#and how lonan... is god

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

u know... 2021 rachel was onto something when writing feeding habits harrison... like she walked I could FLY bc how did I singlehandedly give that man every single problem that could exist after struggling to see him as flawed for YEARSSS & how did that new level of understanding become foundational to the harrison we all know and love (loathe)

[noblesouls]

a study.

BASICS.

full name : olynna blackwood name meaning : helpful, researcher, comfortable nicknames : oly, nana. epithets : the beauteous raven titles : lady of raventree hall gender / pronouns : cis woman / she/her sexuality : heterosexual date of birth : on the thirteen day of the first month age : seven and twenty years zodiac : capricorn place of birth : raventree hall, the riverlands, westeros accent : northern westerosi languages : common tongue, old tongue, high and low valyrian allegiance : house blackwood religion : the old gods

APPEARANCE.

faceclaim : synnove karlsen height : 5′5″ eye color : blue/grey hair color : brunette with copper undertones dominant hand : ambidextrous

MEDICAL.

mental : n/a physical : n/a

PERSONALITY.

positive traits : eloquent & resourceful negative traits : opinionated & judgemental hobbies : reading, needlework, medicine, horse back riding

RELATIONSHIPS.

parents : ruling lord lonan blackwood & late ruling lady ilianna blackwood siblings : lord alton blackwood, lord samwell blackwood, lady alyce blackwood, lady melissa blackwood, lady ilianna blackwood extended family : tba spouse : n/a children : n/a pets : birdsong ( raven ), onyx ( friesian stallion)

FAMILY DYNAMICS.

house blackwood is an ancient one and as so they were expected to carry duty over anything else. it was why even though lord lonan had fallen for different woman and fathered a bastard he still married the woman chosen for him by his father. sealing his fate and that of lady ilianna for a miserable marriage. the new lady blackwood vent backwards in hopes to gain the favor of her husband, and when she gave him a son she almost thought she had him, only to learn his mistress had also given him a daughter not long after. but she did not give up, her children watched her break for a man that paid her no mind, and eventually she lost her life in the false hope of giving him another son. not long after mourning period and with no one else to deny him he married his mistress and legalized his bastards. now the power balance tips back and forth with the ruling lady fighting for her bastard born son to become lord heir, while the children of the first wife refuse to back down.

BIO.

olynna had been her mothers treasure, a soft chubby babe that cried rarely and laughed often. the second gem of raventree hall, gentle demeanor and rosie cheeks, her birth had been an ease, as if predicting the calming nature that would run through her veins. as she grew up it was clear olynna would be everything a lady was expected to be, soft spoken, witty, gentle, but the demeanor of any raven ran deep in her and she was also strong willed and opinionated. and while she had a tendency to please and listen to the careful path suggested for her, there were instances were her strong personality came to shine.

her role was clear, even though she was her parents beloved, she would marry to strengthen the alliances when the time came. but that wasn’t enough for her, learning needle point, how to rule a house, she demanded to learn politics and strategies, she took her lessons and asked for more, the more knowledge was poured into her the more she craved

her life came to a sudden halt when her mother became pregnant once over, the pregnancy had her sick and bed ridden, and not long after the babe had been born lady ilianna was not longer with them leaving olynna with the weight of a promise to always look out for her siblings. at the tender age of thirteen she took it to heart, leaving everything that wasn't their care to become second in her list

but the little piece they manage to find came crushing when his father did what olynna had been most afraid, decided to marry his mistress, which she knew would only be the beginning of the darkness that would surround their lives. the children of the first ruling lady of the house welcomed the new comers with resistance, specially olynna, whom would accept no other than her mother as ruling lady and so raventree hill became a war camp

oly against all odds grew older she grew into herself; smarter and beautiful, she began creating her own alliances, her own networks. a woman that supported her family, her siblings, her friends, loyal to a fault.

olynna has seen what love has done to her father, and it terrifies she could be the same way, love is something she deprives herself of and has pledged against it. if she could remain unmarried and dedicated to her healing, her main goal is simply secure her brothers seat.

CONNECTIONS.

childhood friends; perhaps someone who knew her when she was a wild little thing swimming in the rivers of the riverlands and running through the field, stealing her fathers horse early in the mornings.

a pen pal; perhaps someone she only came across once before in the years but they shared letters constantly through the distance and time

a betrothal; set perhaps by their parents by pure political strategy, or they could be a lord in search of their own ambitions. could be nothing more than this

[forgottenroisin]

from disco, kate is talking abt the link w the chained tree:

Kate the great — Yesterday at 9:00 PMits giving guardian tree. or like... the trees in the old forest or smth

kate aa — 9:54 AM Ok so!! I 100% agree but also like…the chains make me feel like there’s like…they tryna hold smth back/down/in like!!!! Ok so like we know the guardian tree can awake the forest a la all those ancient Celtic myths of forests awakening and trees and rocks etc fighting back and like two possibilities what if 1) that happened once in the past and someone tried to stop it from happening again oR what if it has smth to do w like chaining up the gods?? Oh and/or there’s a sister tree/guardian who’s evil and thus chained or whatever? ANOTHER thought — was gonna use this for Islaun but!! Might work better for malconaire (and maybe the trapped gods/sigil treasure map ~anyway) there’s irl also a tree on an island that’s filled w coins thatve been driven into its bark, dating from ancient times to now. The tree is actually dead/dying atp from metal poisoning there’re so many! This island is set in the middle of a lake!! And the legend goes that if you’re in danger/sorrow you can go to this island and leave it behind you by making an offering to the tree (hence the coins). But you cannot take a single thing w you ~off of this island, not even the smallest pebble, or you’ll unleash all the evil it’s held back for ~centuries into the world and…idk!!! That and the chained tree and the chained gods and the lake bc we’ve said it’s at Lorcan like…vibes!!!!!

Cait — 11:04 AMOh man! I love love love all of this! The idea of an evil guardian is kind of intriguing, especially since we know Amira is planning on trying to capture a guardian or whatever! I know we’ve talked about their being all sorts of rumors about the old forest so maybe some of that is based in a truth regarding this tree that has an evil, corrupt guardian trapped there? And potentially that could be the guardian Amira ends up getting her hands on at some point. And! I also think it could tie in with the map sword, quest thing too!11

kate aa — 11:07 AMim actually in the process of doing a write up abt how it could potentially tie into that...now im thinking...aella's arch, the great oak, evil tree, wishing tree...four trees for four og malconaires...(tho aella's arch is technically two trees growing together and one tree is evil so...5 trees...ig valentina got one too jk jk) oh! but lonan is actually a ~fifth ~hidden malconaire...

kate the great — 11:09 AMOMG HE ISS smth abt Lonan knowing there is trouble with the trees and coming back to malconaire?!1

kate aa — 11:12 AMTHE WAY THAT FEELS HELLA ON POINT if anyone would just ~know in his gut!!!!!!!

kate the great — 11:14 AMThis may be too out there but has lonan been there in malconaire all along, guarding the evil tree or whatever? And he may be abandoned his post to help his nieces and ends up creating an opportunity for Amira to get at that evil guardian?(edited)

kate aa — 11:50 AMeeeeeee that's what he was doing off in the woods gods knew where!!!!!!! bran probs knew it but the knowledge died w him and ughhhh

ok but...someone pls tell me there was a (possibly now-extinct?) cadet branch of malconaire or evil rebels there from -- a resistance that wanted to defend the gods mayhaps? -- or smth w a chained tree for ~their sigil???? ldskjfajkdsf and/or a now defunct order that once watched over it to keep it from ~doing evil~ or what have you!!

some horrific human sacrifice inspo for this coming btw -- anyway, maybe this tree was either allied to the gods or like...was bloodthirsty. it didn't want given offerings -- it hungered for blood. there are stories abt malignant trees esp in nordic myth where blood sacrifices were required -- they'd hang entrails from the branches and slit ppl's throats into a pool at its roots or drown them there. they knew the tree was pleased if it pulled the body down and no one ever saw it again. when you chopped at it, it would bleed and summon terrors to destroy you, crushing you beneath its limbs or causing the whole forest to rise up against you or even calling upon fierce storms and fires to destroy you and all those you hold dear. some would steal your soul as well till the morning of the wind through the branches was your own voice...related to the sluagh -- it then commanded armies of enslaved ghostly souls in perpetual torment, bringing w them terrible storms, doing its bidding forever etc...v yikes stuff! (yes grrm seems to have been HIGHLY inspired by this stuff alksdjfkldsjf). the only way to stop the malice of the tree was to make bloody human sacrifice to it. (this is probs where that alton towers legend of the origins of the chains ~comes from honestly -- w the cursed tree killing off his family...yeah that's a classic evil tree kinda move right there for sure!! its even got a loathy lady/sovereignty goddess stand in!)

but perhaps in malconaire they found another possibility, binding it w magical chains...maybe using chains forged in the eternal flame and tempered w the sacred waters from the ~old calleary island~ taken from metal quarried from malconaire and laid and maintained by a dedicated seer...

its giving garden of eden, the tree of life vs the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and i think that's fun lakjsdfkjdsf

but anyway!! maybe ~that's why lonan couldn't come help the girls and malconaire even in their terrible need -- but after strengthening the chairs the most recent time, he couldn't just stand by idly and watch eventually anymore either...surely they'd hold long enough. or him to return!

and that's when our girl @forgottenamira takes matters into her own hands...she's already noted the great oak, it makes sense she'd be seeking in the forest for more such entitites...and being calainon, the technical flamekeeper of kolchis, carrying a calainon witch in her belly (maybe two...we'll never know whether her other daughter was a witch or not...), maybe she can remove the chains, and take the entity's power for herself...esp now she has at least one and possibly two malconaires in her household to take her through the old forest unscathed...

OOC | The Hidden Isle

ok so!! dramatic title aside, im lowkey continuing on the various and sundry threads we had going abt the sigil treasure map! i def think rosie will be following this thread in her witches of the wood era, and [ what kate the great recently posted in the disco ] got me thinking

ok so, as know, malconaire is built around the great oak, which in the great hall, itself forms the literal seat of its ruler, a tree throne. smth abt the steps up w that branch outcropping suggested a great seat to me. it made me think that, well, it gave me a bunch of ideas that i rambled abt in the disco and imma try to unpack in an intelligible way here, but if you wanna tackle the og bit i put down (after kate said it was giving malconaire <3):

Ok so!! I 100% agree but also like…the chains make me feel like there’s like…they tryna hold smth back/down/in like!!!! Ok so like we know the guardian tree can awake the forest a la all those ancient Celtic myths of forests awakening and trees and rocks etc fighting back and like two possibilities what if 1) that happened once in the past and someone tried to stop it from happening again oR what if it has smth to do w like chaining up the gods?? Oh and/or there’s a sister tree/guardian who’s evil and thus chained or whatever? ANOTHER thought — was gonna use this for Islaun but!! Might work better for malconaire (and maybe the trapped gods/sigil treasure map ~anyway) there’s irl also a tree on an island that’s filled w coins thatve been driven into its bark, dating from ancient times to now. The tree is actually dead/dying atp from metal poisoning there’re so many! This island is set in the middle of a lake!! And the legend goes that if you’re in danger/sorrow you can go to this island and leave it behind you by making an offering to the tree (hence the coins). But you cannot take a single thing w you ~off of this island, not even the smallest pebble, or you’ll unleash all the evil it’s held back for ~centuries into the world and…idk!!! That and the chained tree and the chained gods and the lake bc we’ve said it’s at Lorcan like…vibes!!!!!

and before that in the tags of the tumblr post

XLFR XHOUSE MALCONAIRE XOK BUT THE NATURE OF IT BEING CHAINED IS LIKE GIVING SMTH SMTH ABT LIKE THE GODS OR AN EVIL TWIN TREE OR SMTH ESP BC FROM THIS ANGLE THAT O X*THAT ONE BRANCH LOOKS KINDA LIKE ITS A SEAT AND WE'VE TALKED ABT HOW THE TREE IS ALSO A THRONE AND...IDK JUST!!!!!! ALL KINDS OF THOUGHTS

ok so let me break this down!

