disabilities--and Autism in particular--has grown in popularity over the past decade, I would still advise a lot of caution in associating Autistic characters with changelings. While some Autistic people (especially those of us outside of Europe where changelings originated) do identify with changelings due to feeling othered by society, many of us don't because of the negative context of the original changeling stories. I feel that the real-world history behind the stories should be taken into serious consideration before drawing any direct parallels between disabled people and changelings.

Though it's absolutely plausible that the changeling stories did potentially originate as ways to explain the presence and development of disabilities in children as many theories argue, the changeling stories themselves don't frame changelings in a positive or even neutral light--changelings are creatures you absolutely do not want in your home or family and are seen as undeserving burdens on a family's hard-earned resources. There are documented historical instances of people--adults and children alike--being beaten, abused or murdered just on suspicion of having been changelings. I feel that this context is often lost outside of Europe, as we don't always realize that changelings were taken very seriously, especially in rural communities, and were not just harmless bedtime stories.

Because of this, I would suggest that, if you go the changeling route, you take the time and effort to portray it as a particularly dehumanizing and potentially dangerous form of ableism, and approach the subject with delicacy. Otherwise, if your portrayal of fairies in your story is not negative the way they tend to be when associated with creatures like changelings, you could keep the foundations of the changeling story--a human replaced by a fey creature--but tweak the perceptions your character's society might have around them, and perhaps change the name to something that doesn't evoke the same connotations as the changeling.

Other Autistic people are welcome to add their thoughts!

-Mod Faelan

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

tumblr notifs: Mutual™ has liked your post

me: *clicks on the button to see which post* I must know which of my humble offerings have pleased my dearest.

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

A lot of adulthood is shouting “AUGH MY LAUNDRY” hours after you put it in the washer/dryer and running to go fetch it

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

if he doesn't whimper what's th fucking point

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Heyyyyy, *fixes hair* we can be fucked up by the Narrative togetherrrrrr, baby. *coughs blood*

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

[ID: White text over a photo of the full moon, tinted red. The text reads: “That’s my sleeping gown, and my blood.” “You don’t look hurt.” “A woman does not have to be hurt to bleed, sir.” She put as much disdain into her words as she dared. End ID]

Finally, a convenient excuse!

WIP Intro

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

worst part about getting angry is how much it makes you want to be mean

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

No "other" option. If you don't like multi POV books, please keep scrolling!

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

you: suck my dick me, an intellectual: inhale my richard

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

"A cishet person must have made this, no queer person would ever portray queerness in this way."

"This artist must be white."

"No SA victim would ever handle the subject in this way."

"No woman would ever write women like this."

"This creator is obviously neurotypical. Everyone with autism/ADHD/depression understands-"

Nope.

People who make these blanket statements are very frequently proven wrong when the creator comes out as a member of that group. And even when they aren't proven wrong, even in cases where the creator isn't from the group in question, actual members of the group who don't fit whatever arbitrary criteria are being expressed will see these statements and feel excluded and erased.

Not everyone in your group is going to share your experiences. No single individual gets to personally decide what does or doesn't count as a "valid" expression of trauma or being part of a particular group, and creators are also not obligated to out themselves in order to "prove" their validity.

If something doesn't resonate with you, all that means is that it doesn't resonate with you. You don't have to like it. But you don't get to decide what it means to someone else.

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Every writer has two sides:

"I love my characters, they are my children and will protect them with my life"

"I wanna make them suffer so fucking much"