SIGIL TREASURE MAP BACKGROUND

ok so just to give a refresher/introduction, in ancient times, the separate nations of stafford, lorcan, and malconaire joined together to fight the gods in an epic last battle. this was how the nation of all astaira initially formed, w the three nations uniting under cillian stafford, who was elected to lead from amongst them, and whose queen was a literal goddess (yeah, that's right, roderick, those captives in ur tower? literally partly divine...also rian but we won't talk abt that ;D) who chose to help mortals against her own kind out of love, and was, himself, a seer iirc? amongst their allies were the great calainon and the unnamed mutual ancestors of both the late queen léna (eilia, aria, and shiv's mom) as well as of house calleary (it was an island nation and, when it was destroyed pompeii/santorini style, the survivors went various different ways and ended up various different places etc). im sure there were more, but these are big players we already know abt/i remember atm, besides the guardians!

now, ~lets talk abt those guardians and the magics they bestowed. four of these key houses are associated w a particular guardian -- and element, and would ultimately each use their element in order to lock the gods away. house calainon is fire; house calleary is water; house stafford is air; house malconaire is earth -- and each has (or in one case ~had a corresponding lock in place to hold back the malice of the gods).

the calleary/water lock was destroyed when their island nation was destroyed so, for eons, only three locks have held. the calainon/fire lock is the great flame of kolchis which is currently being watched over by godfrey; the stafford/air lock is the missing ancestral sword, celestial (from a set of three ancestral swords known collectively as constellation -- the staffords still have two of them which is why you'll hear abt them etc), which is itself sort of set as the key in the earth lock, thrust into a hidden spot in a place between worlds where the gods were bound. the malconaire/earth lock we've said in the past is the guardian tree -- but what if its not -- what if its ~another malconaire spirit tree? this place between worlds is said to be located somewhere in lorcan, in a place that can only be accessed from the Old Forest of malconaire (which itself can, due to the vigilance of the Great Oak only be passed through by those who're from malconaire and wish her no malice)

the knowledge of all of this has since been lost to time, but each of the key families involved took up a sigil in commemoration of the event -- forming what is now a treasure map to this location w puzzling strains of legend here and there to direct -- and misdirect where they grow confused w time -- those who would follow its trail. only a malconaire, w their protected companions, can walk the woods. only the true ruler of astaira can draw the sword from its resting place. only a calainon can douse the eternal flame, etc.

ok, so we already have one [ sister tree to the great oak ] -- what if there were another (part of me like what if there were ~two others, one for each of the og malconaire girls <3 but no ideas yet on the fourth one hahah BUT ANYWAY) -- the chained oak, known to legend as the wishing tree

THE IRL ISLE OF MAREE

ok so wish trees are a real thing! so the legend goes you leave an offering for the tree, you make a wish, and if the tree is pleased w your offering, you get your wish. but there's one in particular i mean to riff off of here, and that's the wish tree of isle maree in scotland -- a tree whose wishes killed it.

so the practice, here, was to hammer a coin into the bark. the og one died from copper poisoning, from all the coins, but even before its demise, ppl started using the trees around it for the same purpose, and these are some of those around it. the og tree was an oak. the metal-on-oak of the chained tree called this to mind for me...

the isle of maree stands inside the loch of the same name in scotland and it was once believed that these waters were sacred and that bathing in them or else sailing around them sunwise, three times, were a cure for most afflictions. after this, it was common to sail to the island, itself, where an ancient church (afterwards left in utter ruins) w graveyard and later an abbey, a holy tree, and a sacred well were all located. drinking from this well was said to bestow healing (as well as sometimes visions iirc) and the tree, ofc, could grant wishes. anything at all could be brought to the island, and left there, particularly suffering and misery. but it was said that nothing at all, not so much as a single pebble, could ever be troubled to leave the holy isle, lest w it all the suffering left there might escape along with it...

LORCAN & THE WISHING TREE

ok so all that irl stuff sounds a LOT like lorcan to me, but esp a part of it only accessible via the old forest!! a huge lake, a peaceful place of rest and healing, shaded by a grove of ancient trees. once, perhaps the old forest was not quite so impassable as it is now and, now we come to the sister tree of the great oak, the wishing tree, perhaps planted here, likely from a cutting of the great oak, by early malconaires at the border of lorcan in a sign of perpetual peace and trust between their two (at the time) separate lands, a place of healing to be watched over by a guardian spirit where ppl could come to ask boons of the spirit which watched over them, and leave their evils behind there under the guard of the wishing tree

as the malice of the gods increased and mortals were forced to fight back against the relentless deities, this protected place of refuge became the last hope -- w one final great evil to be left there under the care of the guardian -- locking the gods away there forever, the greatest evil the tree had ever buried away. the isle was hidden away forever, safe under the magic of the seers and of the guardians, till this very day...

so yeah!! idk!! just an idea but i thought it was an interesting one and yeah!!

OUTRO

so while i was writing this, @forgotteneithne contributed some brilliant ideas and ill do a follow up post re that but i didn't want ~this one to get too much info going all in one go so ill probs reblog w that addendum in a bit <3333333

[leechobsessed]

Walk You Home

Ella and Lachlan come face to face. 

characters: Ella Sagen, Lachlan, Lysander and Leila Lonan (of @leila-of-ravens), Beatrice Viano (of @juliandev0rak), Julian Devorak, Nadia Satrinava pairing:  Ella Sagen x Lachlan Lonan / Logen words: 3.7k warnings: alcohol, sexual themes

Previous chapter, etre bleu series

The palace always prepares elaborate and delicious meals, and breakfast has never been an exception. On the table before her sits a variety of fruits, pastries, egg dishes and breads, which all look and smell delicious, but she hasn’t yet found the appetite to try any of it. 

She suspects that’s partially due to the aftereffects of alcohol, but mostly due to the butterflies in her stomach at the prospect of seeing Lachlan.

She had arrived only a few minutes ago and dropped into an open seat next to Julian, who immediately handed her a small glass filled with what she could only hope was Leila’s hangover cure. She accepted it gratefully as Leila introduced Ella to Lysander, the older Lonan brother. He gave her a polite nod of acknowledgement, before the countess pulled both his and Beatrice’s attention back to her with a question.

Lysander and Leila are seated next to the countess at the head of the table, with Beatrice next to Lysander, and Leila beside Julian. The seat across from Ella is empty.  

For Lachlan.

Ella inhales deeply and sets about pouring herself a cup of tea, adding a spoonful of sugar and stirring it into the steaming amber liquid, watching the fine crystals quickly melt away. She raises the cup to her lips and blows gently on it, examining the spread in front of her with the subtlest of frowns tugging at her lips. 

Why am I so nervous? She wants to see Lachlan, but she can’t imagine he’d want to see her, especially since she left him so abruptly this morning. Her stomach flips as she realizes he would assume she left because she didn’t want to see him. 

“Is nothing to your liking, Ella? Is there something else you’d prefer?” The countess asks, ever the perfect host, her eyebrows raised as she sets her teacup back on its saucer.

“No, thank you, this is wonderful,” Ella hurries as she reaches for a muffin, smiling at Nadia. “My stomach hasn’t quite woken up yet.”

“A bit too much fun last night?” Julian asks, the corners of his lips quirked up in humor.

“Perhaps,” Ella shoots back as he nudges the small glass he had handed her earlier closer toward her.

“Leila’s hangover cure,” he explains. “It might help settle your stomach.”

Doubtful, Ella thinks, but she nods in thanks as she tips the liquid down her throat in one swift motion. As she sets the glass back down, she nearly chokes on the elixir as Lachlan slides easily into the chair across from her, smiling shyly at her before offering a greeting to the rest of the table. 

Hiding her coughing behind her hand, she takes a large gulp of tea as the countess addresses the table’s new member. “Good morning, Lachlan. I’m so glad you were able to join us this morning.” 

“As am I,” he answers, smiling at his host before turning his gaze to meet Ella’s eyes, making her breath catch immediately. As the conversation around the table continues, the two of them continue to stare at each other, neither one able to come up with anything to say, but unable to look away all the same.

“It’s good to see you,” Ella finally manages, blushing at how breathless she sounds. She clears her throat, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Did you um, sleep well?”

The corner of his mouth pulls upward in a knowing smile, and he lets out a small chuckle before he nods. “I did, yes. A little cold when I woke up this morning though.”

Ella’s blush deepens as she opens her mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by Leila, who has left her seat to place her hangover cure in front of her brother. 

“Maybe we should get you more blankets then,” she teases. “Drink this. It will help.”

He lifts the shot glass up and inspects the liquid in it, giving it a sniff, then glances back at his sister, totally unconvinced. “It seems counterproductive to cure a hangover with a shot. Especially this early in the morning.”

“It's her hangover cure,” Ella explains as Leila sighs.

“It will help,” Leila repeats. “Trust me.”

Lachlan shrugs, tipping the contents of the glass into his mouth and handing it back to his sister. “So how long until this works?” 

“A few minutes. Then you’ll be good as new.” Leila says, giving his shoulder a squeeze before leaving them to return to her seat.

“You don’t need one?” Lachlan asks, an eyebrow raised at Ella in question as he leans forward to grab an apple from the fruit tray in front of him. She watches as his long fingers wrap around the apple and pull it toward him, cleaning it on the chest of his shirt, much like the one she has squirreled away in her palace bedroom. She pulls her attention away from his hands, blushing when she meets his eyes.

“I do-- I mean, I did. I had mine just before you came.” 

“A little too much fun last night?” 

“Something like that,” she responds, acutely aware the conversation at the table has dwindles to a dull murmur, and that all eyes are focused on them. She immediately lowers her eyes back to her plate, and keeps them there for the remainder of the breakfast-- well, almost. Every so often, she would sneak a glance at the man across from her, pleased and embarrassed that almost every time she did, his cool blue gaze was still on her. 

She can sense Leila’s gaze on the two of them as well, but she chooses to ignore it.

She knows that his willingness to make conversation with her may just be to save face in front of the others. But the fact that neither of them seem to be able to keep their eyes off each other gives her a glimmer of hope that he doesn’t regret last night, and that maybe he’s hoping to spend more time with her, too.

Gods, she hopes so.

“Countess, thank you for breakfast and your hospitality, but I must be getting back to the city now,” Ella says, nodding at the countess as she pushes back from the table, her eyes falling briefly on Lachlan as she does. 

“I’ll come with you, if that’s alright,” Lachlan says as he hurriedly joins her standing, pulling the attention of all at the table toward him. “I’ve been meaning to look around the town.”

He looks at Ella, as if asking permission, and she nods quickly, unable to hide her eagerness to spend time with him alone. 

“That’s probably for the best. Less likely Ella will get lost on her way if she has someone to accompany her,” Beatrice jokes, smiling at Ella, though she doesn’t see it, her eyes still focused on Lachlan.

Leila laughs, standing up from the table as well. “I’ll see to it that everyone makes it home safely. I need to head to the tea shop anyway.”

Lachlan breaks eye contact with Ella to frown at his sister. He opens his mouth to protest, only to be cut off by the countess.

“Perhaps it would be best if you take a carriage into town,” she offers. She waves to one of the servants standing by the veranda doors, who immediately slips back into the palace. “I’ll have one brought around for the three of you.”

As promised, the carriage is waiting for the trio as they reach the palace gates. Opening the door, Lachlan extends his hand first to Leila, then to Ella as he helps them into the carriage. He runs this thumb along the back of her knuckles as he guides her into the carriage, eliciting yet another blush from her as she steps inside. Lachlan takes his seat next to her, and they’re off.

They ride in silence for a few minutes, both Lachlan and Ella staring out their respective windows, Ella’s hand brought to her face in an effort to hide the color that appears in her cheeks every time the jostle of the carriage sends her body into his. 

Leila sits across from them, looking between them with a slight frown. She clears her throat, crossing her leg over the other and folding her hands in her lap. “So, Ella.”

“So, Leila,” Ella parrots, glancing at the magician across from her.

“Were you able to return the shirt you borrowed back to your suitor? Or will you be giving it back the next time you see him?”

Ella and Lachlan turn simultaneously to face Leila. Confused, Ella shakes her head. “Shirt? What-- oh,” she stutters as she remembers her encounter with her friend this morning, before breakfast. Blushing furiously, she turns her attention back out the window. “No, I haven’t returned the shirt.”

“I must say, I was surprised that you had brought a man back to your room, you’ve never made a habit of doing that,” Leila continues, her voice light and playful, but with an edge of mischief. “Was it anyone I would know?” She asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

Ella sighs, shaking her head, not trusting herself to speak, not wanting to lie to her friend. She can feel both Lachlan and Leila’s eyes on her, but she ignores them both until Lachlan speaks up.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you holding onto it if it means he gets to see you again.” He shrugs, scratching at his stubble as the women stare at him. “Speaking from an outside male perspective, of course.”

Ella glances quickly at Leila, whose eyes widen fractionally at her with what Ella can only assume is realization. Guilty, she lowers her gaze to her dress, picking off an imaginary piece of lint. They sit in silence until the carriage loudly hits another bump, jostling Ella into Lachlan’s hip again. Lachlan clears his throat and finds a new subject. 

“Your hangover cure works wonders, Leila. Any chance I could convince you to make me some to have on hand?”

Leila tears her gaze from her friend and focuses on her brother, her grey eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ll see what I can do about that.”

The carriage slows to a halt in the town square, and Ella vaults herself out of it before any more questions can be asked of her. The other two clamber out of the carriage after her, much more gracefully. Ella watches Lachlan thank the driver and pet one of the horses as Leila makes her way to her.

“Are you okay?” She asks, frowning. “You’re not acting like yourself.”

“I’m just tired,” Ella lies, shrugging. 

“I’m sure you are,” Leila smirks, nudging her shoulder. “You know, you can--”

“And I have a lot to do today,” Ella interrupts. “So I should be heading back home.”

“You’re not working in the clinic today?”

“No, I have to make more medicines today.”

“Okay. I’ll be at the tea shop if you want to stop by later,” she says, frowning as Lachlan comes to stand next to his sister, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt. Leila turns toward him. “Are you coming with me?”

“I thought I’d walk around town for a bit, get some fresh air. I’ll find my way to your shop later.” He glances at Ella, who has her attention turned toward the crowd on the street. “It was wonderful to see you again, Ella.”

At the sound of her name, she turns back toward him and nods, offering a smile to both of the Lonan’s before she turns quickly and hurries down the street toward the market. 

She wasn’t lying; she did have lots to do today. The medicine cabinet at the clinic was starting to run low, and her own personal stores could use some refilling as well. She makes her way through the familiar stalls in the crowded market, buying ingredients she knows she’s in need of, wishing she had made a list, as she still finds her thoughts pulled back toward Lachlan.

It was impossible to tell what he was thinking this morning, and Leila catching the carriage into town with them thwarted any chance they would have had to speak alone. Ella considers seeking him out at the tea shop later, but Leila would still be there, and she didn’t want to raise any more suspicion by disappearing with Lachlan again.

At her last stop, Ella pays for the remainder of her needed ingredients, and starts the familiar walk back home, still distracted. 

Twice, she almost turns down the wrong street, completely lost in thought. She turns finally onto the correct street, her hands and attention buried in her pockets in search of her keys. Finally finding them, she pulls them from their hiding spot and looks up, stopping dead in her tracks when she sees Lachlan, pacing back and forth outside of her home.

He runs his hand through his light brown hair and visibly sighs, glancing up from his feet to her front door, then both ways down the street. When he sees her, his lips part slightly, then tug into an embarrassed smile.

Immediately, instinctively, Ella smiles back, finding herself already walking toward her unexpected guest. She stands in front of him, playing with her ring as they look silently at each other, both unsure of what to say.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she finally manages, frowning slightly. “How… did Leila tell you where I lived?”

“Oh, um, no. I asked someone in town,” he laughs sheepishly, dropping his gaze back to the street. “That sounds bad, I’m sorry, I just…” he trails off, kicking at a stone on the ground. “I.. wanted to see you again.”

“You did?” She asks, unable to hide her surprise.

“I do,” he says, raising his eyes to hers. “And I thought we should talk about last night.”

“Oh.” Ella tucks her hair behind her ear, shifting in her spot. There it is, she thinks. He does regret it. “Sure.”

“Only if you want to, I just figured it was, um, important,” he continues, pausing as she maneuvers past him, her body just barely brushing against his as she moves to unlock the door. 

She turns back to face him, offering a small smile. “Would you like to come in?”

He nods slowly, following her into her home. She pulls the door shut behind him, pointing to a set of hangers by the door for his cloak, then gesturing to the space in front of them. 

“This is the shop area. Or, it was when it was used as a shop. Now I only use the kitchen down here to make potions and medicines for the clinic,” she explains quickly, pointing to the open door on the opposite wall, feeling suddenly nervous to be alone with him without the confidence-boosting effects of alcohol. 

“It’s a very nice space,” he says, glancing into the doorway to the kitchen, then down the hall toward the back entrance.

“It was my aunt’s.”

“I see.”

“She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Oh.”

Ella blushes furiously, fiddling with her ring. “I’m sorry, you make me nervous,” she admits quietly, dropping her gaze to her hands in front of her.

“I make you nervous?” Lachlan laughs, though not unkindly.

Ella shrugs, his laughter pulling her eyes to his once more. “A little.”

“That’s not my intention,” he says as he holds her gaze, his lips still quirked upward in amusement. She clears her throat, motioning for him to follow her up to the living area.

She had always loved her aunt’s home, so she had made very few changes to it once Vivian moved out. The walls of the living area were soft, light green, with large windows to let in as much natural light as possible. A few different styles and colors of chairs to sit on were gathered around a large and colorful circular rug, and the room itself was filled with almost too many plants and books and artwork, giving it a slightly chaotic feel, and she finds herself repressing the urge to apologize to Lachlan for the mess. 

The kitchen upstairs was seldom used, since the kitchen downstairs was much larger, but it was one of her favorite places to sit. She remembers painting the bright yellow walls with her aunt soon after she moved in, which made the tiny room feel more open and welcoming. The kitchen was connected directly to the living area, only separated by a small, round, wooden dining table with three chairs, pushed against the wall. 

She directs Lachlan to the table, pulling out a chair for him, and immediately sets about making tea. With the kettle started on the stove, she climbs gracelessly onto the counter, sitting up on her knees to poke around the jars of tea leaves on the top shelf.

“I have quite the selection up here, is there a kind of tea you’d prefer?” She pokes around a bit. “I also have some cakes in the bread box over there, but they could be stale by now.”

“You don’t have to go through all this trouble, Ella, I don’t want to burden you.”

She frowns, glancing back at him from her perch on the counter. “You’re not a burden, Lachlan. It’s just tea.”

A frown flits across his features before he licks his lips, offering a shrug. “Whatever you enjoy is fine with me.”

She nods, selecting some black tea, just in case he was only being polite, and climbs back down. “How do you take your tea?”

“Usually with rum, but it feels too early for that.”

“I could use some rum,” she murmurs, pulling a clear bottle from one of the cabinets. “Especially since you want to talk.”

He opens his mouth to respond, only to be cut off by the whistling of the kettle. Ella quickly sets the rum on the table and removes the kettle from heat. She prepares two large mugs of tea, leaving a considerable amount of room for the rum, then brings the cups over to the table and sets one in front of Lachlan.

“I’m sorry for leaving your room this morning,” Ella starts, taking her seat across from him. She watches him pour the liquor into his mug before handing the bottle to her. “I was… I panicked when I woke up, um, naked with my best friend's brother. Leila was right earlier when she said it wasn’t like me to spend the night with someone.”

She pours some rum in her own tea, keeping her eyes on the light amber liquid as she continues. “I was embarrassed, because I had quite a bit to drink, and I was assuming you had as well, and I didn’t want you to have to face me in the morning in case it was the alcohol talking when you invited me to your room.” 

“Ella--”

“Regardless of your feelings about last night, I, um. I want you to know I don’t regret anything.” She glances up at him, at his strong jaw, his bright eyes, his lips she now knows to be incredibly soft, and her face heats underneath her freckles. “I had a really enjoyable evening with you. Even without the sex. Um, but that’s not to say that the sex wasn’t enjoyable, because it was.”

She takes a deep breath and a long drink from her mug, feeling considerably lighter after getting that all off her chest, albeit more embarrassed than she’s ever felt in her life. She sneaks another glance at Lachlan, who sits unreadable in his seat across from her, and her face flushes even more red. “I’m sorry, I just… I wanted you to know I enjoy spending time with you, and I needed to get that out before you said what you needed to, in case you don’t echo the sentiment.”

“You did?” He asks, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

“I did, what?”

“Enjoyed spending time with me.”

“I do enjoy spending time with you.”

Lachlan smiles, the same full, crooked smile that had taken her breath away the night before. “I’m… really happy to hear you say that, Ella,” he says, exhaling as if he had been holding his breath throughout her monologue. He reaches across the table to take her hand in his, and runs his thumb across her knuckles, keeping his eyes on hers.

“In, um, terms of Leila,” Ella stumbles, distracted by the skin contact. “I feel like she has an idea of what happened, I think, but I’d like to tell her anyway. Just… not quite yet.”

Lachlan nods slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

He clears his throat, removing his hand from hers to take another drink from his mug. “Well, you pretty much covered everything I wanted to talk about,” he says, chuckling around the rim of his drink. “I don’t regret anything, either. And I also enjoy spending time with you, even without the sex, which I too agree was enjoyable.”

Ella blushes as she laughs, standing up from the table to rinse out her mug. Lachlan joins her at the sink, setting his drink down on the counter and taking her hands. She melts into his arms as they snake around her waist, her hands settling on his chest.

 “I wouldn’t mind it happening again,” she breathes, her eyes focused solely on his lips.

“Is that so?” He murmurs, leaning down toward her, slowly, deliberately, as if asking for permission. She nods once, tilting her chin up to him, holding her breath as his lips brush against hers. 

It’s gentle, hesitant, as if he’s afraid she’ll slip away from him if he kisses her too hard. Ella pulls herself closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and fisting her hands into his hair. Lachlan moans against her lips as he presses her against the counter, no longer worried about being gentle as desire explodes between them.

All the feelings from last night resurface tenfold, no longer marred by the alcohol in her veins. He lifts her gently, effortlessly, by the waist, setting her on the countertop, allowing her a better angle to further deepen the kiss.

After a while, she pulls back slightly and smiles against his lips; not quite a kiss, but still a refusal to break contact with him. She releases her hold on his hair and lets her hands trail down his arms, resting on his biceps as she wills herself to create some space between them. 

She clears her throat, lifting her gaze to meet his eyes. “I have a room here,” she says, biting her lip to hide her humor. 

Lachlan laughs as he lifts her from the counter, kissing her deeply before carrying her out of the kitchen and toward the bedroom. “I was hoping you might.”

[shcdow]

WHEN  — ｡ ‘✧ 1845. 2nd august. WHERE  —  ｡ ‘✧ the ship’s brig. OPEN TO —  ｡ ‘✧ everyone aboard.

The edge of the musket digs into his ribs. That’s really the only thing wrong with recent events. By the fourth hour of guard duty, again since they’re all undermanned, it’s unpleasant enough to considering ditching his post. Ditch his rifle, too, why not? One might upstage a whole mutiny just to catch a break. What with the wailing, the whimpering, and now the intimate hard-on of a musket in his thigh, sleep doesn’t stand a chance. The deckhand twists again inside his blanket. Why insist upon the gun at all? It’s not as if he couldn’t tear out someone’s ear, needs must. Or, even better, say boo and watch them scatter off. Everyone aboard is hanging by a thread. Lonan doesn’t really take any pleasure in shaking it up, tugging until it breaks      but if it earns him some rest, then so be it.

Honest to hell, this entire thing makes him think back on the neverending night. Good times, all told. At least in unholy darkness you can count on one thing, just the one, but it’s damn near foolproof: sleep. Now the world had woken up again, with all its rable-rousing, childish painting of devils. These people and their revolutions, Gods, how ready they always go at it.

The shadow shifts, torso rising from the floorboards. His feet are pushed into other wall of the corridor, hands pillowed under his head. When he changes position, they arch like rope hinges ready to recoil and tap into the teak. Self-piteous, his gaze cuts to the person he is supposed to:

                                     A. — ⁕ guard ⁕ — your muse supports Dowling.

❝ If I were a betting man, I’d say this brings me less pleasure than it does you. At least your lot only got the one job, huh? Keep mum about Malachy. Now, me? I get all my old duties, and new ones on top of it. ❞ Might be wiser to keep this bite sheathed, lips pulled over the bite. That’s what Iles would advise him. Don’t make a stand until you see where the coup is headed. But that’s bollocks. Where are coups usually headed? It’s never about sides, about thorns. Only about saying the wrong thing in the dark. He tilts his head. Supplicant, supine. ❝ Look, ‘m sorry. The past days were ten lives too many for everyone. But we gotta be civil about it, right? ❞

                            B. — ⁕ move away for ⁕ — your muse supports Estrada.

❝ Five guineas Dowling won’t last a day alive. ❞

[juliandev0rak]

Slow Dance

In which Lysander and Beatrice try something new and only almost start a fire. 

characters: Lysander Lonan (of @leila-of-ravens), Beatrice Viano

pairing: Lysander Lonan x Beatrice Viano / Vianan

words: ~2900

warnings: f l u f f oh my god so much fluff

notes: alternate title- vianan are too in love to focus on their dinner

It’s a brisk afternoon in Umbra, one that has Beatrice wishing she’d brought her gloves. As they walk through the city towards the market, she looks to her right, noting that Lysander is better prepared for the weather with gloves on, a scarf around his neck, and his collar pulled up against the cold. The hand he’s holding is warm but her other, which holds a large wicker basket for their groceries, seems to be turning a bit blue. 

When Lysander notices her shivering he halts his quick walking pace and reaches for the basket. She hands it over gladly and casts a warming charm on her cloak before sliding her hand into her pocket. With the threat of hypothermia halted, she’s much cheerier and swings their entwined hands as they walk. After living here for nearly a year she’s still not used to the cold, but she must admit it has its benefits, like hand holding.

“Do you have the list?” She asks as the bustling market comes into view.

“I memorized it. It felt unnecessary to carry around a slip of paper,” Lysander replies, noticing the brief look of worry in Beatrice’s eyes.

“Well I would like to be able to double check, we haven’t made this recipe before,” She frets, already trying to remember what was on the list she’d written last night. Did they need celery? Or was it carrots? Perhaps they should get both just in case.

“We haven’t made any recipe before.” Lysander’s smile fades as the crowds become more dense around him and Beatrice squeezes his hand gently to focus his attention on her rather than the people around them.

“You’re right,” Beatrice laughs. “We’ll figure it out, we’re both intelligent right? How hard can cooking really be.” 

“You say that, but I recall the last time you tried to cook something the house nearly went up in flames.” He stops in front of a produce stand and gives her a half smile over his shoulder to let her know he’s joking.

“Oh hush, it was just a little smoke,” Beatrice scoffs, dropping his hand so she can rummage through the vegetables.

“A little,” He huffs, remembering the way they’d had to air out the house after, the both of them running around to open windows and doors. Once the smoke had cleared the house had been freezing cold from the winter air, and the two of them had sat in front of the fireplace for hours to get warm again. It’s a fond memory now that he thinks about it, but one he’d prefer not to repeat. 

Neither of them have any cooking skill, Lysander from a life lived with servants and a cook, and Beatrice from lack of interest (and a fair amount of kitchen mishaps). But, like many things over the last few years, they’d decided to learn together. They’d found an easy recipe for roast chicken in a book, something that claims to be “so simple a beginner can do it”. 

“Did you know that onions are one of the oldest known vegetables? According to historical records they’ve been cultivated for thousands of years.” Lysander watches as Beatrice places onions into the basket. She carefully lifts them up to inspect them, though if she’s being honest she has no idea what she’s looking for. Do onions grow ripe?

“I didn’t know that,” Beatrice replies, excited as always to learn something new. “Do you know why cutting onions causes tears? It’s because they release an invisible gas which irritates the eye.” 

“I’ve never cut an onion before, I didn’t know they did that.” Lysander starts gathering potatoes into the basket, carefully counting out the amount they need. “I suppose we’ll need a handkerchief on hand during our cooking, just in case.”

“I’ll lend you mine,” Beatrice jokes, reaching into her pocket to flash her monogrammed handkerchief in his direction. The monogram catches her eye, it still has the letter V on it and she thinks, with a smile, that she should probably replace it with her new last name. 

“That is most kind of you, Beatrice, but I hope neither of us are brought to tears over this dinner.” He gives her another half smile then turns to pay for the vegetables. They spend the rest of the shopping trip trading facts and stories about cooking. She tells him about the time she tried to cook for her aunt as a surprise and somehow got a metal pot stuck to the ceiling, and he tells her how he tried to bake a cake with Leila and they used salt instead of sugar.

“I usually leave the baking to Leith,” He laughs. The comment reminds Beatrice of how wonderful it is that she’s part of this family now too. She has her own stories with Leila and Leith, and even Lachlan. As she listens to Lysander talk about his family with that affectionate glint in his eye, she feels very lucky to be included.

By the time they leave the market it’s even colder out and it looks like snow is on the way, so they hurry home. Lysander grows more at ease the further they get from the market, so while the grocery basket is heavier the mood is lighter. Beatrice stays close to his side as they walk the few blocks home, and the chill wintery air doesn’t bother her in the slightest. 

Lorcan greets them at the door, nearly knocking Beatrice over in his haste to greet her. She pets him between his ears and grabs the basket from Lysander so he can greet the dog. As Lysander pets him, Beatrice places the basket down and unlatches her cloak before reaching to help Lysander with his outerwear. Her hands gently unwind the scarf from around his neck and he uses her proximity as an excuse to kiss her cheek. 

Beatrice smiles and kisses his cheek in return before reaching to help him out of his coat. When everything is put away in its place she makes her way to the kitchen where Lysander is busy unpacking the groceries. He carefully lines everything up on the counter, organizing the vegetables by size and color. Beatrice smiles at his focused expression, holding back a laugh as he holds two carrots up to compare them so he can get the order exactly right. Finally, she decides she needs to interrupt him before he starts organizing grains of salt.

“So, where do we begin?” She wraps an arm around the top of his shoulders as she leans over to read the recipe in the book laid out before them. It’s quite a large block of text, and she hopes they’ll be able to pull this off. 

“We need to get the oven heated first, and boil some water for the potatoes,” Lysander dictates. 

“That sounds simple enough! You can start the fire and I’ll get the water heated in no time.” Beatrice turns to find a pot and walks over to the faucet to fill it with water.

“Perhaps we should do this without magic?” Lysander suggests, raising an eyebrow as he watches her put her hands on the side of the pot to heat it with magic.

“I think we need every advantage we can get, my dear.” She focuses heat into her hands and the water begins bubbling almost immediately. She’s always been good with water, but heating her hands too hot aggravates her scar, so she’ll have to settle for a simmer as a head start.

“We might as well have you heat the chicken with your hands,” Lysander jokes as he starts the fire in the oven. She sets the pot down on the stove top to bring it to a full boil then turns to gently ruffle the front of his hair to brush it out of his eyes. His hair has gotten a bit longer than he usually keeps it, but Beatrice thinks it suits him. 

“That might be how the fire started last time,” She says, chagrined. “I was too impatient to wait for the stove to heat up.”

“We’ll just have to find a way to pass the time while we wait then,” He says, pulling her into his arms. She wraps her arms around his waist and smiles as his lips meet hers. They kiss for a moment, warmed by the steam rising from the stove. Beatrice pulls away first, twisting out of his embrace with a grin.

“We should prepare the vegetables, there’s a lot more to do. Dinner now, kissing later.” She tries to take a step away but Lysander reaches for her shoulder, keeping her in place as he leans down to her again.

“Is that a promise?” Lysander teases, pressing one last kiss to her cheek.

Beatrice leans up to whisper in his ear, “Of course it is.” She pulls away, “Now help me chop these vegetables or we’ll never get this dinner done.”

She hands him a carrot and picks up an onion, trying to figure out the best way to cut it. The recipe said to dice them, and she does her best to follow those instructions. Her eyes start to water as soon as she cuts into the onion, and a single tear rolls down the side of her face. She wipes her eye on her sleeve and sets the knife down.

“Are you alright, Beatrice?” Lysander sets his knife down next to hers and reaches for the side of her face, turning her towards him.

“Yes, I’m fine, it’s just the onions. Remember how I told you they irritate the eye?” She tries to resist the urge to rub at her eyes, knowing that’ll just hurt them more. He seems satisfied by her answer and turns back to his task. 

“What a peculiar vegetable,” He mutters and Beatrice laughs.

“Cooking is dangerous.” 

“It is when you do it,” Lysander says, placing his neatly chopped carrot into a bowl. He reaches for another, not noticing Beatrice scowling at him. He looks so intently focused on his task again that she has no choice but to smile again at the crease in his forehead and the way he bites his lip slightly in concentration.

Half an hour later they’re placing the chicken into the oven. There’s been a distinct lack of kitchen mishaps so far and Beatrice is feeling quite proud of herself. She turns to Lysander with a grin on her face as he shuts the oven door, “We did it!” 

“Technically we haven’t succeeded yet, it still has to cook,” He says and she reaches a finger to his lips to shush him.

“Think positively, darling.” Beatrice leans up to give him a quick peck on the lips. They go to set the table next, deciding to sit in the formal dining room instead of the kitchen table to make things more fancy. Beatrice sets out silverware as Lysander folds napkins. He seems to be spending a long time folding them, and when Beatrice looks over she notices he’s folded the cloth into the shape of a bird.

“Where on earth did you learn to do that?” She asks, “You’re full of surprises.” 

“I read about it in a book once.” Lysander straightens the edge of the napkin and takes a step back, inspecting his work like an artist.

“Well, you’ve always been good with your hands...” Beatrice smirks over her shoulder at him as she returns to the kitchen, leaving Lysander to stare after her incredulously. He follows her a moment later and finds her sitting perched on the kitchen table, looking as if she was waiting for him. 

“You’ve become an incurable flirt, Beatrice.” Lysander takes a step towards her, his arms going around her waist. She giggles lightly and leans in to kiss the corner of his jaw.

“I’ve always been like this, you just weren’t paying attention.” 

“That is probably true,” He laughs, leaning down towards her, “but I certainly notice you now.” 

“You do.” Beatrice leans forward to rest her forehead against his and he sighs, gently winding his hand into her hair.

“I do.” 

Lysander leans in to kiss her then, and she melts into it as he pulls her closer. When he pulls away they stay with their heads pressed together, and she breathes in his familiar scent of earl grey. He’s still got his arms around her and after a moment, he starts to sway with her as if they’re dancing. 

He steps back from the table and offers her his hand, “May I have this dance, Mrs. Lonan?” 

She takes the offered hand and smiles, “Why of course you may.”

Beatrice gets down from the table and straightens her posture to the proper waltz position and Lysander echoes her movement as he begins to lead them in a circle around the kitchen. Despite the kitchen being quite spacious Beatrice nearly runs into a table as he spins her, the two focused on each other rather than their surroundings. Though they don’t have any music playing, she thinks dancing in the kitchen is much preferable to dancing in a ballroom. After a few slow turns about the room they stop, dizzy and a bit out of breath from laughter. 

Beatrice closes the distance between them again, her lips pressing to his in a more fervent kiss than before. Lysander kisses her back as he gently pushes her against the wall by the door. She hooks her leg around his to pull him even closer and he opens his mouth in surprise, giving her the perfect opportunity to deepen the kiss. She runs her hands over his shoulders, careful not to touch his back, and wishes she could feel his soft skin instead of the fabric of his shirt. 

Lysander seems to have the same idea and he reaches to untuck her sweater from her skirt. His warm hands make their way up her cold skin, one moving up her spine, the other ghosting up the side of her waist. Her hands reach for the buttons of his shirt and she manages to undo the top few without breaking the kiss. His fingers just ghost under the curve of her breast before he suddenly pulls away, nearly biting her tongue in his haste. She looks at him in confusion as he stares around the room as if searching for something. 

“Beatrice, is the chicken burning?”

“We didn’t set a timer!” Beatrice rushes out of his arms and across the kitchen. When she opens the door of the oven she’s met with a puff of smoke. 

“Is it burnt?” Lysander peers over her shoulder. When the smoke clears they find the chicken is only the slightest bit burnt, the vegetables only a little blackened. “I think that’s salvageable.”

“I’m cursed.” Beatrice throws her arms in the air to punctuate her statement, trying not to be too disappointed that the meal hadn’t turned out perfectly. 

Lysander places the chicken on the counter to cool a bit and pulls her into a hug, resting his head on her shoulder. “I think it’s a perfectly acceptable first attempt.” 

“You’re distracting,” She huffs, but hugs him back.

Though the meal is a bit overcooked, they’re proud of the dinner they’ve made together. The wine is good, the conversation even better, and by the time their plates are cleared Beatrice is feeling better about the success of the meal. She regards Lysander across the table from her and sets her glass down so she can take his hand. 

“We make a pretty great team,” She smiles.

“I suppose that’s why I married you.” Lysander replies, his thumb running a gentle circle over hers.

“For my cooking skills?” Beatrice teases.

“Definitely not.” He responds so quickly that Beatrice can’t help but laugh. They get up to wash the mountain of dishes together, Beatrice washing and Lysander drying. As they work Beatrice can’t help but hum under her breath, the happiness bubbling out of her like the soap she’s using. 

“So why did you marry me then?” Beatrice asks as they start to put the dishes away.

“I love you, why wouldn’t I marry you?” Lysander looks a bit confused at her question, she finds his befuddlement entirely too endearing. He puts the last of the cutlery away and turns to look at her, watching as face blushes pink.

“That’s a good reason to marry someone.” Her voice has gone quiet with affection as she meets his dark eyes with her own.

Lysander takes a step towards her and pulls her in by the waist, “Why did you marry me?”

“You already know,” She murmurs.

“It’s always nice to hear it again,” He prompts her, and she doesn’t need to be convinced. She’ll gladly tell him how she feels about him, she never wants to stop reminding him.

“Because I love you, of course.” She smiles as he leans in to kiss her cheek.

“That is indeed a very good reason to marry someone.”

[leannlyre]

(subject to edits)

Lynara: Alchemist

- it is possible to convince her to stop looking for a cure

- she has a golden heart, but the fear of danger has the potential to make this a tragedy. this is a horrible combination.

- allies to lovers, but perhaps to enemies in bad ending

- if you push her too far, you lead to a bad ending. it’s the balance.

- more vanilla, more sweet love

Lonan: The Hound

- a tragedy, methinks… and no good and bad ending either but on a spectrum. on one hand it goes down like her with ex-partner. on the other it goes like her with leander.

- then this could allow your personality to be more flexible here: a pushover or a manipulator

- darker themed, for those who like something other than vanilla healthy relationships

Lyeth: The Unnamed

- i have a “kuras’ nurse” au. it’ll never see the day

- very sweet with a healthy amount of fear, but thats just ara ara vibes. nothing like vere

- potential dead endings if you let them go off the rails, however

- in the bad ending they’ll swear to hell they will get you back

- for those who like love from a god/immortal, mystery love interests

a storyline for lyeth i am entertaining:

they have a malicious god pursuing them (akin to antagonists on each li’s route) and now you’re in the picture, he is targeting on you. when the first sign on that will show, how do you two best contend with that? there are no right answers but compromises.

if your relationship with kuras is good, he will have a flavour quote that reveals the direness of the illness.

in a bad ending they normally smile and say they’ll come to terms with this, but if you screw up things bad, they can be driven to a despaired rage (this is like neutral route variations in undertale)

Question for anyone who has a Touchstarved MC (or already has an LI OC)! What would they be like as a love interest? What would their route be like (slow burn, whirlwind, enemies to lovers, friends with benefits, etc)? What kind of people are they usually attracted to? What would lead to their good end? What would lead to their bad end?

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

so I’m finishing the lonansona butterfly pavilion scene that I started in 2020 &&&

Harrison takes this as an opportunity. They’ve been apart so long he’s forgotten how startlingly pretty Lonan is in person, like a moving statue. His skin is almost opalescent in the moonlight, a patch near his back blotted lilac though the mark is less of an imperfection and more like watercolour granulation—something long admired in the inconsistency. His hair doesn’t move the way Harrison has expected it to, but even this isn’t a bad thing—it juts from his scalp briefly like an accordion, and then back down. Does he prefer it like that now? Cropped to his scalp like blunt grass.

[nortain]

maiara  omaira  rowena   ---   silver,  telky

maia  grew  up  in  the  silver  courts,  as  house  rowena  is  closely  related  to  house  jacos   ---   the  house  of  the  late  queen  coriane.  in  fact,  maia’s  mother  was  cousins  with  coriane  and  julian;  they  shared  the  same  grandparents.  maia  and  her  older  brother,  regulus,  and  their  younger  twin  brother  and  sister,  paxton  and  sereia,  were  as  thick  as  thieves  with  the  young  princes  growing  up.  as  soon  as  maia  became  aware  of  the  scarlet  guard  operating  within  the  palace,  she  joined  their  ranks.  she  was  sentenced  to  death  when  maven  became  king,  but  escaped  with  mare  and  cal  after  cal  insisted  they  go  back  for  her.  surprisingly,  most  of  the  newbloods  like  maia,  as  she’s  sweet  and  personable. 

enya  aislin  fang   ---   newblood,  shifter

enya  was  able  to  cleverly  avoid  the  war  by  never  keeping  one  face,  or  one  name,  for  too  long.  to  this  day,  she  doesn’t  know  how  mare  and  cal  tracked  her  down.  after  she  and  her  mother  got  back  -  to  -  back  letters  thanking  them  for  their  service  for  enya’s  father  and  older  brother,  lonan,  enya’s  mother  packed  what  little  she  had  to  give  her  and  told  enya  to  use  her  gift  to  hide.  hide  and  survive.  enya  sometimes  thinks  she  prefers  life  in  canine  form.  people  are  so  tiring  and  complicated.  whenever  enya  can’t  handle  the  arguing  at  the  newblood  base  anymore,  she  shifts  into  a  large,  black  dog   (   or,  sometimes,  a  hawk   )   and  stalks  away  from  the  camp  for  a  few  hours  of  peace.

emereo  cenric  nerezza   ---   newblood,  seer 

reo  grew  up  in  a  village  that  even  the  silver  “gods”  were  terrified  to  step  foot  into.  the  small  vilage  named  circonia  sits  at  the  top  of  rocky  cliffs  that  overlook  and  unforgiving  ocean.  they  call  it  the  land  of  no  return  because  there’s  only  one  way  in  and  out   ---   the  other  sides  of  circonia  are  loomed  over  by  tall,  mean  looking  mountains.  and  the  circonians  believe  in  magic  and  myth  and  gods  even  older  than  the  silvers,  gods  that  are  cruel  and  vengeful.  thanks  to  the  silvers  fear  of  his  village,  reo  was  able  to  avoid  being  enlisted  into  the  war.  the  silvers  haven’t  stepped  foot  on  circonian  ground  since  before  the  war  began.  reo  only  left  with  mare  at  his  nana’s  urging.

[dustfeather-sphynx]

im not around on the fr scene much but after the seed and the sickness stuff i decided to write a letter. and then a few more. this is all of them compiled together in one post!

@unkorea @deadlanddisciple @jollyroger-fr @fusefr @majestyrising i just kinda pinged anyone who i remembered like getting lore? /shrug

To Mother and Father,

I apologize that I have not been able to write as much as I have wished. We have been busy--mercenaries are in great demand these past few months. Kalea would have written a letter as well, but she is exhausted. Our last job took a considerable toll on her.

It came to her in sudden pulses of awareness. A howl, long and loud, violently cut short. A blur of green rushing past her vision. The sudden panic becoming prickling needles under her skin, bubbling fear demanding release. She lunged forward, tearing down the vines that threatened to entangle her sister, teeth bared in distress and anger.

It seems to me that Sornieth is falling apart. I do not know what you have learned, but we have traced our way across Sornieth wherever we are needed and have seen devastation long and far. A maelstrom decimated the Sea, for days the wind in the Plateau was still, rebellions by the Furnace--we have even heard rumors that an Emperor has been making its way across the Lightweaver's territory.

She sensed the magic radiating off of Kalea--it was hot and nearly painful to be standing next to, sparks of energy sizzling off of the other imperial. She saw what Kalea was fixated on--a writhing mass of vines several yards away, flashes of midnight colored fur and steel whirling, the growling and snapping of the hounds being cut short as they fell one by one. Kalea's cry was full of anguish as she charged forward--"Mom!"

But the gravest news is that of armistice being shattered. Do you truly think we will go to war now? We are Plague--we survive, we spread, we thrive--and yet it seems like war now would only serve to kill us quicker. War now, when various flights prepare for war over petty slights? War now, when the beastclans wait to pick at our carcasses? War now, when the Shade even still continues to infect and spread across Sornieth?

The blade was swift and true--an old familiar extension of the wildclaw. Where it once had slew creatures of Shade, now it carved through thorny vines, pestilence pulsing through the plants. Mellori's snarl was cut off in a sudden gasp as a vine shot forward, piercing her side. She managed to whirl, cut it loose before it could grow more, but the damage was still done. Another vine surged forth, and then another, and then another--

I know it is unbecoming of me, to feel fear. I know it is unbecoming of me, a child of Plague, a daughter of the Bone Castle, to feel fear gnaw at me. And yet I am afraid. I wish I was home--an oddity, as home was always both the Castle and wherever the Pack may have roamed, and yet I miss the security of the flesh and bone halls. It is childish, is it not?

Light blinded Mellori as she stumbled, a shrill cry causing her ears to ache. Magic whirled around her, the vines falling away as they shriveled. The magic burned--a combination of her native Plague but also of shadow and arcane--but the heat died down to a comforting warmth as a large figure stood over her, teeth bared. A confused thought surfaced in the wildclaw's head, and her voice was quiet as she pleaded softly, "You must run. Please, leave me. It's not safe here, I can't lose you here, please go to the Bone Castle, please--"

Kyrja could sense the magic pouring off of her sister--it was more than Kyrja had ever seen her summon, more than Kyrja realized she could have summoned. An endless font of magic swelling forth from her twin as she screamed in grief and anger. Mellori's quiet words only served to further cause Kalea panic and the magic reached an almost blistering heat, cause Kyrja's fur to itch.

"Kalea. Kalea! Let me!" Kyrja cried over her sister's wailing, and Kalea shifted only to let Kyrja gently grab Mellori in her jaws. For a few moments, it seemed like the influence of the First Seed would break through and destroy them all, but Kalea's magic held it at bay, if only for moments.

"We must go." Kyrja said quietly, meeting her sister's gaze. The other imperial had an expression of grief, anger, exhaustion tracing her features and it made Kyrja's heart ache. The imperials took off, wings beating at the same time as the world seemed to no longer be holding its breath, rushing in to fill the gap that Kalea's magic had punched into the surrounding area.

They left the job unfinished, something they had never done before.

It does not matter anyways, even if I wanted to return home now. Kalea is exhausted still, the toll taken on our previous job being greater than any of us expected. And for Mellori...she is unwell. We are certainly in no shape to make the journey through the Wastelands to the Bone Castle, and yet...

But we are Plague, we will survive. So it is confusing why I am afraid for the Pack. Why do I wish to be home, in the safety of the Queen's influence, far from any conflicts Sornieth may be facing? Why can I not control the fear that gnaws at me? The fear that settles deep into my bones, the fear that coils at the base of my spine and sends shivers through my body. It is a feeling I am unfamiliar with. A feeling I do not like.

I miss you both. I love you both.

With all my love, Kyrja.

Plague dragons were told to master their fear.

It was the first lesson she learned--that fear was useful when wielded properly--able to pinpoint the location of a predator, heightening sense to allow for swift manuevers and quick strikes. But fear was also equally dangerous. It blinded, consumed, ate away at a dragon until they were nothing more than prey for others.

Kyrja was deeply, deeply afraid.

Grandmother,

I have not written often to you, and for this I am sorry. Kalea mostly does much of the writing to you, but she has not been well recently. Our recent job has left Kalea exhausted, and she has spent much of her time slumbering. I have made sure she still eats and drinks, and she is healthy beyond her fatigue.  

I write to you for ultimately selfish reasons, I suppose. I just wanted someone to speak with, perhaps, someone for advice. I know few dragons who know more magic than yourself, and I need help. The last job we had--it went badly, Grandmother. We were enlisted on the spot to help deal with an incident in Plague, and it went badly.

Grandmother, I'm so afraid.

Kalea stirred briefly, eyes blinking open wearily. "Kyrja..." She whined, and the larger imperial rushed to her sister's side. "What happened...?"

"We were attacked, Kallie." Kyrja whispered softly, as if speaking too loudly would harm her twin. "The Armistice broke, and we were hired to help contain some of the damages. The magic involved..." She drifted off.

"I don't hear the Pack..." Kalea said softly, "Are they well?"

Kyrja kept her voice steady. "Mom's gone hunting with them." She lied, and Kalea let out a peaceful sigh as she slipped back asleep.

I've never seen any dragon expel so much magic before. Kalea was like a star readying to burst--I was afraid she'd burn up, tear herself with all the magic she was giving off. And now she's near comatose, and I don't know what to do. She breathes, but she sleeps and I don't know if she'll recover. I don't have the ability to take her to a healer, we can't travel--

"Kalea! Don't overexert yourself," Kyrja said, her voice strained. Her sister staggered upright, trying to make herself stand, but simply couldn't hold herself up. She returned to her curled up position, letting out an annoyed sigh.

This time, Kalea was awake for more than a few minutes, able to eat some of the carcass that Kyrja had managed to drag back. She looked at Kyrja steadily as she finished--Kyrja noticed that she'd only had a handful of bites--before Kalea said, "Are you okay?"

Kyrja paused. She wasn't--not entirely, feeling like part of her was left bleeding on the sands of the Wasteland. She was weary and hungry and terrified--but Kalea couldn't know. Not yet. Not until she was stronger.

"Yes, I am."

I don't even know if this will reach you, and I suppose it is childish of me to reach out to my Grandmother, like a hatchling grasping at their mother's wings for attention. I just don't want to be alone anymore.

-Kyrja.

I don't know how to stop the bleeding it won't stop it won't stop it won't stop it won't stop

---

Her breathing is settled, thank the gods. I was so worried...

I'm glad my training from my childhood came so easily to the forefront of my mind. I'm no healer, but at least I was able to prevent her from bleeding out. Gods, I don't know what I would have done if she had died--

No, don't think about that.

---

There's only a handful of the Pack left. Almost all of the Steelhounds were decimated by the vines. Most of the wraith-hounds survived, taking more intangiable forms, but even then some of them were drowned out by the sheer Nature magic that permeated the area.

Gear is dead. Wire spends much of their time by Kalea's side. The Birds, as Kalea likes to call them, spends their time by Mellori. Lark took considerable damage, though I've patched her up as best as I can. Lonan is barely alive--although he seems as unconcerned as he can be. Much of him has faded away to a more spectral shape anyways. It seems he had more umbra wolf in him than anyone of us could have realized.

I'll have to go hunting soon.

---

Leaving Mom and Kalea alone was...terrifying. Linnet and a few of the hounds accompanied me, but much of what's left the Pack stayed to guard them. The scent of blood is still thick--Gods, any predator or scavenger could simply come along and kill us...

Stop being so afraid. You're Plague, dammit. You survive.

---

Plaguebringer must be looking out for us. Between myself and a few of the Packmembers, we managed to find a nest of dappled cluckers. They'll keep us going for a few more days at least. Kalea's eating, and I've been struggling to get Mom to eat.

---

I was right.

A scavenger--a few mirrors, likely clanless nomads searching for a larger pack to join--came across the scent trail. Unfortunately for them, they didn't expect to face an imperial at the end of it. They've left numerous injuries, but they're mild compared to what's happening to Mom and Kalea.

It seems silly--I know the Plaguebringer truly has little stake in our survival--but I left parts of the carcass out as an offering. I'm becoming more like a child every day.

My parents would be disappointed.

---

My name is Valkyrie, daughter of the Bone Castle. If you find this, please help me. I can't do this alone.

[kat-of-the-night]

oh boi

So… some quick context for everyone else, Lonan was a character unit I created for a Fire Emblem DnD game me and my friends were cooking up. Long story short it kiiiinda fell through :’) but!!! I got a basic new story concept and 6+ new kids out of the deal 

so really 

who is the real winner here 

(its me)

(unfinished headshot doodle)

Lonan is a young, rebellious dark mage dealing with a rather unpleasant curse that leads to rather unpleasant days. High-key chaotic neutral. Widely despised by every other unit of mine. Somehow landed himself the position of retainer to the kingdom’s crown prince, a career he really didn’t want. Generally has no control over his life, quite literally.

anyway uhh i love him

I’m putting these under read more because yOU SENT LIKE A TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND OF THEM

On a scale of “is occasionally forced to bathe” to “Instagram model with sponsors to hoe for” how involved is your OC’s Skincare routine?

Pretty close to an instagram model. He takes long baths and steals soaps and fantasy skincare products from his cousin who hates him. Lonan grew up in a literal shack in the woods, so when he finally moves to civilization (aka to the capital of the kingdom) he discovers that, yes, regularly bathing CAN be a thing. Had to be physically restrained from taking a bath every single day.

What are your OC’s food preferences (flavors/textures/spiciness/calories/ when and how they eat) and how did they get that way?

Uhhh without getting too detailed, I see him liking to keep it basic. Meat, vegetables, grains, and the occasional fruit. His diet growing up was incredibly basic, so he doesn’t handle complex or rich foods very well. Definitely nothing spicy, he couldn’t take it. Likes bread a whole lot.

Would eat a lot of apples just to be That Guy.

On a scale of “Complete and Justified nervous breakdown” to “Conquer The Entire Galaxy and become an Immortal God-Emperor”, how well would your OC handle being abducted by Aliens?

What a weird question, to which the answer is- not very well, my dude. Not because they’re weird-looking creatures or anything. He lives in a fantasy world and sometimes other species just Be Like That. He would be… reasonably freaked out? Yeah. Escape plan would likely include blowing stuff up.

What song is 100% guaranteed to get your OC beyond turnt and will be sung loudly and embarrassingly, either in public or the shower?

Take Me Home Country Roads and Bad Reputation. Duality of man.

What perfectly-normal-to-them-thing does your OC do that confuses/pisses off/terrifies their neighbors?

Existing. He is a very confusing and irritating enigma in general.

How often does your OC “zone out” or do things on autopilot and how severe have the problems that have arisen from that been?

Rarely, he's pretty alert and in the moment. He only zones out when he's bored and unable to do anything about it. As for things on autopilot… well, let’s just say sometimes he's locked out of the cockpit. And it usually ends up absolutely not excellent.

What’s the trashiest item in your OC’s wardrobe, when was the last time they wore it and why do they still have it?

Silver rings in an assortment of shapes predominately featuring skulls. He slips them on occasionally if he's feeling it, but they're mainly an impulsive and impromptu collection. Trashy? Depends. Tacky as hell? Definitely.

What’s your OC smell like?  no, not that “Vanilla and Anxiety” evocative stuff, realistically.  Body odor? what have they been touching all day? When was their last shower? Did they put on any kind of artificial scent?

Stolen beauty products smh

SLAMS FIST ON TABLE he smells good and clean because he actually takes care of himself and LIKES IT and everyone else can heck off

Probably has some sort of fragrance because he steals from his very feminine cousin. Critiques her on her shampoo selection and wants her to stop buying all that cherry blossom-scented crud. She isn’t happy and he is walking a dangerous line with her. 

Besides that, his day is… varied. Little to no activity for most of it. Touches old parchments and books a lot…? Can people smell like books? Unclear. Catch him later in the evening when he’s sparring and (unwillingly) studying the way of the blade and he’s probably not so fresh then.

[leechobsessed]

Last Night

Ella reflects on what (and who) she did last night.

characters: Ella Sagen, Lachlan Lonan, Leila Lonan (of @leila-of-ravens) pairing: Ella Sagen x Lachlan Lonan / Logen words: ~2k warnings: mentions of alcohol, implied sexual activities

etre bleu series, previous chapter

There are three things Ella immediately notices when she wakes up.

One, she is hungover. Not hungover, but she can tell she had one too many drinks the night before from the throbbing in her temples and the sandpaper feel of her mouth.

Two, this is… not her bed. As she blinks the sleep from her eyes, she recognizes the soft and luxurious material of the sheets as those custom of the palace bedrooms. But these are not her sheets, and this is not her room.

Three, she is not alone.

From behind her, she can hear the soft breathing of the other person, feel their fingertips brushing against the bare skin of her back. The contact of their skin against hers brings a flood of memories from the night before; dancing, flirting, kissing, other things, all with—

Lachlan.

Ella’s eyes fly fully open as her mind races through the events that transpired the night before, trying to figure out how, why, she would allow herself to get drunk and fall into bed with someone she just met, let alone her best friend's brother.

Groaning internally, she pulls herself out of bed as carefully as she can and begins to silently collect her clothing from the trail that leads to the bed from the door. 

The curtains are open slightly, letting in just enough light for her to search for her belongings that have been scattered about the room. Next to the bed she finds her underwear, her dress thrown over a chair a few paces away, her shoes leaning against each other next to the door. The pieces of Lachlan’s costume follow a similar pattern, highlighting the short path they took to fall into bed. 

She quickly pulls her underwear on, grabbing his thin white shirt from the floor and pulling it over her naked body, not wanting to wrestle herself back into her dress and risk the noise waking him up.

After collecting any remaining dignity she can find on her way to the door, she allows herself a moment to glance back at Lachlan, who is still sleeping peacefully, his body turned toward her, his hand stretched toward the side of the bed she had just vacated. 

The sight of him makes her breath catch the same way it did the night before. His light brown hair is tousled just so, his eyebrows are pulled together fractionally, his lips parted ever so slightly. The sheet is draped over his hips, leaving his strong arms and shoulders exposed. 

He is, without a doubt, the most attractive man she’s ever seen. 

Blushing furiously, she hurries out of the room before he can wake up and catch her starting. 

She pulls the door shut gently behind her, exhaling fully once in the hall. Ella peers both ways down the hallway before setting off toward her room, her pace just shy of a run, hoping to avoid seeing anyone on her way. Much to her relief, this wing of the palace is empty this early in the morning, and she makes it to her room without being spotted. 

Once safely inside, she throws the clothing in her arms onto the floor before flopping gracelessly onto her bed, covering her face with both hands. 

“Gods, what was I thinking?” She groans, fisting her hands in her mess of chestnut waves, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

If she was being honest with herself, she wasn’t sure she had been thinking much at all last night. She was usually cautious and careful, normally one to feel things out before rushing into anything, but from the moment their eyes met there was this… pull. A spark, an undeniable attraction. 

Until last night, she thought it was something that only happened in romance novels. 

But there she was, completely transfixed by a man she had just met, blushing like a teenager every time he looked at her, intentionally flirting back, melting into his touch, into his arms, into his kiss. 

And then there she was, falling shamelessly into bed with him, and shamefully sneaking out the next morning. 

Ella pulls her hands from her hair and sits upright, her cheeks burning. She jumps off the bed and stomps over to the vanity to start to wash the previous night off of her, to try to regain some semblance of composure. 

She leans on her hands, staring at her reflection in the mirror; her hair is more wild than usual, her lips slightly chapped, her cheeks flushed pink beneath her freckles. 

She was sure Lachlan would understand why she left him this morning. They both had quite a bit to drink at the party, they had just met, and it didn’t mean anything. And, to state the obvious once more, he was Leila’s brother, and she was her best friend. 

She quickly conjures water into the small bowl in front of her, making it as cold as she can stand and splashes it onto her face, praying the chill will quell the blush that seems to be permanently plastered across her cheekbones. 

She watches the water drip off her nose and chin and back into the bowl, trying to push the thoughts of Lachlan from her mind. Every time she finds her thoughts drifting back to him — to his eyes, to his hands, his arms, his chest, his lips, his fingers — she splashes herself with more water, which does nothing to cast him from her mind, only succeeding in leaving her shirt soaked. 

“Gods, pull yourself together,” she mumbles, reaching for a towel just as someone knocks lightly at her door. 

Embarrassed at the fact her first hope is that it’s Lachlan on the other side of the door, she sets the towel down and frantically searches the wardrobe for something to quickly slip on to cover up the fact she’s still practically naked. 

“One moment,” she calls as a second knock comes, slipping on a long robe as she hurries to pull open the door. “Oh, Leila.”

“Oh, Ella,” Leila teases, leaning against the doorframe, her gray eyes alight with mischief. “You seem disappointed. Were you expecting someone else?”

Ella clears her throat, wrapping her robe around her more tightly, leaving her arms crossed over her chest. “Did you need something?”

“Well, I didn’t get a chance to see you last night, but I figured if I found you here this morning, I would have to believe you made it to the masquerade.”

“The word of your fiancé wasn’t enough?”

Leila waves her off. “Not the point.”

Ella raises an eyebrow. “You’re very chipper for someone who isn’t a morning person”

“And you’re rather dour for someone who is.” Leila retorts, smirking. 

“I, um, I may be a touch hungover,” Ella offers quickly, tucking her hair back behind her ear. 

“I figured that may be the case. Luckily for you, I have something to help with that lined up at breakfast.”

“Breakfast? Right now?”

“Soon. Nadia has asked breakfast to be brought out to her private veranda, and requested we all join her there. I can wait and walk down with you if you’d like?”

Ella shakes her head. “No, I know the way. I need to freshen up a bit first.”

“Yes, attending breakfast at the palace wearing only a linen shirt wouldn’t quite fit the standards set forth by the countess,” Leila says, still smirking. She stands on her tiptoes, trying to peer over Ella’s frame and into the room behind her before dropping back onto the flats of her feet. She leans forward, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Is he still in there?” 

“Who?” Ella asks, glancing behind her, her brows pulled together in confusion.

“The man whose shirt you’re wearing.”

Ella blushes, pushing Leila out of the doorway and pulling the door closed. “I’ll see you down there,” she says, retreating back into the room, leaving Leila laughing in the hallway. 

She could only assume the breakfast invitation was extended to both the Lonan brothers as well, and the thought of seeing Lachlan again so soon sets her cheeks and ears burning. 

Ella sits back down at the vanity, quickly grabbing a brush to try to tame her hair. As she yanks the brush through the curls, she hears something metal hit the floor. Confused, she glances at the brush before turning to look at the floor, frowning at the gold and emerald hairpin lying beneath her. 

She combs her fingers through her hair, looking for the rest that she had started the night with, humming when she doesn’t find any more. Accepting they were probably lost while she danced or when she removed her mask, she finishes brushing her hair, making a mental note to apologize to the countess for losing them. Once her hair has been dealt with, she heads to the wardrobe to find something more suitable than just a shirt to wear to breakfast. 

Lips pursed and hands on her hips, she surveys the clothing hanging in the wardrobe. Like every piece of clothing ever gifted to her by the countess, all of the dresses are beautiful and expensive, flattering to her figure, but not exactly her style. 

She pulls at the skirt of one of the dresses, absentmindedly wondering if Lachlan would like the blue or the purple, or if he’d prefer the neckline of this one over that one. 

As she catches onto her train of thought she freezes, reminding herself again that he was drunk last night, and he could care less what she chose to wear in the light of day. 

Letting out a frustrated huff of air, she pulls one of the more simple dresses from the hanger, a deep maroon dress, adorned with small gold details around the neck, waist, and ends of the long sleeves. She slips quickly out of Lachlan’s shirt and into the dress, sighing again as she examines herself in the mirror. 

She tucks a strand of hair back behind her ears, frowning at her reflection. He had called her beautiful, more than once, and she was sure the volume of alcohol he had consumed made that seem like a fact to him. Either that or he was trying to charm her into bed. 

Either way, it worked, she thinks, groaning. 

But the way he looked at her… the way he touched her… that couldn’t have all been the alcohol's doing. 

And... she hoped it wasn’t. 

She exhales, fiddling with her ring. There was just something about him; his charisma, this magnetism, a genuineness that she found irresistible. She wanted to find any excuse she could to spend more time with him, to get to know more about him, everything about him. And she wanted him to know that she found him desirable in more ways than just sexually. 

Although the sex was… phenomenal. 

Blushing, she pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes. 

All she can hope is that he feels the same. 

And that Leila won’t kill her. 

Taking a deep breath, she opens her eyes and gives herself one last once over in the mirror. She smooths the front of the dress as she stands up and exits her room, trying to suppress the nerves and excitement building in her stomach at the thought of seeing Lachlan again. 

[waywardunconventionallover]

Lonan’s Lament

Driving away and all I can see is your tear stained face...I’m sorry Opal...I didn’t mean to hurt you.... I’m not sure exactly what to say to you. You were my friend once, I’m sorry for letting her get in the way of our friendship....I do miss you.

I miss you, but I’m not willing to put my relationship on the line just to make you happy. You did get obsessive and it kinda freaked me out...I had hoped once upon a time that we would’ve been together, but I didn’t want to interrupt your relationship, even if it was open...I would’ve gotten too attached...I would’ve wanted you for my own.

I did want you for my own...I just thought maybe you’d give me that same respect...the respect I gave you...you said you’d give it back to me...I can see that you tried...but you need to learn how to take ‘no’ for an answer...

You didn’t do anything wrong in the beginning...

You were my friend once...

You were right...you were my friend, and she is controlling...

Please understand that if I were allowed to, I’d still keep in contact with you...long as you didn’t freak out again...I should have rejected you to your face...I should have talked to you from the start, and I’m sorry that I didn’t. But the past is the past for a reason. I’m moving forward. Are you even trying anymore? I hope you are.

I hope all is well on your end. I miss you most days. I ask my best friend about you...he says that you’re doing okay...I hope that continues...I want you to be okay...seeing you break down isn’t fun...

I know I don’t show it...but I do care about you.

“Hey, are you listening to me?”

“Hm?”

“You weren’t thinking about her, were you?”

“Nah.”

“Good, she doesn’t deserve your attention.”

“...”

I pray to whatever god you believe in that you’ll be okay...

“LONAN!!!”

what the fuck does she want now?

“Yes?”

“Pay attention to me, or you can walk home!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be! You’re always spacing out, and I don’t talk for my health you know!”

surprising...

“I hear you.”

“Do you though?!”

I don’t really remember what happened after that...all I know is that I’m in a gurney...I hope she’s okay...I do love her after all...right?

I love her...I love her...I...I DO love her...she’s my girlfriend...I hope she’s okay...my girlfriend...I love you....shouldn’t I?

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

you know how yesterday I said harrison was the belle of the fostered ball bc everyone wants him WELL I take it back lonan is the true belle of the ball bc LITERALLY everyone is going after that man (bc he’s got that bi guy long haired je ne sais quois I’m a hot immortal bird who’s actually a god but I don’t know it yet energy)

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

No Christ | BODY BACK Update #4

We're totally going to ignore the fact that it's been 4 months since I last posted a writing update for this book! :)

If you aren't aware, from February-June I drafted a litfic novella called BODY BACK and this is the penultimate update! Harrison has a Shrek moment, feels existentially directionless, imagines a future with Jeremiah--and more! Post under the cut.

Logline: When the effects of 24-Karat Harrison wear off, Harrison is left to mend his fractured relationship with Jeremiah.

Update 1 | Update 2 | Update 3

BODY BACK taglist (please ask to be added or removed :))

@thelivingdeceased @writinglittlebeasts @cuntylittlesalmon @obssesedwithscandaledits @jaydewritesfiction@onomatopiya @euphoniouspandemonium @silassghost @strangerays @rodentwrites @wildswrites @saltwaterbells @encrucijada @cilantrospirit @kiki-is-writing

Writing when life changes & the impacts of place on process

So WHYYY did it take so long for this update to come out? WELL, I wrote the chapter three (24-Karat Harrison) update THE DAY I moved from my university city, and while that went well, the act of changing setting seriously disturbed my writing process.

I'd gotten very used to creating BODY BACK in a very specific way in a very specific place/in certain locations and hadn't considered that a drastic shift in my literal setting could jilt the actual book--as if it too had undergone a major change.

Writing in May was like learning a new craft all over again, which was beyond disorienting. My anxiety was at an all-time high, and No Christ really took the brunt of that discomfort. But now that the book is long over, I'm ready to finish up the updates!

Repetition turns into theme...

Early in writing BODY BACK (chapter 2), I wrote the phrase "Harrison's no Christ," which I then unexpectedly repeated several times in 24kH which made me realize "No Christ" would make a great title.

But "no Christ" wasn’t JUST repetition—the act of repetition created a theme. I love when smaller line-level literary devices can lend to MUCH larger things!

What does it mean to reach a climax of personhood (so you feel like a god) the night before, only to feel godless the next day after the excitement is over? The idea of "no Christ" isn't just that Harrison has no god to follow. I DID want to capture that feeling of faithlessness--when the prayers stop working, when God seems nowhere to be found, but I also wanted to EMBODY "no Christ." How IS Harrison "no Christ" despite seeing himself that way in 24kH?

The plot

No Christ takes place just a few hours after the end of 24-Karat Harrison.

Scene A:

Harrison, who fell asleep in a church, is awoken by a priest.

Scene B:

After disrupting the church service, Harrison heads to the parking lot where he sees a man who looks like his ex, Lonan.

Scene C:

Exhausted from the night before and shaken from the parking lot, Harrison returns to Jeremiah's apartment where he rejects Jeremiah's concern.

Scene D:

Harrison showers the remainders of 24-karat Harrison off, but feels crushed and directionless without the persona. Jeremiah attempts to comfort him.

Scene E:

To help Harrison's hangover, Jeremiah takes him to the restaurant his friend Biyu works at, but her bad impression of Harrison puts him in an awkward position.

Scene F:

Harrison and Jeremiah head to the Greta Arquette, the hotel Jeremiah works at, in a rush of connection.

Excerpts

CW: Mature content ahead. Implications of sex and suicidal ideation. Descriptions of violence.

The opening lines (WHICH apparently tiktok liked):

Harrison wakes to God’s eyes. Dim in this light like a rusted goblet of wine or blood or whatever the fuck. Sad, he thinks. Lusting. Violent in brass.

That leads into a really *sudden* and *intense* recollection of the night previous when Harrison encounters a man named Perry (a friend of Jeremiah's). It's very SUDDEN and very INTENSE lol so here's just a little bit:

They kissed to the sound of someone crying, touched each other the way he imagined Lucifer and Judas might. God’s most hated sons united in exile.

More Harrison and Perry (CW: violence)

As saliva snailed Harrison’s cheeks, he stared at the bathroom ceiling for a hand to reach for him, for a grave to appear. With Perry, he was the runoff, the ashes, the scraps of diary entries dashed into a wastebin. And this was all good, the spit, his desire to be both saved and dead, because it was motivation to knock a fist into Perry’s jaw so he clattered to the floor. He wasn’t the leftovers. The bronze medal. No one could make him feel that way again.

Harrison observes churchgoers:

His jaw overhangs the pew in front of him, a line of drool bisecting the wood. People scoot past him to take their seats—not just people, but believers, all cleanly pressed and ready for god. They’re wearing wingtips buffed with mink oil and Mary Janes heavy enough to bludgeon someone to death.

Harrison becomes interested in the choir when he sees a cute guy (REALLL):

A choir sets up by the frontmost row, unwinding cables, tuning guitars. One woman adjusts her eggplant vest while another fixes her own curl with spit. A married couple flits through sheet music and discuss their kid’s birthday party—little Timothy, little Michael, little James, or whatever generic name. A man with sparkly eyes and a faint scar from a lip piercing smiles at him from the piano. “What are they doing over there?” Harrison asks. The priest bristles. “Who?” “Those people. They’re a choir? I can sing.”

Cont'd - shrek moment/sir this is a place of worship:

He’s aware he’s being loud. He doesn’t need the stares as confirmation. What the fuck does anyone have to stare at anyway? Sure he’s a man with smeared silver eye makeup and mascara tears and a fur coat and another man’s chandelier earring and a cow-print cowboy hat, and what’s this too now, a pair of studded DKNY sunglasses that most certainly aren’t his—but what right do they have? He doesn’t waste his time with gods. He doesn’t need someone to save him at all. And here all these beady people are, their synthetic chiffon dresses like wannabe Charlotte’s webs, their bowties near strangling. They’ve woken up at dawn to do what? Beg a man who won’t listen to them? He’s been there, fucking done that. “Do any of you want pitchforks?” Harrison’s voice booms across the nave, his cheeks flaring.

We find out Harrison stole Perry's moped:

The priest jumps back as he rises, shaking out his sleeves. The movement sends a slim pair of keys flying toward the floor, but not just any keys. The image is as fleeting as a View Master’s neon shuffle, Harrison sweaty and rumpled on the bathroom floor, his head spinning like a taut thread around a spindle. In the velvet night, he hustled toward the club’s parking lot, not thinking about the man he’d abandoned in the stall, not thinking about the man he’d come here with. Something crushed under his boot—baby pink rose petals against the rain-dark pavement, Hansel’s pebbles that drew him forward and when his eyes landed on a teal moped parked in the lot’s north end, his focus was only on how good wind would feel through his too-long hair.

Harrison considers choir man’s potential life:

Harrison leaves when the choir’s mid Holy, Holy, Holy. He only stayed that long, skulking around the backmost pews, to stare at the way choir man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He imagined kissing that spot. If it tasted like bergamot. If it tasted like eucharist. Maybe that man had a lover waiting at home for him who knew—a coppery chem student who’d kiss him wildly between whispered verses of Revelations, their penance to each other in evenings just as dozy as it was holy.

Harrison wonders what happened to Jeremiah after he left him at the club:

Where is Jeremiah now? Perhaps he found a ride back to his apartment complex with a man he invited inside, someone with tawny hair, jetty eyes. Harrison knows his place in Jeremiah’s life, in Jeremiah’s bed, but what’s he like alone? Perhaps he and the man touched gracefully like swans, recited Whitman on the carpet, shared a bunch of green grapes, talked about prophets, prayed the rosary.

Harrison notices a man who he thinks is Lonan (HE IS NOT):

In a past life, that lack of noticing would’ve been impossible, a fatal wound. But there he is, barely aware of the oil-dark hair—just a flash in the corner of his eye—rounding the parking lot. It’s that fast. His head snaps up and then he’s seeing him, his narrow body, his darting walk, his subtle clefted waves. He doesn’t need to check for the eyes, unmarred like the sky, because he’s running now, hat clattering off his forehead, held narrowly against his neck by the stampede strings. The man walks past a silver Acura—he’s a member of the congregation. Of course. But not just any member. This is where he’s been. On lonely midnights, Harrison’s wondered against all his admittance where he’s been in this city—if they’ve touched the same pavement, if they’ve cried at the same intersections. He’s dreamt about him, he’ll admit now, yearned for his hands again, their bony blueness, their abundant warmth. They’re dancing again in a cramped bathroom, in need of no other music but the other’s heartbeat. They’re blinking into cameraflash, silent as a Polaroid prints, holding each other the way the ocean holds itself. As Harrison runs, his face splits into a grin—relief, of course, because he’s hungry for that touch again, terrifying, careful, and here he is, approaching a car—a car, he’s driving—wearing a blue corduroy jacket, reaching for his keys, he’s leaving, he’s going to leave— Harrison yanks the man’s shoulders, his mouth formed so confidently around the name Lonan that he chokes the moment he sees the face.

Aaaand, how to get punched really fast by a stranger who has no idea why you're running up to him (CW: graphic violence):

When Harrison says nothing, too focused on the necklace, too focused on who isn’t standing in front of him, a fist clips his mouth and splits his lip right open. Blood starbursts the air, spats against the car’s windshield, his jaw cranking toward the sky, but he doesn’t notice the crows above or the flossy clouds because it’s August in the cabin again and there are Lonan’s knuckles connecting with his nose, an accident on purpose, his blood mirrored in that bathroom, and there are Perry’s callused hands, sharp with hangnails, steeled with rings, and Harrison might’ve been choked last night, might’ve wanted that, doesn’t want to remember at all. God makes men in his image, and those men know violence like an oath, a birthright.

Jeremiah questions Harrison about stealing Perry's moped:

Harrison adjusts the cowboy hat over his eyes. Segments of light shift through a hole in the crease. “I didn’t steal anything.” “So what were you doing with it?” “Borrowing it.” “Like my ring?” Harrison sits up, removes the hat from his eyes. The room re-saturates like a kitchen sponge in sudsy water and there’s Jeremiah. Clear-skinned, bright-eyed Jeremiah. He doesn’t look like a man who shared a joint with Harrison last night, who drank just as many cocktails on that dance floor and perhaps even more. He’s changed into a pair of ironed jeans and a white cotton button-up he hasn’t done up all the way. A gold herringbone necklace glints off his throat. Harrison sets the hat onto the chair arm. The moment it knocks against the fabric, he feels the urge to put it back on. “You said you weren’t upset about the ring.” Jeremiah opens his mouth. What’s he going to say? Fuck you. He could say that. He should. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Or, Who the fuck do you think you are? Who the fuck do you think you are? Instead, he clasps his hands in front of him. “Perry’s not happy with you.” Harrison reaches into his pocket and yanks out the moped’s keys which are attached to a teal surfboard keychain. As he rises from the chair, he tosses the set with a clang and Jeremiah barely catches them. “He wasn’t happy about a lot of things.” “Where are you going?” Harrison rubs his eyes. In the momentary flashes of dark, he sees the face of the man from the parking lot. He can’t fight his own flinch. His lip throbs. He’d been so sure of himself. “To sleep.” “Perry says you tried to kill him.” Harrison laughs. “Good.” “Not good.” Jeremiah steps toward him. He smells of vanilla. Greek yogurt.

Harrison adventures in wanting to befriend animals pt. 2:

Maybe he’ll head out now. Walk west for forty minutes, find some water to touch, some better air to breathe. Jeremiah’s not all that far from Red Rock Canyon. He could lie in a field of larkspur, befriend a kit fox.

Harrison deflects emotional responsibility by asking about towels??:

Jeremiah sighs, crossing his arms. He must’ve washed his hair this morning too—it’s still damp at the roots and smells vaguely of roses. He deserves someone who’ll hold him on Thursday nights, who’ll watch reruns of Futurama with him on a blow-up mattress, pray for him in April and actually mean it. When he looks up, his eyes are rimmed clearish red—the same colour of a ruby. “Last night—you disappeared. I was worried.” Harrison looks away. Jeremiah’s tidied—no board game pieces scattered on the table, all the ashtrays cleaned out. The first time Harrison entered this apartment, he was overcome by its intricacy—the disco ball hung from the ceiling, the ivy clustered in beer bottles along the windowsill. Everything that makes Jeremiah’s space his. And he’s worried him in all this time. What must that be like? To make someone fear for you? “Where do you keep the extra towels?” Harrison asks and Jeremiah nearly deflates.

Jeremiah is concerned!!!

When Harrison opens his mouth, Jeremiah approaches him, takes his face so gently he winces. His hand is slippery with cocoa butter, breaths heavy, brows low. Harrison knows what this means. Concern. Maybe he’s afraid, too. But it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t at all. One man’s worry is not his problem. Why would he care? Why would he? “What happened to you?” Jeremiah whispers. Perhaps he arrived home alone last night, stayed up till 5:00AM with his eyes staked by toothpicks. Perhaps this weekend is the worst thing that’s happened to him in a long time. If Harrison were someone else, he’d tell Jeremiah to run. Don’t waste time with shoes. Just throw open the front door and sprint barefoot into the neon street. Keep going until everything is a blur, until everything is the clearest it’s been in weeks. The farther away he gets, the better for him. He could learn how to crochet mug cozies. Buy himself a tomato plant. Spend his mornings in a sunny kitchen with a man who actually loves him.

Harrison has an existential crisis after a shower (CW: description of a bruise):

He glances at himself in the mirror, his shoulders hunched forward, hair veering into his eyes. A purple bruise rings his throat like a necklace of lavender pearls. The last time he’d looked at his reflection in this mirror, he’d found something hidden behind his face, gripped it, then tugged it right out with a tube of mascara and a ring finger loaded with silver eyeshadow. That’s all gone. He’s just a man now. Not naked like Michelangelo’s David, but naked like a stranger.

Jeremiah checks up on Harrison:

He imagines Jeremiah now. Leaning half his body weight against the door, his unbuttoned shirt parting with the movement. Perry’s already picked up the moped from outside. Jeremiah probably lied and said Harrison wasn’t there. In the wind, he might’ve said. Gone North to Missoula. Or maybe, Joined a travelling circus. Or, Took a red-eye to Florence. Or, I don’t care as long as he never comes back. All would’ve been suitable excuses because Jeremiah’s a good guy. A good friend. “I wanted to…” says Harrison, his chest rattling with an inhale. I wanted to: apologize. I wanted to: kiss you. I wanted to: say a prayer into your mouth. I wanted to: find you at sunset and link pinkies in dying grass and read screenplays from the 90s with your head on my chest and thank you like a real man should in the evenings and listen to your breaths when you fell asleep. I wanted to be alive. I wanted you there with me. The sound of Jeremiah shifting. What had he planned to do this September—before Harrison turned up at his apartment? On their first night reunited, they’d sipped mimosas while swapping Jeremiah’s Blackberry back and forth to play Brick Breaker, watched Psycho and only kissed at the ending credits. Jeremiah hadn’t even questioned why Harrison had turned up because he’s a good guy. A good friend. He knows Harrison could eat cinnamon on anything, that he’d gargle with black coffee if he could, that cymbals make his teeth ache, that he can’t tolerate the smell of chocolate anymore. Good guy. Good friend. In another life, they could’ve grown up together, played road hockey in humid Junes, shared a half-and-half ice cream cone, fallen for each other delicately. In another life, Harrison would’ve told Jeremiah he loved him and meant it.

At the restaurant, Jeremiah talks about his future (but does it include Harrison?):

It’s going to rain tomorrow, at least according to the mounted bubble TV on the restaurant’s far north side. Its grainy picture is suddenly the most pressing thing in this establishment—a headline about a collision on the I-80, an update on Katrina, a mass power outage in LA. Behind the screen is a window that leads to the kitchen, and Biyu’s face flashes through it every few minutes. He hasn’t even thought of calling Reeve since the last time he’d been in this restaurant, but he could now—find her in the Yellow Pages, invite her to dinner with him and Suz. Would she like that? Perhaps she’s the same woman who’d sat with him that sunny morning in Oregon, her legs stretched out in front of his and Lonan’s tent. There was something both blunt and guarded about her then. She wasn’t a woman, not a sister, not a friend, but a threat. “I’m thinking of heading east in the winter. Maryland. My grandma turns eighty.” Harrison turns to Jeremiah abruptly, his throat dry. “What?” “For a couple months, maybe. Might meet Rory in Hanoi in the spring. He’s thinking of staying there through the new year.” “What about Greta?” Harrison asks when the real question he should be asking is what about me? It takes him a moment to even register he’s gaping. “I’ll find something else to do. Dog-walking. Printmaking. I’m thinking of getting certified in hypnotherapy.”

After Biyu asks Harrison to pay for the bill and Jeremiah ends up footing it, he describes the atmosphere:

The air feels denser now, unstable like Jell-O. The last time he and Jeremiah were here, their relationship was gauzy, a fumbling newborn. But now something’s clotted. They’re unready again, so used to the other’s face they’ve become estranged.

Embarrassed, Harrison can't focus until Jeremiah makes (A VERY SWEET) deal (CW: suicidal ideation):

Harrison’s ears ring. He looks to the window like it’s an out when in reality, all that’s out there are a couple fir trees and a main road. An eighteen-wheeler whizzes by every few minutes. As Jeremiah talks about a paper he needs to turn in on Tuesday, Harrison imagines what those drivers are doing, thinking. One making plans to shoot darts at a dive bar with his brother, another answering a call from his wife to bring home a stick of butter, someone else considering flooring the pedal, letting go of the wheel. “You could come with me, you know.” Harrison looks up and finds Jeremiah’s eyes honeyed in a strand of sun. The realization is obvious: he’s an ember of a man—an effervescent, sacred light. “Come with you?” “Maryland. Hanoi. Dogwalking. Wherever we want to go.”

Harrison's response to the offer falls flat (this is kind of messy lol):

Harrison looks to his hands. He took off Jeremiah’s signet ring before his shower and forgot it on the bathroom sink. It looks like he’s returned it, when in reality, he hasn’t meant to. And then a touch at his hand and Harrison’s back in the dense Oregon woods, another man trailing a pinkie down each of his vertebrae like they were the keys of a flute, joining their fate lines as the sun sets, holding his face kindlier than he did a cigarette, his eyes coined by the moon. The contact is so unviolent, yet the moment Harrison winces, Jeremiah immediately pulls away, drops his hand to the booth’s seat. Harrison shakes. He can’t look at Jeremiah again, is afraid any more understanding will rive him right here. He’d become more of a nuisance than he already is if that were the case—blood on the ground, on the wall’s tiger. “I think I have a headache.” Jeremiah exhales but grabs his wallet. From a zippered pocket, he pulls out a Tylenol. “You need to eat something,” he says, waving over Biyu before Harrison can tell him not to, can tell him to please use this as an out, to please grab his things and beeline to the door and hitch a ride to somewhere gentler than Las Vegas, to someone more reliable. Jeremiah, just go, he could say. Jeremiah, it’s not too late for you. Jeremiah, adopt a dog who’ll love you. Jeremiah, change your locks. Jeremiah, learn how to refinish a deck this summer. Jeremiah, pick honeysuckle by the fistfuls. Jeremiah, laugh because it’s over. Jeremiah, never cry again. Jeremiah, the earth is vast. Jeremiah, there is still so much time to run.

I'M YOURS:

In a few months, Jeremiah won’t be the same person he is today. Whether he ends up out east or in an art class painting alla prima, he’ll change. He’ll make new friends in Baltimore, dance with them in Fell’s Point, photograph tree swallows together at Herring Run, kiss one of them in the state fair’s scorching sun. And that will be good for him. Harrison’s no Christ, no God. He’ll never be omnipotent. Yet, he is certain of this. “Jeremiah?” he interrupts. One day, Jeremiah will drive a silver birch Cadillac alone, inhale for three seconds as the wind rustles his hair. He’ll keep on that road for hours, count the red SUVs on the way, stop for lunch at a taco stand, buy tarry hot coffees from every gas station he passes. He’ll be an even better man. And Harrison? In a year, he could apprentice for a sculptor, make minimum wage flipping burgers on the weekends, memorize the Dewey Decimal System for fun. Maybe he’ll be like Rory, backpack somewhere no one knows him, somewhere with mountain ranges he doesn’t recognize, somewhere with suburbs and lawns, somewhere no one can find him ever again. But he’s here now, Jeremiah looking at him like he’s simultaneously a glass mid-fall and a glass worth piecing back together with school glue and some patience. Jeremiah, look at me a little longer, he could say. Jeremiah, I can’t remember the sound of my own name. Jeremiah, you’re birdsong in the winter, the first glimpse of sunrise. Jeremiah, I’m so sorry. Jeremiah, you’re young enough to forget all of this soon. Jeremiah, be tender while you can. Jeremiah, please go gently. Jeremiah— “I’m yours.”

HAREMIAH ROMANCE FUN (and what would a future with Jeremiah look like?):

Jeremiah’s got a key to Greta—room 118 to be exact. In the dim fizz of a tungsten sconce, he leads Harrison through the doorway and kisses him as soon as the door clicks behind him, urgent and careful at the same time. Harrison catches himself on the wall, right next to an oil painting of a wide prairie. He wraps his arms around Jeremiah’s neck, winds one of his curls around his pinkie, pulls him so close their pelvises touch. Don’t let go of me, he could say as Jeremiah thumbs his eyebrows, bows for another kiss. Don’t let go of me. They don’t go slow nor fast, but a pace tempered like drizzling honey. It isn’t even really about touching. As Harrison mentally connects the umber flecks of Jeremiah’s eyes like they’re constellations, he imagines a future where he follows him to Maryland. He could take the first leg of the trip, tune the radio to throwbacks, belt Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer in a Burger King drive-thru just to make Jeremiah laugh. They could rest at a motel similar to Greta—the same stuffy wallpaper, the same berber carpet. Surprise each other the next morning with bagels from the bakery a block away. Go crabbing at Point Lookout on their first weekend in the state. Pose next to each other with their catch for a photo snapped by a stranger. Jeremiah might even invite him to his grandmother’s birthday party, introduce him to an aunt as his boyfriend. They’d link arms the entire night, feed each other spoons of sherry trifle. Harrison could bond with a cousin over their shared interests in bushcraft forts and Neo-Dada art. Jeremiah’s mother would invite them berry picking the next weekend, serve blueberry buckle after Sunday mass, everyone still suited and skirted around the kitchen table. Harrison could cameo in their Christmas card photo. Spend Labour Day weekend at a lakeside cottage. Grill chicken thighs with Jeremiah’s father. Play Marco Polo with his younger brother. It’d all feel like an airy vacation.

And a tiny more romance lol:

Jeremiah leans into Harrison’s chest, brushes his mouth against his ear, down his neck. He touches the way pearls shine—with subtle panache. His lips are tangy with soy sauce, tart with cherry Chapstick, and he’s easy to move into like a current eclipsing itself.

Aaand the end of the chapter! THE DRAMA:

Jeremiah, he could say, the earth keeps turning without me. Jeremiah, which city do you think of as home? Jeremiah, I’m dying of a wound I can’t find. Jeremiah, I love you. Harrison’s head no longer hurts. He glances at the bed ahead of them, the duvet untainted, the throw pillows chopped, then back to Jeremiah. He grips his shoulder so tightly his hand aches. He’ll be needed right now—loved right now. He’ll touch because he needs to. He’ll pray for forgiveness someday. “Don’t let go,” he whispers.

And that's a wrap on No Christ! It was so fun to revisit this chapter now that I'm not... unwell, LOL. I hope you enjoyed this update and stay tuned for the FINAL one (which I meant to include here BUT THIS POST WAS SOOOO LONG)

ily if you made it this far okay bye!

Rachel

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

13 and 14 from the end of year ask game

13. How did you change as a writer? Did you learn anything new? Started to plan instead of pants? Share your wisdom!

Hmm, I think I've become a lot more restricted as a writer this year, hahaha, probably not the positive answer but I find it anxiety inducing to work on things that aren't in the Fostered-verse now. I'm working on it and I think most of that is because of graduating etc, because I did not have this problem before. It's been good in that I've really been able to pour SO MUCH love into those characters (which is honestly my priority in life haha). At the same time I also did do a lot of new things this year--writing novellas was not ever on the list and now I've written 3! It's been a big year for writing I think.

14. Time for writing wrapped! What would be your top three used sentences?

It's hard to narrow this down off the top of my head but for Harrison it's anything about God/Jesus, Lonan I can't actually remember I think writing Hallowed Bodies was a fever dream what did I even write in that LOL, for Jeremiah it's something about craving intimacy.